As the caravan passes through Central Asia, Darius slowly falls in love, and Kuangren experiences something brutal.
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Vast Blue Sky
The mountains gradually gave way to rolling grasslands that invited a man to breathe deeply, and a horse to run fast. Great green hills stretched to the horizon beneath a sky that was bigger than the world, while herds of horses grazed freely across the open country. The land too felt immense, but maybe it was only that there were few wells, fewer roads, and fewer signs that anyone had ever attempted to tame it.
At times I wished I too was a horse, so that I could gallop free across this sweeping land, my mane streaming behind me like a banner of victory. At other times the sky was so unrelenting that I had an irrational fear that a bird as big as a city would glide down and seize the entire caravan in its beak.
I wondered if this was what my father had felt like when he was released from prison. That the world was too large, that so much liberty was heady but frightening, as if he were a mouse that had been released from a cage, and now must fear the hawk. It made me uncomfortable and sad to think of my father being afraid. I shook these thoughts off and spurred my horse forward, to find Weili and chat.
The cold wind blew constantly, as if it too had escaped a prison and come to a land where it could gust as hard and carelessly as it wished.
“This is Kyrgyz land,” Longwei informed me as we rode alongside the wagons.
“How do you know?”
He looked offended. “I have been here before.”
We passed many nomadic settlements. Everyone in this land rode horses, even the children, with an ease and grace so natural it was as if they’d been born in the saddle. Maybe they had. These people lived in circular felt tents supported by wooden frames. Hundreds of these yurts – for so they were called, Longwei said – dotted the surrounding countryside. Smoke drifted lazily upward from their chimneys while horses, sheep and goats wandered between them. Men wore long coats trimmed with fur and tall felt hats, while many of the women dressed in bright embroidered garments decorated with silver jewelry that flashed in the sunlight.
Fight With A Nomad
I saw a man and his son practicing stick fighting. They carried long staffs, and danced around each other, whirling, thrusting and parrying. It reminded me of my practice sessions with my aunt Jade. I felt a pang of sadness.
To distract myself, I broke away from the caravan and rode up to the father and son. Dismounting, I bowed to the father, and he bowed back.
I tapped my chest. “Darius.”
The man pointed to himself. “Almaz.”
Gesturing wordlessly, I indicated that I would like to spar with him. Grinning, the man said something to his son, who tossed me his staff. Almaz and I bowed to each other again, and without preamble, he attacked. I parried his attack easily. The man was talented but limited in his repertoire, and slow by my standards, I spun and reversed, attacking from odd angles, giving the father something to think about. He grunted with the effort of blocking my blows. Sweat broke out on his forehead.
Still, I held back. I only wanted to have a bit of fun, not hurt the man.
As we fought, some of the caravan guards rode up to watch, and a number of nomads gathered around, including Almaz’s wife and children.
Almaz came at me with what I thought would be an uppercut strike. I leaned back to let it pass me harmlessly, but instead the tip of his staff dug into the ground and flung dirt in my eyes. Blinded, the next thing I saw was the tip of the staff at my throat, the father grinning behind it.
I laughed, held up a hand in surrender, and returned the staff to the boy. I was genuinely glad to have been bested. I had shown Almaz a few new moves, and he’d taught me something too. I shook his hand, and everyone applauded.
As I rode away, I looked back to see Almaz beaming as his friends clapped him on the back and congratulated him. Some of my fellow guards ribbed me about being beaten by a nomad, but Weili gave me a knowing smile, and I knew that she knew that I could have defeated the man at any time. I never forgot that smile, and the admiring look in her eyes.
A Bracelet and a Wooden Horse
We came to a city beside a broad river. High mud-brick walls surrounded clusters of flat-roofed buildings. Scents drifted to us before we reached the gates. Roasting meat mingled with fresh bread, horse sweat, leather, wood smoke and spices I could not identify. Merchants from a dozen lands crowded the roads leading into the city. Some led camels. Others drove wagons piled high with goods. I heard languages I could not begin to recognize.
The Five Stars caravan established camp on a flat topped hill. The city loomed on the horizon. Several merchants prepared to enter the city to see what goods they could acquire at the local marketplace, which Longwei called a suq. Two wagons were selected for the trip, along with a contingent of guards. To my surprise, Sergeant Karim chose me for the detail. He also chose Kuangren.
