Balaam
The market place was buzzing early that morning. Rugs were laid out along the street, covered with all manner of fruits, vegetables, figs, and nuts. Tables were piled high with fabrics. In small tents and stalls, craftsmen showcased ornate jewelry and stones, as well as fine dishes and goblets. Herders corralled livestock to be butchered or sheered. Merchants called out over one another, fighting for the shoppers’ attentions. Amid the bustle and the morning heat, a lean but strong traveler led his donkey through the crowded street.
His name was Aman. He tended to a small vineyard on the other side of the mountain and normally would have brought his wine here to sell. His skin was tanned from a life in the sun, and his hands cracked and cut from working the vines. His feet stained from years of stomping juice from the sweet grapes. His robes were tattered and worn, showing the signs of working the land for survival.
It pained Aman that on a day when the bazaar was overflowing with shoppers he was not there to conduct business. As it was, he barely earned enough money to provide the basic needs of his family and few animals they kept. He wiped his sweating brow on his sleeve and took a sparing sip of water from the skin slung over his shoulder.
Atop the shaggy brown donkey, a form wrapped in a blanket swayed with the trudging of the beast. It was a young girl, the winemaker’s daughter. Her name was Farideh. She was nine years old. Her black hair was pasted to her face with sweat. Her eyes were opaque and barely open. The girl was sick. Her father offered her the skin but she was too weak to lift her hands to take it. Aman stopped the donkey and held the skin to her lips and poured water into her mouth. Gently he tipped her head back to make her drink.
“My poor child,” he whispered, fighting tears. “My dear Fari.”
His child’s head slumped forward and drops of warm water ran down her cracked lips. She made no sound and showed little signs of consciousness. Weeks ago she’d complained of not feeling well. It progressed over days and weeks. All the locals said surely it was just some fever and would pass. Since then it had only gotten worse. His young girl, the jewel of his eye who used to twirl about the vineyard and sang songs to him as he worked was now but a breathing corpse.
No local doctors could offer any hope. Frustrated and desperate Aman decided to follow a rumor to a part of the market not often visited by respectable traders.
Aman wound his way through the streets until he found the rug he was looking for. A young, scarecrow of a man sat cross-legged behind the carpet. A strange array of dried plants and leaves bundled in small arrangements were set out before him. Aman had never heard his name first hand, but Bashu was what the other merchants called him. It was a Persian word for lizard. Aman saw it was an appropriate title.
Bashu looked up and saw the winemaker and his daughter. He grinned a wide crescent smile, revealing a number of black holes where teeth had rotted away. His pink tongue flicked in and out of the empty spaces. His skin was pocked and burnt by the sun. He raised a dirty hand to push the stringy black hair off his face.
“Ah, yes. Yesss,” Bashu hissed. “You came after all. Yes, yes. I knew you would.”
“You said you know of a doctor,” said Aman.
He did not even like speaking to such a man. There were many rumors about this merchant and the products he peddled. It was well reported that Bashu had damaged his mind partaking of his own wares. He was also said to be a thief and perhaps even a murderer. Aman wanted no part of him. Nor did he like bringing his beloved daughter any where near this man. However, to make her healthy again he was willing to do anything.
“Where is he?”
The merchant stood up slowly and wagged a finger at Aman. The tip of it was burned and calloused.
“Not so fast, my friend,” he grinned. “Nothing is free in the market, yes, yes? Not even directions.”
“My daughter is sick,” Aman snapped.
“Then I’d think you’d be willing to pay and pay quickly to someone who can help,” he answered.
Aman’s stern face fell soft. This scoundrel was correct. Reluctantly he reached inside his robe for the small purse tied to his sash. He fished out a gold coin he’d been saving.
“Very well,” he said, hesitating a moment before laying it in Bahsu’s outstretched palm. Seeing his money in such a filthy claw disgusted Aman. “Now tell me!”
“Alright then,” he said, holding the coin up in the sunlight before depositing it inside his robe. “You must go to the river.”
“The river?” Aman asked.
“Yes, another three hours travel,” he went on. “You will find a hut.”
