Nothing could be more wrong.
Riakesh is the richest region on the continent of Iazaresh.
The cities shine like the gold coins of the emirs who govern them, lush gardens embellish squares and palaces with their emerald leaves and the most learned sages of the civilized world frequent majestic libraries. The inhabited centers are surrounded by boundless plantations of oranges, peaches, and kiwis, which are often imported to foreign lands; the herds of cattle and goats are fat and healthy, and thanks to the two important rivers, the Shams and the Alqamar, there is certainly no shortage of water.
Of the various common rumors about Riakesh, however, only one is true: the desert is there and as boundless as the legends say; and at its center is the terrible Desert of Silence.
Called by locals as “Sahra' alsamt,” it is the most dangerous and arcane area of ??Riakesh. Few expeditions have been able to explore even partially the borders of the arid kingdom of which even bandits are afraid and of those who have tried to enter its interior, only a couple have managed to return safely.
The nickname “of Silence” is well deserved as making any noise within this area is nothing less than suicide. Even a whisper can be lethal. It is impossible to say how many people have disappeared in the dunes, who only from time to time decide to return something to those poor unfortunates.
All this because of the Sand.
The sun had just risen when the great gates of Baharmis slowly opened. The caravans of merchants rushed in, eager to find a place in the market to begin their business. Large herds of honey-colored camels and long-horned oxen crossed the gates like a raging river, blocking any other traffic with their cumbersome passage, while the tired travelers waited their turn, sheltering themselves as best they could from the dust raised by the animals.
Since the period of commercial exchanges had just begun, in the next two months there would have been a continuous coming and going of caravans that would have traveled from city to city, the lifeblood of the nation's economy, and together with the money and goods, ideas, news, legends and gossip.
The city of Baharmis, the capital of the region, was one of the obligatory stops of these exchanges, by its privileged position in the center of the “Green Passagge”, a long green straight line close to the Shams River which connected the coasts of the Hekha Sea to those of the Narrow Sea. Since the areas near the riverbank were suitable for agriculture and the climate was not as hot as in the rest of the territory, over time the natives had settled in various points of the pass, building many small important centers. The increase in flora was also because many farmers had dug canals to bring the river water even over long distances, thus imbuing the land with the right nutrients. Traveling along the “Green Passage” is certainly the fastest method, but this does not make it easier or safer.
Baharmis is located 294 kilometers from the sea, starting from the coast of Hekha.
It stands out for its fan shape framed by high cobalt blue walls, with three entrances, two of which are to the west and the last to the east, as well as the busiest being the main passage. The entrance to the east is distinguished by the eight basins of water which have a stupendous crystalline blue in which perch and soft-shell turtles swim, dividing access to all the neighborhoods of the city into nine streets. The roofs of most of the buildings are glazed in green and blue, while on others small hanging gardens stand out, some of them in bloom, which gave the impression of oases floating in the sky whose leaves or flowering petals fell gracefully down the streets like a gentle rain.
A tributary of the river branches out within the city, dividing into many canals that cross it in a sort of damp spider's web, mostly used to navigate tourists who want to visit the city without the inconvenience of walking. Two of these canals meet, forming a perfect circle in an area used both as a meeting place for citizens and as one of the points where the big market of the season gathers.
The square does not have a name, but it is called by everyone "of the shell" because of the mosaic floor which makes up the image of a particular shell with a curved shape like a spiral. From the first light of dawn, the vendors had already prepared themselves by displaying their wares with an attitude that was more like wanting to boast about their products than having to sell them. At first with a calm and slow exchange of polite murmurs, as the sun completed its journey across the sky screams and shouts arose with increasing frequency until they became a deafening chorus of different voices each following their rhythm, transmitting a sort of uncontrolled vigor to the people. Everything was sold: from the finest silks to the most sought-after spices, from the most delicious fruit to the most refined jewels… everything that satisfied everyone's desires, from the humblest customer to the most pretentious.
Irfan family's vase shop was one of those places that was gaining quite a bit of success in the last couple of years.
It was one of the oldest shops in the city. The bowls and containers were highly appreciated, above all for the refinement of their appearance and the imagination with which they were modeled. Some were made of clay, some were made of glass, some were created to simply hold liquids, and others to just be luxurious. As with many businesses, this had been passed from father to son for generations: inheriting a profitable and already well-established job represented a great fortune for the heirs who could thus count on secure support without having to learn other trades, but above all, as it happened in just as many cases; to honor the family name.
This was the situation of Basim, the current new owner.
Basim was a tall and robust boy, with skin as dark as almonds and with very rare sky-blue eyes, uncommon among the people of Iazaresh. He had very voluminous black hair due to soft, slightly curled waves of each strand, tied with a loose ponytail that many had the habit of stroking without permission out of curiosity. Basim was only 17 years old, but it happened that people mistook him for an adult, a mistake they were also led to make due to his mature attitude, which was uncommon among his peers. It was no secret that the family prided itself on it, having a son who was already so responsible and respectful made all its members proud, who used it as an excuse to show off in front of rival traders, whose offspring still behaved like naughty children.
