Gather, young ones, and hear the story of Mumtaz ibn Amir. Sit near me at this fire, underneath the sky, with the stars in the heavens and I will tell you. You! Hamdi! Keep your hands to yourself! Settle in. Fayez, go put that goat near the back of the tents. But hurry.

Very well. Now, this story comes not from me, nor from my own father, but from my father’s grandfather. I do not know the name of the man who told my father’s father’s father this story as, when it was told to me, I was very young, like all of you. I did not think to ask my father’s father, who is the one who told it to me. I tell you this not to make you question the story, for it is undeniably true, and I will say that as I tell you this story is both true and old enough that it has passed through four generations of my family, but to caution you to listen well, so that one day you may tell your own children this story. And that your children’s children will hear it from them, for, as with all things that must endure, it is in the minds of children that the seed must be planted. So, listen well and remember. But remember also for the sake of retelling, for this story is not just for you. It is for those who come after you, and those that follow them. You all understand? Hamdi? Very well. Here is the story, as I know it and as it was told to me:

Mumtaz ibn Amir was a well-regarded man who travelled with a tribe that our people crossed paths many years ago. Mumtaz had a wife, Atta, and three children, two boys, called Murad and Jalil, and a girl, called Mai. He loved them very much. Mumtaz was known to be very intelligent and good-hearted. He was generous to others in his tribe, friendly to those in other tribes, and compassionate to those with no tribe at all.

Now, Mumtaz’s tribe had travelled far and wide across the lands, from side to side, and from the rolling ocean to the green forests in the South. He had been to the great cities in the East, had crossed the salt water and gone North. They had seen wonders that I could not describe to you if I had one thousand and one nights. He had met people from lands riding beasts so large they could block out the mid-day sun and other people so covered with jewels that you could see them coming towards you from three days ride away. He had met men so impoverished they ate the sand, and you could see their hearts beating in their chests through their skin. He had met people from lands far from his own, both great and meek, with pink skin and metal clothing. He had seen the processions of kings, and the sad, slow march of the starving. He had seen the two great rivers and the tribes that held those lands. His people had witnessed war and prosperity the likes of which few other tribes could claim. Like our tribe, the stories of these wonders were passed down, within their families. And in seeing these things, in hearing the tales of their travels, Mumtaz had grown wise.

But, Mumtaz’s tribe was also beset by nearly endless poverty. As you all know, the people of the desert do not beg from their fellow man. But hunger and thirst were constant, and comfort was an elusive stranger to Mumtaz and his people. And in their travels, they had noted that a great many of the people of the desert had very little. Even the cities and lands they had travelled to, resplendent in their bounty, had more who needed than those who had. Mumtaz had noted this, and it is with this knowing that the story begins in earnest.

One day, after many days of travelling near the border of the Southern forests, Mumtaz and his tribe came upon a sight they had never seen before. Rising out of the sand, straight towards the sky, was….

A stick.

And that is the end of the story.

Why do you look so shocked? Must every story have a lesson? Mumtaz found a stick and his tribe had never found a stick before. It is an interesting story. Tell your children’s children.

…

Ha ha!

No, of course, that is not the end.

But there was a stick. Not a tree, but a perfectly straight piece of wood rising up out of the sand. The tribe’s scouts saw this stick from a distance, watching from the top of the dunes that surrounded the stick, as this stick sat in the base of a great valley. They held their seeing glasses to their dusty eyes and from this point, they all agreed that it was first, indeed, a tall stick, and that it was also the only thing in the basin of this valley.

However, the stick, while perhaps unusually placed, had another feature which puzzled the scouts, who went to Mumtaz, who, as I have mentioned, was the cleverest of his tribe, to tell him. They said, sitting atop this stick, was a bird which seemed to be on fire.

