Post of the Month

~ September 2010 ~

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Nasir ~ Written by Esther. Posted on the HoS Yahoo group January 2009.

Mist still clung to the forest floor as Nasir made his way through the dense trees with smooth loping strides.

From time to time he paused, crouching low in the undergrowth to allow his body to slow, his heartbeat to return to its normal rate. As the rush of his own blood in his ears began to level from his exertions, he listened intently, casting about beneath the normal forest sounds to detect anything out of place in the trees around him. He had seen no person since leaving the town of Mansfield in the early hours of the morning. And now, mid morning, the forest rustled and the animals went about their business of finding food; no humans could be heard. He pressed on.

After a long hour of ceaseless movement that ate up the distance back to the outlaws' camp, he halted beneath the high, spreading branches of a beech tree. The tree towered over him, dappling sunlight onto his face and far above, the topmost branches stirred in an unfelt wind. At the base of the thick trunk, earth and old leaves had piled, silting up a deep crevice between the exposed roots. Nasir knelt and scooped at the debris with his hands, feeling it crumble and loosen.

Uncovering the bundle of cloth that he had stored there the previous day, he withdrew it from its hiding place and unwrapped it. The cloth contained his swords, the weapons that marked him out as the Saracen wolfshead of Sherwood and would've made him instantly recognisable had he tried to carry them into populated areas. Satisfied that the weapons had remained undiscovered and untouched in his absence, he laid them on the ground beside him and took stock of his surroundings.

He was deep in the western reaches of the forest, about a half days journey from the camp. Ancient trees stretched above his head, blotting out the sky and despite the hot summer weather of recent weeks, the forest floor was damp with rotted leaves, the dried, scaly husks of last year's beech nuts crunching beneath his boots as he moved. There were no signs of any man made intrusions into this part of the forest. The trees were whole, not sawn or coppiced by any man's hand and he had seen no spore or tracks that could be attributed to domesticated animals.

Sure that his surroundings were safe, he eased his back against the rippled trunk of the beech, rubbing at his calf muscles to ease the ache in them. The muscles weren't exhausted, just well used in his travel over to Mansfield and back. He had interchanged his stride between a smooth, fast paced walk and a ground eating lope. It was the quickest way to travel on foot, allowing the muscles to vary their work and the heart to ease from time to time, but he could feel the edges of tiredness creeping up on him. The light headedness from lack of sleep and food had added a keenness to his senses that he had needed for his journey, but now he could feel the edges of that keenness blunting against hunger and tiredness.

A small, ironic smile touched his lips: He was not as young as he had once been. The skills that he had learned under Rashid al-Din, leader of the Nizari sect of the Assassins, had always stood him in good stead in Sherwood, but now he was finding it hard to think ahead and keep himself ready for the unexpected. It was time to rest.

He relaxed against the broad tree, wishing the slight breeze that stirred the leaves above him would reach beneath the canopy to cool the sweat on his skin as he reflected on his journey the previous day.

On the way out of Sherwood, he had passed by several small holdings and through two small villages, a light smock drawn over his clothes and a rough cloth tied about his head and face to help disguise him. The day had been hot and dry, the hard rutted roads dusty, and beyond the usual curious stares from villagers given to any stranger, he had attracted no undue attention.

As he had encountered folk, he had paused to play the part of the hot and weary traveller. His story had been simple; he was one of a group of field workers from Mansfield who had crossed through the forest to meet their day work requirements on the Sheriff's fields. One of the group had been injured when his scythe had slipped and cut into his leg and the others had gone on ahead, taking their injured companionin a cart, to return him home. They had chosen to take the fastest route possible through the forest as the wounded man had been bleeding copiously. He himself had opted to walk and visit with family on his way. Now he sought to catch his workmates. Had they been seen passing this way?

His questions drew sympathy for the wounded man from those he stopped, but none claimed they had seen such a cart or even a group of men on foot with a wounded companion.

In Mansfield it had been easy to get lost in the crowd and search for himself. He had asked on the streets and at the town's narrow row of almshouses run by a lone monk. As the evening had drawn in, he had circulated through the inns and taverns, always aware of the danger to himself as he stopped strangers to question them. But there had been no such sightings in the town either.

Nasir stretched his aching legs. On the journey out he had held the hope that Robert and his attackers might have passed out of the forest to the west. Even now there was the slender hope that he, Nasir, had missed something – missed someone - who could have told him more. But the hope had diminished.

