Chapter III

“Wake up. Tea is ready”, he heard the all-too familiar voice of the nomad say.

“Where…where did she go?” he said, in a panic-stricken voice.

“Where did who go, wanderer?”

“The name-giver, she was here! The lake…”

It had taken him a moment to realize that he was now inside the tent where he had initially met the nomad. He scampered outside, trying not to lose his balance on the soft, impressionable sand.

“Where have you taken me, demon!” he demanded.

The nomad followed him outside of the tent and in a slightly worried and confused tone asked, “what are you talking about, wanderer?”

Could it possibly have all been a dream, he thought. No, it was still night-time, the sun had not risen, and he still had no name.

“Do not toy with my mind, nomad”, he said. “The sun has not risen and if you are truthful then tell me, what is my name?”

“Yes, you slept all through the day dear friend, and I did not wish to wake you. As for your name, well…you never told it to me.”

“No, she was here, I saw her…I…”

He paused to attend to the embarrassment that he now felt, as he had conceded now that he had probably simply had a strange and vivid dream.

“I apologize”, he said.

“No need. Shall we go inside and enjoy the tea?”

“Yes”, he replied, and followed the nomad back into the tent.

They were both silent as they drank their tea, the old man staring at him, displaying concern. He could clearly see that the old man was assessing the sanity of his guest. Although he had now accepted that the events that had occurred were a fabrication of his mind, one thing still troubled him – he still did not know his own name. Still in a state of questioning, it suddenly occurred to him – the nomad had not revealed his own name, and had told him something about losing it.

“What is your name?” he asked as politely and as calmly as he could manage, to mask both his anxiety and excitement.

The nomad sat upright, took a deep breath and smiled. “You may call me Bu-Esma”, he said. Father of Esma.

The nomad seemed very pleased with himself, as if, by saying his daughter’s name, he had just revealed his life’s greatest achievement. He could see in the nomad’s eyes that he was a man who profoundly loved his daughter.

“In the morning”, the nomad said. “I shall return to my village, and you are welcome to come with me, wanderer. You shall be my guest”, the nomad paused for a moment and added, “but no more talk of demons. The desert is a strange and powerful place, and talk of its strangeness is not particularly encouraged among the people of the desert.”

In the morning, he thought. He almost wanted to warn the nomad that the sun would not rise. But, just then, the sun cracked the surface of the horizon and the first slivers of morning had seeped into the tent. He was now convinced, and there would be no more talk of his strange experience.

They ate bread and cheese and drank water, and then put out the fire and dismantled the tent. He offered to carry it as he was grateful to the nomad for his generosity and his patience, and the nomad allowed him to. As they walked, he was still thinking deeply about the events of the night before, or at least, the events that he thought had occurred to him on the night before.

They were in the beginning weeks of winter, and by noon, although the air was cool around them, and carried a pleasant breeze, the relentless desert sun was strong, and was now beating down on them. Every bead of sweat that trickled down his face was a heavy reminder of the sun’s presence, and the insanity of what he thought he had witnessed.

It was just after noon now, and the nomad’s village was coming into sight. There were a dozen or so mud houses scattered more or less evenly across a flat plain. There were palm trees in between the houses, and they concentrated along the eastern edge, which caressed a body of water that was not unlike that of his dream.

He followed the nomad into the village, and he led him to the house that was closest to the edge of the water. Outside the house was a small mud fence that housed several goats and sheep.

“You can give me those now”, said the nomad, relieving him of the items he was carrying.

“Esma should be back later with milk and bread. In the meantime, you may help me prepare the food.”

The nomad took one of his goats and slaughtered it, and the wanderer tried as best as he could, with the instruction of the nomad, to help. He felt guilty that the nomad had slaughtered one of his goats for him, and he knew that he had done it only because there was a guest present. But, his hunger prevailed and he did not protest.

The sun was setting now and the moon was visible as well as a few stars. They had completed the task of butchering the animal and moved to the rear of the house, where there was a straw shade. Under the shade was a crimson-coloured carpet, surrounded by wool cushions of the same colour, which were the same as the two from the tent. The cushions were arranged in such a way that whoever sat on them would be facing the water. They dug a shallow hole in the sand ahead of the shade, and in it they started a fire to cook the meat. By this time, night had fallen, and he and the nomad retired to the cushions to wait for the meat to cook.

They heard the sound of the door open at the front of the house, and the nomad stood up.

“That’ll be Esma”, he said, with a proud parental smile, and walked to the front of the house to greet his daughter.

He was now alone, and wanted to use the time to think about his dream, but he was quickly interrupted by the voices of the nomad and his daughter, which were now becoming louder. First, the nomad appeared, laughing and seeming relaxed.

“Come, Esma. Meet our guest. He is indeed a little strange but a good companion, nonetheless”, he said.

Then, she appeared. From behind the corner emerged the bare-footed Bedouin girl that left him both stunned and speechless. She was wearing an Arabian dress that was green and gold, which complemented well with her long, dark, auburn hair. She was especially beautiful now with the moonlight reflected in her autumn-coloured eyes. There was no mistaking it, before him stood the woman he had encountered in his dream.

They all sat together and ate, the nomad and his daughter spoke casually and laughed, and the wanderer did his best not to stare at the nomad’s daughter. Sometimes she would catch his eye and she would smile, which would make him embarrassed, and he would forget about the strangeness he was feeling towards his predicament.

When they had finished eating, the nomad stood up and placed a kettle onto the fire, but excused himself to go inside to sleep before the tea was ready, leaving the wanderer alone in the company of the nomad’s daughter. There was a brief silence between them that was quickly interrupted by her saying, “Ah, tea is ready.” He smiled as he noted to himself the remarkable similarity between the girl and her father, in the modulation of their tones as they spoke. She poured the tea, and they talked together and laughed for a long time. She was intelligent, and humorous, and the wanderer found himself becoming very fond of the barefooted Bedouin girl. Eventually, they found themselves lying on the sand, beside the water, looking up at the stars.

“Aren’t they beautiful”, she said. “I find it odd that you have yet to tell me your name.”

He wanted to tell her about the experience he had the night before, but decided instead to refrain. “I don’t have a name”, he said.

“Well that’s just silly”, she replied. “Everyone has to have a name”, she looked up, pointed at the sky, specifically towards the central star of the three that form Orion’s belt and said, “Alnilam. That shall be your name.”

He now had a name.