Chapter 9: A Droplet of Thought

Once upon a time, there was a vast land that was known far and wide as the Land of Sand. Now, it should certainly not be mistaken for a desert, for it wasn’t entirely made of heat and sand. In fact, the Land of Sand was very much like any other country around it. It had rivers and lakes brimming with fish, and giant mountains. It had all the four seasons; the cool breezes of spring and summer and the harsh autumn and winter storms were welcomed with cool indifference.

Only one thing set the Land of Sand apart from any other land, and that was it was devoid of plant-life. No trees clung to the rich soil with their gnarled roots; no reeds decked the riverbanks, the breeze made no flowers toss their perfumed heads to the wooing sun. The Land of Sand could almost not know the colour green, had it not been well supplied with fine, glittering sand of its very own. This sand formed beaches and roads and dunes all over the place. It was a curiously brilliant green, as if all the lost souls of plants that should have been disintegrated as soon as they burst out into the world.

Despite the abundance of this strange sand, there were still those who took a fancy to this land and made it their home. If the Arabs could call the barren deserts their Eden, why not this strange land with its green sand? That said, people worked and played and lived amongst the vivid emerald hills in peace. They were known as the Sand-dwellers, or the Sand-people, or simply the Sanders. They lived on a plentiful diet of fresh fish and water, with the occasional wild bird caught out of the sky. Life went on peacefully even if the land was empty of any treasure besides silver flesh and liquid turquoise. Of course, if one had never had something, one would never miss it. And that was exactly the case with the Sanders. So contented were they that they never wanted anything to change, never made any change, and life continued thus for as long as anyone cared to remember.

This story begins with a little boy who lived with his doting parents in a little cottage by the river. The boy’s father was a fisherman, his mother a housewife that kept the cottage spick and span by day and mended her husband’s nets by night. Life went on well for the little family, each tranquil day succeeding the other like waves lapping the riverbank.

But, of course, in the case of all stories, that was about to change.

The little boy was really quite strange by Sanders standards. He hardly ever talked, to begin with. This was odd, as the Sanders loved nothing more than a lively chat, from when the green hills twinkled gold until the moon drew her velvet cloak around the land. The little boy would be seen (or not seen) listening quietly to the lively chatter around him. He never joined the other boys in a rowdy game of football, never gossiped with the girls. Most of the time he would be sitting by the river all by himself, watching the river play its water games. Though he did very little with his hands, he made it up for what he did with his mind. Oh, yes, in the little boy’s mind was an infinite kaleidoscope of wild colours and dreams. He imagined lands other than his own; lands with creatures spouting crimson (his favourite colour) flames, brave heroes and beautiful damsels. He thought of new creatures and things, and gave them all names. The little boy loved naming things with a most precocious passion. To the Sanders, all rivers were known as ‘the river’, all mountains ‘the mountain’ and nothing more. The boy had named the river running by his home Orswan. In his mind’s eye, Orswan was a silvery-blue dragon, a mighty steed that only he could ride on. Together they would soar into the skies of his imagination, play catch with the clouds, and drop into great lands that were just as green as his own, but infinitely more so. No, the green in these magic lands would have forms. They would be huge giants, small enough to be a fairy’s tea set. And they wouldn’t be just green- they would have splashes of red, dotted with yellows and pinks and purples, supported by masses of wrinkled browns. Oh, the possibilities were endless for the little boy. He would spend many a happy hour all by himself, telling the river Orswan all about these lands, gazing far beyond his reflection in the dimpled waters.

One day, however, the boy’s mother chanced upon him muttering to himself by the river. She wasn’t the least bit pleased. Amongst the contented Sanders, silence and new thoughts were completely unacceptable. After all, silence brought on thinking, and new thoughts would evoke change. The last thing any of the Sanders wanted was their peaceful life be turned upside down and shaken inside out by the monster that was change.

The little boy was seriously reprimanded, and when he refused to take heed (despite harsh words and painful knocks), he was locked in his room until he promised to ‘behave like a normal little boy’. Under the hawkeye watch of his mother, he was only allowed out on brief, escorted visits to the toilet. His meals were pushed to him through a small flap in the door, as if he was a dangerous, caged animal. Still, he refused to give in to his parents’ wishes. The little boy could not understand how the people around him could be contented with so little. His young heart was astir with restlessness; his limbs tingled with energy to find a meaning to the dull life he was forced to be accustomed to. He wanted to climb higher, run faster, leap further. But trapped in his cold, dark room, he was unable to do anything but beat his fists against the rough door and beg to be let out. Soon he stopped eating altogether, losing flesh and the will to live in the process. Lying on his hard bed through the endless dark hours, he cried and wished he were dead.

