[https://i.imgur.com/I8C2bQc.jpg]

The city of Salamiyyah smelled like washing soap in the morning, and when wind passed through the streets, it brought whiffs of coffee and jujube. The bimaristan bustled with physicians caring for more patients than I would’ve expected from a small town such as this.

The building had walls of old brick and mud, it’s limestone floor scraped of any patterns and bubbles blew in from the wide arches it kept open to the laundry yard outside. People hurried in and out and there was a constant hum of worried visitors asking for their sick relatives and friends. In the midst of it all, dozens of aides rushed about in their plain white robes, satchels hanging full with parchment and fine utensils. They weaved their way through the tight spaces with purpose, brushing aside patients and visitors alike. But one of them sat patiently by my bed, feeding me hot soup.

“It’s mostly the summer sickness, it comes by every year,” Samir Ali explained, “We need to clean our cisterns properly. The canal is drying up here also.”

“What about him?” I said, pointing to the small child with the bandaged hand. Samir Ali was quiet.

“What’s wrong?”

“We don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“How is your leg?” Samir Ali lifted the sheets to check my thigh. I also had some small stitches on my forearm but otherwise unharmed. No wounds on my face, luckily. But the Tuqtuq’s blue blood still crusted my hair.

“I need to wash.”

“What was your plan, brother?” Samir Ali continued, “strangle the beast with your bare hands?”

“We killed it, so it’s fine.”

“No its not. The cavaliers are already wondering how a Tuqtuq, of all things, got so close to the town,” Samir Ali frowned, staring past me to the two men arguing quietly on the steps of the bimaristan.

One was clearly a cavalier, with his long riding coat. The embroidery on the neck gave away his commander rank.

“Khwaja is protecting you from the Atabeg so far.”

“The old man?” I asked, looking at the older physician who was taking all of the cavalier commander’s words with a calm indifference. He laid a hand on the Atabeg and gestured for him to leave. There were two other cavaliers behind their commander who looked insulted by it but they didn’t do anything. The Atabeg relented and before he turned around, he looked my way. I could see a dozen questions.

“I’ll answer anything they want.”

“It’s not just about you,” Samir Ali said quickly. “Once the Emir finds out the Numayri clan released a Tuqtuq in our fields, there will be war.”

“But they did.”

“And you killed one of theirs, from what Rabia has told me.”

“It was an accident,” I lied. Memories of last night came back in violent flashes. You aimed for his spine. It was a clean and perfect thrust.

I pushed myself up and fought the sudden sting of pain up my thigh. “I should leave.” And never come back. My past self would find a way to unsheathe my sword again. I knew it.

“Yes, by all means, start a war and then leave with your tail tucked between your legs,” Samir Ali said. The young aide tried to display a disappointed look.

“You want me to kill some more Bedouins for you?”

Samir Ali took a deep breath, “I know what Rabia said to you.”

“She told you too?”

“You have to understand that she is stubborn, and self-hating, and she’ll make you believe you are fated to be just like her. But that’s not true.”

“The blood on my hands tells me different, brother.”

“You asked me what I think the other day, and I didn’t know what to tell you. I should have had the strength to tell you everything will be alright.” Samir Ali laid a hand on my arm. It felt comforting.

“Have you heard of Al-Kurdi?”

“No.”

“He was a Himsi scholar turned poet, long ago. He wrote that book Fifty Questions Of One Happy Fox.”

“I don’t understand.”

Samir Ali continued, “Well, in this story, the fox asks fifty questions. It’s a simple book.”

I took a sip of the cold tea by my bed. For the first time, I felt the extreme fatigue across my body and settled back into my pillow. “I don’t think a children’s poetry book will give me any answers.”

Samir Ali recited it nonetheless,

“A changed man,

A death in the cell,

What will it be,

Heaven or hell?”

Samir Ali quoted the verses with light taps of his fingers, staying in rhythm, as if reciting for a poetry group.

“I don’t see how that—”

“Exactly, it doesn’t apply; Because you’re neither dead nor in a cell.”

“So?”

“And it can stay that way if you don’t take the slave-woman too seriously.”

“She’s troubled.”

