[The story of Mawdliyah and Omar and how she came through hardship and adventure into the north of Middle-Earth. There is much fan-fiction build in here and it is not to be taken as canon-lore. I simply try to portrait the 'unseen good' side of the Haradrim and those tribes that still resist Sauron during the Third Age. I hope you enjoy!
Note: Rastullah is Eru Ilúvatar and Nedschessa the Vala Nessa]
Rays of light were piercing through the holes of the awning like golden spears and overlay the twilight of the alleys with a glistening work of glitter. The sun stood now in zenith over the whitewashed houses of Abârrim. And it was still, as ever to midday. The heat suffered no movement, no loud. Men and beast had sought shelter in the shadow, waiting until the sun would have wandered further along the horizon. The bazaars were completely emptied. Only a single old man shuffled through the narrow lanes, which had been pulsating with life just an hour ago. Weary did he set one foot before the other, upholding himself upon his wooden wander-staff, on which, tied to with a cord of leather hung the bowl of the beggar.
For a moment, the old one stopped and wiped with the wide sewn sleeve of his caftan the sweat off his forehead. It was obvious that this wonderful, with silver thread woven piece of cloth had not always been in his possession. It was decorated with interlacing fine ornaments upon the hemlines. But the caftan had certainly seen better days already. The dark blue cloth was bleached and at the arms so thin, that one could see the elbows of the old one through it. Panting, the old man set himself into motion and turned now in the broken system of lanes and streets, that would seem a maze to everyone to enter the market of the copper-smiths.
Here and there was a red shimmer falling through the twilight, where a sun beam fell upon the works of fine copper. Big and round plates which would carry the food and drink of the rich folk, were laying on the wooden tables of the merchants and offered themselves to each peasant with the promise to bring a little a comfort in the even most modest little lime-hut. Next to them stood oil-lamps, masterly decorated or bare of any ornament, here slender and tall, there opulent and sweeping. But also more mundane tokens were listed. Door handles and nails, keys and plain jewelry for all those who could not effort to wear more precious metals then copper.
The old man took a stop again and drew steady breath. It was hard to guess how many summers this man had seen already. His face was burnt by the sun and so dark that it seemed to be in the twilight almost black. In contrast to that stood the snow-white beard that hung down unto his chest.
The age had drained him. His calves, which stood out from beneath the caftan, were thin and arid like the ones of gazelle. So he seemed, even though he was slightly taller then most others of the desert-folk not at all intimidating but fragile.
After this short break, he moved on. Past the bazaar of copper and fine work to the weavers and dyers. Suddenly a child's voice penetrated the silence of the midday's heat.
»Mahmud is back! Look all, he is back again!«
For a short moment, a smile played around the lips of the old man. He peered at one of the great stacks of colorful carpets. With a sigh he took his seat upon it, resting his far wandered legs and feet, leaned against the warm house-wall and closed his eyes. It was hard to become old. Nothing what the great god Rastullah gave Man was for eternity. A bit wistful he thought of ealier times and years. Of his youth and his strength, which he held in the past for something that was self-evident.
Softly he shook his head and looked up. A horde of children with black hair and big eyes had surrounded him. »Are you telling us a tale again?«
The boy who asked could not be older then four summers. He stood a little in front of the others, as if it would have been the decision by vote that he would ask the question. The old one smiled warmly and stroke over his beard as if he would be the vizier of the caliph.
»With delight will I come after your wish, my prince. But first ask your cupbearer whether he would not have a drop of wine and a bowl full with fruits for me. I have traveled far and my throat is almost as dry as the great salt-lake of Uchinebi.«
The children giggled, while the boy looked to the ground as if he would ponder about where he could find the items the beggar had asked him for.
»Do not worry, my little one.« Mahmud reached out with his arid, thin hand and stroked over the black curly hair of the boy. »Only a little joke of mine. If you could bring me a mouthful of water and maybe a piece of a melon or something other small, I would be greatly satisfied.« Mahmud looked at the other children. »And you others should not stand and wait for him to return. Go and look what mother might give, for a hungry storyteller who is weak of his voice shall tell of no great stories or tales.« In haste did the children vanish into the entrances of houses and shadowy lanes while their fine and bright laughter echoed still for a little while. Only the loud of an donkey could be heard once in the now returning silence. Mahmud lay back his head and closed his eyes wearily a new.