On the seventh night of his imprisonment, the little boy lay sick and wasted upon his bed. His sunken eyes stared emotionlessly out into the dark night. His weakened ears trained to the sound of his dear friend Orswan, who had sang to him every hour of his confinement in ripples and gurgles. It was then that the monotonous song of the river transformed into a perfectly decipherable language, each teardrop note falling upon the boy’s ears in a voice of silver.

“Dear friend,” the ripples said. “There is no help for you if you continue as you do. No change will come unto you unless you come unto change. Now is the time to gather yourself; follow me and we shall be free!”

“Who are you?” Asked the little boy, his voice quivering in fear and weakness. “It is no use, no matter your identity. I am weak, I am but an ignorant young fool. I am powerless to opposition; how may these small hands change anything around them?” At that he held his hands to his face; a sorry sight of skin and bones on the verge of snapping into a thousand veined fragments.

“Little boy,” the voice rang out, even more silvery and smooth than before. “No matter how small your hands, how weak your form, it is your heart that counts. Inside you is a beat strong with need to change, and unless you heed its melody you will lose everything. Come, come to the window, climb astride my back, and together we shall take flight to the stars. It is I, Orswan, dear friend! Your heart and mind has breathed life into me, it is now my turn to return you yours!”

Trembling, the little boy pushed himself up with great difficulty. He took small, painful steps to the window, wheezing terribly. When he reached it, however, he was met with the most beautiful sight he was yet to behold. Hovering by his window was the long, sleek dragon of his imagination, unmistakably Orswan, only more so. The night breeze rippled through the silver threads of the creature’s luxuriant mane, and the scales of its body rippled as if they were the surface of the river on a windy day.

“Climb aboard, my friend and master,” Orswan gurgled. Its eyes were mismatched; one a puddle of sky and sun, the other a pool of midnight and moon. The little boy did not need to be called a fourth time. Heaving his emaciated frame through the window, he grasped the silky mane of Orswan and pulled himself astride, joints creaking painfully. No sooner was he seated Orswan took off into the dark sky, which suddenly seemed bursting with starlight. A loud roar of triumph escaped the dragon’s throat, sounding like the largest waterfall cascading onto a bed of ice white diamonds. Through the deep night they sped, Orswan singing all the while. He sang of green giants and violet fairies, of distant cousins that spouted crimson flames, of a land lush with fronds of change and foliage of variety. Its voice trickled into the boy’s ears and into his mouth and nose, so that he was filled with new energy and life, energy that swelled through his veins life a full-fed river.

And when Orswan burst through a final dark cloud into new light, so did the little boy burst through his own skin, casting away his old self so that he was completely washed anew, shining wet and fat as a trout.

“We are almost there, master!” Orswan sang, snaking in and out of peach-tinted clouds.

“Where are we going, Orswan?” the little boy cried over the whistle of the wind.

“Why, we are going to the Distant Land, master! To the land you dreamt for the both of us, the land we rode over in your imagination! We are going to- Paradise.”

The little boy could not believe his eyes. Before and below him, glowing in the pink of the rising sun, was the land of his dreams! There it was, all laid out for him! Orswan dipped into it now; they were gliding through an ocean of wrinkled brown columns- giants that held one another in green embraces high overhead. The dragon’s belly skimmed a green sea of silk, amply dotted with sweet-smelling fairies of yellows, blues, violets and pinks. The little boy held his hands out and as his fingertips brushed the dream that was now reality, names flooded into his new mind. Oak. Beech. Willow. Buttercup, bluebell, lavender, rose. He stretched out as far as he could to touch as much as he could. Faster and faster did the names come to in, rolling in never-ending waves. Seed. Leaf. Twig. Branch. Sapling. Trunk. Tree. Crocus, juniper, primrose, daisy, foxglove, mulberry, oleaster, poplarbougainvilleazaleacherryblossomsweetbriarbirchpoppymayflowerhazeldaffodilhollymaple. On and on they went through the land glittering in morning dew and crystal cobwebs. Colourful clouds danced by Orswan’s silver scales. The boy found them to be made out of hundreds of tiny winged beings. Butterflies, they whispered, and left his fingers powdered with the friendship of their iridescent wings. Above him, new songs answered Orswan’s rippling voice. Through the magnificent orchestra the boy picked out the names of the great composers. Finch, nightingale, lark, warbler, jay. He closed his eyes in ecstasy, basking in the glorious sounds and scents of the world he rightly belonged to. In this variety, in this growth, in this change, this, yes, this was home.