“If you disappear again,” Karim warned, pointing a finger at him, “I will nail your boots to a wagon. With your feet inside them.”
Kuangren considered this carefully. “You’re too good a man to do that.”
Karim gave him a serious look. “Don’t count on that.”
The suq was one of the most fascinating places I had ever seen. Narrow streets wound between market stalls crowded with carpets, silverwork, horse tack, bows, knives, embroidered clothing and goods from every corner of the world. One merchant sold hunting falcons. Another displayed exquisitely carved saddles. Yet another offered tiny painted figurines no larger than my thumb. I also saw many things, from bracelets and amulets to furniture and tea sets, that were decorated with Islamic designs, including geometric patterns, and the names of Allah and the Prophet. I assumed these items were here to catch the eyes of passing Muslim travelers.
I fingered a silver bracelet decorated with onyx stones that reminded me of Weili’s eyes. Feeling embarrassed, I nearly put the bracelet back, then bought it anyway.
Later I found a carved wooden horse small enough to fit in my palm. I told myself I admired the craftsmanship. The fact that it looked exactly like something Haaris would treasure had absolutely nothing to do with my decision.
No, nothing whatsoever. Still, I would hold onto it. Maybe someday I’d find someone to give it to.
A Muslim Land
Once the sun passed its zenith, the call for salat sounded from every direction. I gazed at one of the merchants in amazement. He grinned and nodded his head, giving me permission to investigate. Store owners everywhere closed their shops and exited the suq. Customers, travelers, tribesmen, nobles and servants streamed toward the masjids. That’s right, masjids, plural. There was not one grand masjid, like in Deep Harbor. Rather, there were masjids everywhere. I realized for the first time that all these people were Muslim. I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck.
In my country Muslims were a minority. Deep Harbor was one of the most heavily Muslim cities in the land, and even there only a fifth of the population were Muslim. I had known, of course, that there were faraway lands where Islam ruled, but I hadn’t known that we had reached such a place. I felt almost like weeping, but couldn’t say why. I felt powerful, like nothing could threaten me.
I followed one group to a local masjid, performed wudu, and with my travel pack and dao on my back, prayed beside people of many lands. When the salat was over I found myself grinning and shaking hands with everyone. No matter what language they spoke, everyone knew how to say as-salam alaykum. A man might gesture at my size – for I had grown taller and stronger on this trip – and say, “mashaAllah!” Another pointed to my dao, then pointed to the sky and said, “Allahu Akbar!’ I wasn’t sure if this was an indication of approval, or a reminder that true power was with Allah.
Raiders!
By late afternoon our business was concluded and the wagons rolled back toward camp. It was only after we arrived that someone noticed Kuangren was missing.
Several guards exchanged resigned looks.
Ahmed sighed, Meilin rolled her eyes and Longwei merely shook his head and said, “Again?”
No one seemed especially alarmed. Kuangren disappearing was hardly unusual. In fact, it had become so common that we hardly knew whether to laugh, get angry or simply not care.
The sun had already set when the sound of galloping hooves shattered the evening calm. A lone rider burst into camp at full speed, his horse kicking up dust and covered in sweat.
“Raiders!” he shouted. “Raiders!”
It was Kuangren.
The camp erupted into motion.
Guards scrambled for their weapons while merchants took shelter behind the wagons. Horses whinnied nervously as teamsters rushed to secure them. I drew my dao and joined the line forming along the outer edge of camp. Kaungren slid from his beleaguered horse and gesticulated.
“Raiders!” he shouted. “Hundreds of them!”
“How many hundreds?” Karim demanded.
Kuangren shrugged. “A lot, probably.”
Hold Your Fire
A dark mass appeared on the horizon – hundreds of riders, coming fast from the direction of the city, and spreading across the grasslands as they approached. My stomach tightened. They came up the hill at a gallop, raising a cloud of dust behind them, their horses moving with the effortless grace of men born in the saddle. Bows hung from their shoulders, spears bounced against their backs, and curved sabers gleamed at their hips.
Our archers raised their bows. We had the high ground advantage. We could cut down a good portion of this attacking force before they even reached us.
“Hold your fire!” Karim shouted.
The riders continued to close the distance.
“Hold your fire!”
Something about the approaching force seemed wrong. They were certainly armed, but none had drawn a weapon. Nor were they forming for an attack. They were not trying to flank us, for example, nor was anyone shouting commands.
