this man who had visited the House of Wisdom might befriend Omar.
"Where is your home in Nisapur?" Tutush asked, fingering the beads of his rosary.
"I have no place, now, O friend of Khwaja Ali."
Tutush considered the youth's worn abba and the bag he carried. "Perhaps," he said as idly as if he were tossing a bit of bread to a dog, "I could find you protection in the house of a saddlemaker, if you could teach his eight children to read the Koran, that blessed book. Eh?"
The tone and the glance were sheer insolence, and Omar's temper rose.
"Give that protection to some khoja's lad who hath a bit of schooling, O Protector of the Poor. Have I leave to go?"
"Assuredly." Tutush reined his horse away indifferently, pausing presently to toss a coin into the bowl of a pockmarked beggar who stirred in his rags to croak "Ya hu ya hak."
"Follow that youth in the brown cloak," he whispered, so that none but the beggar could hear. "Watch what he does, and leave him not until thou knowest his abiding place."
"I obey," the answering whisper came. The beggar took up the coin, yawned noisily and shuffled off as if his day had ended with the largesse from the noble.
Omar, a shadow moving through loitering shadows, snuffed the odors of wood smoke and dung and wet cotton cloth and frying onions with a relish. What if that fat Tutush had looked down his nose at him? He had a couple of dirhems in his girdle, and for a while he would be his own master. He would go back to his old lodging and sleep in the roof shed with the sweet grass. Surely, if he told them some news of the world, the good people there would set food before him. If only Rahim were here!
In the Street of the Booksellers he stopped by the familiar fountain. The girl, who had been standing there idly with a water jar, bent over the basin holding the mouth of the jar under the trickle of water. Omar seated himself on the rock beside her, although now that he had come, she seemed to take no notice of him.
"Yasmi," he whispered.
In the near-darkness beneath the plane tree her eyes, from between the edges of the veil, sought his. Impatiently she brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead, and he heard her swift light breathing. Yasmi was there in the darkness, a new Yasmi, veiled and silent and scented with rose-water. The water ran from the jar's lip down the side, and she did not stir. She had grown taller and her bare arm gleamed white beside him.
"Yasmi," he whispered clumsily, "for whom art thou waiting here?"
She started as if he had struck her. "O fool," she cried, "great, ponderous fool—I wait for no one!"
Letting the jar slip from her fingers she turned and vanished up the street. She ran madly, because she had waited for every day of three years, watching and assuring herself that Omar would return.
From the trunk of the plane tree a figure in rags limped closer, peering into the face of the man on the rock.
"In the name of the Compassionate," the beggar whined, "give to the poor!"
Noon on the river by the cypresses of the burying place above Nisapur.
Even among the tumbled graves of the cemetery the flowers had pushed their way, making a magic carpet above the bones of the dead. And the sun, the warm sun, shone upon the yellow headstones leaning this way and that, some of them bearing the round turbans of men carved in the stone, others bearing a knot of flowers or nothing at all—these were the graves of women.
Under the dark cypress trees gathered the veiled women, their heads close together, their lips moving in talk. They sat about the graves in circles, only half-heeding the young children sprawled in the grass.
It was Friday, the day of peace, when the women came in long processions to the cemetery, to mourn. They found it more interesting to talk. Some of the older girls moved restlessly from circle to circle, and slipped away into the cypresses when they were not noticed. No men ventured within the cemetery during this time of the women's
"Where is your home in Nisapur?" Tutush asked, fingering the beads of his rosary.
"I have no place, now, O friend of Khwaja Ali."
Tutush considered the youth's worn abba and the bag he carried. "Perhaps," he said as idly as if he were tossing a bit of bread to a dog, "I could find you protection in the house of a saddlemaker, if you could teach his eight children to read the Koran, that blessed book. Eh?"
The tone and the glance were sheer insolence, and Omar's temper rose.
"Give that protection to some khoja's lad who hath a bit of schooling, O Protector of the Poor. Have I leave to go?"
"Assuredly." Tutush reined his horse away indifferently, pausing presently to toss a coin into the bowl of a pockmarked beggar who stirred in his rags to croak "Ya hu ya hak."
"Follow that youth in the brown cloak," he whispered, so that none but the beggar could hear. "Watch what he does, and leave him not until thou knowest his abiding place."
"I obey," the answering whisper came. The beggar took up the coin, yawned noisily and shuffled off as if his day had ended with the largesse from the noble.
Omar, a shadow moving through loitering shadows, snuffed the odors of wood smoke and dung and wet cotton cloth and frying onions with a relish. What if that fat Tutush had looked down his nose at him? He had a couple of dirhems in his girdle, and for a while he would be his own master. He would go back to his old lodging and sleep in the roof shed with the sweet grass. Surely, if he told them some news of the world, the good people there would set food before him. If only Rahim were here!
In the Street of the Booksellers he stopped by the familiar fountain. The girl, who had been standing there idly with a water jar, bent over the basin holding the mouth of the jar under the trickle of water. Omar seated himself on the rock beside her, although now that he had come, she seemed to take no notice of him.
"Yasmi," he whispered.
In the near-darkness beneath the plane tree her eyes, from between the edges of the veil, sought his. Impatiently she brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead, and he heard her swift light breathing. Yasmi was there in the darkness, a new Yasmi, veiled and silent and scented with rose-water. The water ran from the jar's lip down the side, and she did not stir. She had grown taller and her bare arm gleamed white beside him.
"Yasmi," he whispered clumsily, "for whom art thou waiting here?"
She started as if he had struck her. "O fool," she cried, "great, ponderous fool—I wait for no one!"
Letting the jar slip from her fingers she turned and vanished up the street. She ran madly, because she had waited for every day of three years, watching and assuring herself that Omar would return.
From the trunk of the plane tree a figure in rags limped closer, peering into the face of the man on the rock.
"In the name of the Compassionate," the beggar whined, "give to the poor!"
Noon on the river by the cypresses of the burying place above Nisapur.
Even among the tumbled graves of the cemetery the flowers had pushed their way, making a magic carpet above the bones of the dead. And the sun, the warm sun, shone upon the yellow headstones leaning this way and that, some of them bearing the round turbans of men carved in the stone, others bearing a knot of flowers or nothing at all—these were the graves of women.
Under the dark cypress trees gathered the veiled women, their heads close together, their lips moving in talk. They sat about the graves in circles, only half-heeding the young children sprawled in the grass.
It was Friday, the day of peace, when the women came in long processions to the cemetery, to mourn. They found it more interesting to talk. Some of the older girls moved restlessly from circle to circle, and slipped away into the cypresses when they were not noticed. No men ventured within the cemetery during this time of the women's
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