Chapter VI

They sat in silent, awkward amusement of one another, as if each of them were hoping the other would suddenly burst into some explanation of what they had just read. She knew very well the name of the central star of Orion’s belt, she had after all, named him after it.

“Alnilam”, she said, her voice trembling. “What does it all mean?”

“I don’t know”, he replied. “There is something in the dreams of the desert.”

Winter in the desert had brought along with it, the soft, fat, clumps of white cloud that now sailed lazily through its sky.

“Where is the nomad?” he asked.

“Oh”, she said. “He’s waiting for Thalam.”

“Thalam?”

“Our remaining family member”, she replied, pointing at the sky. “He always comes in the winter, when the clouds are here”.

Then, a stark black dot was visible on the splotches of white cloud. It moved swiftly and gracefully, and Esma followed it closely with her eyes.

“Thalam”, she said, pointing at it. “He leaves us in the summer, when it gets too hot for him, but he always comes back in the winter. He likes to show off. He’ll be wanting to make his usual, grand entrance”.

The peregrine falcon soared high and circled twice, before making a steep dive downward, and disappearing somewhere behind a dune, south of the village. Esma stood up.

“We should go to them. Father will want you with him on the first hunt. We can ask him about the journal together, when the three of you return. He always knows what to say.”

She moved to the back of the house and appeared a moment later, carrying firewood bundled in a rope, and a flask filled with water, and handed them to him.

“Promise me”, she said. “Promise you won’t talk to him about it before you come back. I want to be there”.

Alnilam nodded, took the items from her, and they began to walk in the direction of where the falcon had disappeared.

He thought about what he had read to Esma while he walked. They were outside the village now, and they could see the nomad in the distance, who appeared overjoyed. The falcon rested on his arm, occasionally spreading its wings to balance itself. The nomad was stroking the back of its head and laughing.

He saw them now. “Come!” he shouted invitingly.

“Thalam!” cried Esma, and hastened towards the nomad. The falcon spread its wings again, as if it wanted to give Esma a hug, and then closed them again.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you!” she said.

“You brought firewood. Excellent!” said the nomad. “Come, wanderer. Thalam is keen for a hunt, you can see it in his eyes”.

“Be safe, father” said Esma, and embraced the nomad, who kissed his daughter’s forehead in return. “And take care of Alnilam. I’m afraid I’ve begun to rather enjoy his company”, she added, shyly.

“Goodbye!” she exclaimed, and began hastily towards the village.

The nomad sighed as he watched his daughter return home. Alnilam, in the meantime examined the falcon, which was resting on the nomad’s arm. He could now see that it was not directly on his arm but rather on a cotton and leather sleeve that the nomad was wearing on his wrist. It stood with its chest pushed proudly outwards. Its wings were black, and its chest white with black spots. Its eyes stared directly into Alnilam’s – it had eyes that were strong, but not unfriendly – like those of a protective father’s.

“It’s very beautiful”, said Alnilam.

“He”, corrected the nomad. “His name is Thalam”.

“Thalam”, he nodded to the falcon in acknowledgement. He could see that the Bedouins were very serious about treating their falcons as family. Alnilam carried the firewood and followed the nomad as they began to walk. He felt tempted to speak to the nomad about the contents of Lyla’s journal, but he refrained - he had promised Esma, and a man is defined by his word.

Soon they were in the familiar vastness of the desert. Like soft, endless mountaintops, the dunes were in every direction.

“What will we hunt?” he asked.

“I do not know”, replied the nomad, with a friendly smile. “Only what He has written for us”, he added, gesturing upwards with his eyes. “Perhaps we will not catch anything, and our journey will have an entirely different purpose altogether. This is not for us to know yet”.

“People who are suffering, nomad, are usually the one’s who have such strong faith in purpose”, Alnilam responded. He had hoped that this would encourage the nomad to speak to him of Lyla – if he could not discuss her journal, then he at least wanted to know more about her.

