Nomad's Dream

by August Li

  Those words surprised Isra. “My desert has all the variety I need. There’s more beauty and wonder than a man could hope to see in a lifetime. When I come to the city, see the way the people here have to live, it reminds me to thank God for letting me be born into the free air, giving me the liberty to go where and do what I like.”

  Flicker tossed his head, his beads and chains jingling. “God arranged all of that, did he? Well, when we get to where we’re going, just try to keep in mind who arranged all of this, hmm?”

  They’d reached the place where the road crossed the magnificent Nile River, and Isra stopped and looked around at the boats moored near the Eastern Bank. “I’ve never stepped foot outside the Eastern Desert before now.”

  He expected some light mockery from Flicker, but the arafrit just said, “I promise it will be worth it.” The sincerity in his voice convinced Isra, and they crossed the water, kept company by the occasional car or truck.

  The world changed abruptly when they reached the other side. Fields of sugarcane, clover, onions, and alfalfa replaced the small, tightly packed buildings, and the farther they got from Qena, the more moonlight replaced man-made sources. The songs of night birds and insects rang out around them, and Isra remarked that this was pretty country. They walked several miles more, nothing new to Isra. Bedouin men often walked all day just to pass the time and visit some well-loved landmarks.

  Finally, many hours after they’d left his cousins’ home, they reached a crumbling mud-brick wall that surrounded a huge compound of several old buildings. That long, straight road of flat tan stones stretched out before him, and Isra shivered.

  “What is this place?”

  “Dendera Temple,” Flicker said. “It was a shrine to Hathor, the goddess of joy and love.”

  “Built by the ancients?”

  “A Ptolemaic replica, for the most part.” Flicker’s eyes burned bright in the unbroken darkness. “Still impressive, and well-preserved in many places. Come on.”

  Isra shook his head. “It’s best to stay away from places like this.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re home to….” Isra knew his next words would sound ridiculous, but he had no wish to enter this place, especially not in the dead of night. “These places are home to evil spirits. Demons.”

  “Like me?”

  “Well… what about the souls of the ancients? Our presence could anger them.”

  Flicker’s eyes flared, and the intricate designs in his skin glowed white-hot. “Fire keeps ghosts at bay. Now come. I promise to see to your safety.”

  “I’m not… I don’t….”

  “Yes, I know. It’s an affront to admit needing me, a demon. But we both know it would not be the first time.”

  “No,” Isra admitted.

  “I’m your friend.”

  “Yes.” Isra pushed his shoulders back. “Yes, you are, may God forgive me. I hope I will not regret this, but I’ll follow you.”

  That walkway seemed to go on forever, and Isra jumped at the rustle of the palm fronds, the eerie, jagged shadows they threw across the path. Even if he would never say it aloud, he wouldn’t have had the courage to make it this far without Flicker, without his warmth at Isra’s side and the mutable light emanating from him, which Isra imagined kept the darkest shadows—and whatever hid within them—back.

  When the complex came into view, Isra saw that indeed, it encompassed dozens of buildings. Many of them were mere piles of rubble, as if they’d been leveled by some giant hand. The numinous call of an owl echoed among the abandoned structures, but other than that, the silence was so absolute Isra could hear the sand skittering across the stones in the light breeze. One temple towered over the others, held up by columns ten times the height of a man, each topped with head of a woman in an elaborate headdress… the goddess of this heathen place, certainly.

  Isra wondered why no one guarded the temple, but he feared speaking would shatter some spell, the magic that let them move undetected by the spirits to whom this place belonged. Besides, if Flicker had something to do with the absence of the guards, he would rather not know.