As the miles that separated him from the other outlaws diminished also, he was filled with both hope and dread at what he might learn when he returned to camp. His stomach clenched with the now familiar knot of fear at the thought of Robert, of what might have befallen his friend. In the activity of the previous day he had managed to push aside his worries, the visions that filled his head; but now his worries nagged at him.

The day held the promise of heat, but in this ancient part of the forest it was cold beneath the trees and as the sweat cooled on his body he felt a chill begin to steal over him. His body had been pushed to its limits this day and he recognised the signs. He had slept briefly at the forest's edge as he had re-entered it in the earliest hours of the morning not daring to light a fire so close to its protective edges, but the sleep had been broken and he had given up and forced himself on as his limbs had grown stiff with the cold of the night and the damp of the forest floor.

He had watched a man grow delirious once and pass into unconsciousness because the man had pushed himself beyond his physical limits and could no longer fight the freezing cold of a desert night. He knew he had no need to fear the sleeping sickness on a mild Sherwood morning – only in the winter did that danger lurk in the forest, but he could not afford to lose himself to an exhausted sleep now. He needed warmth and sustenance.

Nasir stood and, working quickly, gathered a small pile of dry twigs from the dead branch of a nearby bush. Choosing a flattened piece of ground beneath the beech, he crumbled some dried cow dung from his pouch into a small pile and lent the twigs upright against each other around it.

He'd collected the dung from a field the day before, where two oxen had grazed contentedly, fattening and strengthening themselves for the ploughing labour they would do after the fields had been cleared of crops. In his country, amongst the town's folk of Enfeh and the wandering tribes of the desert, camel dung had often been used for fuel, for when dried the stuff was easily lit and burned hot. It also gave an almost smokeless fire.

Although the forest was quiet, he had seen several deer during his journey, their bellies swollen and heavy. The deer were in fawn, almost ready to bear their young. The foresters would be patrolling with vigour at this time, to make sure that none disturbed the does and caused them to miscarry. Smoke would draw them deeper into the trees than their usual patrols, to investigate the source of it and the last thing Nasir wanted, having remained undetected all this time, was to call attention to himself now.

He drew a speckled flint from the pouch on his belt. He held the sharp edged stone close to the fire, striking it hard against the back of his knife blade until it gave sparks and one caught at the dung and the moss that he had mixed with it. A tiny curl of smoke spiralled upwards and then another, dissipating quickly in the air.

Nasir bent down and blew life gently into the tinder until he could feel a breath of heat. He worked quickly with the dry broken twigs, building them into a conical shape over the fast burning dung, until they caught alight. A tripod made of strong, longer sticks made a cradle for his ale skin to hang over the tiny flame. The liquid alone would refresh him, but warmed slightly it would be of more use to his chilled body. Then, he sat close, huddled over the meagre fire to enjoy its warmth.

From a bag at his waist, he drew a chunk of meat, hard cured to the texture of leather, and cut off a long strip with his knife. The meat was tough and the flavour flooded his mouth as he chewed at it. A swig of the weak, warmed ale took the dryness from his mouth and began to restore a measure of energy back to his body and the dull blue flame from the fire lifted his spirits a little.

The dead twigs burned quickly and he fed the fire with more dung and sticks, careful to keep space between the wood and to flip any smouldering ends into the glowing heart of it to stifle any smoke it gave.

His mind drifted as he worked. It was said that Allah had created Angels from light, man from clay and from smokeless fire the Lord had created the Djinn, other creatures of free will that were invisible to the human eye in their normal state. He recalled other firesides, other times; recalled tales of the Djinn and the mischief they caused, told to him as both boy and man. It was believed that everyone was assigned a special Djinni that whispered good or evil into your soul.

His father, Mahmoud, had cursed an evil djinni for taking over Sayida's soul. It was the only brief news of his homeland that Nasir had gleaned in the years after his banishment.

Nasir lowered his head over the tiny fire, his eyes closing as memories flooded over him: The hard thwack of his soft soled shoes thudding against the cobbled streets of Aleppo; behind him the echo of the iron studded boots of the Sultan's soldiers. The pounding of his heart within his chest as he had forced himself on after Sarak, who slipped and twisted his way like a shadow through the throngs of people around them.