<< Wonderful! Stupendous! Beautiful! >> exclaimed a caliph, while he admired the cobalt blue ceramic vase decorated with an allegory of gold flowers that he had commissioned.
<< Too kind sir. >> the boy replied humbly.
<< Outstanding work, Basim. My wife can't help but gasp at the sight of this masterpiece. As always, you are the best master potter in town. >>
<< My lord, your compliments embarrass me and make me proud. As always. >>
<
The gold coins landed in Basim's palms like drops of sweet honey.
That caliph was a regular customer, as well as someone who found enjoyment in buying anything he found to his taste or for his lady whom he made no secret of loving madly. Normally, individuals of his rank tried to negotiate the price so as not to have to part with too many of their precious yellow rods, but that man liked to spend and waste without hesitation, defining his purchases as "profitable deals".
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Basim had taken over the shop a year ago and had already established a good reputation among customers. Since he began working, he often received a lot of compliments for his works, especially from wealthy caliphs who commissioned projects of a certain refinement.
Normally their family tradition was that members who entered adulthood had to spend a few years of apprenticeship there to learn the art of pottery before they could be considered up to the task and start working with the others. Basim's case was different: he was a born talent. From an early age, he had shown himself to be surprisingly good as if his hands had acquired from birth the skill that normally came with years of practice. The family could not have asked for a better heir, especially the patriarch, who saw his dowry as a growing success for the business.
The caliph left the shop and continued to praise the owner until he was no longer visible or audible.
Only then did Basim's smile, which he had been wearing the whole time, melt and he let out a long, tired moan.
<< Oooh… my poor cheeks… >> he said, rubbing his face.
He had been forced to smile all day to make a good impression.
In addition to that, his back also suffered intense soreness as a desperate cry to beg him not to sit at the press anymore. Basim had a completely different intention of going back to work, if it had been up to him, he would have closed the shop and would have spent the beautiful day wandering around the city, joining his friends in some quiet pastime.
Instead, he was forced to stay there, in that room full of vases, jars and bowls.
Despite the shop's excellent reputation, good business and publicity, he was not at all happy about being a potter.
Unlike his relatives, who were so proud of their heritage, he, on the contrary, hated it. That life was not what he had wanted for himself. Sure, he had a talent... but only because his grandfather had taught it to him by force so that he could follow the tradition. He still could not forget when the patriarch had announced on his initiative (without consulting with others, as usual) that he would leave the shop to him immediately, without needing to waste time after the usual years of training. He didn't even care whether his father or his uncle’s came first in the line of succession, he deserved it more than anyone... that's what he said.
<< “You're so good, the shop will be successful, let's do ourselves credit” … and in the meantime, I'm the only one here toiling away. I don't have a hundred hands to do everything! At least there was someone to give me a hand! >> he grumbled out loud, as he used to do to vent.
<< I clean, I sell, I model... how does grandfather think i can run this place alone? Could I have been born as the third or fourth child? Or better yet, be drafted early for the military draft? Maybe by being a soldier, I would have worked less. >>
Basim snorted repeatedly, but that didn't change his situation.
As the first-born son (and the only one, by the way, on his side of the family) he had to carry on the tradition.
For as long as he could remember, they had always given him toys that had to do with modeling. In the beginning, he appreciated those toys that made him look like his father or grandfather and also loved the constant compliments on his first works. As he grew up, however, he began to get bored of those monothematic gifts and the constant talk about learning the family art. Although he hated that imposition, with his docile nature he had never been able to say out loud that it was not the potter's path that he would have wanted to follow.
If he could, he would have confessed to his family that music was what he had always wanted.
Everything that had to do with this art enchanted him, from the composition of the melodies to the different sounds emitted by instruments such as the oud, the nay, the qanun or the riqq. He had always attended the local concerts and had occasionally snuck off to the music craftsman to learn how to make the instruments himself and, of course, play them. Only his closest friends knew about this passion of his and out of respect for him they had never confided it to anyone, even if on more than one occasion they had encouraged him to confess his interest to his relatives, especially now that he was officially an adult.
But how could he tell them, now that his grandfather had placed all his expectations on him to carry on the business?
He didn't want to disappoint him or make him unhappy, much less ruin the family's honor. These were prospects that terrified him.
Therefore, he chose silence and that way, everyone was happy. Apart from him, of course.
Speaking of music, he allowed himself to play a little for his enjoyment, now that he was alone.
Far from ears that could not hear him, he hid in the back room and, sitting among the piles of vases, began to pluck the strings of his Oud, a short-necked lute, with a pear-shaped body, eleven strings and three holes. He had learned some melodies in his free time, the ones you would mistake for lullabies when you heard them. They were simple songs, but he liked them and helped him relax in the darkest moments.