Mumtaz, who thought perhaps the heat of the day had done the scouts’ eyes in, took hold of one of the seeing glasses to look for himself, and, to his surprise, they were right. He could see that the stick seemed to black and smooth, like no wood he had seen before. Also, he could see that the stick had small arms at the top, also of the same wood. A perch. And upon this perch sat a bird nearly half the size of the largest camel in the tribe’s herd. The bird’s feathers were as black as the perch upon which it sat. Its beak and claws were also black. It was as if the shadow of a bird had been given life. Yet rising from this shadow of a bird were crimson flames, which rose without smoke. Mumtaz also noticed that although the bird was as dark as a shadow, it left no shadow on the ground behind it.

Perhaps a mirage? It could be, and he took his eye away from the glass to tell the scouts. But he looked again…just to be sure, and still there was the bird, atop its black perch, but now the bird was looking in Mumtaz’s direction, with eyes the color of the flames that rose up from it. As Mumtaz looked at the bird, he saw the bird’s head move to one side and then to the other side…as if to say, no, Mumtaz, I am no illusion.

This scared Mumtaz, but he tried to keep his composure, because fear spreads like an illness. However, Mumtaz was also a man of great reasoning. He knew that the day’s sun could play many tricks on the mind, and so, he told the scouts to come with him, and they circled around to the other side of great circle of the dunes, careful to lay low so as not to be seen. And when they had arrived on the opposite side of the circle, again, Mumtaz took the seeing glass to get a look at this mysterious bird, this time from its back. However, when he raised the glass to his eye again, the bird was still facing him, its red eyes immediately looking to where he and the scouts were. And this time, the bird lifted a single black claw slowly. And the bird seemed to beckon with that claw.

Mumtaz’s fear was difficult to mask, but he and the scouts went back to side of the circle of dunes where the rest of his tribe waited. He told them all of what he had saw, including that the bird had waved its talon at him. The tribe then discussed what to do. Do we leave this bird where it is, for surely it is not natural? Or do we go to the bird, as it seems to want, to find its purpose? They talked until it was nearly dark, and in the end, left the decision to Mumtaz.

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Mumtaz scanned the horizon, watching as the sun dipped into the West, and then, by the dim light of dusk, again went to the top of the dune to look down into the valley. He raised the glass once more to his eye, and, again, the bird sat on his perch, gazing up at where Mumtaz was. The fire rising from the bird cast very little light, with no shadow of the stick or the bird itself. Mumtaz returned to the tribe with his decision: tomorrow, at dawn, he would go to get a closer look at the bird.

Mumtaz was troubled as he lay down with his wife, Atta. Desert life, he told her, is not for the taking of risks. And Atta, who had always trusted the judgment of her husband agreed that this might indeed be risky, but that the bird had invited him. Surely if the bird meant their tribe harm in some way, it could have left the perch and come to them. Mumtaz thought on this and went to sleep.

He woke the next morning, and the tribe gathered at the top of the dune circle to see him off. Mumtaz made his way down the sands to where the bird still stood. He went slowly, deliberately, careful not to fall and embarrass himself before the bird, which regarded him with interest as he shuffled down the dune. Mumtaz reached the bottom after what seemed like days and soon was face to face with the flaming bird. Despite the flames that rose from the bird, however, there was no heat, and the morning was still as cool in the base of the valley as it was at the top.

It was even larger than it looked in the seeing glass. Looking up from bottom of the stick, which was twenty hands high, as near as Mumtaz could guess, the bird was nearly the size of a man. It looked down at Mumtaz with its red eyes but did not stir otherwise.

Mumtaz spoke aloud. What is it you want? Why are you here? What do you want from me?

After the third question, the bird’s beak opened, and from within came a voice.

The question that matters, traveler, is what do you want from me?

The voice was very low, and distant, as if it rose from a deep well. But it was pleasant and inviting.

Mumtaz said that he did not understand. The bird spoke again:

Look at your feet. You will find a scroll which never ends and a quill which needs no ink.

Mumtaz looked at his feet and, sure enough, there was a scroll and quill made from a feather as black as night.

The bird continued:

Upon the scroll, write everything that you wish for in this world and it will be so.

Now, I have mentioned several times that Mumtaz was no fool. He had heard of djinn before and knew that they were tricksters. Nothing they offered was free, and that they would mislead the foolish for sport.

Djinn, said Mumtaz, I know you. What conditions are there to this gift?