“How will I know which one it is?”
“There is only one house there. You will know it when you see it. It is not fit for men to live in.”
Aman thought that was some statement from such a reptile as this.
“Yes, yes. The hut is on the muddiest bank of the river,” he continued. “It looks as though it was molded right up from the muck and slime.”
“And this is the home of a doctor?” Aman asked suspiciously.
“Oh yes, yes. An amazing doctor,” he said. “Perhaps, it is said, a sorcerer. He can cure any sickness. He knows medicines and spells. He will mix her a potion that will have her dancing again. That is of course, for a price. You do have more money with you, yes?”
“Of course I do,” said Aman. “You told me he requires gold, didn’t you? I am prepared to pay all I have to heal my child.”
The merchant smiled. “Good. Very good.”
His eyes wandered away from Aman and gazed at something across the street. He seemed to nod just slightly. Aman was certain he even heard Bashu whisper the word yes.
Aman whipped his head around to see what Bashu was looking at.
Three rough and tattered young men lounging between two tents quickly rose and began shuffling away down the street. Every few seconds one of them would look back toward Aman and then his eyes would dart away. Aman looked back to Bashu with a raised eyebrow.
“This information had better be good,” Aman growled.
He peeled back a section of his robe to reveal a curved dagger at his hip.
“As I said, I would pay any price to heal my child. And I would just as sure slit the throat of any street devil that would play games with her life. Do not question the limits of a desperate father. He has none.”
“Yes, yes. Of course, good sir,” Bashu cowered, his spacious grin fading. “But I would suggest you get going now. The sun is high and must be very hot on your poor daughter’s head. Go quickly. That way. Straight through town.”
He pointed off past the end of the market. The same way the three thugs had headed.
Aman tugged at the reigns around the donkey’s snout and begrudgingly it lifted its hooves.
They trudged forward through the crowd towards the end of the tent city. Aman kept a watchful eye on the three boys just a few yards ahead. There was treachery in the air.
He grit his teeth and clutched at the handle of his dagger. Were he alone, he might run them down and challenge them. But not with his precious child. He’d never dare place her in harm’s way. Within a few minutes he was nearing the end of the market. He realized he had lost sight of the three men. That made him nervous.
Soon Aman and his child were well beyond the marketplace and reached the end of town. There were only a few huts and stalls here that were deserted and crumbling around them selves. Tucked in among them was a dilapidated old stable which appeared long abandoned as well. This was the dark end of town.
No merchants came here any more. Only the poor and the sick. They sought refuge in these deserted structures. When the bazaar closed, the beggars and the pick-pockets would return, Aman thought. Best not to doddle. He wiped his forehead and gazed out ahead.
Rough desert terrain rolled out before them. Just beige sand for miles and miles. The heat vapors danced off the ground and gave the air a mischievous life. It would be a long hot walk to the river. This doctor had better be there, he thought. He gave the reigns a tug to signal his donkey to carry on.
The donkey jerked his head.
“Come along Hadi,” Aman ordered. “Let’s go.”
Again he gave the lead a firm tug. The animal dug his hooves into the ground. He did not wish to go on.
Aman ran his hand across the donkey’s tan snout and through his chocolate mane. Fari had named the animal Hadi when he was a foal. He was now nearly seven.
“Hadi,” he spoke into the animal’s long ear, “I am not in the mood. Get moving. You have always been a faithful creature. Would you now force me to find a reed and make you move?”
Hadi huffed and yanked his head away from his master’s hand. The donkey stomped his hoof. Aman became angry and cracked the rein against the animal’s snout.
“Stop this Hadi,” he said. “We must get moving!”
From the corner of his eye, Aman saw a flash of movement. He snapped his head around and saw the edge of a shadow disappear around a mud hut. Aman reached in to his robe and wrapped his fingers around his knife. They were not alone.
He suspected he knew what or who was hiding behind that little building. It was just the right size to hide three young men planning to attack a lone traveler and his sick child.