Music was a sort of special friend for him that helped him when he needed to chase away sadness and negative thoughts thanks to its reassuring voice - or melody, in that case. He wondered if he would ever play for someone one day.
<< Basim! Basim! Where are you? >> someone shouted.
Basim jumped in fear and almost caused a disastrous avalanche of vases. He quickly hid his little treasure and ran into the shop where some of his relatives entered like a tornado, led by his patriarch grandfather.
Ghaaib Al Irfan tottered briskly left and right despite being 87 years old and moving with the use of two gnarled sticks. He was short and thin as a blade of grass, bald since time immemorial, his voice very hoarse due to years spent smoking and which he often, between one speech and another, emphasized with loud coughs that still seemed to emit a smell of tobacco.
Nonetheless, he didn't lack the gab. He could be defined as a talkative type.
<< Grandpa? What a surprise. Why are you here in the shop today? >>
<< Great news nephew! Really big! You won't believe your ears! >>
<< What is? >>
<< Finally, you will have the opportunity to demonstrate your true talent! >>
Basim held his breath, feeling a shiver run down his spine.
When his grandfather spoke like that, it meant that he had planned something so exaggerated that he certainly wouldn't have liked it, as usual.
Normally the other relatives were also worried about this "good news", but at that moment they were all almost as excited as he was.
Between gasps, he managed to tell him that he had managed to arrange a meeting at the royal palace, together with all the best merchants in the city. In these rare meetings in front of the sultan and the royal family, one could have the opportunity to show off one's wares and hope, if luck was willing, that they would buy them... or even better, that they appointed them as their official suppliers.
<< But grandfather, I'm not ready for something like that! >> Basim said shocked.
<< Nonsense! You are the heir of master potters, you will surely succeed. >> said the relative, very confident.
<< But you didn't even ask my opinion. An audience with the royal family for our products… what if it doesn't go well? >>
<< Don't be pessimistic as usual. You'll just have to give your best and in two weeks we'll make a good impression, in spite of our colleagues. >>
<< Two weeks? But… it's a short time! And then, I would commit for that period... >>
<< You can postpone whatever it is. Work comes first. You will see how happy the ancestors will be with what you do. >>
The ancestors? Perhaps.
He certainly doesn't.
Along the “Green Passage” the caravans continued to move slowly.
Some had stopped to seek refreshment under the fronds of the large palm trees or to feed the animals. However, not everyone moved on the back of an animal or aboard a wagon: many travelers were moving on foot either as a matter of choice of person or because they could not afford a ride. If they were lucky, good samaritans would allow them to board their vehicles without asking for anything in return.
<< Hey sir, do you need a ride? My father and I have a free spot in our wagon. >>
The shrill voice of a young boy peeped out among the chatter and traffic noises.
His kind invitation was addressed to an elderly man who had attracted his attention by his slow and limping walk. He was wearing a purple thawb and a white keffiyeh rope held in place by a black rope. With a stick he helped himself walk on the ground and on his back he held a voluminous worn sack that wrapped something long and heavy.
<< Thank you for the invitation, young man, but I don't need it. >> he replied this with a smile that have the tenderness of a grandfather.
<< Don't worry, you don't have to pay us anything if that's what worries you. >>
<< Oh, I believe so. But as I just said, I don't need it. I'm almost at my destination. And then, the fastest traveler is the one who goes on foot. >>
<
<< To Baharmis >>
The boy's eyes and mouth widened, and the curls of his messy hair seemed to curl even more.
<
<< Really? Oh boy, I better hurry then! I have an appointment and I would look rude if I was late! >> said the man, proceeding at a much faster pace.
<< But…! But do you really not want me to accompany you? >> insisted the boy << Really, it doesn't matter to us! >>
<< Again, thank you for your kindness. But for me, walking is the most pleasant pastime in this world. Good luck with your trip. >>
The boy watched the man slowly walk away, amazed that such an old individual preferred to move on his old legs rather than take advantage of a convenient passage. Before he was completely away, he realized that on the back of his suit was embroidered a very particular design that he was sure he had seen at least once when he was at home.
The design consisted of four curved waves, two small and two large. Inside the larger ones, there was a symbol that in the child's eyes looked like a small plant with twigs and three small dots for pebbles, at the top and bottom between the spaces formed by the almost joined points, however, there were two hooked commas.
When he managed to decipher the peculiar shape, his eyes opened wide again and he ran straight to his father with an excitement he had never felt before in his young life.
<< Dad! Dad! I believe that gentleman was a Sand Master! >>
[1]Shams and Alqamar: from the Arabic, sun and moon.
[2]Typical arabic musical instruments.
[3]Long Arab garment like a tunic.
[4]Traditional Arab headdress, often with a colorful checkered pattern.
[5]Black rope used to hold the keffiyeh in place