“So much of us,” Aunt Samia replied. “And what about the other patients? Who’s going to bring them lamb on Eid al-Adha?”
“My lovely Samia,” my father said, “what have you done? You’re going to have Adha here? In a hospital room?”
Aunt Samia looked confused and unsure. “Of course she is,” Lina piped in. “Since we can’t take you to her house, she brings her house to you.”
“Exactly,” Aunt Samia said. “What did you think? I even brought my silverware and china. I’m not going to have my Adha meal on cheap plates. Do you know how long it took the boys to get everything up here? Two lambs I cooked. Not a smidgen of salt. You’re my brother. For you, I won’t put salt in my meal, but only for you. Now, where’s everybody else?”
Baybars became Sitt Latifah’s blessed son, and she doted on him. One day, as mother and son walked through the souk, Baybars admired a bow. The merchant asked if he liked it, and the boy told him it was magnificent. The merchant said the bow was made by a famous hero two hundred years earlier, had been used by none other than the great Saladin, and Baybars could have such a masterpiece for the measly sum of two dinars. Baybars said, “My dear man, that is a bargain. This is the most beautiful instrument I have seen.” Sitt Latifah giggled. Baybars blushed and asked, “Are you laughing at me, dear lady?”
And Sitt Latifah replied, “No, my son, I am laughing at fate.”
She removed her veil, and the merchant saw her face and bowed. “My lady,” he said. “Please accept my apologies. I did not know.”
Latifah ignored the seller and spoke to her son. “This is not a bow worthy of you. It is cheap, terribly crafted, and has a will of its own. No warrior has ever touched it or ever will. Come, allow me to show you your destiny.” When she reached their house, Sitt Latifah led Baybars through the courtyard. She stood before a door, took a key from her cleavage, and opened the door. Baybars saw a hall with hundreds of bows and thousands of arrows, enough for an entire army. He picked the closest bow and realized he had been naïve. The merchant had lied. And his mother said, “I am called Latifah the bowmaker, because my father was a bowmaker, and my grandfather was before him, and his father was before that. All the heroes of our world had to visit Damascus to purchase bows from our workshop. And you, my glorious Baybars, stumble upon its hearth.” Sitt Latifah gestured toward the entire room. “This is now yours. All of it belongs to you, but it may behoove you to pick one weapon and call it yours.”
At first, Baybars considered the bows, but then he looked around and saw daggers, spears, bows, and swords that shone with a heavenly brilliance and beauty. One Damascene sword looked common, did not call attention to itself. He picked it up and noticed the exquisite workmanship. He placed it under his belt, and the sword radiated warmth to his belly.
One morning, Baybars watched another boy carry a pail up a ladder leaning against the barn. The boy entered an upper door, and Baybars followed him. Baybars saw the boy tying a rope around the pail’s handle and asked him what he was doing. “I have to feed al-Awwar,” the boy replied. “He will not let anybody into the barn, so the only way we can feed him is to lower his food from up here.” Baybars looked over the edge and saw a great blue-black horse huffing and puffing, pawing at the ground. “Is he really one-eyed?” Baybars asked.
“No,” the boy answered. “His eyes are as keen as a falcon’s. He is called Awwar because he has a white patch over one eye only. Do you see it?”
“Yes, and he has a white mustache as well.”
“True,” the boy said, “but do not make fun or he will get very angry. He is terribly fond of his mustache. And do you see the curvy white lines between his shoulders? The mistress says these lines run exactly like the Euphrates and the Nile.”
“Then this is my horse,” Baybars said. “I will ride him.”
The boy informed Baybars that no one could ride the horse, but Baybars untied the rope from the pail and knotted it around his waist. “Let me down and you will see.” The boy held on to the rope, Baybars descended slowly, and al-Awwar stared. The horse snorted, retreated, and then attacked. Baybars began to climb the rope as it was being let down. Al-Awwar’s head struck Baybars’s buttocks, and he began to swing like the tongue of a church bell. He called for help. Al-Awwar watched with a bemused look. After Baybars was pulled back to the top, he leaned over the edge and spoke these words: “I shall return.”
