The Woman with the Twisted Lip

[Steven Hunley]

The Woman with the Twisted Lip
by
Steven Hunley


The eyes that peered through the lens were coconut brown, and veiled with long curving lashes. Under that, a Sultana’s cheeks and under those rosy cheeks a petulant mouth designed by the Gods themselves when the royal girl-child was still in Heaven.

The fingers that adjusted the bright brass tube were slender and pale and almost artistic. Extended to full length, the instrument saw into every corner of the city. Minaret’s spirals piercing a cobalt sky, rose-colored roofed houses, white-washed promenades, and little brown donkeys piled high with wood that were strutting none the less. In the street, merchants bustling business from their stalls and lines of glistening black slaves chained to each other by their throats, dragging reluctant feet to the slave market. Tall burly tribesmen with whips stood guard and an old woman selling brown succulent dates sat in the cool blue shadows of a mosque to escape the mid-day heat.

The crystal lens made everything appear close and sharp.

But right now the usually well-formed mouth was pouting.

“I never get to go out, Grand Wazier, never!”

“I understand…but with affairs of state…”

“I never get to see things close up!”

Her small red velvet slippers with curled toes stomped on the unfeeling cold marble floor to no avail.

“But we have to protect you, Your Majesty. What with all these threats of assassination…”

Fine sculpted nails tapped impatiently on the brass telescope. Brown eyes still fixed at the end of the tube refused to acknowledge his argument.

“You have proof?”

“We have letters…intercepted letters. I’ll ask my secretary to retrieve them. The Turks threaten our borders, and our people are restless as jackals. I know it hasn’t been easy since your brother disappeared.”

“I’m sorry, Wazier, I’m out of sorts. Don’t bother with the letters. I know you understand your job. It’s this heat, it has me ill-tempered.”

“Yes, I agree. I feel it too. I don’t take your words personally. Cairo is unaccountably hot for this time of year.”

The Sultana finally looked his way and smiled.

“No offence?”

“None taken.”

“Then, you may go.”

The Wazier backed his way from the balcony into the palace, stopped to take a tangerine from a blue-glazed bowl, and allowed the Sultana to return to her amusement. Her palace, Qasr al – Bahr, was designed by the royal astrologers to be in unison with the stars. It was imposing and beautiful. From its lofty walls she could see the city below, but never touch the wonders her lens revealed. To the Sultana the palace was a prison, and her courtiers and officials merely well-mannered soft-talking guards dressed in silk or perfumed ghosts whose whispers haunted its gilded corridors.

Older Cairo, poorer Cairo, was a different place entirely.

Far from the palace was one of a thousand narrow winding streets. Covered balconies and jalousie blinds allowed sequestered women within to peer out at the crowded thoroughfares and not be seen. At an intersection was a fountain like any other. Across from the fountain was a stable for travelers to rent horses, a business where a man dyed wool, and a shop that sold birds. It could have been anywhere in the city and there was nothing to distinguish it except an unusual mosaic of the Virgin Mary on a wall not far from a minaret. Its spire’s shadow seemed to point at the beautiful sad lady. How a Christian mosaic came to be put there was speculated upon and debated every day by Moslem women who used the fountain, but its presence was defended by a frail Indian woman who sold herbs and bhang on the corner.

The old woman maintained that the mosaic was set there long ago by a Christian crusader’s family after the Holy crusades and sanctioned by Saladin himself, a well-know defender of the faith. She was impeccable in her taste and her cleanliness, swept her storefront and wiped dust from the mosaic as a ritual every evening. She was poor but respected, and although she was elderly, the sands of time had not dulled the needle of her wit. In fact, her wit and sense of humor were known far beyond the neighborhood in which she lived. Some said she was the widow of a Sufi mystic, but many argued that her remarkable perception took no training, that it was a gift. Rumors floated about her shoulders like flocks of restless starlings. She kept to herself and lived alone and slept during the day, so only the flotsam and jetsam that slunk about in the night were fully conversant with her and her ways.

To her neighbors that lived their lives during the day this reclusiveness only added to her cache.

“She is a night-owl,” remarked one woman to another while doing laundry. “Some people are just that way.”

“In that case I don’t give a hoot about her,” the second woman laughed.

“She keeps to herself,” observed a third. “And that’s good enough for me. Not long ago she gave my son some herbal medicine for his stomach complaints.”

“It did him no harm?”

“The next day he was up and about chirping like a bird!”

All three cackled like hens.

Three sets of brown hands returned to their white foaming suds with such industry that bubbles slopped into the street.

But what of the men?

to be continued...

[MANICHAEAN]

Ah Ha.

The sultry maiden in the tower / the sweat of common mankind in the bazaars of Cairo below.

Steve Hunley embedded, quill poised, mingling on both planes as if he were God's spy.

I hang on, with bated breath !!!

Best regards

M.

[Judith57]

I hang on, with bated breathhttp://www.infoocean.info/avatar2.jpg

[Hawkman]

A good start Steven, but that opening paragraph needs adjusting! When I read it:

"The eyes that peered through the lens were coconut brown, and veiled with long curving lashes. Under that, a Sultana’s cheeks and under those rosy cheeks a petulant mouth designed by the Gods themselves when the royal girl-child was still in Heaven."

It's the "Sultana's cheeks" The image which sprang to my mind was of a withered grape! I immediately thought that it was the description of an old woman rather than a young one, it threw me a bit - and: "...under that those rosey cheeks..." made me think of muscle and bone. Perhaps, "below these" would have been better word choices.

The Arabian nights flavour of this humorous tale had me expecting it to be set in Old Bagdad - When I think of Cairo I think of a modern city - silly really as it is so old, lol.

A very enjoyable taster, Please keep it comming.

live and be well - H

[AuntShecky]

Great topic, timeless and timely, in an exotic locale. I'm interested in reading the remainder of the story. Loved the dialogue of the street women, seems true-to-life, especially for its humor.

Your descriptions are lyrically vivid, no question, and as a contrast between rich Cairo and poor Cairo, serve as an important thematic point. One little caveat, though, is that you might want to make a decision to whittle off some of the excess, as lengthy descriptive passages may unnecessarily slow down the pace of your story.

Cf.:

http://wendypalmer.com.au/2008/09/25/writing-rules-misapplied-kill-your-darlings/

[Steven Hunley]

But what of the men?

Oh, by the beard of the Prophet, she was popular with them too. Men would seek out her advice and herbal remedies when they required more vigor in the bedroom, or when their heads suffered from too much drinking. This made her popular with their wives as well. Kindness and clarity beamed from her person like the ancient lighthouse at Alexandria and many people on the street owed their success to her knowledge and forethought.

All these aspects and virtues were wrapped up in an unlikely package. Time, it is supposed, had bent her back like a recurved Persian bow. Lines of care were etched on her forehead and her skin was mottled and discolored, and nature, in a final act of perversion, had twisted her lip.

“It’s a hasty dye-job Allah has done on the woman,” said the man who dyed wool, “though he must have his reasons.”

“He moves in mysterious ways,” sung the man who sold birds in bamboo cages. “Never doubt his wisdom. His reasons are not a matter for mortal men to judge.”

Both men were interrupted when they heard a rider approaching. From the speed of the horse it could only be one man, that and the fact a hooded falcon was hanging onto his shoulder with his talons for dear life indicated they were correct.

“It’s Ali Pasha, come to return my bird and stable his horse.”

“The man rides tall in the saddle and studies falconry. He’s quite a horseman.”

“He’s my best customer and, praise be to Allah, a gentleman.”

“A gentleman and a rogue, that’s what they say.”

“Most certainly he is as advertised, a gentleman, a rogue, and a rake, all three.

Ali Pasha rode up like a whirl-wind and threw seven desert quails to the man who owned the stable and bird shop.

“I see the hunting was good.”

“Good enough to break one’s fast,” Ali said, dismounting, “Have your wife fix me two. Keep the rest for yourselves.”

“Coffee, too?”

“Naturally, make mine medium sweet.”

Ali dusted off his caftan and boots. He was handsome and well-built, with a square jaw that wanted a shave and regular features graced with dark liquid eyes women found irresistible. Rubbing his fingers against his chin provoked him to say,

“I’m going to shave and have a bath. After that, let’s break our fast in your garden under the flowered gazebo before it gets too hot. Your wife is with child, isn’t she?”

“Yes, Effendi, she’s due in a month or so.”

“See she gets the fattest one.”

“At once, Effendi, and thank you.”

Ali Pasha handed the bird-seller his falcon for safe-keeping. He opened his saddlebag and took out a bundle of papers, a small inkwell and a few quill pens wrapped in a cord and left for his rooms over the bird-shop.

“What’s that?” asked the man who dyed wool.

‘It’s a manuscript of the Thousand and One Nights. He’s translating the tale of the Genii from Farsi to Egyptian!”

“My goodness, he’s a gentleman and a scholar!”

“He’s a hunter and a horseman and a gentleman and a scholar.”

“And a rogue and a rake, remember?”