Aleppo had once been strong in its support of the Nizari sect, but in recent years the city had come under the influence of Salah al-Din and some among the men of Aleppo had begun to neglect their old alliances. Nasir and Sarak had been sent into the city by their leader to kill a minor official; a warning to others that Rashid al-Din Sinan would not overlook what was owed to him from men who had promised faithfulness to his cause.

It was the first test of their loyalty to the Nizari's, and all had gone well. They had sneaked unnoticed into the Sultan's protected palace under cover of darkness. The official had died by Sarak's dagger and the two men hid themselves until dawn, when the call of trumpets announced that the city's gates had opened for the day. They had been well on their way out of the Royal Citadel when a guard, more alert than his fellows, had noticed a smear of blood on Sarak's hand.

The guard grabbed at Sarak. "You cut yourself, friend," he said pleasantly, raising Sarak's hand so that he could see the stain of blood for himself, but the suddenness of the man's gesture had caught Sarak unawares and his hand had automatically gone to his dagger. The guard backed away warily, studying the two faces before him.

"State your business," he snapped, his hand coming to rest on the hilt of his sword.

Nasir's own knife had flashed then, slipping deep between the soldier's ribs, but not fast enough to silence his cry of warning.

The two young assassins had fled with the Citadel's guards at theirheels. Sarak led the way, his black turbaned head had ducked and dived through the crowds, Nasir chasing desperately to keep up with his taller, younger companion as the crowd grabbed at them and tried to halt their progress.

A large trader threw himself into Nasir's path, his arms barrelled outward ready to tackle him. Without breaking stride, Nasir slammed his shoulder into the man's chest, raising his fist high and smashing it down into his face. There was a satisfying crunch of bone and the fat arms that had encircled him broke their hold as the trader clutched his broken nose and tumbled aside.

The crowd around them drew back with gasps of horror at the sight of the blood spilling from the traders nose, too shocked to make another attempt at grabbing Nasir. The brief drawing back of the crowd gave him space and he was through it in an instant and back on Sarak' trail. Then they were through to quieter streets, hearts pounding as they forced themselves on into the stinking warren of Aleppo's poorestquarter.

Both men knew the area for they had spent some time here in those earlier days after their first meeting in Aleppo's City of the Dead. Sarak had led the way, his face hard and joyful as he cast a glance back over his shoulder from time to time to make sure that Nasir was still with him. The noise of their pursuit died away and Nasir followed Sarak into a sharp turn down another narrow alleyway.

They had skidded to a halt as they burst into an unfamiliar, wider space; a courtyard overlooked by toppling tenements, two date palms towering over a well, and, seated at the edge of the well's sandstone wall, a young girl and an older man startled out of their conversation by the sudden appearance of the two black clad strangers.

Nasir scanned the area quickly. The tenements leaned precariously against each other, the alley way through which they had just passed was the only way into the courtyard. It was a dead end. They were trapped.

He turned his attention to the two occupants of the courtyard.

Nasir's first realisation was that the girl before him, dressed in long, flowing robes and tilting her head in the way that he had observed his own brother do so many times, was blind. The second realisation was that the curling beard and dark features of the man who sat beside her were familiar to him. He stepped forward falteringly.

"Maliq?" he said, his voice quiet and disbelieving, all thoughts of finding an escape route from the courtyard banished.

For a long moment, his old tutor from Enfeh had stared back at him, his face mirroring Nasir's disbelief. He placed a gentle hand on the shoulder of the girl. "An old pupil of mine, Anissa," he had said. "An old friend."

The girl, Anissa, her head already tilted in their direction had smiled, but then her expression had faltered into a frown, her head swinging from one side to the other as though listening intently.

"There is trouble coming, Uncle," she murmured.

From the streets behind them came the shouts of the soldiers, the sounds of fighting and pain in confined spaces echoing and distorted by the warren of alleyways. Their pursuers, in desperation to find the two assassins, must be cutting their way through the crowds of people at sword point.

Sarak had grabbed at Nasir's arm. "Come on," he said urgently. "We have to go."

Maliq had stood quickly, his hand outstretched to halt them. "Wait, Nasir. If you cut through my house there is an alleyway that will lead you close to the walls. From there you can find an easier way out of the city."