“I know,” Samir Ali said and began gathering his things. “I wanted to put her on a caravan to Hims and start a new life, but she went chasing after you two. I’ll try again tomorrow.”

“What is she running from? Her master?”

“It’s not my place to say.” The aide threw the satchel over his shoulders and took my empty tea cup. “Don’t walk around too much. We can’t protect you outside of the bimaristan. And come back later for new bandages. I need to go.”

The aide left, but his words were still with me. I tried to imagine myself in a cell, with the walls of the bimaristan my prison. But the wide doors were open to the bustling courtyard outside, the sunlight blanketing half of my bed and as the tea cooled my throat and chest, I felt free.

***

I finished the soup slowly and watched the people around me. With no privacy or space, dozens of people crowded around my bed, from family members of the sick woman next to me, to lost children playing and yanking on frustrated aides.

Salamiyya wasn’t a large town, but I assumed this tiny building was the only place for the sick for miles. At least it had a shaded courtyard outside, surrounded by compartments of the cotton-carders. On top of the small stores were at least two stories of apartments for the seamstresses and their families.

“You rest easy for someone who’s had to kill just last night.” It was Khwaja, the chief physician of Salamiyya. He stood over me, studying me as if noticing some dirt on his sleeve and wondering where it came from. His eyes were much more vicious than I expected a caretaker’s to be.

“I had to kill it before—“

“And the men?”

“The Numayri tribesmen?”

“Yes, you paralyzed one man below the waist. He died before dawn.”

“I’m willing to stand before the Emir,” I replied quickly.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

“You won’t have to. They might question you, but you won’t have to.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve just given the Emir a war he’s been craving for quite some time.”

“I don’t understand, none of you were involved.”

Khwaja turned away, “Be sure to wash yourself before you leave. Your wounds will heal better.” I watched him descend the steps into the courtyard, hands behind his back. The crowd of wash-women stepped out his way respectfully. Those who stopped him to ask some questions, he spoke to them much more kindly than he had with me and I didn’t blame him. You’re just trying to survive this mess. Don’t admit to anything else. Not to Samir Ali, and definitely not to Khwaja.

He was right about me needing a bath, though. I wasn’t traveling anymore, so there was no excuse for me to be so dirty and muddy all the time. My tunic and wool breaches were so caked with dirt, they were getting muddy from all the flying mist and soap in the air.

I left the bed and grabbed the closest wash-pen, settling into the station before someone could notice I didn’t belong. I had to take off my sword-belt and boots to fit inside the pen comfortably, then tried to steal a few glances at how the flogging stone was being used. Then I noticed Rabia. She was working a station across the long basin. Head down, sleeves pulled up to her elbow, and viciously smashing away at the soaking cloth in front of her.

She was too absorbed to notice me, but I watched her use a greenish soap, which my pen also had in the corner. The source of the scent of lime in the air.

“You can’t perform ablution here,” a young woman said from the next station over.

“I’m not here for ablution,” I said, taking off my shirt and throwing it into the tub. I noticed a few more stares but I ignored them, picking up the flogging stone awkwardly.

“Can you take that away?”

“What?”

“Your thing,” she pointed at my scabbard, which I had placed on top of a tray that was a part of her pen it seemed. I took the sword-belt away and placed it by my feet. “Sorry,” I said, then proceeded to hack at the shirt. With every hit, the cloth stretched where I could see the fibers, and then it began tearing and I quickly turned it around before the woman next to me could see. This is embarrassing.

“Alright brother, time for you to leave,” a footman approached me, resting the butt of his spear next to me on the seat. He stared at me tiredly down his nose. Most of the washwomen had stopped what they were doing and watching what the militiaman was going to do.

“I don’t understand, I’m just washing,” I replied and held up the green soap.

The man scratched his beard, a little slow to replying. He cleared his throat, “the Atabeg said to tell you that if you left the bimaristan that he was going to talk to you and that you need to go to him so he can talk to you.”

“I haven’t left the bimaristan,” I said, “I will go back to my bed after I wash my clothes.”

The militiaman stared back, mouth half open. “What?”

“You’re blocking the sun, Amjad,” the young woman next to me snapped, and tried to shove the militiaman away.

