Steven Hunley
07-21-2016, 03:14 PM
Scorpion Street Irregulars
The Sultana of Cairo was eating at the same hour, in a meeting with her advisers.
Gold trays stacked with green and orange melon slices, and cloisonne bowls filled with yogurt 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 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 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 Sultan's garden.
“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’m 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, 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 dissension 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.
İStevenHunley2016
https://youtu.be/r1JYZmT2uPQ The Holy Shrines by Sir Richard Francis Burton (it's his quote about Faith, and never more applicable than today)
The Sultana of Cairo was eating at the same hour, in a meeting with her advisers.
Gold trays stacked with green and orange melon slices, and cloisonne bowls filled with yogurt 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 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 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 Sultan's garden.
“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’m 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, 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 dissension 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.
İStevenHunley2016
https://youtu.be/r1JYZmT2uPQ The Holy Shrines by Sir Richard Francis Burton (it's his quote about Faith, and never more applicable than today)