“It is written that ‘it takes many qualities to be a man’ is what I remember. Come, let us eat.

“I will accompany you eagerly,” the wool dyer muttered on his way to the most sumptuous breakfast he’d had in a week. “For Ali Pasha is one of a thousand and one.”


***

to be continued...

[Steven Hunley]

The Sultana was eating at the same hour, in a meeting with her advisors.

Gold trays stacked with green and orange melon slices and cloisonné bowls filled with yoghurt and honey dotted the audience chamber. Snake-like clouds of smoke rose in circles over the heads of turbaned officials sucking on amber mouthpieces while African Grays squawked from gaudy wood standards and feasted on crumbs of white sesame biscuits. As much as the Sultana would like to succumb to the palace and its myriad of entertainments, there was work to be done and problems to be solved. She reminded the ministers of this announcing,

“Serve the coffee. And you ministers there, what problems do you have for me today?

Her head of police flicked away a crumb of baklava from his chest and answered,

“We’ve rounded up the boys who painted the Christian crosses over the Jew’s shops and on their synagogues. They were questioned. Every one of them is a street urchin, and…”

“And what? Continue.”

The head of police looked down at his feet and said quietly,

“…and they are Moslems.”

“And, so! Dismiss the court. Round up these vandals and have them brought to me at once!”

Within minutes the room was emptied and guards took up positions outside the ante-chamber doors. The only way out was the balcony. The Sultana rested on a red-velvet cushion and considered.

“I’ll take care of these urchins myself. I’ll show them what justice is.”

Then guards from the jail drove an untamed rabble up the stairs and into the room for sentencing. Like the rest of the palace it was gaudy and sumptuous but all the boys saw were flower patterns on the marble floor. The Sultana keenly evaluated their looks, measured them, and gave her guards orders.

“Post yourselves outside but stay alert. I may need you at once.”

When the two huge double-doors locked with an audible one-way click, seven dusty heads turned her way and adopted certain attitudes and expressions.

Astonishment, amazement, bewilderment, confusion, fear, incredulousness and horror, yes... even horror.

Mouths hanging open or shut up tight, eyebrows knit or completely undone drew dark lines on their faces. Blank stares and stares packed with undecipherable meanings flew back and forth. The faces, which ranged in age from nine to twelve, exhibited every emotion. The Sultana acted as if she’d never seen such rabble and strengthened her face accordingly.

“Do you understand why you’re here?”

All eyes were cast onto the floor like marbles.

“Do you understand the possible dire consequences?”

Not a sound except for a Peacock calling its mate in the garden, almost a cry for help. It would not be answered on this day.

“Which ones of you did it?

No hands went up. A very small boy in back started crying. His clothes were tattered and torn and his belt was a hempen cord tied around his middle. He had no shoes. A tall boy in front stood up to full height and pleaded,

“Arrest and try us all if you must, Great Sultana. We’re in this together.”

“Who are you to speak for them all?”

“My name is Hazim, and I speak because I am their chief.”

“What tribe has a chief so young?”

“It is our tribe. It has no name as yet. But we were thinking of Scorpion Street Irregulars.”

“Well, Chief Hazim, tell me how your tribe came to be marking the synagogues and shops of the Jews with crosses. None of you are Christians, are you?”

Two of the smaller boys remained silent but shuffled their feet nervously.

“Those two are, but it’s not their fault. It was I gave the orders.”

“And I saw to it they were carried out!” said another who was his lieutenant in rags, proudly. “Christians are unbelievers anyway!”

Six heads nodded in agreement. The boy who didn’t realized it was his turn to speak up.

“I’m a Druze… and I did it too.”

“Such zealots,” observed the Sultana, “such devotion to faith! I’ll admit I sorely impressed!”

The double-door opened and two servants came in carrying a silver tray of hot steaming rolls. Made by the royal baker, they were marked with a crescent moon made of sugar icing. Seven pairs of lashes widened when their noses alerted their eyes.

“Hungry?”

“Oh yes, always, Great Sultana, Defender of the Faith, and Most Magnificent Ruler,” answered Hazim.

The Sultana was all too familiar with this sort of talk, and growing stern replied,

“Then I suggest you all eat before I pass sentence.”

“These are marvelous pastries!” cried one.

“As good as the ones we were given last week?” asked another.

“They taste as good if not better! They have the same mark, see?”

“Then the only difference is that they are fresh,” replied Hazim, stuffing his mouth.

The Sultana’s ears pricked up at the conversation.

“Who gave you pastries such as these?”

“The same man who gave us the coppers and paint,” answered the Druze boy.

“What was his name?”

“We don’t know his name or what he looked like. It was dark and his face was masked. But he was finely dressed, had silver on his saddle and plenty of money.”

“And plenty of these, a whole sack full.”

So what I’m hearing now is that you didn’t do this for religion, you did it for money and food?”

“Yes, Sultana, that was it. We have no truck with religions, whatever their flavor,” replied Hazim.

The Sultana approached the balcony and her favorite pastime the telescope. She ignored her amusement and used her eyes unaided. A hawk flew noiselessly over the mosques with their crescent moon tops, bell towers of scattered churches, and menorahs topping the synagogues of the city. Like an eagle would he peered down at all with equal dispassion.

“In that case I’m ready to pass sentence. Line up here by the balcony.”

The boys stuffed what was left into their mouth and lined up straight facing the Sultana, orderly and quiet, like soldiers at attention.

“You have destroyed property and created dissention between the religious factions of our city. You have accepted a bribe and made false impressions. Therefore your sentence is this. You will repair all the damage you created. I’ll assign a work crew to assist you and all the supplies needed. You should be in school and not on the streets.

You lack training and discipline. You will, as a group, no matter what your faith, familiarize yourself with the various religions within our city by attending a religious school of each of the faiths for one month. This is not to indoctrinate you, but to provide you with knowledge you sorely need. You will keep me up to date on your progress and your parents will be informed of my decision.

Most importantly, you will inform me of any more meetings with the man who gave you the buns and money. If you think you have seen him again, anywhere, you must tell me.

You’ll swear by all that is holy to keep this a secret between you and I. Can you do that? All of you?”

Seven heads nodded in agreement. As the boys were leaving, the Sultana was heard whispering to one of her trusted ministers who waited near the open door, a Sufi by training,

“All Faith is false, all Faith is true:
Truth is the shattered mirror strown
In myriad bits; while each believes
His little bit the whole to own.”

She then asked to see the royal baker, and returned to her morning tea exhausted, having just recruited the Scorpion Street Irregulars and gathered them gently into her fold like errant lambs on a butcher’s holiday.

***

to be continued...

[Steven Hunley]

The nights in Cairo were cool and forgiving. Women and men forgot the heat and played when left to their own devices. In the palace courtyard courtiers played backgammon on fold-up tables inlaid with ivory and drank flavored ices under paper lanterns strung overhead. The Sultana, taking advantage of the cool breeze, went to sleep and posted guards to ensure her dreams would not be interrupted.

At the opposite end of the city three men played cards in a stable under a lamp and drank beer. None were about to sleep. One, a tall dark and handsome fellow, was losing his embroidered shirt.

“Luck is not my bedfellow,” Ali coughed, “I’m going out for some fresh air.”

“Don’t get lost out there in the dark,” said the one who was winning. “We need your money.”

Ali walked into the courtyard facing the street where two lanterns lit the shadows. Wind swept through the palms and one of the lanterns moved, then flickered and went out. It was the Indian woman opening her shop. The shadows grew as dark and ominous as Seti’s mummified face. A woman who fears the dark needs a savior, and always the gentleman, Ali crossed the street to her rescue.

“Here, let me help.”

“Who’s that?”

“Me, Ali.”

The woman’s voice was strong but feminine and in its way, commanding, “You scoundrel, you ruffian,” she chided. “Are you here in the dark of night to rob me?”

“Not likely,” laughed Ali.

The darkness was so complete that Ali put one hand around her waist, and with his other hand took her wrist and felt his way to her fingers, then found his way to the wick. In the concealing darkness her fingers felt soft and subtle, like a young woman’s fingers. When the lantern was lit again, they looked mottled and blue-veined and course. The coming of light made her brake away quickly.

“Thank you, Ali Pasha. What brings you here?”

“I need a soothing balm for my throat.”

“Too much smoking and drinking, I imagine?”

“Yes, I’ll admit I’m a slave to bad habits.”

“I believe you, Ali, of all people, can get a handle on your bad habits. It’s not beyond you, remember,”

‘Conquer thyself, till thou has done this, thou art but a slave, for it is almost as well to be subjected to another’s appetite as to thine own.’

“Sister, at times I believe the rumor that your husband was indeed a Sufi mystic who taught you many precepts.”

“And in that case, my friend, you would believe falsely. I have never been married and received my education from a tutor.”

“He certainly did his job well.”

“Yes, as well as he was paid. Still, the knowledge he passed on was worth more than gold. I wasn’t losing money.”

“Losing money…” replied Ali soberly, patting his empty pockets, “there’s nothing like it to teach a man how to savor the taste of humility.”