The riders finally slowed and spread out in front of the camp. At their center rode a wealthy merchant with a magnificent beard and an expression of such furious outrage that I reached up for my dao, though I did not draw it, for a young woman with thick chestnut hair, and dressed in embroidered riding clothes rode confidently by his side, mounted on a gorgeous spotted horse. She wore no sword, but a long knife hung from one hip, and she carried a bow on her back. Yet gold bracelets adorned her wrists, and one nostril was pierced with a gold ring. She resembled the merchant strongly, and was obviously his daughter. She was altogether quite impressive.
On the other side of the merchant sat an elderly man with a long beard, wearing an expensive coat. He was surrounded by heavily armed retainers, and might have been a tribal chief.
The rich merchant said something to the young woman, who slowly surveyed all the guards, then extended an arm and pointed.
Every head in camp turned to see what she was pointing out.
She was pointing at Kaungren.
Kuangren attempted a smile, which faltered and disappeared.
Karim strode up to him. “Raiders?”
Kuangren cleared his throat. “I may have misstated the case slightly.”
“What did you do?”
Kuangren shrugged helplessly. “I met the young lady in the suq.” He gestured to the lovely young lady.
“And?”
Kuangren chuckled nervously. “Well… It’s hard to talk to a lady when she’s with her chaperone. We found a quiet spot in a garden.”
Sergeant Karim took a step toward Kuangren. “And?” His tone was menacing.
“Come on, Sarge. I didn’t make her do anything she didn’t want to. How was I supposed to know her father is some kind of big shot? It’s not my fault that – “
Karim struck Kuangren with a series of blows so rapid I hardly followed them, ending with a fast chop to the side of the neck. Shocked, I watched as Kuangren crumpled bonelessly to the ground. The young woman cried out, not in satisfaction but in protest, and her father silenced her with a gesture.
Negotiations
The negotiations that followed consumed the better part of an hour. Translators moved constantly between groups while the merchant, the chieftain, several elders and Karim argued as Kaungren sat miserably on the ground, massaging his bruises.
The daughter herself seemed perfectly content with the situation. She stroked her horse’s neck and watched the proceedings with glittering eyes. I had the feeling this woman never did anything she didn’t want to do. On that, at least, Kuangren had not lied.
Her father, on the other hand, shouted and gesticulated continuously. More than once he took his bow from his back and nocked an arrow, aiming at Kaungren, whereupon our own people armed themselves in response. Each time the chieftain spoke a sharp word, and everyone settled back into an uneasy truce.
As the discussion continued, it became increasingly clear that there would be no peaceful solution that did not involve marriage. The father demanded it. The chieftain demanded it. Most surprisingly to me, the daughter seemed pleased at the prospect. Who would want to marry Kaungren of all people?
Eventually Karim made an announcement:
“Five Stars will provide compensation to the merchant and his tribe. The merchant’s honor will be restored. The caravan will continue unmolested.” He paused. “And Kuangren will marry the girl.”
For a moment there was silence.
Then Kaungren stood. “What?”
Karim folded his arms.
“You heard me.”
“I object.”
“I don’t care.”
“I can’t get married. I don’t even speak this woman’s language. Besides, I’m not fit for marriage. I’m a scoundrel. Sergeant, tell them I’m a scoundrel.”
“Trust us,” Meilin said, “they already know.”
“You will have to convert to Islam as well,” Karim said. “They will never accept their daughter marrying a disbeliever.”
Kaungren threw up his arms. “Doesn’t anyone know that we live in enlightened times? Such things don’t happen anymore!”
A Swordpoint Wedding
Things moved very quickly. Money changed hands. Ahmed was recruited to conduct the ceremony. A carpet was spread beside the campfire. Witnesses were assembled. The merchant sat proudly beside the tribal chieftain. I had the feeling that he was happy to be rid of his daughter, who seemed like a handful herself. I wondered if Kuangren knew what he was getting himself into. The daughter appeared delighted by the entire affair. Kuangren looked as though he had been condemned to death.
Ahmed cleared his throat and began in the name of Allah. The laughter faded as he recited a few ayat of the Quran concerning marriage and the creation of mankind in pairs. He then delivered a short khutbah on responsibility and kindness. It lasted less than two minutes. When he finished, he turned toward Kuangren.
“Repeat after me.” Ahmed recited the shahadah, and Kaungren – with a grimace – repeated.