Sarak had yanked hard at Nasir's arm, trying to draw him back into the dark maw of the alley behind them. "Don't trust him," he hissed, his grey eyes hard as they took in the couple beside the well. "This way - we have to go. NOW!"

From close behind them, came the shriek of a woman, cut off as suddenly as it had pierced the air.

Nasir shook off Sarak's hand. "I do trust him," he had said softly.

Nasir thought that Sarak would abandon him then. This mission, should they succeed and return alive, would fulfil ambitions long held by Sarak; to become one of the Fida'is. One of Sinan's Devoted Ones, sent on a solo mission of public murder and then to turn his dagger upon himself. Such a holy sacrifice would buy the Fida'i instant access to Paradise and all its rewards and Sarak had come to crave it more than he craved life itself.

But then, the fanatical light shining from Sarak's eyes dimmed a little. "You trust too well, brother," he said, but he gave a curt nod of his head at Maliq.

"Quickly Anissa, back to your mother's house now," Maliq had said. Without hesitation the girl had risen, drawing the slender stick that rested against the lip of the well into her hand and set off across the courtyard with long legged strides, the stick arcing across the ground before her.

Maliq had hurried them into his home at the foot of the nearest tenement block. The air was cool, scented sweetly with the smell of frying onions and cumin. Nasir briefly registered a set of two rooms as they hurried through a narrow corridor. As they reached the back door Maliq had halted and grabbed at Nasir's hand.

"Nasir," he said, his free hand gesturing at the dark robes Nasir wore. The robes had come loose during their headlong flight, the assassin's dagger now visible – and unmistakeable - within at his belt. "How has this come to pass?"

Nasir had fought to keep his head held high and not to drop his gaze before Malik. The Nizari's were known and feared across the Islamic world. They were heretics, fanatics. They killed Christian and Muslim alike when the need suited them and had twice come close to killing Salah al-Din himself. They had forsaken the true ways of the Prophet to follow their own path of chaos and murder. The horror in Maliq's tone was clear and Nasir felt the weight of shame in Maliq's simple question.

"It is too long a tale, Daris," he said, the old, respectful title slipping from his tongue. "My family, my brother...tell me quickly...are they well?"

In quick, choppy sentences, Malik had told his story. He had remained in Enfeh only two weeks after Nasir, before Mahmoud had asked him to leave his post. He could tell Nasir little of Hassan, for the boy had been kept locked away from sight in the women's quarters after making an attempt to follow Nasir and learn his fate. Of Sayida, he had more to say;

"They waited four days," he said. "Then, in the dead of the night, they took her body out to the cliffs and burnt it, scattering the ashes to the winds."

Nasir remembered the groan of pain that had left him at the thought. Sayida's body should have been washed and perfumed and bound in three white pieces of cotton. She should have been placed in a raised grave, with her body facing towards Mecca as their Holy book dictated. Instead their father had shown her the ultimate contempt. No one had read the Salatul Janazah prayer, nor mourned Sayida for the required three months, nor read from the Qu'uran and prayed for her soul.

"Mahmoud cursed an evil djinni for corrupting your sister's soul, and every trace of her was wiped from his house." Maliq had continued.

How desperately Nasir had wanted to stay and hear more from the man, but Sarak had urged that they must leave. Besides, Nasir knew, every second they lingered in the tutor's house, brought him greater danger.

"Thank you, Daris" he murmured, clasping the man's hand. Malik had returned his grip strongly.

"Allah makk, Nasir. God go with you," he had said before releasing his hand and the two assassins had slipped through the doorway and up the alley and out into the brightness of the day.

Beneath the shade of the Sherwood beech, Nasir drew the skin of ale from its cradle over the fire and took a long swig at the liquid. It was sharp and caught in his throat. Despite the exhaustion of his body, his mind raced with thoughts of the past, with the memories of such an unexpected and welcome meeting.

His tutor had not hesitated to help him. He could still feel the firm grip of the man's hand, pressing warm into his own. Maliq had trusted in the boy he had known and not pressed for answers to the questions Nasir's appearance had so obviously raised for him. As he and Sarak had sped away to safety, he had fervently hoped Maliq's help had passed unnoticed in the chaos of their escape from Aleppo.