When he opened his eyes at last, he realized that Orswan had slowed to a complete stop in front of a great tree. He looked up at it, trying to see its peak, but so tall was it the end seemed to be lost in the pink clouds. He looked at his friend, and suddenly he knew what he had to do. This was the final obstacle he had to overcome in order to fully claim and be claimed by his land. He had to cast off every last bit of himself, let go of everything, so that he can be the change. Looking into Orswan’s mismatched eyes, he knew that he had to face this final journey alone. Only then would he be completely one with the land of his dreams.

Sliding gently off the dragon’s back, he grasped the great wrinkled trunk. Upwards he went, reaching for branches and groping for footholds in the bark. As he climbed he found sweet-smelling globes nestled in the glossy leaves. He tasted them, and their names slid sweetly down his throat. Apricot, pear, Satsuma, blackberry, plum, grape. Their enticing flavours gave him the strength he needed to climb higher and go further than anything he could dream of. In his ears the song of Orswan the river-dragon rang, growing louder as he neared the top. His limbs were tired, his eyelids felt heavy, yet he pushed on. It was so close, oh so close, just one branch more, one little step further…

In one final heave, the little boy caught hold of the last branch and pulled himself up. To his amazement, he could see the land- his land, for miles and miles around him, stretching into the infinite horizon. Orswan’s song and the land’s orchestra resonated in his heart, filling every inch of him so completely that he opened his mouth and gave a shout of joy, his breath leaving him in a rush of multi-coloured bubbles.

All of a sudden, all notes struck a single chord.

He was home!!!

* * *

The Sanders found the little boy’s body in the morning, floating in the river that ran by the cottage. His skinny frame was bloated; so full was he of the river that it took his father and two other men to haul the corpse out of the water and onto the green riverbank.

Despite the horror and grief, his parents were puzzled. For clutched in the poor boy’s swollen fingers was a paper-thin, green object. And when they touched it, an unfamiliar name came into their minds, like a final raindrop plopping into a drying, dying puddle.

Leaf.

Chapter 8: A Birthday Story

There wasn't anything particularly interesting about it. It didn't have any special features, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing about it screamed "Hey, look at me!" or anything. There wasn't a ring of emeralds around it, it wasn't studded with faceted jewels, glinting in the hot afternoon sun. There were no flashing spotlights, no pyramids, no red carpets. It didn't even have a specifically negative magnetism to it- no mar that would have set it apart from others like it. No weird old haunted house popped out of it, there were no creaky floorboards, no spiderwebs that got into your face and made you scream the crap out of yourself. No, no, and no. If someone were to whip out a checklist it'd run something like this. Colourful stage lights? No. Vegas-style music? No. Rolling clouds of white mist? No. Death-defying stuntmen cartwheeling in the air on bikes with flames coming out of the exhaust? No.

No, there wasn't anything really special about it. Not at all.

So what so special about this? You ask, bewildered. Why would anyone want to write about nothing? Why would anyone want to read about nothing? Why would anyone even think that anyone would want to read something that is really made out of nothing?

Must've lost you there.

Here's why. Because in this gaping, rectangular nothing, something and everything is being closed and opened. It's dead, but it's coming right back to life. Snap, just like that.

* * *

Picture this if you will.

Spring. A crowd of young people. There's a couple of old folks hanging around here and there. Not senile-old; middle-aged old. Though there might've been an odd senile-old individual somewhere. A leathery, wrinkled face in the crowd. Senile-old people are quite hard to spot sometimes. People tend to forget about them. It's as if they'd spent too much time here, so that they fade into the background and become part of the tree or the sidewalk or the shop window. Sometimes even time forgets them, and then all they do is sit and watch the world go by eventhough they can't even remember the names of the people around them; maybe even their own names at some point.

Anyway, the crowd on that spring afternoon was mostly made up of young people. And you must not forget that.

It was incredibly hot. The sun was absolutely merciless; t was literally yelling "Lighten up, folks! It's sunny here!". Those who had had some experience in this field brought umbrellas. When popped open, everyone else huddled underneath, the sun beating down upon their sweaty backs the way a native African in a stupor would beat his goat-skin drum during a native African dance ceremony. It was a ceremony that spring afternoon, all right. But there was no drum-beating and dancing involved.

There was a tractor somewhere. Probably in the background, having a pleasant chat with the senile-old individual also at the back. The guy manning it looked bored. In the intense heat and silence, it'd be no surprise if he was discovered sleeping with his eyes opened. Or maybe his eyes were half-closed. Half-opened? Half-closed? No matter. The state of the tractor guy's drooping eyelids is of no importance. He comes in much later, when most of the young-people crowd parted. They're doing pretty much what crowds normally do right about now. Crowding over something.

Perhaps you should go over and take a look yourself.