Ahmed nodded, satisfied. “Do you accept this marriage?”
“No.”
Sergeant Karim took a step toward Kuangren.
“Let me ask again,” Ahmed said. Do you accept this marriage?”
Kuangren looked around as if seeking an escape route. The merchant glared. The chieftain narrowed his eyes. Karim took another step forward and put a hand on the hilt of his sword. It was not, I was sure, an empty threat. The bride smiled sweetly.
“Okay, then.”
Ahmed turned to the young woman and asked the same question. Someone translated. Her answer came instantly and enthusiastically.
“I accept!”
The surrounding tribesmen erupted into cheers. I found myself grinning. For some reason I wanted to seek out Weili and give her a nudge, as if to say, “What do you think?” But I knew that was beyond foolish.
The bride immediately wrapped her arms around Kuangren and kissed his cheek. More cheering followed. Kuangren stared into the distance as if contemplating whether being trampled by wild horses might improve his circumstances.
The celebrations continued into the night. Sheep were slaughtered, musicians appeared from somewhere, and gifts changed hands. We found ourselves sitting with these tribesmen, making mutually unintelligible conversation that consisted mostly of hand gestures, and sharing coffee and sweets. The merchant transformed from a man ready to start a war into the happiest father in Central Asia. The bride spent most of the evening sitting beside Kuangren, smiling at him and occasionally resting her head on his shoulder. Kuangren spent most of the evening staring into his bowl with the expression of a man trying to come to terms with a diagnosis of a terminal disease.
I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
When the celebrations were over, the tribesmen departed. A covered wagon was emptied, with its goods distributed among the other wagons, and it was given to Kaungren and his bride as their wedding suite, which I found somehow funny, embarrassing and scandalous.
A Brutal Judgment
The next morning, immediately after Fajr prayer, Karim ordered every guard assembled. Gone were the laughter and celebrations of the previous night. Even the air felt different.
We gathered in silence while dawn spread slowly across the grasslands. Kuangren stood among us looking tired and uneasy. His bride watched from their wagon, looking somehow satisfied and nervous at the same time. She clearly sensed that something was wrong, though she could not have known exactly what.
Karim waited until every guard was present. Then he began to pace before us with his hands clasped behind his back. Something that looked a lot like a bullwhip was looped and hung from his belt. This puzzled me, as my mind did not conceive of any possible use for it.
“Kuangren,” he said. “Step forward.”
With a half-grin, half-grimace, Kaungren stepped forward. He expected a stern dressing down, and was prepared to accept it with humility.
“I have tolerated your foolishness for months,” Sergeant Karim said. His voice was quiet, which somehow made it more threatening. “You drink too much. You gamble too much. You disappear whenever we pass near a town. You ignore orders. You ignore common sense. I have overlooked all of this because you fight well. So despite being an idiot, you are a useful idiot.” A few guards smiled despite themselves. Karim noticed immediately, and the smiles vanished.
The sergeant took a long, shuddering breath, and for the first time I realized that he was white-hot furious. He was trying to contain his rage. I had never seen him like this, and it frightened me.
Once again his gaze fixed on Kuangren. “Last night you endangered this caravan. You created enemies among the local population. You forced me to negotiate with armed men. You cost this company a substantial amount of money.” His voice rose with each accusation. “Had those negotiations failed, I might have lost guards, merchants, and teamsters. Good people. People who trust me to get them safely to Persia and back. All because you could not keep your trousers tied.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Even Meilin, who could make a disparaging comment about anything in existence, kept her mouth shut.
Karim held up the index finger of each hand. “You have two options. One, you and your bride may accept exile from the caravan. Your wages are forfeit. You can take your travel pack and weapons, and go wherever you wish. What becomes of you is not my concern.”
With the other index finger, he pointed to the nearest wagon wheel. “Option two, I tie you to that wheel and give you twenty lashes.” He drew the bullwhip from his belt and with a swing of his arm, flicked it. It billowed out as fast as lightning and gave a crack that made me jump.
“If you choose that option, you may remain in service to Five Stars, and there will be no further punishment.”
Twenty Lashes
For several seconds nobody moved. We all understood the choice. Thousands of miles from home, the caravan represented food, protection and survival. Without it, Kuangren would either have to settle permanently in a foreign land or attempt the impossible journey across half the world on foot, accompanied by a wife he had acquired less than twelve hours earlier. Or I supposed he could dump the wife at the city gates and run for his life.