“Sorry, sister,” he said in his lazy voice and decided to trudge back to his corner. I watched him sit down and take something out of his pocket. A soggy cornet with a dark substance inside. His spear clattered to the floor beside him but he didn’t notice as he dug his fingers into the paper purse. Despicable. Is this the militia this town can muster?

A seamstress working close-by wrinkled her nose at the man and turned away. She lifted her shawl up to her face to fend off the smell. The town militia must be in a bad shape to have one of their own so blatantly chewing hashish with no one protesting. It has to be the middle kingdom. The only type of fighting man they can muster is an addict.

“Are you going to work or just sit there?” Rabia’s voice shook me out of my thoughts. She’d snuck around without me noticing.

Her appearance made me painfully aware of my wounds again and the fighting last night. More-so than Khwaja had moments ago.

I turned back to the tub and crumpled up the shirt, stringing any water from it before picking up the flogging stone again. I ignored Rabia’s presence behind me until her shawl touched my side. She laid a hand on my shoulder, tracing her fingers along the stitches.

“You bleed just fine,” Rabia said. I had no idea what that was supposed to mean but I didn’t ask. I continued to flog the shirt, ignoring the growing pain in my shoulder. There was some soap in a bowl nearby so I took some and rubbed it on my stone.

“Get up,” Rabia pushed me and kept nudging me until I put the stone down and faced her. “What?” I said.

“That’s not how you do it.”

“I’ll figure it out,” I said.

“Get up,” Rabia insisted and I didn’t want to make another scene and lock horns with the intoxicated militiaman, so I relented. Rabia gathered up her skirt and plopped down in the pen with purpose. She drew up her sleeves, took my shirt and began twirling it quickly, while dumping the entire soap bowl in the tub in front of her. She worked quickly and just with her hands, not even touching the flogging stone, and rubbing the shirt against itself.

“What is the stone for,” I asked.

“Not for this,” was all she said.

I stood there awkwardly, shirtless and barefoot, feeling several eyes still on me. You can’t let her embarrass you like this.

“Give me your pants too,” Rabia said.

“You go too far.”

“They’re all muddy,” she said, “It will be quick, I promise.” She threw a towel at me and I realized I didn’t have the resolve to make a scene over this. Why do you care so much what these people think of you?

I shuffled off regardless, to a private corner of the yard and changed out of my dirty clothes, wrapping the towel tightly around my waist. When I walked out, the guardsman was on my tail again.

“The Atabeg told me to—”

“She has my clothes, Amjad,” I pointed to the wash-pen. Suddenly noticing my towel, the man shrugged and left me alone. Rabia handed my shirt back to me and I quickly put it on even though it was damp. Rabia took her time with my trousers. She worked quietly for awhile and I sat down beside her.

“How long will it take to dry?” I asked.

“Stay in the sun.”

“But how long?”

“I don’t know, where do you have to go?”

“Nowhere,” I said. “What about you?”

“What about me?” She glanced up at me, wiping sweat and frizzy hair from her brow.

“Where will you go?”

She shrugged, “Nowhere.”

“Aren’t you running from a master?”

Rabia sniffed and pretended she wasn’t surprised by my words, “I don’t know what else I have, Munqidh.”

“I understand,” I said slowly. In the murmur of the washwomen, and the splash of cloth and stone, someone began singing. A few others muttered the rhyme as well, and so I sat quietly listening to the laborers and Rabia had slowed down as well, calmly rubbing the mud out of the trousers and deep in thought. I realized there wasn’t any fear emanating from her. Being close to her, I only sensed confusion. And a little anxiety. No doubt you’re imagining it all, now.

“You’re still worried about me?”

“No,” Rabia said. “There is hope for you. You are free to be anyone.”

“But you don’t trust me, still?”

“What will you do in the future?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, “We should listen to Samir Ali.”

Rabia twisted my trousers and wrung all the water from them as much as possible. I tried starting a conversation again, “Didn’t you say the past and the future are one in a person’s heart?”

“Yes.”

“Then why is there hope for me and not you?”

“I have no choice,” she replied easily. What an infuriating woman. She only gave one or two word answers and refused to elaborate.