Aman quickly realized he’d been deceived. There was no doctor by the river at all. Bashu had led him far enough from the busy market that no one would see or hear what was to come next.
Slowly but deliberately, Aman drew his dagger from its sheath and held it out. The sun gleamed off the blade, a warning he hoped to any would-be robbers.
Aman felt a tug at his elbow. He looked back to see Hadi biting down on his sleeve and pulling at it.
“What are you doing crazy animal?” he growled.
Hadi pulled and began to back away, the garment still clenched in his teeth.
“Not now Hadi!”
The donkey let go. He turned away and began to trot away with his precious cargo atop his back. He moved with a speed and determination Aman had never seen in any donkey.
“Where are you going?” Aman called out.
He gave a nervous glance back to the hut only a few yards away. They were lying in wait. As soon as he passed, Aman knew they would spring out. There was no sense in taking another step forward. Aman was strong and sure of his blade, but not against these odds. Clearly there was no help for them across the desert. Now it was only his daughter’s immediate safety that mattered.
Hadi was trotting off towards the old stable across the road. His instinct must have told him it was a place to find shelter. Aman followed at a nervous pace, looking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed.
When he reached the stable door, Hadi was waiting for him, pawing at the ground. Aman picked his daughter off Hadi’s back and ushered the animal inside. He held Fari tight to his chest and ducked in.
Aman immediately noticed a manger packed with hay which he laid her carefully across like a crude bed. He stroked his daughter’s brow, watching as Hadi disappeared into the darkness of the barn. Fari’s breathing was shallow and raspy. Aman’s heart broke with each pained exhale.
He went back to the doorway and pulled the heavy door closed, struggling to pull the rusted latch locking them inside. Between two rotting boards of the door was just enough space to peer through. Aman watched as the three men appeared from their hiding place. They were looking in every direction and scratching their heads with confusion. Aman even caught a glimpse of a blade being held low at the side of one thug.
“By God,” Aman growled, “I will find Bashu and I will have his head.”
“Not in this house,” came a firm female voice from the darkness of the barn.
(Bart Scott, 10/22/09)
The market place was buzzing early that morning. Rugs were laid out along the street, covered with all manner of fruits, vegetables, figs, and nuts. Tables were piled high with fabrics. In small tents and stalls, craftsmen showcased ornate jewelry and stones, as well as fine dishes and goblets. Herders corralled livestock to be butchered or sheered. Merchants called out over one another, fighting for the shoppers’ attentions. Amid the bustle and the morning heat, a lean but strong traveler led his donkey through the crowded street.
His name was Aman. He tended to a small vineyard on the other side of the mountain and normally would have brought his wine here to sell. His skin was tanned from a life in the sun, and his hands cracked and cut from working the vines. His feet stained from years of stomping juice from the sweet grapes. His robes were tattered and worn, showing the signs of working the land for survival.
It pained Aman that on a day when the bazaar was overflowing with shoppers he was not there to conduct business. As it was, he barely earned enough money to provide the basic needs of his family and few animals they kept. He wiped his sweating brow on his sleeve and took a sparing sip of water from the skin slung over his shoulder.
Atop the shaggy brown donkey, a form wrapped in a blanket swayed with the trudging of the beast. It was a young girl, the winemaker’s daughter. Her name was Farideh. She was nine years old. Her black hair was pasted to her face with sweat. Her eyes were opaque and barely open. The girl was sick. Her father offered her the skin but she was too weak to lift her hands to take it. Aman stopped the donkey and held the skin to her lips and poured water into her mouth. Gently he tipped her head back to make her drink.
“My poor child,” he whispered, fighting tears. “My dear Fari.”
His child’s head slumped forward and drops of warm water ran down her cracked lips. She made no sound and showed little signs of consciousness. Weeks ago she’d complained of not feeling well. It progressed over days and weeks. All the locals said surely it was just some fever and would pass. Since then it had only gotten worse. His young girl, the jewel of his eye who used to twirl about the vineyard and sang songs to him as he worked was now but a breathing corpse.
No local doctors could offer any hope. Frustrated and desperate Aman decided to follow a rumor to a part of the market not often visited by respectable traders.