* * *

Ah, here you go. Flowers. Lots of them. Do you know their names? Bright orange gerberas, white roses, little purple violets. Pretty, don't you think? Wait, there's more. Go on, look closer. Can you see them? Know what they are? Bits of paper? You reply, confused. The crowd's throwing handfuls of them. Not just any bits of paper. Nope, they're wonderfully creased and folded with razor-sharp precision papers. Pretty papers, too, if you'd like to know. Violet, tangerine, yellow, navy- there's even some patterned with adorable kitty cats. And all of these fiddly bits of paper are folded; folded in the popular Japanese art-style of folding paper into decorative shapes. What's that word again? Oh, yes. Origami. Yes, these handfuls of coloured paper the crowd's throwing into the rectangular nothing were folded Origami-style. Folded to take the form of some sort of decorative shape, so that it looks less like a piece of coloured paper and more like something else.

That something else, in this case, is a crane.

Here's the saying. Or belief. If you folded a thousand (or was it more?) of these cranes, whatever you wish for will come true. If you wished to be famous, to win the lottery and become insanely rich, or if you just wanted a loved one to recover from a mysterious illness that not even the doctors can name, you fold a thousand pieces of paper into a thousand paper cranes, and poof. Abracadabra, wish granted.

If only life was that easy.

What else do you see, nestled among the flowers and origami? See the bright green streaks? Yeap, there they are. They look a bit like scrawls, don't you think? They come in two different shades of green: dark green and light green. Nothing simpler than that. Do they remind you of something? Here's the hint: remember all those movies on t.v where the cute guy breaks his leg playing football and has to have a cast? Then his friends come around to see him in the hospital, chat up the trainee nurses and sign their names and write crazy stuff on the cast. Then when cute guy heals he'll probably frame up the cast to remember all the fun times he'd shared with his friends.
Yeah, something like that.
Lots of green markered writing. All over the place. Up, down, left, right. It looks so pretty against the stained wood. Almost as if it were glowing.

Yes, things are looking pret-ty normal. Though underneath its pret-ty normal facade, something was bursting from within. Going down, down, down. Decomposition, decay. Then it was going up, up, up. Shoots springing from the freshness of it all. Of course, that would take quite a long while later. It was still quite new. A bit like a new journal, probably given by a kind aunt on your birthday or Christmas. There're plenty of creamy, empty pages, the smell of newness of the leaves. As the years go by it'll be filled with a story. A bittersweet story of a life well lived, a life filled with fun and laughter and youth, albeit it's rather short, abrupt full-stop. But it did not simply end then even so. It continued on even after, moving on to the epilogue of sadness. There were tears, and with the tears laughter, with the laughter the strengthening of loose bonds and the rebuilding of ones once broken. No matter how wonderful the story, you'll have to come to its final chapter, it's last full-stop eventually.

This story just happens to be about a short story. A little novella, one no-one expected to end so quickly with such an unexpected ending. But then that's life.

Oh, look! What's this? Green rain? No, it's ribbon. Lots of them. Little green snippets being untied and let go to fall into the rectangular nothing, to take their place amongst the blooms and paper and marker-messages. Kinda like confetti, albeit a bit longer and more silky to the touch. Earlier in the day the young-people crowd were in a bit of a frenzy cutting the ribbons from big reels to tie in their hair. Then they realized that there were just a bit too many young people and too little ribbon on the reels, so they had to make do with tying slivers of green on their watch-bands. The earlier birds who got first pick had to cut theirs up into three pieces to distribute to the other young-people. Oh well, sharing is caring right? And no better time to share than a time where everyone needs everyone else to hold and cry on the most.

After a while the crowd of young people moved away, and as promised, the tractor guy comes to take centre stage. Shovelling the soil into the nothing, filling it all up with something. A while longer, and then it's pretty much over. Book closed, end of story. The end.

There's a paper crane poking out of the soil.

What on earth? You think. Yeah, that's the shocked look expected to be on your face. This is crazy! How can anyone talk about such things so carelessly? And sure, flowers are fine, cranes okay too, but markers? What the hell happened to respect? Blasphemy! Blasphemy! Blasphemy!!!

Here you must calm down. Take a couple of deep breaths; that always helps. Then you have to hold yourself in check and recall something that was mentioned earlier. Do remember, the crowd is mostly made up of young people. And rest assured, the old ones, middle-aged old or senile-old don't actually mind all that's been done. They see it as a genuine token of friendship, the last stroke of young artistry, the last happy shout of freedom of creativity and ingenuity.

The last way of saying goodbye.





* * *


Happy Birthday.