To heal the whole man instead of just his throat she measured and weighed, then mixed, and mixed, and pouring some healing elixir in a cup instructed,

‘Drink this slowly, but while it’s still hot.”

Ali did as was told, and while tilting the cup caught a glimpse of her eyes. They were measuring and weighing him, mixing him up, and healing him in some inexplicable way.

“You should probably go back now and tuck yourself in,” she cautioned. “There’s Echinacea and honey to strengthen your resistance and Morpheus gum from Indian poppies to help you to control coughing. The only thing that will be scratchy will be the end of your nose. In half an hour you’ll be in the land of dreams.”

“I thank you for your kindness. You’re elixir may temporarily disable me but I’ll be back tomorrow night to test your womanhood, rest assured of that.”

“And what test might that be?”

“I’ve always wanted to know if you can cook!”

Ali left and returned to his rooms. To determine he was safely away she took one last look only to find him wildly waving from the foot of his stairs blowing kisses. The act gave her hope, but could be a foolish endeavor. She understood Ali and knew he’d never show up as promised. More likely he would be chasing down his latest beautiful conquest and would forget about her. The woman shook her head in wonder at the depths of her feminine sentiments, the breadth of excess negativity, and considered well her image mirrored in the shiny brass lamp.

“I should thank Allah that when he fashioned my face, he made it the face of a fool.”
***

The next morning Ali and the stable-keeper were talking near a well not twenty steps from the street, having an argument about important virtues or aspects that women should possess.

“I like them fat and sassy, a woman with meat on her bones,” continued Mahmud.

“Yes, that is your opinion, but I can argue my point with facts,” countered Ali.

“Which are?”

‘That thin women are best. You see, it’s like this. A woman has only so many nerve endings, and cannot grow more, no matter how big she gets, therefore if she is too large her nerve endings and senses grow far apart.”

“And so.... if they are far apart, what of it?”

“It makes her less responsive to your caresses, less sensitive to your touch, that’s what.”

“The large women I prefer seem sensitive enough.”

“That’s because you haven’t made love to a more sensitive woman yet. And not only are the thin ones more highly tuned, if you are lucky enough to find one that is thin and small as well, she’ll provides a double-bonus for you in the boudoir. Their essence is that of the most delicate flowers.”

As Mahmud pondered this revelation, a small palanquin went by carried by four men. For a second the curtain parted and a pale hand with sensitive fingers appeared and dropped a silk handkerchief. Although the curtain only opened for an instant, light reflected through the gossamer fabric silhouetted a heavenly figure of perfect delicate proportions. Then it continued to move down the street.

Ali picked up the handkerchief and examined the embroidered initial and putting it to his nose, inhaled deeply.

“I would say this one,” he paused as he calculated. “Is about one hundred and eight pounds… at most, and… wears Jasmine!”

“According to your theory and calculations, most respected Ali, a veritable treasure!”

“A treasure, my good friend,” he said with a wink, “I’m not passing up.”

And Ali, never one to fall too far behind a trail and allow it to grow cold, repaired hastily down the street after the palanquin like a dog in heat.


***
to be continued....naturally!

[Steven Hunley]

Before sun up Ali Pasha was awake and getting ready for the great game. He dressed as usual, donned his pants and caftan and pulled on his boots. He made sure his Saracen dagger was snug in his boot; fastened his cartridge belt, and packed his saddle bags. Everything needed was laid out on the bed. Pencils and pens were next to a sketch pad and bottle of ink, and a tiny square pad of paper. He filled his canteen and cleaned the dust from his binoculars, checked his revolver by spinning the cylinder and snapped it shut firmly with an audible ‘click.’

Stepping quietly down the stairs and around to the aviary he gathered up Horus, his favorite falcon, then two sleeping pigeons from their roost, secured them and saddled his horse. Within minutes the figure of horse and rider grew smaller and smaller in the distance towards the Giza plateau , a shrinking black silhouette against the fiery ball of rising sun, which was fitting, since Ali was only shadow-play himself.

Within an hour horse and rider were scaling the heights overlooking the Nile near the third cataract. Ali dismounted and sat down in the shade and waited. After some time he grew impatient and was ready to leave. Then the spot he was watching grew busy. Between the rocks near the banks five riders who’d made camp met five others who just arrived. He looked closer with his binoculars and recognized the Turkish consul, talking to a minister from the Sultana’s court, recognizable by the colors of his caftan. If he would only turn his way! They were gesticulating wildly as if they were arguing. When they broke camp both parties rode back to the city by different roads.

Ali watched until they were out of sight. He packed and rode down to the river to examine the site of the meeting. There were Turkish cigarettes butts scattered on the ground, cheap cigarettes, the kind issued to troopers, and a smoldering fire where coffee was brewed. Fine brown grounds still littered the yellow sand.

Ali took his tiny pad of paper and scratched something with a pencil. He grabbed one of the pigeons and fit the paper into a metal cylinder attached to its leg. Calming the bird, he proceeded to kiss its head.

“Here now, my fine-feathered-darling, is your chance to fly home.”

Rising in a spiral it flew off towards Alexandria.

Just then a shot reverberated among the rocks and searing pain ripped through Ali’s cheek and buried itself in his shoulder. Ali jumped on his steed and rode towards the muzzle-flash. When he rounded a large bolder a trooper was mounting his horse with one foot in the stirrup. Ali drew his revolver left-handed and fired point-blank. The trooper heaved violently, collapsed, and hung downward, and hung by one foot. A pool of blood dripped from the body as it crumpled into a heap on the sand. Ali holstered his revolver, dismounted, then flipped the useless form over with his boot to rifle the pockets of his tunic. Turkish cigarettes tumbled out followed by a gold Austrian lighter.

Remounting, Ali Pasha turned his horse back to the road and hastened to Cairo before he lost too much blood, bandaging his face with his turban. By sunset his horse found its way back to the stables just as Ali passed out in the saddle.

Baheera took charge and drug him into her shop. Tincture of opium was her anesthetic of choice. She pulled an eight millimeter Mauser round from his shoulder. The slash in his cheek left a scar worth five stitches.

‘Such a handsome face, how will it manage now?’ thought the woman while she worked the needle and thread nimbly in and out. She gazed at him calmly; he looked so peaceful and pale, like a Greek statue.

‘Like a dark-haired Adonis. The scar will run diagonally between his cheek and his jaw, and give his face a fearful symmetry like...Tiger Tiger Burning Bright, by who was it? ….the English poet Blake?’

Far from marring his appearance, the line drew even more attention to his eyes, which were magnificent at any rate, or directed attention to his strong jaw which no person in their right mind could fault.

“Damn the self-serving bastard anyway, he’ll look better than ever. Why, he’s almost endearing…for a rake.”

She grew furious and tugged so hard on the last knot that her patient awoke with a start from a dream only Morpheus could initiate.

“Take care!” shouted Ali, and looking up, saw pity reflected in wondrous eyes that appeared to be as young as his own and understood he was safe… and in healing hands.



***

Ali never had such a nurse. She restricted him to bed and had his belongings moved to her shop. His books and writing table, his ink and quill pens, and his charts and maps, everything he might need as he convalesced. She would leave him food early in the morning and steal off to her room and lock the door. In the night she would reappear and dress his wounds, and regale him with fantastic tales of her youth and travels. Sometimes she would play the aoud for his amusement when she wasn’t making packets of herbs and tonics for her customers, who were in and out all night long.

It was amazing the people she gossiped with, librarians and street sweepers and petty officials and officials not so petty. Laymen and professionals of all sorts talked to her every night as if shadows ensured anonymity. She possessed the ability to hold conversations with men and women in all stations of life who sought to be unburdened. Ali was impresses at how they interacted.

“You have a rapport with all types, and you talk about everything under the sun. What drives you?”

“Ah, I’m curious and after the truth. I have a good education and therefore many interests because my father was of high birth and could afford the finest tutors.”

Ali went to reach his favorite volume and stretched his arm too far.

“Ouch, that was a mistake!”

“Here’” Baheera offered, “Let me entertain you.”

She slid a chair closer, asking, “Which book?”

“The Twelve Caesars by Suetonius.”

The woman began reading on the top of the page at the marker.

“Titus died at the age of forty-one, in the same country house where Vespasian had also died. It was 1 September, A.D. 81, and he reigned two years, two months, and twenty days. When the news spread, the entire population went into mourning as though they had suffered a personal loss. Senators hurried to the House without waiting for an official summons, and before the doors had been opened, and then when they were open, began speaking of him, now that he was dead, with greater thankfulness and praise than they had ever used while he was alive and among them.”

She stopped and asked,

“Do you think, if you were a king, your people would morn your death?”

“If I were a king, I’d like to think I’d made some improvements in the lot of my people. Then they’d have something to miss and remember me by.”

“I feel the same way. I’d like to make some impact, to leave my mark and be remembered. Perhaps I dream too much. That kind of task is impossible for a woman”

“Not for all women. Look at your own Sultana, doing a task a man only a man is patterned for, and doing it splendidly.”

