THE OLD MAN AND THE WELL

THE DESERT SUN BORE DOWN ON TARIQ WITH THE heat of a brazen fire. It rippled off the dunes, distorting his vision and searing the sky.

He wrapped the hood of his rida’ tight across his face, securing the leather band low on his brow. Whorls of sand curled around the legs of his stallion, trailing a glittering haze with the rise and fall of each massive hoof.

Zoraya circled above, her cries growing louder with each passing hour.

As the sun started to set, they approached the border of Khorasan and Parthia, and Tariq began searching for a place to rest. He knew the Badawi tribes were nearby, but he did not want to run the risk of encroaching on their territory without a full night’s rest, as he had not slept well since leaving Rey almost four days ago. In the morning, he would devise a way to speak with a local so as to determine the current state of affairs in the region.

In the distance, he spotted a small settlement of sun-weathered buildings situated around a decrepit stone well. The horseshoe of cracked mud houses was capped by caving roofs and appeared all but abandoned. An elderly man stood at the well’s edge, removing animal skins from across the backs of two aging camels.

Tariq spurred his dark bay Arabian forward, tugging once more on the hood of his white rida’.

When he neared the well, the elderly man glanced over his shoulder.

Then he grinned up at Tariq.

He was dressed in simple clothes of spun brown linen, and his thick beard was stippled with silver. A prominent gap separated his two front teeth, and his hooked nose was broken across the bridge. His hands were gnarled from age and use.

“A fine horse.” He nodded, still grinning.

Tariq nodded in return.

The elderly man reached a shaking hand for the bucket above the well . . .

And promptly knocked it down.

The bucket struck the murky caverns of the hollow, ricocheting with each hit, until it splashed into the water with a taunting sound.

Tariq exhaled loudly.

The elderly man groaned, ripping his rida’ from his head and stomping his feet in the dirt. He began wringing his hands, the dismay on his face as plain as the day.

Tariq observed this melodramatic performance until he could stomach it no longer, and then dismounted from his stallion with a moribund sigh.

“Do you have some rope?” he asked the elderly man as he removed the hood from his face.

“Yes, sahib.” The man bowed, over and over.

“That is not necessary; I am not your sahib.”

“The sahib has a fine horse. A fine sword. He is most definitely a sahib.”

Tariq sighed again. “Give me the rope, and I will climb down for the bucket.”

“Oh, thank you, sahib. You are most generous.”

“Not generous. Just thirsty.” Tariq smiled wryly. He took the rope from the man and secured it to the post over the well. Then he paused in consideration. “Don’t try to steal my horse. He’s a temperamental beast, and you won’t get far.”

The elderly man shook his head with such fervor that Tariq thought it might cause him injury. “I would not do such a thing, sahib!”

His intensity put to question his intent.

Tariq studied the man before extending his left arm and whistling to the skies. Zoraya came hurtling from the clouds in a mass of feathers and wicked talons. The elderly man lifted a trembling forearm to his face, warding away the raptor’s piercing menace.

“She likes to start with the eyes,” Tariq said in a flat tone, as Zoraya spread her wings above his leather mankalah and glared at the man.

“I will not do anything disgraceful, sahib!”

“Good. Do you live around here?”

“I am Omar of the Badawi.”

Tariq considered the man once more. “Omar of the Badawi, I’d like to make a deal with you.”

“A deal, sahib?”

“Yes. I’ll retrieve the bucket from the well and assist you in filling the skins with water. In return, I’d like some information on your tribe and its sheikh.”

Omar scratched at his beard. “Why does the nameless sahib want information on my tribe?”

“Don’t worry; I do not wish them ill. I have a great deal of respect for the Badawi. My father purchased this horse from a tribesman several years ago, and he always said the desert wanderers are among the best horsemen in the world.”

“Among?” Omar smiled widely. “We are the best, sahib. Without a doubt.”

Tariq offered him a tentative grin. “Do we have a deal?”

“I believe so, sahib; however, may I ask one last question?”

Tariq nodded.

“What is the purpose behind you seeking out the Badawi?”

Tariq thought for a moment. This elderly man was, at best, a servant. Most likely, a relic sent to collect water on a daily basis so as to maintain an appearance of usefulness in his old age. Giving him information seemed rather harmless.

“I have a business proposition to make.”

“Business?” Omar cackled. “With the Badawi? Why would a rich young sahib need a desert wanderer’s help?”

“I answered your question. Do we have a deal?”

Omar’s dark eyes twinkled. “Yes, yes, sahib. We do.”

Tariq directed Zoraya to a perch atop the well, and then turned to his horse to remove his recurve bow. He lashed the quiver to his back and slung the sinew across his chest, for he was not fool enough to leave behind a weapon. Finally, he tugged on the rope to make sure it was solidly rooted before positioning himself on the stone and mortar brim.

The well was as wide as a man and two times his height, so it was not an especially difficult task to ease his way down and grab the wooden bucket floating on the water’s surface. In short order, Tariq climbed back up the stone hollow and out into the orange dusk of a desert sunset.