It took not long that he drifted into his thoughts and a light slumber took him. The lanes and whitewashed houses had vanished, been replaced by a green garden, seamed by red roses, like he knew only from fairy-tales himself. A wonderful fountain served water for the fragile plants and a beautiful woman with hair so dark as the soft clouds at night was dancing before him. Mahmud smiled as he recognized her. With swaying hips she came closer, returned the smile.
Something pushed his arm. At first the feeling was rather weak and the man did not know whether the slight bump was part of the dream he had. But then the picture of the garden became blurred. The dancer and the noise of the splashing water faded...
Blinking, he looked about himself. A jar full of clear water and a small cup made out of clay stood before him and a small bowl with an apple, half of a bread and a few figs. All in all enough to come over two days if one was undemanding. Now there were not only children anymore among his audience. Women had come as well and tried to look busy. But Mahmud knew that once he began his story, they would listen and they would soon cease their doing and come to sit.
Patiently did the children observe him, while he ate a little and drank and in the end wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his caftan.
»... and now what kind of tale would you like to hear?«
»There must be a warrior in the tale! Tell us of the proud riders of the deserts!«
»And there must be a prince who comes forth on his white steed to take his princess home...« A little girl in a pearl-white dress looked up at him in great expectation.
»No, we do not want a boring story with a princess,« a few boys bellowed. »We want an adventure and no fairy-tale!«
»But with a great treasure and a wizard!«
Mahmud spread his arms. »Good, good, my dear little friends. It will be hard to fulfill all your wishes at one time.« Thoughtful he scratches his head. He looked at the boy who spoke to him at first.
»What is your name?«
»Omar«, answered the boy.
»Then say, Omar, what would you like to hear?«
»A tale with a djinn. One of those djinn's who can fulfill all the wishes of their friends."
Mahmud smiled as he invited the boy to sit at his left. »You are really no modest audience. You want a true tale with a djinn and a prince, a warrior and a princess. Almost would I wish an djinn on my side, who could advice me now. But I think I have a true story for you. A tale of which some of you might have heard already. A tale of a young man who falls in love with a Sharisad and his companion so sinister and mysterious like the never-ending sands. It is the story of Omar and Mawdliyah.«
»Many years ago, as the luckless Abu Dhelrumun ibn Chamallah was still the chieftain of the Free Tribes of Haradwaith, there was a merchant in Hayabêth who was called Abu Feisal ben Gamal. And because he called more camels his own than there were steeds in the stables of the steward of Gondor, he was called, Feisal the Magnificent.
Now it occurred however, that in the twenty-seventh year of Abu Dhelrumun's reign, there was a lion, great and powerful and with a mane as black as onyx, that was haunting the road of the caravans to the north of Hayabêth. He wreaked terror upon men and beasts alike and it seemed as if he would kill alone for the lust for murder. Later, many saw in the appearance of the lion a bad omen that should warn the righteous men of great ill fortune. But in these days the people were rich and glad and they were blind for the warning of Rastullah.
Ever greater became the damage, that the terrible beast was causing, and Feisal send out messengers into every city and every town, to find the one brave enough who would bring him the skin of the lion. But no man, who was born of a mortal woman, seemed to be able to bring a hold to the demon. So, as if the lion would have a pact with the evil spirits of the deserts, he could ever again escape his hunters and brought new misery over the folk of the desert.
Finally did Abu Feisal set a price of five hundred golden coins on the fur of the beast. He gathered every hunter and warrior about him and swore that he would not return into his palace, before he had slain the lion. At his side rode men and women whose names were uttered in awe at the campfires of the caravanserai and whose glory rang true up to the north, where the strength of the sun is so little that the earth lies as if dead there and no green delights the eye of the wanderer.
Ten days and ten nights did Feisal journey through the desert with the splendor of a lord. His slaves carried tents of silk for the hunting company in which at night, golden lights were lit and not less than twelve cooks were tasked with the purpose to take care of the needs of everyone. But to Rastullah, the splendor of Feisal was a thorn in his eye and so it was as augured, that no trace of the lion was found by any of the experienced and mighty huntsmen.
Feisal did bethink himself on the morning of the eleventh day and returned to his initial intend and ended the feast that he had called a hunt. To finally find a trace of the beast, he send after dawn all his hunters into every direction of the sky.
