Steven Hunley
11-03-2011, 12:27 PM
http://youtu.be/DO1Bh7rZrog
No Quarter
by
Steven Hunley
The outrider sees yellow dust rising up in a cloud, then swirling down into the pass. One thousand feet below, and a century and a half away in time, during the Raj. There is always plenty of time. And though they are small, like ants, he takes note of the number of riders. Only twenty. The morning would be as easy as a smile on a beggar’s face.
“The fools. The Sultan’s daughter their only precious cargo, and they have but twenty riders! He should have the heads of any that survive.”
He stands up on his stirrups lifting his butt from the saddle. His sweating fingers push dirt between the cracks of ivory inlaid flowers on the worried rosewood stock. His anxious silver-mounted rifle hasn’t been fired all day. Like a circling hawk, he peers closer. To him it’s a game. For fun, he opens a small silver filigree box in his vest pocket, and removes a sliver of green jellied hashish with his fingernail, then places it under his tongue. Its’ taste is bitter-sweet.
Senses heighten.
“There is her palanquin, it must be her. The sides are purple silk, a royal color, and shade her face from the sun. It is said she has a face as fair as the moon,” he whispers to his horse.
Dust devils of sand force small particles of the Hindu Kush to circle around all four hoofs.
“But I’ll decide that for myself.”
Hajji unwraps his green turban and the end falls free. It waves wildly like the wind.
The signal.
His men steady their steeds and ready their rifles. They too have witnessed the dust made by the Sultan’s ants. Their leader is pleased. Sitting most of the morning has made his men restless. The sun scorches the earth with reckless abandon.
“The promise of gold and jewels will now be their focus. Not the sun. That, and the wine kegs they carry on a cart.” "
Strong drink is forbidden," says one.
"Stinking forbidden anyway," replies another, wiping his drooling mouth.
"Forget forbidden," declares a third with a sly smile.
“Gold and jewels for my men, the Sultan’s fair daughter for myself, to ransom or not. I may decide to enjoy her company in private."
There will be no witnesses because,
“Make sure we are not followed” is his only order except, “Bind and blindfold the girl, but be gentle, she is worth the world to me.”
Carefully, secretly, in silence, they creep their way down into the canyon to the ambush, taking the path that no one knows. And though the day is hot, the wind blows deadly cold, and erases their tracks as if by decree. Fate hovers like a falcon, determined to give all living things their portion of chaos, then falls like Agamemnon’s one thousand iron-tipped arrows on the walls of Troy. No one can escape it, not even a Sultan’s daughter, because it asks no quarter.
The bandits make their escape, riding swiftly through mountain passes, horses sweating and frothing, thundering, clattering, never stopping to rest, always watching for the border.
The Sultan’s troopers, hot on their heels, find no clues. A single link from the Princess’s gold chain is lost in the sand forever. The next night the horses drink from an ice-blue lake, and graze calmly in a hidden green valley as the men divide up the spoils.
Burly bandits lounge on the shore, igniting candles in tiny paper boats. The princess is tossed down on the bed in a houseboat. Their leader unwinds the black silk rope from her delicate wrists while flickering flotillas of paper boats drift by in endless processions. She tears away her blindfold and recognizes the bandit leader standing by the fire. It’s the handsome young prince she is about to marry.
His green turban signifies he has made the Haj, the Haj of a man in love.
Tribal tradition is upheld.
Kashmir.
©Steven Hunley 2011
No Quarter
by
Steven Hunley
The outrider sees yellow dust rising up in a cloud, then swirling down into the pass. One thousand feet below, and a century and a half away in time, during the Raj. There is always plenty of time. And though they are small, like ants, he takes note of the number of riders. Only twenty. The morning would be as easy as a smile on a beggar’s face.
“The fools. The Sultan’s daughter their only precious cargo, and they have but twenty riders! He should have the heads of any that survive.”
He stands up on his stirrups lifting his butt from the saddle. His sweating fingers push dirt between the cracks of ivory inlaid flowers on the worried rosewood stock. His anxious silver-mounted rifle hasn’t been fired all day. Like a circling hawk, he peers closer. To him it’s a game. For fun, he opens a small silver filigree box in his vest pocket, and removes a sliver of green jellied hashish with his fingernail, then places it under his tongue. Its’ taste is bitter-sweet.
Senses heighten.
“There is her palanquin, it must be her. The sides are purple silk, a royal color, and shade her face from the sun. It is said she has a face as fair as the moon,” he whispers to his horse.
Dust devils of sand force small particles of the Hindu Kush to circle around all four hoofs.
“But I’ll decide that for myself.”
Hajji unwraps his green turban and the end falls free. It waves wildly like the wind.
The signal.
His men steady their steeds and ready their rifles. They too have witnessed the dust made by the Sultan’s ants. Their leader is pleased. Sitting most of the morning has made his men restless. The sun scorches the earth with reckless abandon.
“The promise of gold and jewels will now be their focus. Not the sun. That, and the wine kegs they carry on a cart.” "
Strong drink is forbidden," says one.
"Stinking forbidden anyway," replies another, wiping his drooling mouth.
"Forget forbidden," declares a third with a sly smile.
“Gold and jewels for my men, the Sultan’s fair daughter for myself, to ransom or not. I may decide to enjoy her company in private."
There will be no witnesses because,
“Make sure we are not followed” is his only order except, “Bind and blindfold the girl, but be gentle, she is worth the world to me.”
Carefully, secretly, in silence, they creep their way down into the canyon to the ambush, taking the path that no one knows. And though the day is hot, the wind blows deadly cold, and erases their tracks as if by decree. Fate hovers like a falcon, determined to give all living things their portion of chaos, then falls like Agamemnon’s one thousand iron-tipped arrows on the walls of Troy. No one can escape it, not even a Sultan’s daughter, because it asks no quarter.
The bandits make their escape, riding swiftly through mountain passes, horses sweating and frothing, thundering, clattering, never stopping to rest, always watching for the border.
The Sultan’s troopers, hot on their heels, find no clues. A single link from the Princess’s gold chain is lost in the sand forever. The next night the horses drink from an ice-blue lake, and graze calmly in a hidden green valley as the men divide up the spoils.
Burly bandits lounge on the shore, igniting candles in tiny paper boats. The princess is tossed down on the bed in a houseboat. Their leader unwinds the black silk rope from her delicate wrists while flickering flotillas of paper boats drift by in endless processions. She tears away her blindfold and recognizes the bandit leader standing by the fire. It’s the handsome young prince she is about to marry.
His green turban signifies he has made the Haj, the Haj of a man in love.
Tribal tradition is upheld.
Kashmir.
©Steven Hunley 2011