An army sergeant by the name of Lou’ai arrived at the house that afternoon and asked if he could speak to Baybars. The sergeant said, “My lord, I understand you wish to ride a great horse, and I have one for sale. Please, let me show you.” And there, on the street, was a magnificent roan stallion. “You can have him for forty dinars only. He is worth a lot more, but I can no longer keep him. He has been my trustworthy companion, but I have not been paid for months. I cannot feed my children, let alone feed him. He deserves a good owner.”
Baybars saw the horse’s eyes follow every move of Sergeant Lou’ai. “This is your horse,” Baybars said. “You should not be separated, for you have been faithful to each other.” He asked the sergeant to wait. He went into the house and returned with fifty dinars. “I offer this for teaching me a lesson in loyalty. May your horse continue to be your honest companion for many years to come.”
“Your generosity claims no boundaries,” the sergeant said. “The doors of paradise will forever be open to you.”
On the second day, back in the barn, the servant boy lowered Baybars, who held an apple in his hand. Al-Awwar approached and smelled the apple. He snorted, retreated, and attacked. He hit Baybars in the exact same spot as on the previous day, and Baybars went swinging again. This time, Baybars did not call for help. On the third day, Baybars was dropped with two pears. Al-Awwar approached, smelled the pears, and ate them. Baybars was pleased. When the horse finished his meal, he snorted, retreated, and attacked. Baybars swung happily. On the fourth day, Baybars was dropped with a bunch of grapes. Al-Awwar had him swinging after finishing off the fruit. On the fifth day, Baybars had seven figs, and al-Awwar ate to his heart’s content and allowed the bearer to stay. But the horse would not let Baybars approach him. Whenever Baybars moved, the horse was sure to sidestep in the opposite direction. “Allow me on your back,” Baybars pleaded. “Let me see the rivers and the land between your shoulders, for I will rule these lands one day. Be my horse, be my friend.”
On the sixth day, Baybars descended with three sheets of amareddine, the dried-apricot paste. And this time, the horse loved the feast so much he licked Baybars’s face, but when Baybars bent to pick up the saddle, al-Awwar attacked again.
That night, Baybars complained to Sitt Latifah, and she said, “No one has been able to ride al-Awwar, because he is a war stallion. He can only be ridden by a great warrior.”
“But I will be a great warrior.”
“So will every boy,” Latifah said. “I cannot help you. I can, however, tell you a story about our great stallions. Listen, and hear me. Once, a long time ago, in an age long past, in a time of heroes and wars, there were three stallions. Heroes had ridden them during many battles, from one war to the next. The three horses grew old and weary. The heroes who had inherited them decided to set their steeds free as a reward for their years of faithful service. The horses were unbridled and unsaddled, unyoked into the wilds. The horses ran with the sand winds. Free at last. The heroes watched them gallop with an abandon that had not been seen in years. The horses ran toward a river to drink and wash themselves. Suddenly the sound of a bugle was heard, and the horses froze. The river lay before them, the bugle sound behind, and the great horses were torn. The heroes watched aghast as their stallions returned to them at a slow trot. A boy had amused himself by playing the bugle, and the horses returned for war. Those horses were the ancestors of all the great Arabians, which is why all warriors, from the far isles of Europe to the great mountains of China, have descendants of the three horses as their steeds.”
Baybars kissed the top of
Latifah’s head and thanked her for the story. And on the seventh day, Baybars descended with three sheets of amareddine and a bugle. When al-Awwar finished eating, Baybars played “al-Khayal”: “I am the rider, let us ride.”
And Baybars rode al-Awwar out into the desert. He rode far from Damascus, rode until he reached the mountains west of the city, until both he and his horse were encapsuled in a sheen of sweat. Upon their return, as they neared the city, the sword shook. Baybars placed his hand upon it and felt it quiver once more. Al-Awwar stopped. Four men waited for Baybars to approach. He nudged his horse and rode slowly and warily forth.
“Greetings, traveler,” the leader said. He was Damascene, but his three slaves were as dark as oak bark. They were muscular and huge; their horses looked like ponies beneath them. They were mighty warriors from the land of the rivers on the far coast of the enigmatic continent.