The day was still young, as the merchant was hit by Rastullah's wrath. from one breath to the other, the sky darkened over the desert and a terrible storm rose up. Camels and horses ran in panic about and sought cover from the tremendous power of the sandstorm and as after hours the wind had finally calmed down, the company was split up entirely. Also Feisal had been lost in the storm and he was alone with his slave Omar on his side. Doubtful he looked towards the sky and tried to find the way back to the camp, but ...«
Ever more painful cut the leather strap of the heavy water skin into Omar's shoulder. Once more he switched the spear into the other hand and shifted the weight of his burden. Most likely he would soon come to wish that the water skin was much fuller. Alone Rastullah may know when or if at all they would be found. The sandstorm had changed the landscape entirely, dunes were flattened and risen on another spot.
A few steps in front of him walked his master, Abu Feisal. The heat was letting him suffer. On the back of his caftan were dark spots of sweat to be seen. His splendorous cloak he had lost during the storm. The merchant was not being used to wander through the desert on foot, but considering his age and his girth, he was yet holding up well. Yet!
Right after the storm, Feisal had forbidden Omar to drink one drop of water. They wanted to save the water as long as it was possible for what remaining time in life was given to them. Also Feisal had held to his own word so far. But slowly also his powers seemed to perish. More and more often did he set his foot on ground insecurely, slipped and caught himself again, when they walked down one of the dunes. Nevertheless did Feisal seem to refrain from the thought to cast his heavy weapon aside that became more than a burden to him. Two weeks ago he was given it as a gift from a merchant from the north and he had obviously the intend to hallow the weapon with the blood of the lion. Crossbow, was the strange thing called that he carried there with him.
Omar did not think all too good of it. A rider's bow would not have been so heavy. These bows had preserved themselves for thousands of years. He would never trust his life to a crossbow, build by the men of the north. But he was just a slave and the last to whose advice Abu Feisal would hearken.
The hour of mid-day had passed, but the sun was still standing high up on the sky like an white evil eye.
Omar's lips had sprung open. The years that he had spend in the service of Abu Feisal had let him become soft. He belonged to the tribe of the Beni Wasath, but already as child robbed and sold into slavery in Hayabêth. Although he had just seen twenty summers yet, it had been his fate to spend most of these years in the palace of Abu Feisal. So he had lost every skill that the tribes of the desert were known for. He most likely was suffering no less than his master, although it was said that the people of the desert could survive an entire day beneath the sun without a gulp of water.
With narrowed eyes did Omar stop on the comb of a dune and inspected the horizon. The sky radiated now again in a clear blue so as if there had never been a storm. The heat blurred the horizon into an unsteady, ever quivering line and cast the illusion of mirrored lakes between the dunes.
With a jittery hand he wiped over his face. Everywhere was sand stuck to him and he would require at least an entire skin full of water and a jar with rarefied wine to forget the terrible storm. So as if the desert had tried to suffocate him, the sand had even found a way through his bandana into mouth and nose, until he had only wished to die quickly, for every breath had become an unbearable agony. But he had withstood.
His master suddenly stopped. Like turned into stone he stared unto something in the sand. Quickly did Abu Feisal kneel down and beckoned Omar over. And then also Omar could see what had spooked the merchant so terribly. A trail was crossing their path. Prints of paws, almost as large as the hand of a man were embossed into the sand. The edge the prints were not really sharp. Fine sand was falling down into the tracks.
»The trail is fresh.« Abu Feisal sounded hoarse. »Do you know what that means?« He turned around to Omar. His eyes were widened of fear and any color had left his face. »He is here! Ten days have I sought for him in vain and now, that I am alone, he crosses my path.«
»Maybe he carried on already.« Omar was praying silently that he was right. »We were behind the dune when he must have passed here, after all. He could not possibly have seen us.«
One moment, hope seemed to sprout in Feisal, but then he shook swiftly his head. »No! The beast is here to meet me. It is not by chance that I alone meet him without my hunters. Rastullah tests me. The lion is here because of me.«
In haste, Abu Feisal began to prepare the crossbow. Two times did the bolt slip from his shaking hands, before he could place it unto the weapon. The uneasiness of his master also jumped over to Omar. The hand, with which he held the spear was suddenly damp. Insecure he looked around. A light wind had come up and carried a faint veil of sand before him.
»We should not remain down here.« Omar turned around again to Abu Feisal. The big merchant nodded. Quickly they made their way up the slope of the opposite dune. Under each of their steps, the soft sand was giving away, so as if nature had turned against them. Suddenly did Feisal hesitate.