Chapter 7: The Turquoise Emperor

  Once upon a time, in the middle of a large desert, there was a city called Qalagh. It was ruled by a sultan, Sultan Hamed. Sultan Hamed was a famed across the desert for his bloodthirsty reign. He would not think twice of slaying a hundred men to test the sharpness of his scabbard, neither would he hesitate to wipe out an entire village just to test the strength of his army. When things did not go his way, many an unfortunate victim would be executed immediately in the slowest and most painful way imaginable. The Sultan had an almost obscene fascination to pain and torture, so that most of his executions would be conducted in public, using the most horrendous of tortures he could think of. In fact, he thought up various new ways to kill his victims faster than he could find a victim to try them on. In the Sultan’s opinion, the public executions served both as a warning to any of the citizens of Qalagh who wished to rebel, and as an entertaining- if not extremely cruel- pastime for himself.

  Sultan Hamed lived in the heart of the large city, in a gleaming white palace constructed out of hundreds of towering turrets and minarets surrounding a huge central dome. The entire façade was carved out of the most dazzling white marble. Its shine could be spotted a thousand miles away; an immense glittering pearl in the middle of the desert. At night, the palace’s beauty reached its peak; it glowed with such an unnatural brilliance it made the moon herself weep.
  Remarkable as the palace was, its royal resident was its entire opposite in any way possible. Almost daily the immaculate marble steps of the palace would be slippery with fresh blood, drawn from the helpless men and women and children that the Sultan slays. He was fully aware of the terror he struck into the hearts of his people, exploiting that very fact to rob the citizens of Qalagh of their money, livestock and produce. From this Sultan Hamed would buy himself lavish jewels, soft carpets, and good food. Yet he was not satisfied; ‘More! More!’ He’d scream. ‘I must have more!’, and more was brought to him, and his hunger for luxury was still unfulfilled. So that although the white palace grew lovelier as each day passed, the people around it fell into hideous poverty. So hard was life that many families were forced to bury their newborns screaming into the ground, tears streaming down their thin faces. They could not bear the thought of another mouth to feed. All along the dusty streets were little piles of dirt, unmarked graves of city’s young, the first and last homes of the babies that did not live long enough to even be named.

  Many a time travellers from distant lands in search of shelter from the desert’s merciless sand-storms would head towards the white gleam of Qalagh. If they were lucky, they would stumble upon a wizened nomad atop a camel, or perhaps listen to the cries of the howling wind. The message was always the same to each passing ear:

 “Whatever ye do, tread not upon the bloodied soil of Qalagh, city with no future! Pass not through the gates of the desert Hell! Heed not the light of the Devil Pearl! If ye do, no escape will there be from mortal peril!”

  Should there be no nomad in sight, if the wind should be still for the moment, or if the brash young traveller simply tossed his head of curls and laugh, he would make his way towards the seductive effulgence, a gleam that promised meat and drink and cool respite from the scorch of the desert sun.

And he would never be seen again.

* * *

  It was on a particularly hot day when the winds of change were blowing. The heat waves shimmered and glared in everyone’s eyes, preventing them from leaving the scanty shade of their dilapidated shacks. Sweat ran down thin faces, shabby robes stuck to emaciated frames as the people of Qalagh huddled in their huts, exhausted from the extreme heat of the desert.

   It was then that the traveller entered the gates of the city.

   The traveller was unlike any other before him. He was soon to be the talk of the city, the story that was told to the new generation of Qalagh, one after another. Hundreds of other travellers would succeed him, and yet it was this particular one that would remain in the memories of the people forevermore, a glittering white spark in the darkness of their minds. The citizens would whisper about the traveller to their grandchildren and great-grandchildren; how he was cloaked in a hooded robe made out of stars, that he had came on foot, without a mount. And his feet were completely naked of shoes, not even a straw sandal was on them. And yet not a single blister from the baked desert sand marked his soles. When he walked upon the dirt road, heading purposefully towards the heart of the city, no soil stained his feet a muddy brown. No footprint did he leave on the ground. In fact, no-one could remember seeing his shadow on the ground, not even in that horribly bright sunlight.

   Magic, the citizens hissed amongst themselves. Spirit, Devil, Shaitan. They shook their heads in fear and covered their faces with their worn veils. They ignored the white-robed traveller and in turn he paid no heed to the suspicious looks that fell upon him like accusing knives.

   In the midst of this cold welcome, the traveller walked on. Only once was he stopped on his way to the marble palace. A little boy playing outside a hut had held up a cracked dish of water to him. Perhaps it was out of politeness, of curiosity, of childlike innocence, but the boy had extended his little hand towards this stranger that everyone else shunned. The traveller took the offered drink and when he returned the empty dish, he knelt down to do so.

   And when he stood up again, the boy caught a faint smile upon the hidden lips. A smile that overwhelmed his young senses with the scent of cool rosewater, the sharp taste of cinnamon and lime, the sound of a heart-achingly beautiful birdsong, and a flash of brilliant turquoise blue, hidden within the robe of the traveller. It was a moment that the boy would remember all his life, so that even when he was lying on his deathbed, his weakened mind clouded with dark shadows, that very moment would shine out to him like the sun.