“You think so?”

“Everyone does. Your people extol her virtues. They praise her beauty as well. She’ll be mourned when she’s gone, no doubt about it.”

“You’ve seen her then?”

“Never, she’s reclusive and stays behind the palace walls. I understand her position. This part of the world can be a dangerous place.”

“It would seem so! Even innocent men who practice falconry seem to have enemies. Turn over now, so I can change your bandage.”

Ali did as he was told and faced the wall. On a shelf was a row of books, and next to that his pens, drawing instruments and compass hanging on a peg.

“You’re quite a reader, and your interests are as varied as mine,” the woman observed. “And so many languages! Why there’s French and Bengali, Farsi and Arabic, even English. How did you come to know so many?”

“As a child I learned a few, and my family moved around a lot,” he answered vaguely.

Sensing his hesitation she changed the subject.

“Ali, do you think that it’s true? All people with power, even the Caesars of Rome, were misled by their staff and generals because they wielded so much power? I mean, when they were in front of them, their advisors and courtiers would kowtow and kiss their royal bottoms. But behind their backs they plotted.”

Ali grew reflective, rolled over and faced the woman.

“I suppose it was true. And politics isn’t the only place it happens, and not only with men.”

“No?”

“Women, especially beautiful women, experience it all the time. A beautiful woman always had a certain degree of power over a man, the power to accept or reject and because of that- is in much the same position. Take my word for it. I am an expert in these matters.”

“Oh yes, I understand you have the credentials,” she laughed.

Ali forced a smile when in fact his cheeks blushed with embarrassment, as if his ego were cut to the quick.

“But what if the woman is beautiful and smart and in a position of great power as well?”

“Then I pity the woman,” replied Ali somberly. “She’ll never hear a true word, or a sincere sentiment, or have a secret confided in her ear, no matter how pretty or shell-like it may be. Beauty and power are a double threat to truth and intimacy. Lovers need to be equals, but you’ll…”

“Never have to worry?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. It isn’t as if…”

“Reign in your platitudes, Horseman. I know my limitations. I’ll never have to worry, it’s true. Well… your shoulder is healing and your stitches can come out tomorrow. Then you can return to your hunting and play.”

“Yes,” he said hesitantly. “I suppose I will.”

The woman considered his books--were they code books? Then the compasses, the maps, the sea-green eyes of her seductive opponent, his teeth, how they sparkled, then back to the blue-steeled revolver waiting to rage with deadly intent, and various other things that had nothing to do with hunting and just might have everything to do with Her Majesty’s Secret Service.

She tucked him in, blew out the lamp and returned to her room. Right before the door clicked shut to announce the coming of dawn a voice issued from the shadows, shadows that could never be darker due to the hour,

“Ali,” said the voice in a whisper, “I suspect the game you play is the most dangerous game in the world.”


***

to be continued...

[DocHeart]

This is engrossing stuff, Steven!

I'll wait until the end to share thoughts, but for now I just can't wait for more.

Good health,
DH

[Steven Hunley]

***
Hazim of the Scorpion Street Irregulars waited anxiously at the foot of the stairway that led to the royal apartments. Flour dusted his face. Since the Sultana assigned him assistant to the palace baker he always had flour on his face or saffron-stained hands or hair that smelled like cinnamon.

The Sultana was just up and dipping a sesame cookie in her morning tea when he was ushered into her rooms.

“You know this isn’t your day to report, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, Great Sultana, but this can’t wait. I insisted.”

“Very well, sit here near me and talk with care. The palace is old and its walls may have grown large ears. Have a sesame cookie?”

“Yes, please. But it’s the buns I’m here about, the ones with crescent moons and sugar icing.”

The Sultana cocked her head.

“And, so?”

“I’ve found out where they go. Early yesterday morning I awoke and couldn’t go back to sleep. I’d misplaced a silver chain. Thinking I may have lost it while making dough I returned to the kitchen and was on my hands and knees searching the floor when I heard footsteps. Not wanting to be found I crawled behind the barrels of apples to hide.
In stepped a royal official, I could tell by the braid on his shoulders. He took two empty bags of flour and stuffed them with fresh-baked rolls marked with the palace’s crescent moons. Then he hid one in a corner and took the other with him. He left by a secret door hidden behind a tapestry, and I followed, but as soon as he was outside, he mounted a horse and made off in the direction of the Valley of the Kings.”

“You must keep closer watch in the bakery from now on. But you also require speed. Can you ride?”

“Oh yes, my uncle runs a stable. I was raised with my feet in stirrups.”

The sultana took pen to paper and handed Hazim a note.

“Take this to my groom and have him assign you the fastest pony in my stables. Keep him tethered nearby but out of sight. I have no doubt he’ll return for the other bag, and when he does, you’ll be waiting.”

“I understand.”

“Do well on this, Hazim, and I’ll see you join the cavalry when you’re older as a commissioned officer.”

“I’m not so sure I want to be a soldier.”

“In that case I’ll make you captain of my polo team instead. They play all over the world in competitions, wear colorful silk shirts, and collect gold trophies.”

Hazim bowed and took his leave. When his head hit the pillow it was overstuffed with dreams of fast games on horseback and slow dignified parades with rattling sabers gleaming in the sun, picnic baskets stuffed with sweet crescent buns, and tombs guarded by sphinxes asking riddles that no man, not even Giovanni Belzoni could answer.

***

Ali, under the care of Baheera, was on the mend. A message delivered to his rooms was left with the stable and bird-shop owner, whose name was Ben Eben, and he forwarded it to Ali in person. It was sealed with the name Adrianna, the most beautiful courtesan in the city, and the letter was drenched in fragrance.

“What’s it say, what’s it say?” Ben Eben had been pressing him for almost an hour.

“It says she’s seen me and likes what she sees. Weeks ago I was at the bazaar. She says… here, I’ll read it.”

‘Ali Pasha,

I’ve seen you at the book sellers and know a man when I see one. Perhaps a midnight rendezvous is in order. They say the bluffs overlooking the river provide a wonderful view in the moonlight. I keep a tent there to catch the cool breezes and tonight is a full moon, a moon made for romance, so why not take advantage?

Waiting breathlessly,

Adrianna’

“Oh my goodness, Ali, I’m shaking already! What will you do? I hear that her face is as fair as the moon, her hair is as dark as the night, and her hips, her hips are not to be taken lightly for they are curved just so.”

His hands gestured a perfect Euclidian curve, as if Ben Eben was a master of geometry, a Euclid who’d studied and understood instinctively the angles of the female form.

“I have one tried and true rule, my friend, and that’s never let a woman wait for long. Tonight at eleven-thirty have my horse ready.”

“Are you sure you can ride?”

“Just ready my horse at eleven-thirty. Whatever riding to be done is my lookout. Fear not, passion always has an element of danger,” he replied with a wink. “That’s what makes it exciting.”

That night Ali drank too much and was nervous. He hadn’t been “in the saddle” as he put it, for weeks. As he approached the bluffs the yellow moon was behind a cloud and he could hardly see, but when it appeared again the trail was as obvious as the nose on his face.

He reached the encampment and dismounted. A shadow inside moved the length of the tent. Adrianna appeared like a vision and was more than Ali expected. Never had he seen such a perfect woman.

Her hair was dark as darkest shadows and fell in ringlets over the curves of her alabaster shoulders. Her figure was natural and sublime. Her eyes, well he couldn’t see much of her eyes, but what he could see would have tamed the wildest tiger, much less a man. The moon was playing hazard with the clouds and led him to believe, that although he couldn’t see all her parts and appendages at one time he was certain they were perfectly crafted. And he was also convinced that this meeting was crafted by fate.

She gazed at him lustily, but was in the same predicament. She could see he was tall, and she preferred tall men. That was one thing she’d noticed that day in the bookshop and remembered well, even though it was weeks ago, how tall he was and how sure of himself in his movements, and when she’d glanced at his face, it was a perfect face she knew she’d never forget. She was temped to make the first move right there and then but was escorted by a jealous suitor. Now her suitor was ancient history and she was prompted to act on her first impression.

“Come into my tent,” she suggested, “where I can get my hands…I mean…eyes on you.”

“Your slightest wish is my command,” replied Ali by rote.

Ali and Adrianna took each other’s hands and entered the tent, then she walked before him to a table, where she poured two cups of wine. The tent, lit by so many lamps, and hung with so many mirrors on the walls they were sagging, led Ali to say to himself,

‘This dove is bold, and definitely not shy. Let’s see how she coos.’

But while offering refreshment she cried out, dropped the cup, and recoiled in horror.

“What’s become of you?”

“What?”

“This!”

Her finger indicated the scar on his cheek.

“Oh that, it was a hunting accident. It’s nothing.”

“How can you say that? It’s everything to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean perfection of form is everything to me. It’s my belief and my religion. What would people think when they saw us together? One has to consider one’s reputation!”

“But some say I’m as handsome as a Greek statue!”