Aman wound his way through the streets until he found the rug he was looking for. A young, scarecrow of a man sat cross-legged behind the carpet. A strange array of dried plants and leaves bundled in small arrangements were set out before him. Aman had never heard his name first hand, but Bashu was what the other merchants called him. It was a Persian word for lizard. Aman saw it was an appropriate title.
Bashu looked up and saw the winemaker and his daughter. He grinned a wide crescent smile, revealing a number of black holes where teeth had rotted away. His pink tongue flicked in and out of the empty spaces. His skin was pocked and burnt by the sun. He raised a dirty hand to push the stringy black hair off his face.
“Ah, yes. Yesss,” Bashu hissed. “You came after all. Yes, yes. I knew you would.”
“You said you know of a doctor,” said Aman.
He did not even like speaking to such a man. There were many rumors about this merchant and the products he peddled. It was well reported that Bashu had damaged his mind partaking of his own wares. He was also said to be a thief and perhaps even a murderer. Aman wanted no part of him. Nor did he like bringing his beloved daughter any where near this man. However, to make her healthy again he was willing to do anything.
“Where is he?”
The merchant stood up slowly and wagged a finger at Aman. The tip of it was burned and calloused.
“Not so fast, my friend,” he grinned. “Nothing is free in the market, yes, yes? Not even directions.”
“My daughter is sick,” Aman snapped.
“Then I’d think you’d be willing to pay and pay quickly to someone who can help,” he answered.
Aman’s stern face fell soft. This scoundrel was correct. Reluctantly he reached inside his robe for the small purse tied to his sash. He fished out a gold coin he’d been saving.
“Very well,” he said, hesitating a moment before laying it in Bahsu’s outstretched palm. Seeing his money in such a filthy claw disgusted Aman. “Now tell me!”
“Alright then,” he said, holding the coin up in the sunlight before depositing it inside his robe. “You must go to the river.”
“The river?” Aman asked.
“Yes, another three hours travel,” he went on. “You will find a hut.”
“How will I know which one it is?”
“There is only one house there. You will know it when you see it. It is not fit for men to live in.”
Aman thought that was some statement from such a reptile as this.
“Yes, yes. The hut is on the muddiest bank of the river,” he continued. “It looks as though it was molded right up from the muck and slime.”
“And this is the home of a doctor?” Aman asked suspiciously.
“Oh yes, yes. An amazing doctor,” he said. “Perhaps, it is said, a sorcerer. He can cure any sickness. He knows medicines and spells. He will mix her a potion that will have her dancing again. That is of course, for a price. You do have more money with you, yes?”
“Of course I do,” said Aman. “You told me he requires gold, didn’t you? I am prepared to pay all I have to heal my child.”
The merchant smiled. “Good. Very good.”
His eyes wandered away from Aman and gazed at something across the street. He seemed to nod just slightly. Aman was certain he even heard Bashu whisper the word yes.
Aman whipped his head around to see what Bashu was looking at.
Three rough and tattered young men lounging between two tents quickly rose and began shuffling away down the street. Every few seconds one of them would look back toward Aman and then his eyes would dart away. Aman looked back to Bashu with a raised eyebrow.
“This information had better be good,” Aman growled.
He peeled back a section of his robe to reveal a curved dagger at his hip.
“As I said, I would pay any price to heal my child. And I would just as sure slit the throat of any street devil that would play games with her life. Do not question the limits of a desperate father. He has none.”
“Yes, yes. Of course, good sir,” Bashu cowered, his spacious grin fading. “But I would suggest you get going now. The sun is high and must be very hot on your poor daughter’s head. Go quickly. That way. Straight through town.”
He pointed off past the end of the market. The same way the three thugs had headed.
Aman tugged at the reigns around the donkey’s snout and begrudgingly it lifted its hooves.
They trudged forward through the crowd towards the end of the tent city. Aman kept a watchful eye on the three boys just a few yards ahead. There was treachery in the air.