He had enquired of all who had passed that way in later days if anyone had been arrested or come under suspicion for helping the two men escape from Aleppo. But there had been no such news, only stories of the Sultan's fury that two of the hated assassins had escaped unharmed from his protected city. Forty soldiers had died for their failure to capture the fugitives. Their bodies hung on the city's walls as a warning, until the dry desert wind desiccated them like figs left too long on the tree.

There had been so many questions unasked that day, Nasir thought. And yet at the time he had been glad of it, for he knew that he could not give Maliq satisfactory answers to the questions the tutor would have asked of him. Back then, they were answers that he himself was still seeking.

And what of the blind girl who had sat at Maliq's side at the well? She had used a stick of similar design to the stick Maliq had made for Hassan. She had called Maliq Uncle. Had she been born blind like Hassan?

The unexpected meeting had answered a little of Nasir's own questions about how Maliq had known to help Hassan if he also had a blind relative. Had Maliq taught her to use the guiding stick or had some other brought that knowledge to their family?

_As I taught Robert to use a guiding stick_ Nasir thought to himself, awed suddenly by the co-incidences of his life that had bought him here to Sherwood to pass the skills that Maliq and Hassan had given to him onto Herne's Son.

As always, memories of Sayida filled him with a deep sense of unease. In the long years since that snatched conversation in Aleppo, the thought had haunted him: Where would Sayida's soul be? Had it found Barzakh, the place where souls went to wait until God judged the world? Or had it burned with her body, ceased to exist now. Or did her soul wander still, searching for peace, searching for rest?

Sayida, his beautiful sister. None had mourned her and she had died brutally, unable to make her peace with God. Although he had understood his father's actions, understood the betrayal that Sayida had committed against their family when she had chosen to meet with a man, he could not bear the thought that she should remain punished even after death.

Nasir felt again for the small leather pouch at his belt where he kept his flints. Drawing up the lid, he slipped his fingers inside and took out a tiny piece of cloth. Wrapped inside were two hard drops of an amber resin. They were tear shaped, each about the size of his smallest nail. He took one out, carefully rewrapped the other and replaced it in the pouch.

The tiny piece of resin lay on the palm of his hand, rough and powdery, brittle against his skin, refracting a glimmer of red onto the skin of his palm like light through a stained glass window. It was a tear of myrrh, leaked from the tree when the bark was cut or wounded. Rare and precious in his own land, it had cost him a small fortune from a Nottingham spice trader after its long journey from the East.

He had not been sure at the time why he had bought it - some sudden longing for his homeland perhaps, where it was burned at the mosques and the funeral pyres - but now he knew. He would perform his own ceremony for his sister in the hopes that her soul may be comforted and helped on its way.

With his free hand, he took up a long twig and poked a glowing ember from the fire, drawing it to one side and watching the glow fade from its heart. When the ember had cooled to black with a light frosting of ash, Nasir placed the tear of myrrh upon its surface. For long moments nothing happened. Myrrh was slow to burn and for a moment Nasir worried that the incense had lost its valued properties, so long had he carried it with him. At last though, a thin curl of white smoke rose from the ember and a heavy, earthy scent filled his nostrils.

He leant over it, cupping his hands behind the smoke and drawing the cloying scent over himself, filling his lungs with the bitterness of it as he breathed. Then, in slow, measured tones, he began to speak the Janaza Ghaibana, the Mourning Prayer.

"God! Show mercy to our living and our dead," he recited softly. "To those who are present with us here and to those who are not here. And upon whomsoever it pleases thee to send death, let him die in faith."

The last of the myrrh turned to ash on the coal. A final sliver of smoke rose from it, carrying his prayers heavenward as his people believed. He shook off the uncomfortable thought that the prayer was as valid for Robert as for Sayida. It did not seem possible that his leader – his brother - could be dead. Surely, Sherwood itself would show some sign if Robert were gone, if Herne's Son was gone from them. No, he determined. Robert was alive. And he, Nasir, would search for him; for as long as it took, he would search.

He nodded in thought to himself. The silent promise easing the vivid images of his sister that had over taken him again this day.

The fire had begun to die, the heavy scent of the myrrh hung in the air, sharp and out of place beneath the greenery of an English summer's day. Nasir rose and collected up his things, kicking earth over the fire to put it out and wiping any traces of his presence from the area.

Lastly, he bent to pick up his swords, slipping his shoulders through the simple straps that held them in their scabbards and belting them into place around his waist before resuming his journey back to the camp.