»If we climb up the dune, also the lion will see us better.«
»Only if he crosses them himself. If he remains in the valleys, he will not see us. Mind also that he cannot surprise us up there. From whatever direction he might come ...«
A tremendous roar interrupted Omar. Over them stood the beast on the comb of the dune. The wind played with the powerful black mane of the predator and the sun granted him an aureole so that he appeared like an instrument of Rastullah's vengeance. Omar grasped his spear with both hands, but the weapon was to him now like a toy. One terrible moment did the lion estimate them with a glance. His eyes were of the color of amber and they were bloodshot. Obviously, the sandstorm had let him suffer too. With a threatening growl he raised the flews and bared the fangs that were almost as long as daggers. The beast was waiting on the top of the dune still, as if it would delight in the fright of its victims. In haste, Omar looked around. But nowhere was help in sight and there was also no place that would have served as refuge. There Abu Feisal raised the crossbow. Very slowly, as if he did not want to startle the beast. The growl of the lion became louder,
»Please, master, do not tempt him ...«
»Be silent, slave! I will not die like a ...«
Abu Feisal did not come to end his sentence. With a tremendous jump, the lion descended down on him. In the same moment the merchant raised the crossbow and triggered it. But the bolt only grazed the beast.
The power of the impact hurled Abu Feisal to the ground. The crossbow had fallen from his hand and the claws of the lion shredded his precious caftan.
»Rastullah protect me ...«, sounded the suffocating voice of the merchant.
Instead of biting through the throat of its victim, the lion estimated Omar with mocking glances.
Omar felt powerless anger rising in him. His entire life he had been followed by ill fortune. Would the servants of Mordor not have made him a slave, he would be now a proud warrior of the desert and no no-name without rights who hung after unfulfilled dreams. Even the beast was mocking him, so as if it would know exactly that he was nothing. Omar grasped the shaft of the spear so tightly that his knuckles became white. As long as he could remember, he had been mocked. And not even the lion saw in him a real enemy; he would kill Feisal first and the slave, of whom he had nothing to fear, he would play with. But at least over his own death he would mandate. He would not surrender himself simply to the lion. Running away was in vain. The beast would play with him like with a mouse. The lion was completely sure that his prey could not get away. Omar felt it.
Abu Feisal had begun to pray. Dark blood issued forth from his wounds unto the bright sand of the desert. The lion let a short, deep growl to be heard.
»Rastullah, have pity ...«, Feisal gasped out. The lion had opened its jaws widely. In the same moment, Omar attacked with his spear. He would drive the steel into the maw of the beast. But, as if the lion would have expected the attack, it hit the spear-tip almost like a toy to the side.
The strike against the shaft brought Omar out of his balance. He made a step backwards, sought hold vainly in the sand but fell in the end. Hardly restricted he was sliding backwards down the dune. His hands were still wrapped around the shaft of the spear. The predatory animal was not ceasing to follow him with its eyes for a moment long and no longer cared for the groaning Feisal. Omar saw how the beast was making itself ready to lunge. Only a few more moments and it would be over with him. Hissing made the lion his attack and it seemed, as if a powerful sorcerer would have altered the flow of time. Unending slowly sailed the lion through the air, the front legs reaching forward. Long like children's fingers did the claws issue forth from the pranks. Omar raised the spear and aimed it for the chest of the beast.
Then came the impact. The weapon penetrated the lion! With a sharp crack did the weapon break. Now everything was too late. Like the fist-strike of a giant the body of the lion hit him. The spear had hardly taken any of its might. Sharp claws screwed themselves into Omar's chest. All too near did he feel the hot breath of the creature on his face. Drivel was dripping from its maw. Something blinded Omar. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the pain. Colorful lights danced before his shut lids, formed to a whirling circle and tore him into an abyss of lurid light.
Something was not right with the green garden in which Rastullah had brought Omar. It was oddly connected to his face. Surprised he wiped over his cheeks and forehead but that did not make it better. Then flowers and palms were fading away, so as if he would have tears in his eyes and colors became dark and threatening. Again did Omar try to wipe over his face, but his arm was suddenly so heavy, as if it was bound by earthly shackles. Somewhere from the darkness came a voice to his ear.
»Omar ... Omar, wake up ...«
Now it appeared as if thick drops of rain fell into his face.
»Omar ... open your eyes!«
The slave tried to get up. In vain. Something pressed him down unto the ground. Slowly he opened his eyes. Bright light was blinding him. And in front of the light was an oval shape. A gap opened in the form.
»You are still alive, after all. Hang in there, Omar!«
Slowly he began to see clearer. The oval won of contours and became the face of his master, Abu Feisal.
Again did something splash into his face. Feisal dribbled water from the skin unto his forehead.
