A Wind in Cairo Read Free Page A

He did something to his foot. He could not get up. He began to crawl. Forward. Into the waxing dawn. How strange: there was darkness in the heart of it. It opened to embrace him.
    â€œCome,” a voice said. A warm voice, a beautiful voice, sweet as honey. “Come, poor child. Drink.”
    He opened his eyes on paradise. Light supernal, heavenly sweetness, a houri’s face. A dark-eyed maiden, beautiful as the moon: angelic, perfect. She smiled. He died anew for love of her. “Drink,” she bade him.
    The cup was silver. It brimmed with milk of paradise. He smiled, lost in bliss, and drank, and went down joyfully into the night.
oOo
    â€œCome.” This voice was deep. It was, he supposed, not unbeautiful. It was nothing like an angel’s. “Drink,” it commanded him.
    He heard; he obeyed. He gagged and choked and plummeted into wakefulness.
    A man bent over him, a very human man. His beard was long and shot with grey; his face was thin, keen-nosed, with eyes both dark and deep; his turban was the green turban of a holy man, a Hajji, a pilgrim to Mecca. He met Hasan’s outraged stare with great serenity and said, “Ah, sir, my apologies. My medicines are not always as sweet to the taste as I could wish. Drink, I pray you, and be comforted. The bitterness bears healing in it.”
    This was not the sort of man whom one disobeyed. Hasan drank, grimacing at the taste. The Hajji smiled. “Peace be upon you,” he said.
    â€œPeace,” Hasan responded without thinking. It hurt, but he could speak. He was one great bruise. His arm was bound and aching fiercely. He was all too painfully alive. “Where—” he tried to say. “What—”
    â€œYou are in my house,” the Hajji said, “and you are not as sorely wounded as perhaps you fear. Your arm is badly bruised but not broken; the rest is but an ache or ten.”
    Hasan’s hand went to his face. He did not want to ask for a mirror. The Hajji did not offer one.
    â€œBruises,” the old man said. “Your beauty is marred for a little while, but it will recover.”
    Hasan sighed and closed his eyes. After a moment they opened again. The Hajji had not moved. “I owe you much,” said Hasan. “My—father—” He stumbled and stopped. He struggled to sit up. “How long have I been here?”
    â€œNot long,” said the Hajji. “A day and a night have passed since Allah’s mercy brought you to our door.”
    Hasan struggled harder, tangling in the bedclothes. The Hajji caught him with startling strength. He found himself flat again, motionless, well wrapped in blankets. “I shall send him word,” the Hajji said.
    Hasan stilled in more than body. “No.” He had spoken before he thought. He said it again, with his mind behind it. “No. My thanks, but no. I dreamed—I had forgotten. I have no father.” The tears came of their own accord. “I have nothing. I am alone.”
    Perhaps the Hajji would have spoken. Hasan turned his face away, squeezed his eyes shut. The man left him to weep in solitude.
    He did not weep long. With no one to watch, there was no profit in it. Perhaps this was best. Let his father think he had run away. He could linger here, mend, and when he was mended, take his leave. Join a caravan. Wander far away. Redeem his sins, make a man of himself with no help from any bandit of a Bedouin; and come back at last, wealthy and strong, and show his father what in truth he was made of.
    He slept fitfully. Once, when he woke, there was food beside him. He ate it.
    He dreamed again of his houri. She was even more beautiful than before. She moved about him, tending him. Her hands were soft and light and very real. Her scent was musk and sandalwood.
    Slowly it came to him. No houri, she. She was a living woman, but beautiful as any spirit of heaven. She was deft with him; she had no shyness. Drugged, half dreaming,