With that, the traveller had disappeared into the marble palace.

* * *

   Sultan Hamed was supping his mid-day feast when the traveller was brought to him. He peered at the robed stranger through his small, hard eyes, chewing slowly on his mouthful of meat.

 “From which country is he from?” He asked the chief advisor.

  “The man does not speak, milord,” the chief advisor replied, bowing low. “No words pass through his lips. He only presented this scroll,” Here he flourished a rolled-up parchment the colour of blood.

 “Read it,” the Sultan commanded with an imperious wave of his jewelled hand. The chief advisor quickly unrolled the scroll and proceeded to read its contents:

“A great gift of life is hereby presented to you,

A little of it goes a very long way,

For which corner of the world is rid of evil.”

   Upon completing the proclamation, the chief advisor rolled the parchment up and clapped his hands thrice, as was the custom of Qalagh. Sultan Hamed’s eyes narrowed.

  “Is that all there is?” He asked.

  “Yes, milord, nothing more,” the chief advisor bowed low. Sultan Hamed leaned back in his large cushion, staring suspiciously at the stranger before him.

  “Well, then, where is this gift you speak of?” He demanded. “Give it me at once!”

Nodding, the traveller knelt down and took a large bundle from under his robes. It was wrapped in the finest silk the colour of the midday sea. Skilfully unwrapping it, the traveller stepped back to reveal the gift.

   It was a peacock, and certainly the most beautiful peacock anyone has ever laid their eyes upon. When it arched its graceful neck, the deep turquoise feathers sparkled with the light of a thousand diamonds. Its train was remarkably long, and each eyelet glowed a most glorious emerald and gold. The royal subjects in the hall were shocked into silence at the peacock’s astounding beauty.

   The bird cocked its head to one side, looking at the Sultan. It opened its beak and let out a gentle twitter. The soft sound was unlike the rude squawks of its brethren; rather it was like the softest note of a crystal flute, reverberating sweetly like vintage swilled in a goblet.

  “Impressive,” the Sultan said. He motioned with a fleshy hand. “Bring the bird closer to me,” The peacock was brought to the feet of the Sultan. It was very tame, and allowed him to run his fat fingers through the brilliant iridescent feathers. It gave soft coos now and then, arching its neck to glance at the royal sovereign.

  “Magnificent,” Sultan Hamed said, a small smile on his lips. “This cock shall be the jewel of my royal menagerie. Already I have two dozen peafowl in my possession, but none of them as gorgeous as this one- and what an intelligent eye! It is almost as if it had a mind of its own. Tell me, stranger, where did you find such a remarkable bird?...” Looking up from his dreamy gaze of the peacock, the Sultan sought the eyes of the traveller.

   Only that no eyes, hooded or not, from the mysterious stranger was returned to him. The traveller had disappeared.

   The Sultan let out a great roar of rage, and all the royal guards, the royal tea-maker, the chief advisor, all fell prostrate upon the marble floor, trembling. So angry was the Sultan he ordered the chief advisor and the guards that brought the traveller in to be executed immediately. Only when the unfortunate men were dragged away, begging for mercy, did he let out a long, noisy breath through his nose. He settled back into his cushion, turning to gaze thoughtfully at the peacock. It had been calm, almost disinterested towards the whole scenario. Sultan Hamed summoned the chief advisor’s assistant.

  “From henceforth you shall take his place,” He said harshly. “Take the bird to the royal garden, and build him a shelter fit to house his magnificence!” With another wave, the newly appointed chief advisor scuttled away as fast as his slippered feet could take him, unruffled peacock in his arms, for fear of receiving the same fate as his superintendant.

* * *

   The peacock was put into the royal garden in no time at all. It made itself very much at home, taken to wandering amongst the orange trees and the heavily scented jasmine bushes. Its favourite perch appeared to be on the tiled edge of the cool water fountain. On it the bird would sit from hours on end, its pretty head cocked to one side as if listening to the trickle of the water. It looked every inch a prince of the entire garden, the turquoise emperor of the lush and luxuriant foliage.