»I cannot roll the lion to the side. I am too weak.« The merchant drew a grimace. »I fear I have lived too long, too good. Drink now! I will take the water skin with me.«
Omar wanted to say something, but over his lips came only a coarse sound.
»It would be senseless to leave the water here. You cannot drink on your own, anyway.«
Feisal set the mouthpiece of the leather skin unto his lips. Even the gulping of water was bringing Omar pain.
»You must endure. I will set you free for that you have saved my life. You hear?«
Omar nodded. What was he supposed to do with freedom? Most likely he would not even see the next sunrise. Points of light danced before his eyes, but a strong push of Abu Feisal brought him back into reality. The merchant pressed his left against his chest. Through his fingers sipped blood. How far would he come with his wounds?
»Put yourself together! I thought you are a proud Beni Wasath. If you close your eyes, you will die. You must not loose your consciousness. Do you hear me? I say ...«
Feisal's voice perished like a far echo and Omar slid into merciful darkness, that let him forget the pain that he had felt.
As Omar woke up the next time, he was beneath a splendorous tent made of dark green silk. Lilies and other flowers were embroidered with golden thread into the sky of the tent. Leaning unto his elbows, he tried to get up a little.
»You would better not do that, my friend.« An old man, with short trimmed white beard was bowing over him. It was Yassir ibn Surkan, Feisal's personal physician who usually only tended to the families of the rich and noble. Omar sighed. He was so glad, that he got suddenly afraid that all of it could only be a dream. He blinked and pinched his own arm ... He was not dreaming!
It was the first time, that a free man was calling him 'my friend'. Usually, no one had any attention left for a simple house-slave. He just belonged to the house, like the cutlery and the carpets, for slaves were not regarded as persons, but as practical tokens. Insecurely, Omar grasped after his throat where he still carried the heavy, iron slave band into which the name of his owner was embossed.
Yassir, the physician had noticed the gesture. »You will soon be rid of the ring. Because of your injury, we cannot take it off yet.«
»What befell me? How do I come here from the desert?«
»Shortly after our benefactor had left you, he met two hunters. Together they brought the carcass of the lion into the encampment. You were very lucky, Omar. The claws of the lion have dealt deep cuts to your chest and you lost much blood. Would you have been found two or three hours later,there would have been nothing that I could have done for you. Furthermore, did the lion break three ribs. That is why we stay in the camp for a little while. The return would be too arduous for you.«
»Will I become a cripple through the wound?«
The physician smiled broadly and shook his head. »No, no. It will leave a few scars on your chest - but do they not say that scars are the decorations of a warrior? You will soon get better and enjoy your freedom. The weakness, of which you still suffer will not endure for long. The ribs however will still pain you for a few weeks. You must not work too hard. But that you will also not need. Abu Feisal is telling everyone that he will bestow many gifts on you. Maybe he will leave a small herd to you, so you can return to your tribe.«
Omar could hardly believe what he heard there. It was like a fairy-tale. Yesterday he was still a slave and today he was being gifted by the richest merchant of Hayabêth and be let returned to his kin as a respected man.
Omar closed his eyes and painted his future. Finally he would be allowed to watch the dances of Mawdliyah together with the other guests of Abu Feisal. Maybe she would even notice him? As long as he had been a slave, she had never offered a single look to him, but now he was the savior of her father and everything was different.
A new, better life would begin.
»No, no, not so, child!« Sulibêth had acquired the tone with which she always opened her longer lecturing. While Mawdliyah was picking up her translucent veils from the ground, the old dancing teacher was walking up and down in an angry manner in the bower.
»It is as if I was talking to a wall! Do you at least listen to me now, you nuisance of the heavens?«
»Surely, I am!« Mawdliyah grasped the last of the veils and sulky let herself sink into the hill of brocade cushions.
»What were you doing yesterday, actually?« Without waiting for answer, the old Sharisad continued to fulminate. »Certainly not your exercises. How often did I tell you already, that by such a swing of your hips, not a single piece of jewelry around your neck is allowed to ring up! You are not any dancer, like they perform on the bazaars for the delight of all men. You are a Sharisad! Never forget that! If you were not so terrible lazy, you could dance one day before the caliph. The most powerful men of the land would lie before your feet ... But just go on like that! Break my heart, disappoint your father ... I see you dancing already for a few pieces of copper in front of lousy goatherders.«
Sulibêth gasped of excitement for air. Many years ago, she had been a famous and beautiful Sharisad. But with her beauty, the glory had faded. Mawdliyah knew exactly that she was depending on the help of her father Abu Feisal. And no matter how much she was scolding and getting excited about it all, she would return certainly the next day and take up the labor once again.