“Why did you risk everything and come back for me?” I said. Rabia stopped at that and matched my stare. She returned my trousers, still wet, but I didn’t mind. I hopped into them as quickly as possible and hung the towel back on its rack. Rabia had already started walking back to the bimaristan so I followed her close behind, and listened to her muttered prayers as we entered the house of the sick.

I got a few stares as I turned my scabbard back and forth to avoid hitting people with it as I passed. The nurse that had given me the food turned the corner.

“Excuse me, sister. Do you know where Samir Ali is?”

Rabia interrupted, “follow me.” She slowed down so I could catch up. “How are your thigh wound?” she asked.

“I’m fine, just stings a little bit.” You can barely keep up with her, much less fight.

“Did you eat?”

“Yes I had some tea.”

“That’s not food. They’re serving pastries today.”

“The one with ground beef?”

“I helped with the seasonings,” Rabia nodded.

“It was delicious.”

“Good.”

We turned into a hallway that was empty. This is your chance. I grabbed Rabia by the sleeve and turned her around to face me. “Rabia, please tell me. Why do you think we’re Blighted?”

“Please forget this,” Rabia replied. She pulled free and glanced over my shoulder carefully. She thinks you’re incapable of understanding.

“I believe you,” I said.

“What?”

“I believe you’re right, Rabia. But I think I can avoid it,” I could hear the pleading in my voice. You sound like a beggar. Like a suffering traveler sucking and licking every last drop from his lambskin. “Why aren’t you doing something about it? Why aren’t you—“

“What do you mean?” she snapped.

“Why aren’t you—“

A group of aides came shuffling around the far corner and I lowered my voice, “I believe we can avoid the Blight. We are in control. We get to choose.”

Are these your words, or from the misplaced faith of a physician’s aide? She clearly doesn’t believe in you like Samir Ali does. But I was sure she wasn’t the type to give up on something. And her defeated attitude was worrying. To have someone who understood my struggle for the past few days so easily, and then for them to act as if all was hopeless.

Rabia stared at me for a few moments, long enough for me to question exactly what I’d been hoping to make of this situation. I cleared my throat to fill the silence and checked the hallways again.

“When we’re inflicted with the Blight, we leave ourselves behind, yes?” Rabia asked.

“I don’t remember.”

“But you do remember, don’t you, Munqidh,” Rabia whispered, drawing close so that I could see past her frizzy hair into the dark brown pupils glaring into my own, as if trying to pierce into my memories. “You remember, you just can’t think of them as yours. And you left your home behind. You left everything behind, even your name.”

“My name is Munqidh,” I blurted. Balak! Why lie to yourself still?

I just couldn’t give her even a single step of ground on this. Or maybe it was for Samir Ali, or the boy who’d given Munqidh his peach. This town, the people I’d met, they all greeted Munqidh. They saw him worthy of… something. Inside these walls, in this forgotten, lonely corner of Shaam, Munqidh was real. But memories carry the truth, don’t they? Balak exists too.

“I didn’t have that choice,” Rabia continued, a touch of sadness entering her voice. “I felt the Blight tearing my identity from me, and yet I was stuck. Living the life of a woman I no longer was. I did horrible things to people who I cared about.”

“I … understand.” She values the truth. She accepts who she is. Why can’t you be like her?

“So I’m happy that you found yourself in a new place,” Rabia said, “with new people, a new beginning; where you can test yourself to see if you still have a human soul.”

“It’s not like that at all.” It is, and you know it. Balak.

“But I would prefer to be left alone to finish my business here.”

“And if your master comes looking?”

Rabia smiled, but there was no humor in her eyes. “I think I’ve said too much, Munqidh. Let’s just go find our aide.”

Balak! You’re—

“Stop!” I slapped the side of my head and Rabia jumped in shock. She clutched her shawl, staring at me worriedly. I’d hit my temple with the flat of my hand, hard enough to leave it stinging. “Not you,” I said quickly. I rubbed the burning area, focusing on the pulsing pain that suddenly kept my intrusive thoughts at bay. “We should go, yes. Find Samir Ali.”

***