“Greetings, but I am not a traveler,” Baybars said. “I am returning home.”
“No matter,” the man interrupted. “To continue on this road, you must pay a toll.”
“This is a public road to Damascus. Does the ruler of the city know about this?”
“Commander Issa is my cousin. He suggested I earn a living, and I have taken his advice. Consider your payment a kindness tax. It is my generosity that allows you to breathe. Pay tribute to my benevolence or my African slaves will cut you and set free your captive soul.”
Baybars bowed his head. “Then I fear I must repay your kindness,” he said. When Baybars lifted his head back up, al-Awwar charged the men. The sword unsheathed itself, its action moving faster than its master’s will. The leader quickly retreated behind his slaves and cowered. Al-Awwar understood which of the men was the target. The stallion squeezed between the slaves’ horses and attacked the leader’s stallion, causing its rider to fall off. Al-Awwar stomped the coward dead.
And then Baybars’s sword had to parry the attacks of the three powerful warriors. With each blow, Baybars felt his bones rattle, yet his weapon would not give or break. One warrior attacked from the right, one from the left, and the last tried to get to Baybars from the front. Al-Awwar shoved the first horse and drove the second to the ground. He frightened the third enough that it jerked back; Baybars’s sword thrust forward, past the warrior’s defenses, and stopped before his heart. A drop of blood appeared on the sword, but it did not pierce farther. The warrior looked down upon the weapon and saw his doom.
“A dishonorable cat plays with its prey before the kill. Finish this.”
“I choose not to,” Baybars said, “for I have no quarrel with you or your friends. I wish to return home. Leave me be and you are free to do as you please.”
“If the situation were reversed, you would not be alive.”
“Then I am happy it is not,” Baybars replied. “If you wish to die, so be it. I am providing an alternative.”
The warrior’s chest inflated; Baybars’s sword retreated but did not disengage. “If you do not kill us,” the African said, “then we will become your slaves.”
Baybars put his sword in its scabbard. “I cannot own you, for I myself am owned. Go,” the future slave-king said. “May God guide your path.”
“He has,” the mighty warrior said. “We choose to serve you till our dying days.”
The ruler of Damascus, Issa al-Nasser, called for Baybars and demanded information about his cousin. “He did not return to his house last night,” said the commander, “and yesterday you entered the city with his slaves.”
“The man sought to rob me,” Baybars replied. The commander was horrified to hear the news. He called on his vizier to imprison and try Baybars for murder. The vizier explained that no crime had been committed: Baybars acted in self-defense, and there were witnesses. They could not arrest Baybars in daylight. Syrian justice needed to be meted out surreptitiously.
That evening, as Baybars walked through the yard toward the outhouse, six soldiers jumped over the wall and attacked him from behind. They covered him with a large burlap sack soaked in an anesthetic potion. They carried him over the wall and took him outside the city gate. The soldiers rode into the desert until they arrived at a Bedouin camp. One of them told the chief of the tribe, “Here is the boy, and here is the promised bag of gold. The commander wishes never to see this ugly boy’s face again. Take him with you to the holy desert, and sell him to a ruthless owner. Or kill him. The commander does not care, as long as he gets rid of the troublemaker. The boy is wily. Do not let him escape.”
“Escape?” the chief asked. “We have killed men for lesser insults. We have transported boys across the deserts for generations. Go. Return to your corrupt city, and tell your master the boy has vanished for all eternity.”
The Bedouins did not have a full understanding of the concept of time. Eternity did not last the night. When Baybars did not appear for dinner, Sitt Latifah called her servants and asked if anyone had seen him. None knew the whereabouts of their master. The three African warriors announced that they would search for Baybars.
Baybars awoke to the feel of a hand covering his mouth. He could not move his roped arms. The face of a man coalesced before him, and the mouth said, “Be quiet.” And the man untied Baybars. “Come with me,” he said. “Quietly.”
Baybars followed the man out of the tent. At the opening, a Bedouin lay on the ground. An ear-to-ear gash spoke of the Bedouin’s immobility. The rescuer led him away. Shortly thereafter, Baybars heard the whinnying of al-Awwar, and he felt joy. The African warriors held the reins of Baybars’s stallion. “I believe you should never be separated from this,” one of the warriors said, handing Baybars his sword. Baybars thanked him and mounted al-Awwar.