»Do not be so strict with me, my old Suli. The guests of my father are going literally head over heels to read every wish from my eyes, when I dance before them. What else must I learn from you? Is it not all what a woman needs, to rule over a man and to be glad? Even when my father will marry me to the grumpy old merchant, to whom I am promised since my birth, will the ugly goat be like wax in my hands, as soon as I dance for him. And as long as I can dance before my father, I will convince him to hold me still a while longer in his house and postpone the marriage.«
»You speak like a child that has looked into a bowl of water and believes to know the ocean. In all these years, that I teach you already, you never learned one of the harder dances, which a true Sharisad should be able to perform. And still I cannot see in you the spark of the holy ember that should warm the heart of every dancer.«
»Leave me alone with such twaddle! Your words are nothing more but the sigh of an old dancer, who does not even appeal to the camels anymore. If your words were true, why are you then depending on the aid of my father?«
Sulibêth issued a long sigh. »Also I have done mistakes, as I was young and thought my spell would never perish. My punishment is it now that I must deal with a stubborn little girl, that is disregarding my words even as I disregarded the lecture of my teacher.«
Mawdliyah threw defiantly the head into her neck, that her long, black hair fell like alive about the bare shoulders.
»The friends of my father are obviously not of the opinion that I am a little girl. They ...«
»O, certainly, my princess«, Sulibêth interrupted her and mockery was evident in her eyes. »You already have the body of a woman and you know how to enchant the senses of men. Alone your mind does not seem to have reached that yet.«
»You narky, old witch.« Mawdliyah had grasped one of the cushions and hurled it after the old dancer.
Silubêth caught the gold shimmering projectile with a graceful gesture from the air and placed it upon the windowsill. Then she smiled heart warming at Mawdliyah. »So not all hope is lost for you after all.«
»How do you mean?«
»If you would not know in your inner that my words are true, you would not be enraged by them like so. Maybe you will learn one day still, that a Sharisad never uses her powers to enchant a man, only to draw a selfish use of it. The dance of a Sharisad is always a gift and the applause of the audience is the reward enough. Also is she allowed to thankfully accept the gifts that they make her out of free will. But if you only dance to satisfy your own greed, then the punishment of Nedschessa, who with her dancing could even delight Rastullah and now guards over all us women who dance, will come over you.«
Mawdliyah had gone quiet. Her anger about the old Sulibêth was gone. Would she one day also be delighting Rastullah? Or would she share the fate with Sulibêth and also one day teach a small, inattentive girl the arts of dancing? Absentminded, she looked out the window unto the garden. There hung, behind the pond filled with water lilies, the fur of the lion, that would have almost killed her father. This evening was a feast to be held, for the honor of Omar, to which all the noble and rich folk of the city had been invited and maybe even sultan Mustafa would appear and give the feast an individual shimmer. To be among such a feast was an unusual honor for a former slave. Even though it had been him who had killed the lion. Mawdliyah knew the savior of her father hardly. She had never exchanged a word with him. There was also no reason to hold a conversation with a house-slave.
Suddenly did the dancer turn around and looked at her teacher. »What for a man is this Omar?«
Sulibêth smiled indulgent. »So there dwells your mind this afternoon. He is quite nice to look at. A bit slim and filigree maybe, but that may change through the years.«
»Is he such an uncouth yokel like the hunters that my father invited?«
»No, I do not think so. I have not spoken often with him, but he seems humble and reserved to me. But what does one know already about a son of the desert? His childhood he had spend among one of the many nomadic tribes, until he came as slave into the house of your father. Maybe it was just the whip of the overseers and the slave band that have bestowed him with manners. Almost all nomads, that I have come to know, are like tall children, rascals that if they are not held restrained by an iron hand, hold bloody feuds for the smallest of things. But they can be tame like innocent whelps if the art of a good dancer is enchanting them. For your amateurish performance however, they would have nothing left but laughter. And if you do not want to embarrass your father and your entire kin, then we should repeat the dances for the feast, as long as there is still time.«
Mawdliyah thought first about giving Sulibêth a befitting answer for her cheeky words, but then she complied, for the words of her teacher had awoken doubts in her, whether she was truly worthy to dance before such exalted guests, that would grace the house of her father with their presence as soon as the sun had descended beyond the horizon.