Adrianna considered him coldly.

“Perhaps one day you were. But now there’s a flaw in your marble. You’re not museum quality anymore, you’re damaged goods. Therefore, I regret I cannot add you to my collection.”

Ali grew faint. The effort of the ride, the insults added to injury, and the obvious sign that the sparkle had fled from Adrianna’s dark eyes added up to a sum did not want to comprehend.

“Here,” she offered graciously, “I’ll pour you another cup.”

Her back was turned and Ali couldn’t help but notice the swallow tattoo on the small of her back where it flared inward to her tiny waist, and then outward, where the exquisite curve tenderly defined her luscious hips and round bottom.

‘Euclid Ben Eben was right,’ thought Ali. ‘Her curves are ‘just so.’

When Adrianna turned back with a sinister smile, he failed to notice. Leave it to Ali to be looking at a woman’s bottom when he should be looking at her eyes.

“This will make you feel better, and besides, I don’t like to argue.”

Ali took a long draught even though it tasted bitter, and felt his head swim.

The next thing Ali felt was the sun warming his face. The tent was gone, the fire was a pile of ashes and the woman--only a memory. Someone had tied his horse to a palm tree nearby. Down by the river three ragged children were flying a kite while the water washed effortlessly between two rocks. Threading his way between two cultures and identities was for Ali a much harder task.

Mounting his horse to return on the winding road, Ali, at one turn a playboy-scholar and linguist, and at another, one of Her Majesties most valuable spies, turned his back on the bluffs once and for all.


***

to be continued...

[Steven Hunley]

Hazim, not two nights later, found what he wanted. A man, wearing government braid on his shoulder, returned for the second bag. The thief rode off but was followed with ease under the nearly full moon, and his white cape made it simple to observe his movements.

The hills on both sides of the road grew higher and higher until the two riders entered the Valley of the Kings. Once there, the thief, at this point one hundred yards ahead, dismounted, tethered his horse, swung the bag of buns over his shoulder, and disappeared feet first into the ground like Aladdin into the evil magician’s cave.

Hazim dismounted and crept the rest of the way on foot. The hole was a stairway leading down into the earth, and a flickering torch illuminated the steps. Hazim was so still, he heard only his heartbeat, nothing more, and then faint voices.

“I’m sick of them. Don’t you have any rice? Or meat?”

“You ate them when you were in the palace. I would have thought you were quite fond of buns.”

“These are stale, can’t you tell? All I’ve had is….”

The voices echoed indistinctly down a white-washed hallway painted with stylized crocodiles and hippopotamuses surrounded by papyrus reeds. Creeping along the wall, Hazim inched closer into a dark room of columns.

“Water is good enough for you.”

Hazim rounded a column nose-first, and a flickering torch revealed the scene. There stood the tall official, with his back towards him, and facing Hazim, a man chained to the wall. The man was unshaven, his countenance was drawn and haggard, and although his clothes were rich, they were tattered and soiled. The boy wondered,

‘Is he a thief, a murderer? What crime has he committed?’

The prisoner’s face grimaced.

“Give me something to eat. I command…”

“You command nothing but bats and scorpions now. Remember where you are!”

“But I’m hungry and can’t think straight, don’t you see?”

“I see nothing but a sniveling coward,” the tall man sneered, “who doesn’t know his place.”

The man in chains fell to his knees, clasped his hands and pleaded, “Please, just a little meat?”

“I’ll give you a lump on the head or a slice for your throat. Or I would, if you weren’t so valuable.”

Hazim watched as the tormentor turned a gold-pommeled dagger in his hands and greedily admired the gaudy blade as if it were a painted harlot.

“Your dagger alone with fetch me one thousand gold dinars.”

The chains rattled against the stone as the prisoner sobbed pathetically, and the tall man looked away in disgust. Hazim recognized his face. The Grand Wazir was upset, and no longer the cool-headed advisor he’d seen waiting obediently outside the Sultana’s chambers. Now his look was ferocious. Hazim backed into the shadows without a sound and returned to the palace to make his report. The Sultana’s eyes grew large and dark at the news.

“What kind of pommel did you say the dagger had?”

“It was a gold lion head with ruby eyes.”

The sultana grew anxious.

“And the prisoner, give me details. Describe him to me!”

“Great Sultana, the man was of medium height, with dark brown hair, well proportioned hands, and looked like…you must forgive me, I don’t mean to offend…the man was handsome… but he looked like you!”

The beautiful sultana slumped back violently on a cushion as if she’d been slapped. After a few moments she composed herself, took the boy by the wrist and drew him nearer.

“Hazim, you’ve found my brother, and my Grand Wizer is his abductor.”
A statue of the Nile river god stood mute in the corner. The head was ebony and its grain was coal black. Its mouth and tongue were gold leaf to symbolize good news, but its teeth were sharpened ivory pegs symbolizing the danger a messenger may bring and reminding the recipient to exercise caution. Because news is always two-sided, near the corner of one eye lay a crystalline tear reflecting all the woes of the world.

***

Back in the valley the grand wazir was making a right turn and then a left and a left and a right, threading his way through a maze meant to fool tomb robbers. Three men wearing fezzes were playing dice on the red granite lid of an ancient sarcophagus. One of the men looked up and said,
“Well, are you in?”

The wazir threw the gold-pommeled dagger down carelessly on the granite.

“I’ll wager the gold cord just now, and the rest later in case I need credit.”

Two of the men put their heads together and one whispered. “It won’t be ‘in case’, it will be where and when I feel like it, as long as the dice are mine.”
One man who regarded it closer than the other two answered,

“Your credit is always good with me, you know that. Who knows, you might have a wining streak. Your luck may have turned.”

“You’re right,” the wazir said, and put the dice in the cup and tossed them. “I’m feeling lucky.”

And he was…this time and the next time too. And he would be nearly all night long, until--by-- increments his ‘luck” changed. Then he threw three losing tosses in a row when he bet the ruby eyes, and then the whole dagger, as he doubled the bet again and again. The fever was with him and the older man , who’d played with him many times before, recognized the symptoms. The wazir grew more desperate and careless with each toss of the dice.

Finally the other two dropped out and let the wazir and the old man play against each other, winner take all, in one decisive moment.

The old man laughed when he won, “That’s the way we do it in Istanbul!” and took up the dagger in his hands and marveled.

The grand wazir looked devastated.

“Don’t take it so hard. It’s not irreplaceable,” said the old-timer, as if he knew nothing.

“It is irreplaceable, you have no idea.”

“Perhaps I do, my friend. Of course, I wouldn’t sell it myself. But I might consider a trade.”

“A trade? I have nothing of value.”

“Perhaps you do and don’t know their dearness. Information can be as valuable as treasure to the right man.”

‘Yes, that may be true. I never thought of it that way. Knowledge can be a valuable asset, anyone knows that.”

The grey-haired old codger stroked his beard and looked down at the patterns of intricate floor tiles and fantasized a design of his own.

“I agree, like how to speak different languages, or ciphers and codes, the recipe for good pita bread, or your mobilization timetables, the recipe to make tasty hummus, or the strengths of the Egyptian army, how to make rice rolled in grape leaves, you know what I mean. These are all valuable commodities.”

“Yes, I think I get the picture. Then you think there’s a chance I might get it back?”

“There’s always a chance. A dagger like this should be worn by royalty.”

The Captain held the dagger up to the wazir’s waist.

“See how good it looks! I think it suits you.”

The wazir’s eyes grew wide while he blurted out,

“Then keep it close to you. Don’t let anyone near it. I may have something you might want to know by tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry. I know you value it. I’ll never let it out of my sight,” said the old and crooked man. “You can trust me.”

“Until tomorrow then?”

“Until tomorrow.”

The wazir touched his heart and his lips and his head, and left. The old man met the other two in the next room and explained to them,

“He’s in debt to us now and the payment will cost him nothing. That’s how he figures it. Of course, if he’s caught by the sultana it may cost him his life.”

“And that would be the fortunes of war,” said the other.

“No skin off our noses!” said the last one, and all three laughed like hyenas.

***
To be continued...

[Steven Hunley]

***
When Ali returned from the bluffs he required comfort. The afternoons were so dreary and never ending he wanted to hasten the night, turn the earth, or pry the moon over the horizon. When darkness finally came he found consolation as near as the shop across the street. Many nights he sat in the comfort of the woman’s shop drinking cups of bhang. Baheera noticed his frequent visits, and could see he wasn’t the same. He wasn’t spending his nights out the way he used to, and wine, women, and song had taken a back seat to something else, perhaps self-examination. One night after the last customer left she sat down beside him. She knew the drink loosened his tongue.

“So Ali, how goes it with the women?”

“Not so good.”

“That doesn’t tell me much, please let me know more. Consider me a confidant.”

“I consider you a good friend and a confidant. After all, you nursed me back to health. The truth is I’m out of favor and I’m not sure how it’s going, or how I’m going and in what direction.”

“You’re being much too reflective. That’s out of character. You’re usually cheerful and talkative.”

