accompany my evening meal?”
“Haha, I am no storyteller, or some Sufist poet from Fes!” replied the innkeeper, slapping his knee. We have few stories native to this lonely outpost. We only collect from travelers those grand enough, those entertaining enough to pass through our walls, as a cast net in the sea trawls for prize fish, letting those too small slip through its weave. I can recount the tales of others, but no, we have no stories of our own worthy of your ear.”
“I have a tale for you.” The exclamation came from a shadowy corner of the inn. Behind a wooden pillar carved in the likeness of a serving girl sat an old man hunched over, his dark gnarled hands wrapped around a worn walking stick. A tattered brown djellaba covered his face and body, his voice raspy like a rusted hinge on a door. “I must warn you though, it is not for the faint of heart.”
The traveler and the innkeeper both approached the hooded figure, eager for a tale to invigorate their minds. His face still wrapped in the shadow of his hood, the old man tapped his stick on the stone floor three times, to invoke the protection of Allah and to ward off the evil eye. He was clearly of the Imazighen, a Berber, and he spoke with an accent that echoed of the deep desert.
“You have heard of the Great General Uqba ibn Nafi?” asked the old man.
“Yes indeed.” acknowledged Driss. “It was he who tamed this land and brought the true faith to the Maghreb .”
“Hmm, yes, yes, so they say. He passed through here, this very village, if you can call it that, centuries ago, on his way back east.”
“I had not heard this,” said the innkeeper, belligerently, “and I have lived here all my life. Who told you this?”
“No one. Everyone. Those who know, know.” The old Berber scowled. “Will you let me tell my tale?”
“Yes, please continue.” Driss nodded encouragingly. He watched as a small boy and his father sat down beside him, wealthy travelers by the look of their clothes, curiosity piqued by the tale.
“He passed through with only a small retinue, a mere bodyguard of ten men. General Uqba was making his way back to his liege lord the Caliph, who was visiting his newly conquered provinces. But the great general and his few men had become lost, in a sandstorm very much like this one.” The old man paused and looked up, as if to listen to the moaning of the storm that beat waves of grime, sand, and gravel atop the caravanserai’s roof. Driss and the innkeeper now glanced at the Imazighen ’s face; his eyes were pearly white, the color of goat’s milk, and he bore a scar across half his face. A blind old warrior then, thought Driss, or else a thief or an exile .
The blind storyteller continued. “The travelers became disoriented in the weeklong storm, separated from their horse and camel: few supplies, no food, no water. The general and his men wandered for days, no signs of civilization, no peasant homestead to take them in, no Tuareg nomad to guide them to an oasis. Just the endless shoreline of the Great Desert and the ripped and broken earth that is this blasted land. They fed off scorpions and drank tortoise blood to survive, sleeping in the noonday sun, traveling due east.
On the eighth day of their wandering, sunburnt, half-blind, tongues swollen for lack of water, they came upon a gorge with a cave carved into its mouth. The general and his men dragged themselves inside, thanking God for the respite, though privately the general cursed himself for this shelter would but prolong their suffering before death took them.
The cave was cool and the air inside was moist, though there was no standing water to be found. The soldiers pressed their faces to the walls of the cave, hoping beyond hope the rock would syphon the heat from their tired bones.”
At this the blind storyteller paused in his telling, and took a sip from the teacup that rested beside the hem of his djellaba on the floor of the inn, as if the
“Haha, I am no storyteller, or some Sufist poet from Fes!” replied the innkeeper, slapping his knee. We have few stories native to this lonely outpost. We only collect from travelers those grand enough, those entertaining enough to pass through our walls, as a cast net in the sea trawls for prize fish, letting those too small slip through its weave. I can recount the tales of others, but no, we have no stories of our own worthy of your ear.”
“I have a tale for you.” The exclamation came from a shadowy corner of the inn. Behind a wooden pillar carved in the likeness of a serving girl sat an old man hunched over, his dark gnarled hands wrapped around a worn walking stick. A tattered brown djellaba covered his face and body, his voice raspy like a rusted hinge on a door. “I must warn you though, it is not for the faint of heart.”
The traveler and the innkeeper both approached the hooded figure, eager for a tale to invigorate their minds. His face still wrapped in the shadow of his hood, the old man tapped his stick on the stone floor three times, to invoke the protection of Allah and to ward off the evil eye. He was clearly of the Imazighen, a Berber, and he spoke with an accent that echoed of the deep desert.
“You have heard of the Great General Uqba ibn Nafi?” asked the old man.
“Yes indeed.” acknowledged Driss. “It was he who tamed this land and brought the true faith to the Maghreb .”
“Hmm, yes, yes, so they say. He passed through here, this very village, if you can call it that, centuries ago, on his way back east.”
“I had not heard this,” said the innkeeper, belligerently, “and I have lived here all my life. Who told you this?”
“No one. Everyone. Those who know, know.” The old Berber scowled. “Will you let me tell my tale?”
“Yes, please continue.” Driss nodded encouragingly. He watched as a small boy and his father sat down beside him, wealthy travelers by the look of their clothes, curiosity piqued by the tale.
“He passed through with only a small retinue, a mere bodyguard of ten men. General Uqba was making his way back to his liege lord the Caliph, who was visiting his newly conquered provinces. But the great general and his few men had become lost, in a sandstorm very much like this one.” The old man paused and looked up, as if to listen to the moaning of the storm that beat waves of grime, sand, and gravel atop the caravanserai’s roof. Driss and the innkeeper now glanced at the Imazighen ’s face; his eyes were pearly white, the color of goat’s milk, and he bore a scar across half his face. A blind old warrior then, thought Driss, or else a thief or an exile .
The blind storyteller continued. “The travelers became disoriented in the weeklong storm, separated from their horse and camel: few supplies, no food, no water. The general and his men wandered for days, no signs of civilization, no peasant homestead to take them in, no Tuareg nomad to guide them to an oasis. Just the endless shoreline of the Great Desert and the ripped and broken earth that is this blasted land. They fed off scorpions and drank tortoise blood to survive, sleeping in the noonday sun, traveling due east.
On the eighth day of their wandering, sunburnt, half-blind, tongues swollen for lack of water, they came upon a gorge with a cave carved into its mouth. The general and his men dragged themselves inside, thanking God for the respite, though privately the general cursed himself for this shelter would but prolong their suffering before death took them.
The cave was cool and the air inside was moist, though there was no standing water to be found. The soldiers pressed their faces to the walls of the cave, hoping beyond hope the rock would syphon the heat from their tired bones.”
At this the blind storyteller paused in his telling, and took a sip from the teacup that rested beside the hem of his djellaba on the floor of the inn, as if the
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