   Its new quarters were nothing short of fabulous either. Sultan Hamed summoned the most skilled artisans: architects, sculptors and painters of Qalagh to construct a fantastic dome-shaped pavilion for his new pet. The pavilion was carved out of the same glowing white marble of the palace. The walls and pillars were flecked with gold, and studded all over with little mosaic tiles of turquoise, ruby and jade. Before the pavilion was a courtyard of fine silvery sand, and in the middle of it was a fountain with a layer of glittering sapphire stones on its bed. This fountain served as the peacock’s private bath. Two large bowls- one silver, the other gold- sat on either side of the pavilion. The gold one was filled with cool water taken from the deepest, purest spring underneath the city of Qalagh. Its silver twin held the peacock’s fodder: plump berries, dates and almonds. Indeed, the bird had fallen straight into the lap of luxury, for no other beast in the royal palace besides the Sultan himself could come as close to the treatment given to the peacock.

   The elegant bird, however, showed little interest towards its lavish surroundings. It pecked at its food, then wandered around its pen with a bored look. The chief advisor glanced worriedly at the drooping turquoise feathers, hoping that it’d be happier when the Sultan came to visit- or else another assistant would be needed to fill his place.

When the final touches of the pavilion was completed, Sultan Hamed went to the royal garden to inspect the handiwork. His tiny eyes roamed over the marble façade, missing nothing. The peacock was sitting serenely by the fountain, pleased at the large procession of brightly-clad visitors.

   At last, the Sultan gave a curt nod of satisfaction. The architects, sculptors and painters let out large sighs of relief.

  “All is well,” the Sultan said, nodding solemnly. “Not only is this pavilion fit for the peacock’s majesty, but it is also a symbol of our country’s wealth, a toast of Qalagh infinite abundance! Yes, our neighbours will be filled with envy if they were to set eyes upon this lovely dome; they will think twice before they make us enemies! In fact, they shall wish they were a part of us, so that they too can enjoy the riches the Gods have bestowed upon us…”

   Before the cruel monarch could complete his speech, the peacock reached forward, and with a loud chirrup pecked out the egg-sized ruby on the Sultan’s belt and swallowed it whole.

   The procession stared at the bird in horror. Even the Sultan blinked in surprise, not quite comprehending the situation. But when it set in, his rage was absolutely terrific.

  “Kill that bird!” He screamed shrilly. “Twist its neck! Roast it! Boil it alive!...”

Then the peacock opened its beak and broke into the most beautiful song imaginable. It was so sweet, so magical that it stopped even the Sultan in his frenzy. He listened intently, mouth wide open. When the song ended, the peacock bowed its head, a twinkle in its eyes. The garden went wild with applause.

  “Most…curious…” said the Sultan in wonder, stroking his snowy white beard. “Bring me another gem!” The chief advisor hurriedly brought out a rose quart bracelet that shone in the afternoon light. The peacock swallowed it obligingly, then proceeded to do a series of amazing somersaults, spinning so quickly it turned into one rolling green fireball. The audience gasped in shock.

  “This bird is magic!” The painter cried out. And no-one, not even Sultan Hamed, disagreed.

* * *

   After that incident, the peacock was treated even more like a king. Its feed of fruits and nuts was declared insufficient by the Sultan, who instead ordered the royal treasury be opened and the chests of priceless treasure brought out. Each day three maidservants, escorted by guards armed with bloodstained scabbards, made their way to the Peacock Pavilion- as it was now called- to see to the peacock’s daily needs. After the usual cleaning was seen to, the maidservants would tip a tray of jewels: glinting opals, topazes, amethysts, and teardrops of diamonds into the silver food bowl. The peacock would chirp and gobble up the precious stones greedily. Its appetite grew and grew, so that it took to pecking out the chips of turquoise, ruby and jade of its pavilion. When it had eaten every chunk, it began to peck at the marble gazebo itself. In less than two months, the entire marble monument was eaten up.

   Yet Sultan Hamed did not turn a hair at his pet’s voracious appetite. He was so entranced by the tricks of the peacock after each copious meal. It’d perform all sorts of feats: it sang, danced, even spouted yellow flames out of its beak, scorching the embroidered carpets. The Sultan simply clapped his hands and roared in laughter.

  “We must have a feast!” He cried out one day, when the peacock had done a particularly lively trick of hopping on one foot while juggling three goblets of vintage. He summoned the chief advisor.

  “Send out invitations to our neighbours,” he commanded. “Tomorrow night, when the moon is in harmony with Saturn, we shall have a feast in honour of this wonderful bird! Let our neighbours know that only Qalagh is bestowed such a magical peacock, let them realize that we are indeed the most powerful city in all of the desert- no, the most powerful city in the entire world, for no other city has a jewel-eating peacock of much magic!”

   The chief advisor hurried away to see to the preparations of the grand feast. All day and night the palace was teeming mass of bustling activity. Large quantities of fine food was cooked, the carpets replaced, choice vintage brought out from the underground cellar, flowers arranged. And amidst the sea of action the peacock sat, peacefully nibbling away at a marble pillar.