  They also had no trouble entering a tiny outbuilding Flicker called a birth house. It smelled of disuse, but they crossed it in a dozen steps, along with another birth house and set of small chapels. Then they stepped into the temple proper, and though his breath resounded, Isra knew it was smaller than it looked from the outside. He felt the weight of the stone around him, felt the absolute darkness pressing down. The only light came from Flicker, and Isra stepped close to him and curled his hand in the back of Flicker’s tunic. As if this was what he’d been waiting for, Flicker began to move, his heeled boots making no sound as he crossed the hall, though Isra’s sandals scraped and slapped. He couldn’t see more than a few feet in any direction, and so he focused on Flicker’s voice as the arafrit made observations about their surroundings.

  “This is the festival hall, and over there was the library.” Ornate columns surrounded them, and as Flicker passed, Isra caught glimpses of rows and rows of ancient figures engaged in things he couldn’t even guess at. “And this is the sanctuary. The goddess’s statue stood on the dais, there.”

  “You saw it… then?”

  Flicker looked over his shoulder, tendrils of flame spilling from the corners of his eyes. He smiled. “The people who built this were not so… cautious in their friendships with the other denizens of the desert. I forged relationships with many of them.”

  He sounded a little wistful, and for the first time, Isra realized that Flicker might be lonely. He’d once had an entire community of friends and companions, but they’d all gone while he remained. Perhaps that was why he’d sought Isra out. A touch guiltily, Isra moved closer to his friend and draped his arm across Flicker’s back.

  They’d reached an archway that led to a narrow staircase. It had been blocked off by an iron gate, but someone had already jimmied it open, probably with the thin piece of slate that lay nearby.

  “Once a year,” Flicker said, pointing to the painted reliefs on the wall, “the temple priestesses would carry Hathor’s statue to the rooftop sanctuary, where the goddess could witness the sun rising over the river. It was said to recharge the idol’s energy, as well as spreading Hathor’s beneficence over her people.”

  It wasn’t until they emerged onto the temple’s roof that Isra realized how suffocated he’d been inside. Here the air was sweet, redolent of the hay and clover growing nearby. Compared to the darkness of the stairwell, the moonlight seemed as bright as midday. It illuminated the outbuildings and lent them ruined beauty, a sort of melancholic grandeur Isra felt in his chest but had no words to label. Beyond, the wind carved serpentine patterns across the fields of silvered reeds.

  Isra turned to Flicker. “It’s beautiful. Seeing this, I’m reminded of how quickly time passes, how even man’s most ambitious works fall to dust eventually. Nothing lasts but God and love. Sometimes I need to remember that. I’m glad I came. Thank you.”

  Flicker’s answering smile was subtle, much different from his typical crooked grin. “Do you remember the way back to your cousins’ house?”

  “Yes?”

  “Good.” Flicker patted Isra’s shoulder. “You should look behind the kiosk over there.”

  Isra turned to locate it, and when he turned back, Flicker was gone.

  Chapter Four

  THE MAN thought he’d heard voices—two men speaking—but he must’ve been dreaming. Fully awake, he heard nothing but the wind and an owl hooting somewhere in the compound. He tried to go back to sleep, but that was easier said than done on solid stone, with only the balled-up shemagh as a pillow. But it beat an alleyway full of garbage and insects where mongrels would nip at him all night. He was also safe from brigands, as everything this temple once held had been looted long ago.

  He still found it beautiful, though, especially the view of the countryside from the rooftop sanctuary. He decided he might as well get up and enjoy i
t if sleep would elude him. If nothing else, it served to remind him that in the grand scheme of things, his troubles were insignificant, and they would pass soon enough.

  When he rounded the kiosk, he saw another man looking into the stairwell that led to the first floor of the temple, and he wondered what to do. This was all wrong. The man shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t have even been able to get to the roof. How did he know the layout of the temple? What could he possibly want? Should he hide from this intruder and hope he would go away?

  As the man backed toward the kiosk, the other turned around, and their eyes met. Even in the night, with the moon nearly set, it was impossible to miss the way the stranger’s eyes widened, the happiness—almost relief—that crossed his face. Why would he react like that? The man wondered if the delight he witnessed could be because of his presence, but it was too much to hope. “What are you doing here?” he asked the interloper.