She got up and quickly straightened the tables, turned up the wicks of the lamps, and returned.

‘Baheera is a puzzle,’ thought Ali. ‘Her face tells her age but her movements contradict what it says.’

He looked at the woman and for the first time saw elegance, where before he saw nothing. The effect was disconcerting but not inexplicable to a man who had eyes and a brain.

‘She’s poor now, but at one time she had money. Her education was exemplarily, but she holds no high position. She’s a puzzle, wrapped up in a riddle, hidden by a conundrum, or however that saying goes.’

Baheera was folding packets of herbs and didn’t look up. He took note of her agile movements.

She sensed he was looking.

“What’s on your mind, Ali?”

“You, Baheerah, that’s what.”

“Ali, I could say the same about you. I worry.”

“Me? You worry about me? What concerns you most of all, my gambling?”

“Not so much that, but your profession and the way you chase women.”

Ali laughed bitterly, “I have no profession, and all my women are ancient history. I’ve discovered that beauty is transitory. A plum grows firm and then ripens, then grows soft and rots. We all do. I thought I was special, that my insignificant self was the exception to the rule. Before this, the mirror had always been my friend. Then Time turned the mirror against me and made it my enemy.”

“Outer beauty is transitory, I agree. But if you can find things inside that are more lasting, like kindness and true love, clarity of purpose and good intentions, you’ll rediscover beauty from a different angle. The best part of a woman isn’t always under her skirt.”

Ali’s face puzzled as if he’d been cut to the quick, but she continued.

“But you’re still trying to deceive me. I know more than you think. And don’t look surprised and get defensive. I know you must have questions.”

“Yes, like what makes you sleep all day? And, why choose the day instead of the night? Your past is what made you the woman you are and I know almost nothing of it. I’ll tell you my secrets if you tell me yours.”

“I don’t know if you can keep a secret. Drink or smoke may cause your tongue to wag.”

“I promise to keep my mouth shut. Sometimes all a man has left is his word. I pledge to keep my word.”

Baheera shook her head. “I knew it would come to this the moment I saw you.”

She locked the door, blew out the lamps in the shop and returned to her room.

“Come in,” she gestured. “I’ll show you something no man has seen.”

Once his eyes became accustomed to the light the sparsely appointed room became visible. What was obvious was the fact there was no bed. There were cushions and a desk with a chair and rows of books on the wall, and a Chinese black-lacquer screen decorated with lotus blossoms on silk panels. It resembled a library or study more than a boudoir.

“Let me change into something more comfortable,” said Baheera, “and we can continue our discussion.”

Baheera hid her bent form behind the screen and was silhouetted against the silk panels. Her ragged wool shawl suddenly appeared over the top of one panel and a length of silk disappeared from the same place while her voice continued.

“Remember the discussion we had about Suetonius concerning the perilous positions that rulers find themselves in?”

“Yes, of course, and I still feel the same way. It’s a position fraught with difficulties and dangers.”

Another dull cotton garment was flung over the top of the panel and a section of silk with gold brocade, disappeared.

“Ali, are you of the opinion that our sultana is in much the same position as the emperors of Rome?”

“Now that I consider it, yes, except she has no senate to depend on. She must be more isolated.”

“I agree, and as for me, in what manner is my position different?”

“Your position is incredibly different. No men or women lie to you or flatter you, Baheera. They treasure your good judgment, and you must know that’s because they have nothing to gain or lose.”

“They tell me the truth because I’m old and wizened and have no power. That applies to both men and women. I’m a threat to no one; neither can I grant them favors. But what about your view of me? What is the difference?”

“Men look at the Sultana and see grand palaces, servants, jewels, miles of arable land and taxes. That clouds their perception. I look at you and see only you.”

Hanging on the last silk panel was a gold filigree belt with intricate flower patterns designed by goldsmiths in Damascus. This too disappeared in turn.

“So between you and I, Ali Pasha, there has been only the truth, except of course, lies of omission.”

“A lie is a lie if the truth is omitted, and there are certain facts I’m willing to admit now that I had to hide before.”

Baheera’s shadow on the last panel was somehow taller than on the first.

“Then it’s time to shares secrets, Ali, and eliminate the lies we’ve stacked between us. Only Allah in his infinite wisdom knows how many, and I’ll be the first to erase my portion.”

At the bottom of the black-lacquered frame a foot appeared, then a shapely ankle tattooed with henna, and toes adorned with gold rings. A red silk hem was next, and then inch by inch, a tall woman of incomparable beauty, with skin that never knew a blemish, dark flashing eyes, a straight nose, and lush vermillion lips. She offered her hand formally out of habit, but then withdrew it, and replaced it with a sisterly kiss on his cheek.

“Don’t bother bowing, Ali Pasha,” she said kindly. “We’ve already been introduced.”

To Ali, being shot through the cheek was traumatic. Having lead pulled out of his shoulder made him feel much the same way. Trauma to the body was easy for Ali to endure. But now his mind seethed like Vesuvius, smoked strange thoughts, erupted pretzel logic, belched ashes of confusion, and the word ‘traumatic’ hardly measured the damage to his fragile eggshell ego.

The know-all see-all spy who was supposed to have eyes like a hawk and owned the credentials of a linguist extraordinaire, had no idea that Baheera meant brilliant, dazzling, noble woman, and it was a lesson he’d never forget.

“Now Ali, sit here at the desk and I’ll and serve you tea. I’m sure your tale will be interesting, and I’m keen to hear it.”

Touching him on the shoulder to steady herself, she sat down on a cushion.
Ali looked befuddled. “Where shall I begin?”

“Why, at the beginning of course,” she laughed and poured his first cup.

“Well, I grew up in Torquey, that’s in England on the coast, and was raised by my Uncle Silas.

The Sultana squealed with joy and clapped her hands.

“I knew it. I just knew you were English!”

“What? How is that? My Sindh accent is perfect.”

“Of all the books you had, the ones in English were more soiled and dog-eared.”

“By the beard of the prophet, Sultana, you read me like a book!"

“Sometimes like a dime novel, but sometimes like a classic. Go on.”

The rest of the morning they stayed up, ate sesame biscuits, drank tea from Ceylon and compared notes. By noon they were as thick as sticky-fingered thieves and just as excited.

“So you believe your grand wazir has kidnapped your brother?”

“Yes, and he’s causing dissention and civil unrest. I believe he’s in the pay of the Turks.”

“You must be right. I’ve seen him meet with regulars a few miles outside the Turkish embassy. Does he smoke Murad cigarettes?"

“Always, in a cigarette holder. Was that in the report you sent to Colonel Strickland in Alexandria?”

“You know of Strickland?”

“I know he’s your “S” because one of my men works aboard the Royal Mail steamer. He has a key to every diplomatic pouch in his pocket, and is my cousin. He can live in a palace any day of the week but prefers salt air. I think he’s as twisted as a cork-screw, but useful as a spade for digging.”

“One of my assignments is to check for any Turkish activities near your borders. But this is much higher up than troop movements. It’s top-drawer information. Your brother has been missing for over a year!”

“And I intend to get him back.”

“Stop, go slowly with this and proceed with caution. You know your grand wazir is in the pay of the Turks, but who knows how many more members of court work for two masters? You don’t need an army to rescue your brother; it could be done quickly and quietly by two men, one for the rough stuff and one for a lookout.”

“Or a man and a boy?”

“If the boy were brave and could take orders and follow them to the letter. A young army recruit would do, if he could be trusted to ride like a storm if need be.”

“I have a young man in mind. He’s from the Scorpion Street Irregulars, a new unit I recently formed.”

“Baheera, I trust your judgment.”

Ali stood up, put down his teacup and began to pace back and forth, back and forth. Every step was a thought and each had a purpose.

“Then, I’ll be the second man,” said Ali, “to ensure this bit of business turns out right.”

***

to be continued...

[Steven Hunley]

After dark, Ali and Hazim, leading a rider-less horse, made for the Valley of the Kings. The stairway was lit by a single torch outside. One hundred yards from that they tethered the horses and walked the rest of the way on foot.

“Tell me the way, Hazim, then keep a look-out here, and warn me if anyone comes.”

“It’s a left and a right and a left and a left to the room of columns where the prisoner is chained. The corridors are narrow and the walls are reflective white plaster with paintings. But the room of papyrus-shaped columns has a tall ceiling, and it’s as dark as the inside of the Devil’s belly. There’s even a royal sarcophagus but it’s down another corridor in a smaller room. The Sultana says it’s haunted.

“I’m not afraid of ghosts. My concern is with unannounced troupers,” said Ali, and took off his boots.

Hazim saw Ali disappear down the corridor. After some time he must have struck a match, because he was illuminated for an instant until he turned left at an intersecting hallway. His image then flickered and disappeared.

