Chapter 6
The Leper Messiah ~ continued from Chapter 6 | The Tree of Life
“Wake up, my boy, wake up.”
Hussein al-Rashid tugged at Arlemay’s white tunic as he lay in his bed. The plump civil servant turned to Omar and Ali in frustration.
“All he does is sleep.”
The two stood in the doorway of the room in quiet concern. Ali picked at a piece of bitumen between two bricks of the wealthy house.
“He mumbles about a rose,” Omar offered.
“I know, the Desert Rose, Queen Zenobia,” Hussein said in frustration. “She lived 100 years ago.”
“But, Master, we saw her.”
Hussein al-Rashid raised his hands for quiet.
“Enough. Enough of such foolishness.”
The two men fell silent and studied the dust on their sandals.
“Have him ready for this evening,” said the fat man lovingly tucking the light bed sheet around Arlemay. “We have many special guests for our dinner party tonight but we must have a story of adventure from our boy.”
He looked at the devoted pair. “Haga will make you Mulahwajah.”
He smiled and waddled out of the second floor room toward the courtyard and gardens.
Hussein al-Rashid looked around his beautiful home with pride and anticipation of the dinner party tonight. The upper walls were smooth lime plaster and below were beautiful carpets from Syria and Egypt. The earthen ground floor was covered with animal skins and reed matting, which high- lighted the baked red brick and stone lintels of the shutters and doors.
The landscaped courtyard with its high stone wall, rose garden and pistachio trees was his favorite place in the house.
“Haga,” he called as he walked toward the kitchen.
“No,” came her response.
“But what are we going to have?”
“Nothing.” The old woman appeared with a wooden spoon in her hand. “Dried camel breath and brackish water from an old well.”
“Please.”
She smiled and poked Hussein’s belly.
“My master needs no food.”
“But for the others.”
“Come.”
She turned and walked back into the brick kitchen with Hussein waddling behind her, smelling the aroma of another wondrous meal.
On a wooden table arranged on a tray were small wedges of pita bread, feta cheese, broken walnut pieces and fresh herbs — sprigs of mint, basil and parsley.
The main dish of chicken and eggplant khoresht sat on top of a stone oven. A large pot of basmati rice simmered beside a tray of rice cakes. Lamb stuffed with fruit, nuts and onions made up the rest of the feast. A huge bowl of fresh fruit — apples, pears, oranges and clementines — was placed on a wooden table.
The mild-mannered civil servant nodded approvingly and stepped outside into his courtyard but then returned.
“Haga,” he questioned. “Weren’t your people part of the royal house of Queen Zenobia?”
“My people,” came the reply. Haga quietly touched the dried rose petal that she kept in her apron.
“Your ancestors, yes?”
“My great grandmother was the handmaid,” she said hesitantly.
“Yes, yes, I remember something like that.” He thought for a moment. “And you had a sister, Roxanne.”
“Yes,” Haga stirred the rice.
“What happened to her?”
“She traveled far away to the west.”
“To the west, to the west.”
Haga touched the rose petal and thought of the distant past.
When the village children turned their eager faces upwards, the colorful silk drape moved slowly backward and a smile emerged from the recess of the throne . A single rose was gently handed to a dark-haired girl.
“Haga, Haga,” Roxanne called to her sister, “Look what the queen gave me .” She proudly showed the beautiful white rose in her hand.
“Oh Roxanne,” Haga cried while trying to wipe her tears away. She looked down at her younger sister with sadness. “You will be leaving me soon. I can feel it. You have been chosen!”
Little Roxanne looked up at her sister in bewilderment.
The civil servant grew tired of the conversation and walked past the kitchen into the courtyard.
A red-necked grebe chirped in a cypress tree entwined with almond blossoms.
The paradise garden was based on the Chahar Bagh design with the garden divided into four water channels symbolizing the four rivers of Paradise.
He breathed in the sweet air, stood facing the great Barada River and smiled as the water swept his hopes and dreams toward the evening sun. More than life itself, he wished that his son’s stories would come to light for they were great adventures.
“Omar,” he said as he turned toward the house. “Omar, I must have a story from our little traveler tonight.”
“Yes, Master,” Omar shouted from the second-story window. “He is writing now.”
“I will pay him handsomely for it.”
“Yes, yes,” Omar turned back to the room.
“Master wants to know how much you will pay for the story.”
Hussein al-Rashid felt his purse tucked underneath his tunic.
“Forty dinars,” he called out.
The reply floated quickly down on the jasmine-scented air:
“The Forty Thieves!”
Continue reading… Chapter 6 | The Land of Canaan
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