* * *

   The night of the feast was bright and clear. The moon, looking like a dazzling circle of tin, shone hard white light upon the desert. The marble dome reflected its brilliance a thousand-fold, but without quite as much proud conviction as it used to. Perhaps it was because the great white dome was riddled with holes, made by the peacock and its insatiable hunger. The Sultan merely brushed comments on his residence aside, promising his guests that the creature behind the gaping holes was worthier of greater feats. From far and wide, kings and queens, sultans and sultanates arrived in their expensive litters to attend Sultan Hamed’s feast. All of them were bedecked in fine mantles and heavy jewellery- and all of them were as ruthless and bloodthirsty as Sultan Hamed himself. The grand hall was soon crowded with the royal patrons and thus the feast began.

   At the simmering height of the merry night, Sultan Hamed clapped twice, signalling the musicians to cease playing and for his royal guests’ attention.

  “My brothers and sisters,” he drawled. “Tonight I have requested your company to show you the pride and joy of Qalagh! By God’s wish this exquisite gift was bestowed upon me, and tonight I shall share its utter beauty with you so that you too may be awed by it!”

He clapped his hands again, and the peacock was brought out on a fat silver cushion. The grand hall burst into cries and exclamations of shock and delight. The royal crowd cheered in approval. The peacock, however, was not at all interested in the shouts and the perfumed hands that touched its gleaming back. No, it was the sparkling gems that the men and women were wearing that it wanted. Its eyes twinkled in excitement. What a feast this was!

   In a flash, the peacock pecked out the blue quartz in the King of Guobad’s turban. Immediately it did a whistle-and-jig that brought a swarm of blue night-moths into the grand hall. Then it gobbled up the string of pearls around the Princess of Zanzibar’s throat. To everyone’s amazement the bird exploded into a flight of creamy white doves that made a circuit around the hall before turning back into a peacock. After that the monarchs tore their necklaces, crowns, and rings off and held it out to the peacock.

“More! More!” They cried greedily, as the peacock ate jewel after jewel, gem after gem, performing astounding feat one after another. It swallowed an amber necklace, and its train bloomed bright orange flowers. It ate a chrysolite tiara, and turned white from head to toe till it almost blended into the white marble floor. It gulped a rainbow quartz cravat, flew to the ceiling and burst into an impressive fireworks display. All the while the kings and queens, sultans and sultanates, screamed and cheered wildly. As their excitement augmented, their store of gemstones diminished. But that did not deter them. They grabbed whatever they could get their hands on: a gold fruit platter, a ruby decanter, a crystal goblet, all was fed to the peacock to satisfy their hunger for the extraordinary.

   Finally, when the entire palace was devoid of any gem, when the rulers were naked of their glittering jewels, everyone was at a lost for what to feed the peacock with. The bird simply looked at the dissatisfied faces, cooing now and again. More! More! It seemed to say invitingly. The royal guests gulped, uncertain of what to do, so desperate were they to watch another breathtaking feat.

   It was then; a hand in the crowd stretched out and held a single bead of polished onyx to the peacock. The turquoise bird took the stone in its beak and swallowed. The crowd watched with baited breath to see what the bird would do next.

The peacock let out a loud trill, then spread its train open wide. The crowd gasped. Never once had the peacock open its glorious fan before. But the crowd’s amazement quickly turned into horror when, from each eyelet wept tears of blood. The peacock unfurled its wings and screamed out loud. Its cry now sounded like the wail of a newborn baby. A shriek, which like most of its kind in the city of Qalagh, was quickly followed by thuds of dry earth falling into a shallow grave.

   Without warning, the peacock soared into the sky, out of the white dome. Its wings brushed against the marble roof, and suddenly the entire palace, weakened by the pecks of the hungry beak, shuddered and crumbled to its white knees, killing everyone within its walls. Another cry burst forth from the peacock, awakening the entire city. It flew round the dusty streets, singing its own heart-wrenching dirge. As it did, its belly, stretched to its fullest with heavy stones, split open and showered the populace with fortune. The citizens of Qalagh cried out in joy, and their chorus of happiness blended with the peacock’s requiem. Onwards towards the rising sun the peacock flew, leaving a trail of sparkling gems in its wake. From the sapphires sprung lakes and streams, from the white marble pure, sandy beaches. Trees and bushes sprouted from the emeralds and jades. And newborn babies, still wet and unnamed, were borne out of the rubies and garnets.

And when every jewel was emptied from the peacock’s stomach, it gave a soft, gentle coo and became one with the wind in a flurry of turquoise feathers and green and gold winking eyes, knowing all too well that its mission in life was completed.

* * *
The small bead of polished onyx was the last to fall out of the peacock’s belly onto the new land. For which corner of the world is purely rid of a little bit of evil.