He looked toward the distant hills, then toward the wagons. For the first time since I had met him, he appeared genuinely frightened. He opened his mouth to protest, then shut it.
“I’ll take the lashes,” he said quietly.
The punishment was carried out immediately.
Kuangren removed his shirt and was bound to a wagon wheel. He was a pale, skinny man with narrow shoulders. I couldn’t imagine what women saw in him.
Sergeant Karim rolled his shoulders and shook out the bullwhip. Around us, merchants emerged from their wagons and tents to watch. Even the horses seemed unusually quiet.
Karim wound up, swung his arm and let the whip fly. The first strike landed with a crack like a branch snapping in half.
I flinched, as did several others. A red welt appeared on Kaungren’s back, and while he grunted in pain, he did not cry out.
The second blow cut through the skin. The third opened it. By the fifth, blood streaked Kuangren’s back and dripped onto the grass beneath him. His bride began shouting in alarm. Longwei, who spoke some Kyrgyz, hurried over to her and attempted to explain what was happening. Whatever explanation he offered only seemed to upset her more. She tried to push past him and run toward her husband, but Longwei gently restrained her.
The sixth lash landed. Then the seventh. Then the eighth. Each impact sounded worse than the last. Kuangren’s entire body jerked with every strike, yet somehow he remained silent. Sweat poured down his face. The muscles in his neck stood out like cables. His breathing became ragged and uneven, but not once did he cry out. This surprised me. Though he was a good fighter, I had always seen him as a fundamentally weak man. I did not find him funny or cute. In fact, I realized now, I despised him. Seeing him whipped provided me with no satisfaction, but it didn’t bother me either.
Still, by the tenth lash I found myself staring at the ground. By the twelfth, several of the older guards looked disturbed. Meilin looked as serious as I had ever seen her. The bride wept.
The whipping went on. A movement beside me caught my eye. Ahmed had stepped forward. Not much. Only a pace. But enough that everyone nearby noticed. His face showed horrified resolve. For a moment I thought he was going to intervene.
Karim looked at him. No words passed between them. Yet something in Karim’s expression caused Ahmed to slowly step back into line.
When the whipping was done, Karim stepped forward personally and untied the ropes binding Kuangren’s wrists. The moment he was released, Kuangren’s legs gave out beneath him. He was unconscious.
The camp physician immediately ordered everyone away. Without really thinking about it, I volunteered to help. The old man looked surprised. “You know something about medicine?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Kuangren awakened as we treated his wounds. His hands clenched and unclenched around the blanket while the physician worked, yet he never complained.
“You know the worst part?” Kuangren said.
“What?”
“I’m not even sure I know my wife’s name.”
The physician burst out laughing.
I shook my head, though I couldn’t help smiling.
Blue Domed Mosques
The weeks that followed carried us westward through lands I had only seen on maps. Uzbekistan was a country of broad valleys, ancient cities and blue-domed masjids that gleamed beneath the sun like polished gemstones. These masjids were the most beautiful things I had ever seen, and I thought that Uzbekistan must be a piece of Jannah on earth.
With everything that had happened after our visit to Kyrgyz, I had never given Weili the bracelet I bought for her. Now, the moment seemed right. I knew she was stationed at the rear of the caravan, and as we passed through a glorious valley alight with wildflowers, I pulled my horse out of formation and dropped back to find her. Her long black hair was loose and whipping in the wind. Sergeant Karim would not like that if he saw it. She rode easily in the saddle, her eyes scanning the surrounding hills.
I nodded. “Any news?”
She snorted. “What am I, the town crier?”
I laughed. With a smile, keeping my voice casual, I said, “I got you something back in Kyrgyz. With all the excitement I forgot to give it to you.”
Her face lit up. “Really? What is it?”
I handed her the bracelet. “It reminded me of you.”
A smile brighter than the sun transformed her face. “It’s lovely! Thank you so much, Darius. That’s so nice of you. Next time don’t wait a month to give it to me, though.”
I laughed again. “Glad you like it!” With that I galloped forward to my station. I was pleased with myself for having played it just right, nice and easy.
We arrived at a city called Samarkand. I stood staring at buildings so beautiful they seemed unreal. Great turquoise domes rose above tiled courtyards covered in geometric patterns and Quranic calligraphy. Merchants crowded the markets selling melons, apricots, silk, spices and carpets from every corner of the known world. Everywhere I looked I saw evidence of centuries of wealth, learning and trade.