He grit his teeth and clutched at the handle of his dagger. Were he alone, he might run them down and challenge them. But not with his precious child. He’d never dare place her in harm’s way. Within a few minutes he was nearing the end of the market. He realized he had lost sight of the three men. That made him nervous.
Soon Aman and his child were well beyond the marketplace and reached the end of town. There were only a few huts and stalls here that were deserted and crumbling around them selves. Tucked in among them was a dilapidated old stable which appeared long abandoned as well. This was the dark end of town.
No merchants came here any more. Only the poor and the sick. They sought refuge in these deserted structures. When the bazaar closed, the beggars and the pick-pockets would return, Aman thought. Best not to doddle. He wiped his forehead and gazed out ahead.
Rough desert terrain rolled out before them. Just beige sand for miles and miles. The heat vapors danced off the ground and gave the air a mischievous life. It would be a long hot walk to the river. This doctor had better be there, he thought. He gave the reigns a tug to signal his donkey to carry on.
The donkey jerked his head.
“Come along Hadi,” Aman ordered. “Let’s go.”
Again he gave the lead a firm tug. The animal dug his hooves into the ground. He did not wish to go on.
Aman ran his hand across the donkey’s tan snout and through his chocolate mane. Fari had named the animal Hadi when he was a foal. He was now nearly seven.
“Hadi,” he spoke into the animal’s long ear, “I am not in the mood. Get moving. You have always been a faithful creature. Would you now force me to find a reed and make you move?”
Hadi huffed and yanked his head away from his master’s hand. The donkey stomped his hoof. Aman became angry and cracked the rein against the animal’s snout.
“Stop this Hadi,” he said. “We must get moving!”
From the corner of his eye, Aman saw a flash of movement. He snapped his head around and saw the edge of a shadow disappear around a mud hut. Aman reached in to his robe and wrapped his fingers around his knife. They were not alone.
He suspected he knew what or who was hiding behind that little building. It was just the right size to hide three young men planning to attack a lone traveler and his sick child.
Aman quickly realized he’d been deceived. There was no doctor by the river at all. Bashu had led him far enough from the busy market that no one would see or hear what was to come next.
Slowly but deliberately, Aman drew his dagger from its sheath and held it out. The sun gleamed off the blade, a warning he hoped to any would-be robbers.
Aman felt a tug at his elbow. He looked back to see Hadi biting down on his sleeve and pulling at it.
“What are you doing crazy animal?” he growled.
Hadi pulled and began to back away, the garment still clenched in his teeth.
“Not now Hadi!”
The donkey let go. He turned away and began to trot away with his precious cargo atop his back. He moved with a speed and determination Aman had never seen in any donkey.
“Where are you going?” Aman called out.
He gave a nervous glance back to the hut only a few yards away. They were lying in wait. As soon as he passed, Aman knew they would spring out. There was no sense in taking another step forward. Aman was strong and sure of his blade, but not against these odds. Clearly there was no help for them across the desert. Now it was only his daughter’s immediate safety that mattered.
Hadi was trotting off towards the old stable across the road. His instinct must have told him it was a place to find shelter. Aman followed at a nervous pace, looking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed.
When he reached the stable door, Hadi was waiting for him, pawing at the ground. Aman picked his daughter off Hadi’s back and ushered the animal inside. He held Fari tight to his chest and ducked in.
Aman immediately noticed a manger packed with hay which he laid her carefully across like a crude bed. He stroked his daughter’s brow, watching as Hadi disappeared into the darkness of the barn. Fari’s breathing was shallow and raspy. Aman’s heart broke with each pained exhale.
He went back to the doorway and pulled the heavy door closed, struggling to pull the rusted latch locking them inside. Between two rotting boards of the door was just enough space to peer through. Aman watched as the three men appeared from their hiding place. They were looking in every direction and scratching their heads with confusion. Aman even caught a glimpse of a blade being held low at the side of one thug.
“By God,” Aman growled, “I will find Bashu and I will have his head.”
“Not in this house,” came a firm female voice from the darkness of the barn.
(Bart Scott, 10/22/09)