He passed the bucket to Omar. “I suggest tying a rope to the handle, for the sake of future ease.”

Omar laughed. “A wise suggestion!”

The two men began the process of filling the animal skins with water and securing them to the camels waiting nearby.

“So,” Tariq commenced, “which Badawi tribe do you ride with?”

Omar grinned. “I ride with the al-Sadiq family.”

“I’ve heard that name before.”

“Many say it is a great family. From a long line of powerful desert wanderers.”

“Who is your sheikh?”

“A sixth-generation son of the al-Sadiq line. Some would argue he’s a bit strange. He studied in Damascus for a time before returning to the desert.”

“And what did he study in Damascus?”

“Sword making. He mastered the craft of iron and steel, sahib.”

“What possessed him to learn this trade?”

Omar shrugged. “He believes such knowledge gives him an edge over his enemies.”

Tariq nodded pensively. “He sounds like an interesting man.”

“As are you, sahib. But I am most curious; what is the nature of your business with the Badawi?”

Tariq hedged. “It is personal.”

“Personal?” Omar laughed. “Then you are trying to overthrow a family member or . . . win the heart of a woman.”

“What?”

“Why else would a rich young sahib have business of a personal nature with the Badawi? So which is it? Is your father a despicable despot of lore? Are you the hero your people long to serve?”

Tariq glared down at Omar.

“Ah! So then you are trying to win the heart of a beautiful young woman.”

Tariq turned to his horse.

“She must be very beautiful,” Omar mused. “To bring a handsome sahib with a falcon and a fine al-Khamsa this far into the Sea of Sand.”

“It has nothing to do with that,” Tariq muttered.

“Then she is not beautiful?”

Tariq whirled around. “It has nothing to do with her beauty.”

“So it is about a girl!” Omar crowed.

Glowering, Tariq grabbed the reins of his stallion and swung into the saddle.

“Do not be offended by old Omar, sahib! I did not mean to press the issue. I am just curious at heart, and my curious heart has quite a fondness for love stories. Please! If you follow me, I would be happy to introduce you to the sheikh.”

“And why would you do that?”

“For the sake of my curious heart,” Omar replied with a ridiculous smile that emphasized the dark gap between his crooked teeth.

Tariq paused in deliberation. The old servant could be lying to him, but this could also be his best chance to meet with a sheikh from one of the most celebrated of the Badawi tribes.

It was worth the risk.

“I will follow you to your camp.” Tariq adjusted the quiver of arrows on his back, for good measure.

Omar nodded, straightening his rida’. “I will be sure to tell the sheikh of your helpfulness at the well today.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, sahib! I am nothing if not honorable.”

Tariq followed Omar at a wary distance as Omar guided the two camels back into the desert. Omar rode the smaller camel at a steady pace, looking over his shoulder every so often to give Tariq a reassuring grin.

The sky darkened to blue-black, and the brightest stars began to flicker above, winking white at the edges. After riding for half an hour, a large enclave of tents surrounded by a ring of torches materialized in the sea of rising dunes.

Omar led the camels directly into the center, whistling cheerfully to himself. As he passed, several men stopped to nod at him, and Omar bowed back, with a hand to his brow. He dismounted from the camel before a large, patchworked tent in the middle of the encampment. The instant his sandaled feet hit the ground, a pattering of footsteps burst from the shadows to the side.

Tiny burnished arms grabbed at his legs and battled for his embrace.

“Baba Aziz! Why are you so late?” several children cried in discordant harmony.

Tariq’s eyes narrowed.

The flap of the tent opened, and an elderly woman with a beautiful braid of muted copper strode into the moonlight. “Omar-jan, where have you been? Your grandchildren are hungry, and your daughters are irritated, as a result.”

Omar smiled indulgently. “I’ve brought a guest. Can we make room for one more?”

She shot her eyes heavenward before shifting to Tariq. “And who are you, young man?”

“He is our nameless sahib. And my curious heart longs to hear his story. I believe it is a good one, Aisha. About love and its many struggles,” Omar answered with a wink.

She shook her head. “Well, bring him inside.”

Tariq continued staring at Omar, his suspicions rapidly reaching a logical conclusion. He dismounted from his horse.

“You are not a servant,” he said.

Omar turned back to Tariq. Again, his gap-toothed grin took over his weathered face. “Did I say I was?”

Tariq held Omar’s gaze. The guise of a silly old man had vanished in the lambent torchlight. In its place was a look of wisdom and mirth.

A look of cunning intelligence.

“Forgive the misunderstanding,” Omar continued.

Tariq snorted in disbelief. “There was no misunderstanding. I saw precisely what you wanted me to see.”

Omar laughed loudly. “Or perhaps you saw exactly what you wanted to see.”

Tariq knocked back his rida’ and stepped forward. “My name is Tariq.”

Omar’s bushy eyebrows rose in approval.

“And I am Omar al-Sadiq, the sixth sheikh of my line . . .”

He put his wrinkled palm out before him, and Tariq grasped it.

“Welcome to my home.”