Chapter Two

Life in a Tent

Back at camp, about one hour before this took place, a boy/man of about seventeen years of age, rose from the place where he was reclining.  After arranging the folds of his head-piece and smoothing out the wrinkles of his gown, he walked out of his tent door, and over to another tent that was situated nearby.  He drew the sides of the abode aside, and walked in.  As he did, he looked up, and beheld his twelve-year old sibling fixing the sash on her clothing.  He had the advantage of admiring the black ringlets that were laid bare as she had not covered her head yet.  Once she heard the sound of his step, she quickly raised the veil, and wheeled around.  Rising from the ground she walked towards him, prepared for his morning endearments.  With his arms held out, he embraced her and gave the customary greeting – kissing one cheek and then the other.  Grabbing her hands, he beheld her for a short moment.  “What a ruby she will appear in a few years from now”, he thought.  He waited with pleasure the day she would be given away to a man.  Since he was the oldest, and only male in the family, his father having died in early years in battle.  She gave a sweet smile, characteristic of her cheerful personality, and started the morning conversation with,

 “You came in late last night.  Where were you?” 

He knew she enjoyed taking a motherly interest in him, and jokingly replied,

“You knew it was my first lion hunt, so you couldn’t expect me to be in time for our evening talk.  Still I am sorry we missed it.” 

(His sister) retorted, for so her name was,

“Well, your repentance should at least match the crime.  Since I see that it doesn’t, you’ll have to complete it here and now”,

and with that she gave him a playful pinch on the cheek.  She sat down, giving no other answer for him to give but prompt obedience.  As he brought himself into a sitting posture, he took another look at her with her hands resting in her lap.  Again he reminisced.  This was the posture they used to always maintain when playing as children.  Though there was five years difference between them he always found it pleasing to bring smiles to his little sister’s face by sitting down and playing games with her.  Looking at her now, with her expectant and eager face, he couldn’t help but notice that childhood countenance had matured a lot since those days of old.  She was on the verge of entering womanhood, and their relationship was undergoing a transformation.  Now he felt like the child, and she the older sibling.  Then he broke out into a half amused smirk as he thought of those times that she didn’t act so grown up at all.

Knowing that his reverie would be interrupted if he did not continue, he sighed, and plunged into the conversation.  But he had not gone far when she impatiently interrupted him. 

“Don’t tell me about the movements of the lion, and how it was slain – we women don’t care for those details”,she said in disgust.

 “Tell me about your conversation with (his friend).  That’s always more interesting.” 

(The boy), of this request put his palms on his knees, and rose.  Then he began pacing.  (His sister) broke out,

“Oh, I knew it!  It must be really interesting, or you wouldn’t be as restless as a tiger.” 

As his expression grew more grave, she quietly commented,

“And it’s a serious one, too, isn’t it?” 

He nodded, in the affirmative, as he set about beginning his tale.

Here is the first chapter of my book......no name as of yet.

The outline of a spear-like weapon was drawn by the dawning of the morning sun.  The lance had been struck in the sand just the night before, as the owner prepared himself for sleep.  According to the customs of that region, part of a turban had been draped over the lance at one end, and the other was supported by the head of the wearer.  This afforded the traveler shade from the oppressive heat of the glaring sun, and at the same time shelter from the almost certain winds that blow unhindered across the sandy floor of the desert.

Following the folds of the turban, we must beg the pardon of the wearer, for craving a view of the face underneath it.  It is easy to determine that it is a male, just by the fact that he is out alone in the desert.  It is also plain to see that he is not very advanced in years – probably between twenty and twenty and five years old.  What is not so clear, because of the dimness of the morning light, is whether it is a handsome face, and what the color of his hair and eyes are.  And what is the reason he is out in the desert, alone – a situation which many aged men would not deem prudent according to personal experience.  They would accuse him on the grounds of his age, saying, “He probably lacks experience with lack of age.”  Usually they’d be right, but not in this case.  Using the prerogative of a story-teller, we can gain an answer to all these questions.  He is a male, as guessed – a man of twenty and two years.  His face, according to the half-smile he wore, the distinct sculpturing of the nose, the breadth of his jaws, and the almost ebony hue of his eyes – all lead us to conclude to be a countenance of perfection.  He has broad, bushy, dark eyebrows that almost certainly give him away as being a child of the desert.  The hair is chocolate in color, though right now the color is concealed from view by the headgear of the man.  All these clues lead one to guess that he is an Arab.  It is true - he is an Arab.  But as there are Arabs that range from nomadic journeymen, to fighting warlords, to peace-loving sons of Islam, to tent dwellers, he could be any, or all of these.  One thing that leads us to conclude that he is not a peace-loving son of Islam, is that of the weapon in his right hand.  But he could be some or all of these . . .

He is wearing a linen jerkin that falls a little below his waist.  From there he has on a pair of baggy trousers, held in by a dark-colored girdle.  Over this is a loose-fitting jacket-like garment – also made of linen.  All the clothes worn in this countryside are loose-fitting, except the sandals.  The Arab’s are a pair of tan, leather ones, bound together with rivet-like fasteners, and strapped on with holes on the bindings, and what looks like beads on the straps.  The man is squatting in the sand, and it almost looks like he is asleep.  As the saying goes, he has at least one eye open.  These desert men are taught to be vigilant watchmen, and from the posture, and the look on this one’s face, it seems as if it is his hour to guard.

~~~~~~ ڭ ~~~~~~

A cloud of dust rises over the pyramid-shaped hills, completely enveloping any hint of shrubbery or reflection from the wadis that emit little streams that hurry from the summits, down to the pools of water below.  Higher it soars, blurring the often distinct separation of the firmament from the arid desert that stretches out below.  The blowing winds scooped the sand from the ground, tossing it futily in the air, only to find it fall to the earth again.  But it wasn’t just rising, it was moving forward also.  As it did, it grew in size, picking up more debris in the same way a snowball rolled, picks up more snow along its path.  All this is seen by the observant eyes.  But well trained as the sentry is, he keenly notices that the speed at which the cloud is passing, is not characteristic of a normal dust storm, but is rather stirred up by something more.

The dark eyes of the Bedouin closed slightly as he focused in at the phantom rising from the earth.  But this was no desert superstition he was beholding.  This was real!  He grasped the faithful spear next to him.  Hearing a confused noise coming from the direction of the dust cloud, he reasonably concluded that no storm ever sounded like this.  It meant only one thing: their neighbors had come to pay them a visit!  And with that thought, the Arab fumbled inside his garment, and grasped a burnished horn.  Drawing a breath, and putting it to his lips, he blew with his might upon it.  The horn gave a certain, harsh sound that could not be mistaken by any passerby.  It was a call of danger!

© Stephen Plourd 2006

All rights reserved.  Unauthorized duplication prohibited.

Welcome to my 2nd xanga!!!  This one is strictly for writers..........so, here I go to join some blogrings!!!