“Without suffering there is no joy, wanderer”

“I never took you for one to torture cliché’s, nomad. You have to take the good with the bad? And so on?” he replied in disappointment. “Also, I do have a name now, you know. You don’t need to keep calling me ‘wanderer’”, he added.

“We’re all wanderers at one point or another, Alnilam. Also, you misunderstand me”, he said, and paused briefly to look him in the eyes, before looking ahead. “Without suffering, we learn nothing. We do not grow. Joy does not appear simply because of the absence of suffering. It is the suffering that causes us to move in the difficult path towards that which is truly joyful”.

He was now looking him in the eyes again.

“A doctor can create a machine, that helps to ease the suffering of many of his patients, but you would not consider that machine to be compassionate. No, for that, some suffering is required on its part. Equally, the poor man does not love the wealthy man for his small donation; he loves the one who would share half of the only loaf of bread they own with him. Why? We love those whom would suffer for us, and we suffer for those whom we love. How would you even know love without suffering? It is born from it. A mother loves her child before even knowing them. She suffers nine months carrying it, and suffers once again in childbirth, for someone she does not know. Why, wanderer? People avoid suffering because they do not understand its purpose. Their common conclusion once they’re in a better place is that, ‘I wish I would have done something sooner to avoid my past suffering’. But, simply, without suffering, they would never have taken the necessary actions to be in the place where they are now, and they would not have known love, nor joy.”

Alnilam considered this as they walked.

It was now five hours past noon, and they had stopped. The nomad had released Thalam, who was soaring high above them, scouting for prey. He was watching the falcon closely, and was distracted from his travelling companion.

Alnilam, was tired, and had discovered a large rock, about fifteen feet away from where they were standing, which was barely adequate in size to function as a seat. He approached it, put the firewood down beside him and sat down on the rock. It was a good two or three minutes before the nomad noticed him. Although they were a significant distance away from each other, Alnilam was still able to make out the nomad’s horrified expression. The old man broke into a sprint towards him – something, was clearly wrong. Alnilam looked down.

You never forget the first time you see an Arabian fat-tailed scorpion, and it was already halfway up his leg. He was sitting on its home.

Its thick, black, shiny tail was terrifying, and upright. Its stinger, aimed forward, looked for a place to bury its venom. It moved further up, slowly. Alnilam dared not move.

The nomad reached him. He was breathing heavily, and in the space of time it takes to form an instant, he smacked the scorpion off Alnilam’s leg with the cotton and leather sleeve he was wearing. The scorpion fell to the ground and scurried away.

A lot can happen in an instant, and it was such, that in that particular instant, the scorpion, had chosen to bury its venom in the nomad’s arm, just above the sleeve he wore on his wrist.

The nomad fell backwards. Still breathing heavily, he looked at Alnilam and smiled, then examined where the scorpion had stung him.

“Alnilam, come here”, he said, very serious now. Alnilam, trembling, approached him.

“Esma”, said the nomad. “You owe her something of yourself. Always look after her, and she will always look after you.”

“We have to go back!” interrupted Alnilam.

“Listen to me”, replied the nomad. “In a few minutes, I will be gone. Here, take this”, he said, handing him the cotton and leather sleeve. “You, Esma, Thalam, you have no-one else but each other. Take care of one another. Understand?”

Alnilam nodded. The nomad’s breathing was now rapid and shallow, and he lay down, and closed his eyes.

“This is your place, Alnilam”, he said. “A place to call home, where you are loved, that is all you really need. Do not wander too far from it”.

The nomads breathing now slowed.

“I…I don’t even know where we are… I don’t know how to get home…” he muttered, with false strength.

He felt the swelling in his eyes, the sharp tightening in his throat, and the heavy, unconquerable weight that settled on his chest. He crumbled to his knees. There was a shrill, unintended gasp, and he began to cry.

The nomad was gone.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry…” he said.

He was lost, and afraid.