Ali lost count of the turns. To find his way he struck a match. The dust on the floor was unmarked ahead of him and only had a single set of footprints behind. No one had been in this part of the tomb for some time, but within minutes he saw a golden sparkle ahead and smelled frankincense. In the center of an ante-chamber a man stood sadly admiring a gold-leafed chariot whose leather reigns had turned to dust a thousand years ago. He was dressed as an ancient Egyptian, like a richly appointed noble. He head was shaved and he wore a gold cuirass with a falcon sporting blue lapis feathers, red coral eyes and an alabaster beak.

The figure turned when it heard Ali’s footsteps, and its profile revealed the royal nose. It looked like Seti, Pharaoh of Egypt. The nose ran through the dynasty like the Nile ran through the desert, which is to say, with many twists and turns. Osiris forbid, it was never portrayed that way on obelisks or papyrus, pottery or plastered walls. Its curve was distinctive, and none but the royal family talked about it, just like none would dare mention the emperor’s new clothes in the fairytale.

“Is it you, Seti?”

“Of course I’m Seti, Ali. Who else did you expect to see in Seti’s tomb? Nefertiti?”

Again, Ali was dumbfounded, in a week of dumbfounding events.

“You mean you’re his ghost, haunting his tomb?”

“Well, not exactly haunting it. I come back occasionally to play with my favorite things...like my chariot, my golden bow and arrows dipped in magic, all the things that were laid down to accompany me in to the afterlife. We ancient Egyptians believed you could take it with you.”

“Why are these here, instead of in a museum or a collection?”

“The tomb robbers haven’t found this part of the tomb yet. They think they’ve already discovered it all, but they haven’t found the half of it. I opened a door by using a magic spell, just for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes, for you particularly. I want to discuss the state of affairs in Egypt, since you are having a hand in things. I still have an interest; one never really retires from politics, especially when you were pharaoh as long as I was.”

“Me, having a hand? In what way?”

“In a few minutes you’re going to release the sultana’s brother, and change the course of events for the country and for the sultana. I’d like to give you some advice.”

Ali took a breath and regained his aplomb.

“The dead should by all rights know more than the living. Continue by all means.”

“The sultana, as you well know, is a remarkable person. She needs your protection, and more than that, your companionship.”

“She’s an incredible woman, and displays a desert fox’s cunning in affairs of state. She’s more than competent in such matters, she enjoys them. But my companionship?”

“That’s just it, Ali, she doesn’t like affairs of state. Just because a person is competent at something doesn’t always mean they enjoy it. You know one side to her and in showing you that one side she’s revealed aspects of her personality that no one else is privy to. She’s hasn’t admitted yet that she’s lonely, unhappy, or up to her neck with procedures, ceremony, and life in the palace. She feels she would be burdening you, so she keeps it a secret. The truth is she longs for a life of her own, one that’s not so public.”

“But she doesn’t care for my ways, nor will she heed my advice. In her guise as the old woman, Baheera has seen the worst of me.”

“That’s true, but she’s also seen your desire to change for the better. In her heart of hearts she foresees more positive changes in your future. The heart sees deeper and farther than the eyes, and unlike the eyes it grows more acute with age. The heart is physical and non-physical at the same time. Believe me, when you’ve been dead as long as I have you become expert in the non-physical and the spirit. And, Ali, sensuous dog that you are, have become an expert in the physical and the flesh.”

“Great Pharaoh, with all due respect, I’ve finally come to the point in my life where I can differentiate between lasting and non-lasting things. The physical is ephemeral. At one time I craved physical perfection but now I have doubts about my earlier priorities and proclivities.”

“Baheera sees that growth, and understands. You must know that you please her.”

“And I value her dearly, but she’ll never find me acceptable. I’m not royalty; and we’re from two different cultures and two different religions.”

“But you value the same intangible things, like honor and trust and love. You’re goals are not so different when you think about it. Take your time and stay by her side. Examine her minutely. The woman has more facets than the Grand Mogul diamond, I assure you. In the meantime…give her this.”

Seti pointed at a teak watercolor paint set with soft sable brushes and a palette of dried paint in ochre, squid-ink black, blue lapis, green copper, and blood-stone red arranged in shallow square tubs. Then he indicated a dark hallway.

“Her brother is at the end of this corridor, and there are no guards to molest you. The fools are too busy playing dice and hear nothing but the rattle in the cup!”

Ali took the box and stuffed it in his waistband and when he turned to say goodbye saw nothing but a swirl of dust where the specter of Seti once stood.

When Ali appeared at the entrance of the tomb carrying an almost unconscious body, Hazim took one arm of the sultana’s brother and Ali the other, and together they stumbled their way to the horses like they were running an awkward six-legged race with their lives as the prize.

***
last bit and ending to follow next week...

[Steven Hunley]

***
Three days later Ali received a formal invitation to the palace. He waited in a hallway outside a door with two muscled guards, nervous and excited at the same time. After returning the ‘stolen goods’ to the Sultana he had no opportunity to see how it turned out. The entire episode was kept quiet while a cover story was invented by the Sultana and her closest advisors. Now able to talk to her in private for the first time in days, Ali expected to be brought up to date. The only thing he knew for sure was that the grand wazir had been arrested and jailed.

The Sultana was an unusually lovely woman, but this morning, in this light, she was absolutely striking. She was standing near a gilded cage feeding a white turtle-dove, her favorite pet. The bars were textured to resemble bamboo and the water troughs were blue-green enamel.

“Ali, Good Ali, do you know much about birds?”

“I know about wild birds, about falcons and hawks.”

“This one is quite tame.”

She slid opened the golden door.

The dove looked out but stood fast on her perch.

“You see, Ali, how sad it is? She can’t leave. She’s grown too accustomed to her cage.”

The Sultana walked to the balcony and looked out over the city. Tall deodars and palm trees bowed their heads over the tile rooftops in submission to the heat of day.

“You know, I’m closing the herb shop. The woman with the twisted lip is going to do a disappearing act. She’s not needed any more.”

“Not needed?”

“Not any more. You see, I’m out of a job. My brother is going to become Caliph. I’m no longer going to be Sultana.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I was only a fill-in, a temporary solution. The advisors and tribal chieftains liked my work, but my brother was born to be Caliph, like my father. It’s more than just a secular post; it’s religious and requires a man. More than that, my brother was from my father’s first wife, and is a Muslim.”

“I was raised a Christian,” said Ali, “but in India I studied under a Sufi mystic. There’s something I like about it.”

“Anyone can be raised to be anything. But in the end we all pick and choose a personal religion for ourselves.”

Baheera fed the bird a spray of millet, and looked longingly over the city again.

“My mother was a Christian and my father was a Muslim. I’m half and half.”

“So that’s why you defended the other two faiths so vehemently.”

“All three are related, and all religions deserve respect, no matter what they are or how few followers they have.”

“So you’re out of a job because you’re a member of two faiths.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m out of a job myself. I’ve sent in my resignation to “S”.

“Really? What will you do with yourself with all that time on your hands?”

“I intend to keep busy. I’ll oversee a coffee plantation…somewhere, Sumatra or Java near the Sunda Strait. I have an old friend, a Dutchman, who’ll help me get started. What about you?”

“I want to travel and paint landscapes and nature. Java is green isn’t it? And Sumatra, don’t they have tigers? They’re both in the tropics and surrounded by water.”

“Java has more kinds of green than you can imagine, and blood-red sunsets and blue-turquoise seas, not to mention white-coral beaches littered with exotic shells. And they say in Sumatra that yellow tigers run down moonbeams on the dark nights.”

Ali waited for his words to have their effect and then continued.

“Oh, before I forget....this is for you.”

Ali gave her the paint set. Baheera’s eyes brightened when she saw it was vintage and had no idea it was ancient.

“Ali, I have something for you too. See here!”

Baheera unwrapped a velvet cloth and placed a dagger with a lion’s-head pommel and ruby eyes in his hand.

“I want to reward you for saving my brother, and being such a good friend to the woman with the twisted lip.”

“The woman was a good friend to me. She was educated, not ivory-tower style mind you, but practical. She was truthful and kind, and when I think of it…charming. For a poor woman she had more generosity of spirit than any other woman I’ve ever known. I’ll miss her.”

“We’ll both miss her.”

Then Baheera’s voice took on a quality as seductive as Japanese silk.

“You don’t have to miss her forever, Ali. You may cross paths in the future. One can never tell about such things. When are you leaving?”

The turtle-dove hopped one perch closer to the door of the cage.

“At the end of the week. I’m boarding the steamer Tankedere, first to the Sunda Strait and then to Batavia.”

“In that case I’ll just say au revoir, not adieu. Besides, we may have a chance to talk again.”

Ali took the Sultana’s hand, but as he was about to give it back she pressed his a moment longer, and the look in her eyes whispered volumes of things unsaid. Walking down the marble hallway, he experienced complete silence, with the exception of a fluttering sound, which Ali in his foolishness ascribed to his heart.

Ali was mistaken. It was the wings of a snow-white dove taking flight for the first time in years, from the cage to the balcony, then over the treetops and spiraled minarets where holy men called the faithful to prayer.