  The other man flinched at the sound of his voice, the way a wild animal might. He had the look of a Bedouin, and some unknown source reminded the man of the desert people’s reputation for resisting civil customs. But watching this stranger, the way his eyes widened with obvious concern, it was impossible to imagine him a heathen.

  But he still had not answered the question, so the man repeated it.

  The Bedouin stammered. “I-I was exploring. Nothing more. Why are you here?”

  The man found he was ashamed to admit he slept here, hid himself away in this abandoned place because he had nowhere to go. “I like the view of the fields.”

  The Bedouin went to the edge of the roof and laid his hands lightly on the wall surrounding it. “Yes. It is exquisite.”

  Silence stretched between them, and even after they turned to regard each other, it drew out longer. Finally the Bedouin said, “Forgive me if I am making assumptions, but you look like you could use some help. Is there… anything I can do?”

  The man wondered how much to admit. If he told this stranger he had no memories, he might run away, fearing evil spirits or madness. Then the man would be alone again, robbed of the only person who had expressed concern for him in his life—or what he could recall of it. But why the compassion?

  Did it matter?

  “Maybe I can use some help. But why are you so eager to give it?”

  The Bedouin smiled. It was awkward and… sweet—the smile of a shy boy complimenting his mother. “Why not share God’s kindness if I can? I would hope someone would do the same for me if I found myself in need.”

  There was no subterfuge. Besides, if this wanderer hoped to rob him, what could he get? An empty plastic bottle? Nothing about the man’s kind, handsome face or relaxed posture hinted at violence. “All right.”

  “Good.” The Bedouin seemed so relieved. “I… I assume you don’t want to stay here.”

  “Not permanently.”

  “Well, why don’t you come with me?”

  Though the man had no reason to refuse and no better alternative, he asked why.

  “I’m staying at my cousins’ home. You’d be welcome there. My brother and I have a large herd. We can kill a goat or a sheep. Maybe two. The herd’s good this year. At least good enough for a hearty meal. It’s our way, feeding our guests well.”

  The man couldn’t remember the last time he’d tasted meat, and he salivated just thinking about it. “If you’re willing, I would be honored to eat with you and your family.”

  The world grew lighter and softer, and not just because of the sun rising on the opposite bank of the Nile. The rosy hue suited the Bedouin, his timid smile as he said, “I’m afraid it will be a long walk.”

  “I’m used to that,” the man said, trying hard to revel in his good fortune instead of asking the difficult—but difficult to ignore—questions about how this man had come to find him.

  Maybe God had answered his prayers, and maybe he was an awful person for doubting God’s mercy. The least he could offer in exchange was the truth. “What’s your name?”

  “Isra al-Grayjaab. What’s yours?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know,” the man repeated. “I don’t know who I am or how I ended up in Qena. According to the men who know the city well, I have no family or friends. No one has ever heard of me, and I have no idea where I came from. So… still willing to feed me from your family’s herd?”

  “How does any of what you’ve said affect your need for a meal?” Isra asked. “But it would be easier to call you something. How about Janan?”

  “Janan.” Heart. An interesting choice, but not an unwelcome one. “That seems reasonable. And my manners have been far less than ideal, Isra. Thank you. You’re doing more for me than I dared to hope anyone would do.”

  Isra shook his head. “It’s only a meal and a place to sleep for a few nights. Nothing more than common decency. I expect you’ll be good company.”

  “I’ll try,” Janan said as he followed Isra into the stairwell. This Bedouin had no idea what common decency, being treated like a person who mattered, could mean to a man who had been denied it so long.

  This kindness meant the world to Janan, and it pained him that he had no way to reciprocate it.

  They crossed the river and reached the outskirts of the city just in time to join a group of men for morning prayers. Afterward, the day got even better when Isra revealed he had a little money in the hide bag slung over his shoulder. When they reached the city center, Isra went to a small booth and purchased grainy pitas loaded with fuul and fried egg. They sat on a nearby bench and ate it with spicy kofta kebabs and strong tea.