And all these lands were Muslim. For the first time I was beginning to understand the vastness of Islam. It was not a local religion practiced by a minority of people. It was, quite possibly, the dominant belief system of the world. Many on our caravan were not Muslim, and in a turnaround I found satisfying, they were now the minority. All around me I was surrounded by my brothers and sisters in faith.
Yet I saw pick pockets and the occasional street fight. A local merchant struck his wife in the face, and another whipped his donkey too cruelly. A drunk sat slumped against a wall. One businessman accused another of cheating. Being Muslim, it seemed, was not a cure-all for humanity’s problems. It did not turn men into angels. This was something I would have to ponder.
Beyond Samarkand, we traveled through Bukhara, where Islamic scholars seemed almost as common as merchants. Half the people we encountered seemed to have memorized much or all of the Quran. This astounded and inspired me. Zihan Ma would love this place. I wished our caravan could stay longer. I resolved that one day I would return to study here.
Ahmed nearly drove Karim mad by repeatedly disappearing into bookstores and madrasahs whenever we stopped for more than an hour.
“If the scholars kidnap you,” Karim warned him, “I’m not paying a ransom.”
Ahmed looked genuinely puzzled. “Why would the scholars kidnap me?”
“To make you listen to their stories.”
Ahmed laughed. “Hey, as long as you’re not going to bullwhip me, I’m fine.”
Karim turned away, all humor gone from his face. No wonder Ahmed almost never told jokes. He was terrible at it.
After our time in Bukahra, I began spending more time with my own copy of the Quran. I memorized all of Juz Amma, and began on Surat Al-Mursalat, and then Al-Insan.
Good Spirits
From there we entered Tajik lands. The roads climbed steadily into mountain valleys fed by icy rivers descending from distant snow-covered peaks. Villages clung to hillsides above terraced fields. Stone houses stood against slopes so steep I could not imagine building anything there. The people looked different from those we had encountered farther east, many with lighter skin, lighter eyes and sharper features than I was accustomed to seeing. At first they looked strange to me, but soon I began to find them quite beautiful.
During all this time I continued to ride with Weili at times, sit with her at the campfire at night, and teach her the Quran. She often wore the bracelet I’d bought her, and that made me happy. I taught a number of the short surahs of Juz Amma. She stumbled over some of the Arabic, laughed at her own mistakes, and occasionally became frustrated, but she persisted.
“I know that you believe deeply in Islam,” she said to me one night over a campfire. “You talk about Allah, and it’s as if you are talking about your best friend. It’s amazing to me.”
“Don’t you believe?”
She stared into the flames for a long moment.
“I don’t know. I have seen a lot of evil.”
It was an honest answer, and I did not try to change her mind with my words.
In exchange, she began teaching me archery. I quickly discovered that shooting a bow well was much harder than it looked.
“You are pulling with your arms,” she said one afternoon as I attempted to shoot a very large tree and failed. “Use your back.”
I understood the concept of not using the arms to power a movement. My father had taught me the same thing in martial arts. Power came from footwork, body rotation and body weight. The back, however, was foreign territory.
“My back is for loading crates at the dock,” I complained. “How am I supposed to use it to pull the bowstring?”
“You’re not on the docks. Be quiet and empty your cup.”
That made me laugh. I had heard that expression many times from Zihan Ma, but never from Weili.
“Where did you learn that saying?”
“What? You think I’m stupid just because I don’t know how to read like you?”
“Of course not,” I said hastily. “You are very intelligent. I admire your brain. I mean, I think you are the most, you know, I mean you’re great, and -”
“Oh, shut up and shoot.”
I released the arrow. “I hit it!”
“It’s the biggest tree in the world,” she said. “It’s the size of a house.”
Which was true. And the arrow had, in fact, barely struck the edge of it.
Slowly, something changed in me. I found myself waking before dawn in unusually good spirits. Chores that normally irritated me seemed less burdensome. I brushed horses, checked harnesses, repaired equipment and stood watch without complaint. Food tasted better. The weather seemed friendlier. Even Karim’s constant criticism became easier to tolerate. And I thought about Weili a lot. I looked for her, and smiled when I saw her.
One evening Longwei sat beside me while I sharpened my dao and Weili practiced archery a short distance away.