Baybars’s savior climbed into his saddle. “You may not have recognized me.”
“I may not have recognized you at first,” Baybars said, “but even in such poor light, no one can mistake the beauty of your glorious roan. I am grateful, Sergeant.”
“The gratitude is mine,” Sergeant Lou’ai said. “When your warriors inquired about you, I was thankful to be given the chance to be of service. Finding you could never be a problem. All I had to do was ask your horse.”
Baybars suggested they return to the city, but the sergeant and the warriors objected. “These Bedouins are now your mortal enemies,” one of the warriors said. “They will never rest until they avenge the dishonor of your escape. You do not leave enemies behind. There are only thirty of them.”
“But we cannot kill them while they sleep,” Baybars said. “Do we have to wait till morning?”
“Not at all,” another warrior said. He struck a flint and lit a torch. He unleashed a burning arrow high into the night. The warrior unshackled a ferocious war cry. “Wake up, cowards,” he shouted. “You are about to die. Arise, heathens, and face your death.”
Baybars led the mighty warriors into battle. As his sword killed its first victim, and the first drop of an enemy’s blood stained his tunic, our hero banished the child he once was. The warriors massacred the Bedouins. Upon his return to the city, Baybars split the battle’s spoils among the five of them, but he handed the bag of gold to the sergeant. “Would you please inform the ruler of Damascus that I believe he may have misplaced this?”
We ate in all kinds of positions, standing, seated, kneeling, silverware clanking, shoulder to shoulder, back to back, crowded in a hospital room, as good an Adha meal as the family had ever had. Loud followed by sated quiet. My sister kept her eyes fixed on my father to gauge his condition. Tin Can, wiping lamb sheen off his black beard, announced that he had better get back to work. “I’m too stuffed to walk, but I have to,” he said.
Everyone took this as an exit cue and began to leave. Finally, only Lina, Salwa, Hovik, and I remained with my father. He clutched the oxygen mask in his hand a little tighter. “Are you all right?” my sister asked him. She took the mask from his hand and placed it on his face. He wasn’t. The panic in his eyes startled me.
Thirty minutes later, we had
to call Tin Can back, because my father’s breathing became labored, and water had resettled in the swamps of his lungs.
Commander Issa lounged on a divan and contemplated the bag of gold on the brass table. He gulped his wine. He was entertaining the king’s emissary, who had arrived from Egypt to collect taxes. A feast of delicacies lay before them. “I do not understand why you are allowing an inconsequential matter of an errant boy to trouble you,” his guest said.
“Inconsequential?” the commander huffed. “The damned boy killed my cousin.”
“But you were about to kill your cousin,” the taxman mumbled with his mouth full. “You said he was an embarrassment to manhood. The boy did you a favor.”
“I can kill my cousin if I wish, because he’s family. This boy, Baybars, is impudent.”
“Why not do what everyone does with impudent boys? Send him to Cairo. Let him become the king’s problem. Invite him for lunch, and I will impress him with the glory of Cairo and its court. I have yet to meet a boy who does not wish to be king.”
Every cook in the palace worked on the following day’s luncheon. Baybars could not believe his eyes or his nose or his tongue. The king’s emissary said the feast was nothing compared with the grandness of the king’s meals. He talked of the excitement of the holy court and regaled Baybars with tales of honor and glory. “The riches of Cairo,” the emissary said, “are beyond a mere boy’s imagination. Every hero from across the seas sails for the city to prove his mettle. It is the only home for men of worth.”
“I must visit,” Baybars said.
“You must.”
“I must ask my mother’s permission.”
“You must.”
Sitt Latifah was not happy to have her son leave, but she realized that he was smitten. “You have an aunt in Cairo,” she told him. “Her husband is an important vizier. I will write my sister so she may care for you. Ask all those who believe in you to follow you there, so you will not be alone. I will pack enough so you will want for nothing in Egypt. And ask God, the merciful, to watch over you.”
The Hakawati Page 16