  Janan put a hand over his belly. “If you had asked me yesterday, I would’ve said my stomach would never be full again. But now I find I cannot even finish half of an average breakfast.”

  Isra held up the meatballs on their skewer. “One of the few things I look forward to when coming into the city. Along with citrus fruits and tomatoes. Those are hard to come by in the desert.”

  “When do you plan to return?” Janan asked, leaving his real question—and what will happen to me then?—unspoken.

  “It usually takes a week or so for my cousins to strike a good bargain for the livestock. Then me and my brother will buy the supplies we need to take back to his household.”

  “What about your household?”

  Isra’s smile came more easily with every moment they spent together. He seemed so comfortable—a man truly content with his lot in life. “It’s the same household. Salih has two wives and five children. Three sons. When the cold forces us into the tents, I stay with them.”

  “And your wives and children stay with his?”

  Having finished his meal, Isra riffled through his pouch until he located a pipe carved from some sort of bone, which he filled with tobacco from a small tin. “I don’t have any wives or children. I’m unmarried.”

  Janan thought that strange for a man who looked to be in his late twenties or maybe even thirties. But for some reason, it also pleased him. He watched closely as Isra set the stem of his pipe between his full lips. As Isra concentrated on smoking, exhaling a long plume with clear satisfaction, Janan stole a moment to study the other man. He was darker in complexion than many, and the hair that peeked out from beneath his white shemagh curled into tight little ringlets. His eyes were deep-set and heavy lidded, adding to the air of serenity he exuded. More black hair, cut short and neat, lined a strong jaw. Looking at it and the thin mustache, Janan supposed Isra’s body would be smooth—a dusting of hair at the center of his chest, maybe a line down his belly, but probably little else….

  And why was he thinking of such things?

  He hurried to turn his attention back to his food and force down the rest. Despite what his new friend had said, Janan couldn’t break the habit of gorging when he could, not knowing when he would eat again.

  “I don’t have another pipe to offer you, I’m afraid,” Isra said. “But you’re welcome to share this one.”
r />   Janan shook his head. “I don’t smoke.”

  Isra chuckled. “How do you know?”

  “I don’t know how, but I do know. Certain things are stuck in my head: the words to the prayers, the ability to read, numbers. I even know the names of some of the constellations, and I remember stories about the ancients who built the temple where you found me. I remember stories from Greece, facts about battles from the Second World War, Napoleon, and the Duke of Wellington.”

  “Stories are important,” Isra said. “They tether us to the past, to our place in time and the world. They help us understand life and ourselves.”

  “But I don’t know anything about myself,” Janan said in almost a whisper. “I owe you the truth. My greatest fear… I worry that I might’ve done something terrible. Maybe committed a crime… maybe something so awful my mind has blocked it out. What if that’s the reason I lost my memory? What if I’m here in Qena because I’m running from something?”

  Isra looked up and their eyes met again. The other man’s steady gaze, free of judgment, allayed some of Janan’s fear. “You don’t seem like a violent man. You could have attacked me when I found you at the temple. Think about it. Being out here, on the street, did you pick pockets? Swindle tourists? Beat people to take their money?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Did it ever even occur to you to do those things?”

  Janan shook his head. “Once, when I was especially hungry and a stand in the suq had fresh pomegranates, it was hard not to grab one and run. I wanted one badly.”

  “You see? Even starving and in distress, you did the right thing. Many men do far worse and excuse it more easily. Yours aren’t the actions of an evil man.”

  “I want to believe that,” Janan said. “But perhaps you’re so virtuous a man that you can’t comprehend evil in others. After all, I’m a stranger, and you’ve given me one meal and the promise of another. Others in this city… they’ll do the minimum in accordance with God’s laws, but it’s begrudgingly and cold. You give the impression of actually caring. I’ll bet you go years without committing even the tiniest of sins. Probably a paragon.”