“You look at her too much,” he observed. “And you smile too much.”
“I do not.”
He recited one of his poems:
A bee finds a flower
and believes the sun rises for him.
The flower blooms.
The bee grows drunk.
Winter begins its unforgiving descent.
The flower that bloomed dies away,
and the world wishes only to survive.
“That is depressing.”
“You should consider it carefully.”
I threw a pebble at him, and he smiled sadly.
Orange Bellbird
Several weeks later we entered a broad valley filled with farms, orchards and prosperous villages. Long before we reached the largest town, however, we began noticing signs of unusual activity. Banners hung from rooftops and fences. Families traveled the roads in carts and on horseback. Musicians played in the streets, and entire groups of villagers seemed to be heading in the same direction.
A local merchant eventually explained the reason. An annual archery competition was being held. Competitors traveled from throughout the region to participate, and the winner received not only a substantial prize but considerable prestige. The moment Weili heard this, she became impossible to live with. For the remainder of the day she bombarded every local she encountered with questions about the competition, the rules, the bows and the previous champions.
Weili’s excitement was infectious, and I was excited for her. She and I had grown very close by this point. We spent a lot of our free time together, though always in public. Our relationship was not physical, but I found myself dreaming about her occasionally. Even though Kaungren’s wedding had been a fiasco held at swordpoint, I thought about it a lot. Kaungren’s bride was no older than Weili. Yet whenever I considered the prospect of marrying Weili, my mouth became dry, and sweat broke out on my forehead. I knew that Weili liked me, but beyond that I was not sure of anything.
By the time we pitched camp outside the town, half the younger guards wanted to attend the archery competition. Karim eventually relented and allowed a group of us to go, provided we remained armed and returned before sunset.
Longwei approached me as I secured my pack straps.
“Have you considered my poem?” he asked.
“Which one?” I didn’t have time for this.
He regarded me solemnly. “Never mind the poem. In the forests of Southeast Asia there is a bird called an orange bellbird. It’s small, but sings more beautifully than any lute or harp. When you hear it, you are reminded of Allah’s angels. You feel that the world is beautiful, and that everything is possible.
Yet if you catch it and cage it, you will be disappointed, for it will sit silently, and will soon die. You can never own an orange bellbird. You can only appreciate it from a distance.”
I made a helpless gesture. “Are we talking about flowers or birds?”
Longwei pursed his lips. “Neither. Enjoy the archery competition.”
* * *
As-salamu alaykum dear readers. Sorry for the delay. But hey, I have you a double length chapter this week!
Come back next week for Part 19 – The Glory of Persia
Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!
See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.
Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.
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Pieces of a Dream | Part 1: The Cabbie and the Muslim Woman
Trust Fund And A Yellow Lamborghini: A Short Story
The post Far Away [Part 18] – The Flower Blooms, And The Flower Dies appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.
has placed within human beings. Islam does not deny this attraction, nor does it demand that we pretend it does not exist.
asked about an unexpected glance, the Prophet ﷺ instructed him to turn his eyes away. This distinction is important. No one can completely avoid seeing something inappropriate in today’s world. A person walking across campus, sitting in a lecture hall, or riding public transportation will inevitably encounter situations they did not seek out. The issue is not the first glance. The issue is the second glance, the lingering glance, and the intentional glance. The glance that feeds desire rather than suppresses it, and that is where the struggle begins.
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But whoever disobeys Allah and His Messenger and exceeds their limits will be cast into Hell, to stay there forever. And they will suffer a humiliating punishment.” [Surah An-Nisa: 4;13-14]
The science fair kicks up a rivalry in book four of the delightful Amina Banana chapter book series from National Book Award-winner 
made du’a to Allah 
more than anyone else, and their marriage serves as a role model for all of us. This is despite them not having any children together.
Dr. Samaiya Mushtaq
Most young Canadians today don’t recognize the name of Maher Arar, but as part of the 9/11 generation, I grew up reading the news about Arar’s illegal abduction by the FBI and his deportation to and torturing in Syria at the behest of the RCMP.
Laury Silvers’ medieval Muslim mystery novels are a force of creativity and thoughtfulness that make the reader overlook the lack of professional editing and the rough-around-the-edges craft.
The author of the legendary “As Long As The Lemon Trees Grow” is back with 
The Amina Banana series never fails to serve up an excellent story that’ll keep kids hooked!
“Papa and the Missing Something”
