Post of the Month

~ April 2008 ~

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Nasir ~ Written by Esther.  Posted on the HoS Yahoo group November 2006

Nasir slipped through the trees, alert for any sound or movement that came not from the leaves stirring in the slight breeze nor from the animals of the forest. He had left camp early to perform Salaat at the lake and now he enjoyed the sense of peace his solitary morning had given him.

He liked the company of his friends, but there would be time enough for that in the winter months, when the nights closed in early and the campfire became a haven of warmth. They would spend plenty of time gathered there together. Now, while the light came early and the days were warm, he preferred to roam and spend his time in his own company.

He had been following a hare run and now had found the source of it. He knelt and carefully parted the long grass that grew around the opening of the burrow. A narrow channel was clearly marked, the earth rubbed bare beneath the grass where a hare had exited and entered its home.

He drew a knife from his belt. It was a heavy handled dagger, similar in shape and weight to the one that he had given Robert some time ago. The wooden handle held a burnished sheen, the grain of the wood darkened where it had been worn smooth by use. Mother of pearl glimmered against the wood, forming the characters of a name in his own tongue. The dagger had belonged to Sarak and Nasir had taken it from him on the day that he had killed him.

He ran his finger over the letters, remembering the first time he had met Sarak. He had travelled far from Enfeh by that time, taking work as an outrider for the great caravans that traded across the land. Outcast and alone in a world become suddenly vaster since his banishment, the wandering life of the Bedouin traders had suited him.

By day he would ride out to scout the land around the train of camels and horses, keeping watch for bandits or for the barbarian Crusaders who found such wealth irresistible and sometimes attacked the caravans. By night he had joined the Sheik's family beside the goat hair tents that flapped and cracked in the grainy desert wind. There he had listened quietly to the tales of the great leader Salah al-Din who had raised an army to push the conquerers back into the Western sea from whence they had come.

At last, the great caravan reached the city of Aleppo, the home of his tutor, and Nasir had wondered that a city, as yet unexplored, could feel so familiar when he came to wander its streets. He had walked, jostled by the crowds, entranced as Aleppo ebbed and flowed around him.

At every corner, he had heard Maliq's voice, describing the mosques and the crowded bazaars filled with pungent spices and gleaming gold. The calls of the muezzin had resonated from the slender minarets, weaving their prayers over the city. The cries of the vendors who sold their goods from the cavern like stalls of the covered bazaar had mingled with languages he had never heard on Enfeh's docks.

With some sadness in his heart, he had said farewell to the Sheik and his family and resolved to stay in the city until he could raise money to buy the weapons he would need to offer himself in service to Salah al-Din. As his money had dwindled, he had taken to sleeping outside of the city limits, among the ancient tombs that lay to the west of Aleppo.

One early morning, still half asleep as the dawn light had tinged the sandstone tombs a soft pink, he had felt his bundle of possessions tugged lightly from beneath his head. He had snapped open his eyes and grabbed the thin hand that was stealing from him. A boy several years younger than himself had grinned back at him, not the least bothered at having been caught in such a way.

"You should be more careful of your belongings, effendi," the boy had said, his narrow face full of mischief.

Nasir had sat up, gripping the boy's wrist tightly, so that he could not wriggle free. The boy had light skin, with the grey eyes of the northern tribes. His faded robes hung dusty and torn from a scrawny body and between the rips, Nasir had made out the thin ribcage of one who knew hunger well.

"And you should be more careful of your hands boy," he had replied. "You'll be a worse thief without them."

The boy shrugged as though the threat had been repeated to him often enough to have lost any meaning. "Have you anything to eat," he asked.

Nasir had shrugged off the temptation to cuff him around his ear and send him on his way and had pulled his almost stolen bundle into his lap. He had untied it, aware that the lad gazed at it longingly and in anticipation. He had drawn from within rounds of flat bread and a pot of spiced pickle. Some battered figs had spilled to the ground and the boy snatched up two of them eagerly, taking small bites from the purple flesh, savouring each mouthful and licking the dark, sticky juice from his fingers.

Tearing a round of bread in half, Nasir had handed some to the boy, opening the pickle pot and placing it between them.

"What are you doing out here alone?" he had asked after a moment.

The boy swallowed his mouthful. "I'm not alone," he gestured around at the tombs. "Many people sleep out here. It's safer than in there." He nodded his head at Aleppo, crouching behind its walls, the citadel looming over them like a brooding sentinel.

Nasir had glanced about them and could make out dark shapes beginning to stir within the tombs. Aleppo's gates would soon open for the day and he could only imagine that these people would trail towards it in search of food and a livelihood.

"You're not poor. Why are you here?" the boy said through a mouthful of bread. His eyes had travelled covetously over Nasir's robes, the horse resting beside him, the knife at his belt and the bundle on his lap. Nasir had closed it hastily, tying a tight knot at the top. His uncle had not spared him much and the Sheik had paid his wages in food and clothes. He had little enough gold in his possession, but he had had no doubts that this light-fingered boy would find it given the chance.

"What is your name," he had asked the lad. The boy grabbed up another piece of pitta and used it to scoop a generous portion from the pickle pot.

"I am called Sarak," he said as he stuffed the food into his mouth greedily.

"An apt name," Nasir had said wryly, for it meant thief in his tongue. He had wondered if the boy had chosen it for himself or been given it as a nickname by others.

Sarak had followed at Nasir's heels as he had made his way into the city that morning to look for work and it amused Nasir now to remember his high flown thoughts of taking the boy under his wing, teaching him a different – a better – way of life than begging on the streets and stealing what he needed. As it had turned out, it had been Sarak who had done much of the teaching in those early days, as he showed Nasir how to survive on the harsh streets of the city.

Nasir turned the dagger in his hand. Their fates had intertwined since that morning in the City of the Dead and there had been no escaping the outcome, when Nasir had become the hunter and Sarak the hunted. All had led, he thought sadly, to the day Philip Mark had come to Nottingham and Nasir had found himself in a fight to the death with the man he had once called brother.

He finished setting a snare of twine against the mouth of the burrow. As he rose, he heard a loud scuffling from the trees behind him. He listened to the rhythm of the movements – not four footed, but two. A person – and not a quiet one. He slipped to one side, out of sight behind a tree as a man came into view and towards his hiding place.

The man thrashed his way noisily through the undergrowth, his breathing harsh from exertion as he swung his head this way and that to stare about him. Nasir let him pass, then slipped out behind, his hand grabbing at the man's chin, forcing his head up and back as his blade whipped up to rest against the exposed throat.

The man jerked back against him with a choked cry of fear, holding his hands up to show that they were empty of weapons. Nasir studied the sharp nose and square, stubbled jaw. The face was familiar and after a moment he placed it. The man was from Maybury. He released him, thrusting the man forward so that he fell to his knees. A sunburned face filled by scared eyes turned towards him. The fear changed to a look of wary relief.

"Nasir! I was looking for you…well, for any of you."

Nasir sheathed his dagger, his ears attuned to the sounds of the forest about them, making certain that the villager came alone. He said nothing, waiting for the man to continue.

"I have a message from Geoffrey. For Robert…" the man panted. He turned himself about to sit on the forest floor, rubbing at his throat, as though he still felt the blade pressing there.

Nasir crouched near him. "Tell me," he said.