***

Alexandria is a historic seaport and filled with the past-literally. Its famous library was burnt down in ancient times, and its ruins still litter the sandy bottom of the harbor, a casualty of the battle of Actium between Anthony and Cleopatra and Augustus Caesar. Filled with fishing dhows and traders smuggling gold to India, it’s also host to steamers leaving for all points of the compass. One would think that Alexandria, steeped in history, would be hardly the place for new beginnings.

The steamer Tankedere hoisted its signal flag and was loading the last of its cargo and passengers. A tall man smoking a pipe on the starboard deck paced nervously back and forth watching small fishing boats unloading their catches. On the port side the gangplank was sagging under the weight of stevedores loading the baggage and trunks of a passenger who booked a last-minute passage. She stood fast on the dock skillfully balancing an umbrella for shade with one hand, and with the other, directing their movements with her fingers, which were slender and pale and almost artistic.

“Take care with the long wooden box,” she begged them, “It’s fragile! It’s my telescope!”

Perhaps the lady was a scientist or an astronomer and took celestial observations.

The breeze ran from the land to the sea. The gentleman on the other side of the ship heard what was said, and though he didn’t stop watching the fishermen unloading, he gave a sigh of relief and looked no longer troubled. Considering the scar on his face he was a quite handsome fellow.

Three warning toots of the whistle and the gangplank was pulled up and lines were cast off. The ship moved leisurely towards the breakwater. A steward wearing a white coat with brass buttons climbed the stairs to the upper deck and found the gentleman still looking over the rail.

“It’s done, Sir.”

The man snapped out of his reverie and answered, “Very well then. Are you sure they’re adjoining cabins?”

“Oh yes, Sir, the best on the Tankedere.”

“Good, thank you,” the man said and handed the steward a sovereign.

It seemed like a lot but the gentleman thought it was only fair, since the steward had just handed a sovereign to him.

The wind picked up and the Tankedere put on sail for more speed. Before you know it, they raced out of the harbor and into the open sea. After that the ship was just a black speck under a blue sky spotted with white wooly clouds, riding waves that sparkled and glimmered in endless patterns, revealing its path to the rim of the world.

©Steven Hunley 2012

[Hawkman]

Hello Steven,
I have really enjoyed following this tale. It has had a many memorable moments, my favourite being the appearance of the ghost of Seti 1st, even though your description of him sounded more like Ramesses II to me :D

My only real criticism of the piece is the setting in time and place. The style of writing at the beginning was very Arabian Nights. We have Sultanas and Wazirs, which stylisticly belong in a kind of medieval nerverland in Bagdad. But we are in Ciaro, Egypt. What is the timeframe exactly? The first overt sign that we may be in a more modern era comes from the mention of a bullet wound. Well OK, that could be any time from the 16th century forward. But when Ali turns out to be an Englishman and a serving British Army Officer, we are transported forward in time again to any time from the 1880s to about 1916. At this time, the ruler of Egypt was the Khedive, a Turkish Viceroy. I did wonder if your mention of Colonel Strickland had any basis in historical fact or literature, so I looked him up to try and get a handle on the temporal setting, and I did discover that a General Strickland who died between WW1 and WW2 had been a major in Egypt around the time of the Kalifa's uprising and the battle of Omdurman. There are numerous ficticious Stricklands in Adventure fiction too.

However, my minor temporal disorientation did not prevent me from enjoying this rather jolly tale, and I compliment you for your imagination and stamina in serving it up for our enjoyment. Great fun, Thanks.

Live and be well - H

[Steven Hunley]

Hawk, as is usual, you are correct. The time is completely unmentionable, unexplainable and unbelivable because there is no time! The era is all out of kilter, what ever kilter means.
There was even a time when I was stressing over giving Ali a revolver, or maybe a Webley (always wanted a Webley with a lanyard to wear around my neck and all). Then, after worrying about all the other details I just gave up and threw in the anachronistic towel.

I would like to thank any other readers who may have soldiered through the entire story, as it ran over my expected length. There was a point where I thought 6,000 and then stretched to 8,000 and when I got done it was 6 or 7words short of 13,000. If I could 'keep it up' three more times I could have a novella or novellette! Maybe I should do it? I dunno.

I mean, these two characters both on a boat together and heading towards the Sunda Strait on their way to Batavia-which is modern day Jakarta I think. I figure they arrrive and it's about 1883. So I've got two interesting characters that are ripe for a ship-board romance and maybe Asian pirates and all. They haven't even properly kissed yet! Will the "Little Princess" cave in and want to return to Egypt and the good life? Will Ali be able to turn from a life of adventure and daring-do to become a stable coffee planter with a bunch of stuck-up Dutchmen?

Maybe they should fall for each other in some steamy Sommerset Maugham location. Maybe Krakatoa should blow up and add instant drama to a scene that has more drama than an undeserved parking ticket! Maybe I should lay off the Columbian Supremo Coffee and go to bed and quit pitching my latest story idea.

Anyway, I thank all of you who saw this thing through. You're a brave lot of litnetters for sure.

[Bobbycrane]

Steven this is a good effort but there is still room for improvement. Your use of flowery language is excessive and prevents the story progressing at an enjoyable pace. You might like to read some of my short stories and try to emulate my use of pace control.

You're obviously new to creative writing, PM me whenever you need advice. Keep writing, you'll get there!

[Steven Hunley]

I'll keep that in mind. Now, on to other subjects. This thing was anachronistic as all get-out. But I figure if I change the revolver (was it a Webley? Always wanted a Webley and besides lanyards are so fashionable) and I change the Mauser reference to a musket with a long barrel and an ivory inlaid stock and all, it would back date the piece! Then I could supply pictures like these:

http://youtu.be/zvMHtoNyxKU

Get it? Words And Pictures! And no one gets hurt financially since Rimsky and Jean are both gone from the face of the earth. Would that make it, as my mother used to say, "All better?"

I mean it invokes the most famous woman story teller of all time Sheherazade herself! I wish the princess had been my mama (no offense Mom, you know I'm kidding. Don't slap me when I get to heaven) Then she could make me sleepy with all her great tales and all, and tuck me in.

Seriously!

[miyako73]

Steven this is a good effort but there is still room for improvement. Your use of flowery language is excessive and prevents the story progressing at an enjoyable pace. You might like to read some of my short stories and try to emulate my use of pace control.

You're obviously new to creative writing, PM me whenever you need advice. Keep writing, you'll get there!

Are you published? I have been reading short stories lately. I want to learn writing by reading. Can you post the published titles? Thanks

[Mutatis-Mutandis]

Steven this is a good effort but there is still room for improvement. Your use of flowery language is excessive and prevents the story progressing at an enjoyable pace. You might like to read some of my short stories and try to emulate my use of pace control.

Ego much?

[Steven Hunley]

Miyako 73- learning to write by reading has alot to commend it.

I wrote a short one once about that and here's a piece:

"Some people will read anything. Me, I don’t read just anything. I read the masters. The point is this. They’re so damn good, these masters, or Maestros of Letters, that even though their words and style are ancient, positively dusty in fact, their stories are still read today and at this exact moment in time, thousands are reading their stories. We must give these maestros their due and recognition.

Some who read English only read the English.

I’m getting two slices of generic bread out of the wrapper and placing on the cheap splintered plywood cutting board.

“You can never trust a translation anyway,” they argue. “There’s so many ways to interpret a word. Check a thesaurus. They can’t really be accurate all the time.”

I’m getting the generic strawberry jelly out of the fridge.


Well maybe. I really can’t say. But I can say this. Some of the foreign stuff is good. Good old foreign stuff anyway. Like Maupassant. Right now I’m into Maupassant. Not because I’m a Francophile, or because I’m stuck up. It’s because right now I’m stuck down. Poor as a church mouse so to speak. Whatever language you speak. I don’t even have a church. For how much they charge for this dump I call a home I should be renting a nice slice of heaven. But no. This is about a mile from Crime Compton, California, U.S.A.
So the words will not be exactly right in translation, but the characters, the characters share something with me. I felt it at once when I read the first page of The Necklace."

The piece goes on from there. The bold print is coinciding story that is interwoven with the first story (it's here on lit net and titled Guy and Me.)

The idea is that you read classics for the fact that even though they're old and the language is dated people read them anyway! Why is that?

Shakespeare is 1600's stuff! Maupassant was French and always a translation. Poe is dated and maudlin to say the least. Maugham is often too British! But all classic authors have something in common. They are still read today. To find out what makes them so good is something each one of us has to discover for ourselves. Since writing is art it often means something different to each person, but touches them all in one way or another. In one it's the dialogue or interaction between characters, in another it may be plot or wordsmanship or brillant descriptions that ring true as a bell. Each has it's own and just BECAUSE the language is dated it's used in unusual ways. Usage is often just fashion with words,and certain phrases go in and out of style.

It's probably a good thing new authors have egos. They need them when they start getting rejection slips!

I just want to thank any of you there that read this piece and to quote someone that once critiqued a piece of mine, "Keep writing!" It's another road to discovery.

You just read all you can and see what happens.