Imperial Literature

In the crowded bazaar of white-walled Al-Kalabar, the biggest shop was without doubt Yasmir al-Mahres’ spice counter. The old man was well known, and well loved, all throughout the city. He was the oldest man in town by far, with a mane of hair whiter than the city’s walls. He had lived there for nearly six decades, and many were those who remembered him from their childhood, men and women that now had children of their own and sometimes even grandchildren. The memories of long evening spent in the big warehouse full of foreign and intriguing odours; of the wrinkled, tanned face of the old merchant lit by the shifting fire blazing in the hearth; of the moving shapes his shadow cast as he told them tale after tale of the desert, gesticulating, carried by his own voice; those memories were forever in the people of Al-Kalabar. As the call of Ptra’s priest is to the believer an anchor on which he secures the ordering of his day, Yasmir al-Mahres was the rock that secured the people of the white-walled city.

Many a man whose childhood had been misery and harshness had in his heart an undying little flame of gratitude for the haven of peace and joy that were those evenings; for the times when, while the old man told them of the mysteries, djinns and spirits that slept in the sea of sand, they had cried, trembled and laughed; clutching in their hands some treat given by the merchant. Peppers, stingy and burning and yet delicious to mouths that knew only fish and wheat porridge. Thymes from the west, to chew with delight. And sometimes, when old al-Mahres was celebrating, tiny crystals of sweet, sweet sugar from far in the north, from the lands of the infidels.

Read the rest of this entry →