The flaming bird said:

You do not know me, Mumtaz ibn Amir. But the conditions are simple and few: First, once you begin writing, you may not stop until your wishes are complete. Second, your wishes are not complete until you have signed your name on the scroll. Third, your wishes may not harm another living thing. And, finally, if you take the scroll, you must begin writing within three days. Keep these rules, and all shall be as you have written. Fail these rules, and your wishes shall go unfulfilled, and your tribe will suffer.

Mumtaz hesitated. The thought of his tribe suffering was terrifying, but he also thought of the good he could do with these wishes. He reached down to take the scroll and quill, and when he looked up again, the flaming bird was gone, as was the perch upon which it sat.

Mumtaz returned to his tribe and told them what he had seen. He showed them the scroll and quill. He told them of the rules, and their fate if he should fail. And within the tribe came a great noise as all its people spoke of what they desired. Mumtaz raised his hands and bade them silent. He told them he would go to his tent, and that each of them may come to him to say what they wish and if it could be done with no harm to another living being, he would write it in once he began.

So Mumtaz sat in his tent with Atta and his children by his side, and the first of his tribesmen came in to say what he would wish for. This tribesman wished to never be hungry again, for his belly to be full of meat and sweet milk. But Mumtaz reminded him that for meat to be in his belly, it would first need to come from a slaughtered animal, and for milk to be drunk, it must first be forced from a mother’s teat by a man. These things would cause harm to another living thing, and thus, could not be so.

The second of his tribesmen came and wished for wealth, for gold and jewels with which to adorn his clothing and camels. But gold and jewels must be mined, reasoned Mumtaz, and how many children had died in the mines to the South? How else will these riches come to be, but through the harm and suffering of those who must rip it from the Earth?

The third tribesman came as asked for a home for his people, to leave their life of wandering and make a great city for their people. But Mumtaz told him that the point of holding land is to not only keep and protect oneself, but also to exclude the right of others to move through it. So, while his tribe may have a home, it prohibits a home for another.

Another came and asked for his mother to return to the living. But did her body not feed the insects and the living plants that rose from her grave? Would her returning not harm them?

And so on, and so on. For two whole days, Mumtaz met with his people and heard their deepest desires, and for two days, Mumtaz, being a clever man, would explain how their wishes would cause harm to another. There was great dissatisfaction in the tribe because of Mumtaz’s arguments. Those who had met with him began to suggest that Mumtaz sought only to benefit himself and was therefore denying their wishes out of his own greed. They believed that Mumtaz had created the bird’s rules to scare them into wishing for nothing, leaving only Mumtaz’s desires fulfilled.

Mumtaz, in the meantime, was desperate to find a solution. He believed that he must begin writing on the morning of the third day. But what could he do? No thing done on Earth caused no harm to something else. He woke his family in the moments before the sun rose, and embraced them, and told them to leave the tent so that he could be alone. He sat with the black quill in his hand and stared at the parchment, thinking of the wonders he had seen in his life, and the good he could do with everything he had ever wished for. He could have cured the sick. Fed the hungry. Given wealth and comfort to everyone. He could wish for the end of pain and death. But within all these things, some kind of harm would come. He understood the djinn’s trap: to wish for anything was too great of a risk, for failing meant his people would suffer.

But then the answer occurred to him.

The sun was making the sky light up, though it hid from Mumtaz’s view, and he took the scroll and wrote something and placed the quill on the ground near him.

Atta walked into her family’s tent, and upon the ground found a scroll and a black quill. She called for her children and for her husband, Brahim. Brahim picked up the scroll and, being the only one there capable of reading, recited what was written upon it:

I wish that I was nothing more than a story. - Mumtaz ibn Amir

Atta had remarked that this was strange, because she was herself named for the wife of the legendary Mumtaz ibn Amir, whose tale had been told around fires in their tribe for as long as she could remember. She hugged Brahim and kissed her children and went out of the tent smiling and singing to herself into the morning sun.

So, young ones, that is the tale of Mumtaz ibn Amir, whose story did no harm to anyone. Go now, and sleep well, and wish for nothing that you do not already have.