You Can Run

History and Anecdotes

Once they'd buried the dead and offered a funeral prayer for them which Pierre opted to stay out of; the village elder, a greying man in his late forties, called them all to attention. "Brothers and sisters," he called out, "in our presence stand Pierre and Abru, descendants of Bibi Arezzo and her husband, who had left this village nearly a century ago. They have come with knowledge of the outside world, its politics and diplomacy, oppression and freedom, revolts and treaties, to aid us, in our struggle against the Ethirean djinns." Pierre wondered what Ethirean was, and if that was the most powerful kind of djinn they'd be facing, as the villagers turned towards the back of the mosque, some standing on their knees to catch a glimpse of Abru and himself. Abru pressed her back against the wall and folded her hands as she sat cross-legged, choosing to stare at her lap instead.

"To show our gratitude," the elder continued, causing the villagers to turn back to face him, and those that were kneeling, to turn back and sit cross-legged again, "I have decided that we should welcome them with a feast in their honour. All men will gather at the mosque after 'Isha for the feast. Women, you can begin cooking now itself." The elder ended unceremoniously, and Abru cracked her knuckles beside Pierre as the crowd dispersed.

"What?" Pierre raised an eyebrow. Abru mocked the elder and scoffed. "Women you can begin cooking, how about they cook him instead?"

"What do you mean, who else would cook the food?" Pierre asked, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Abru rolled her eyes.

"Why can't both men and women help in cooking the food? There's approximately 150 people here, wouldn't it be easier if the men helped out as well?" She raised. Pierre tried to come up with an appropriate answer, but all he could say was:

"Men can't cook,"

"They can if they learn." Abru countered, getting off the carpet and tucked loose hair back in her head veil. "Women weren't exactly born knowing how to chop onions or peel potatoes."

Pierre considered her words. Abru was right; but then why had he never heard of men cooking? The only man he'd known that had no problem getting into the kitchen was James, the baker back home. "I suppose not," Pierre muttered, getting up as well. Just then, Esmaael and Meryem, walked towards them.

"We're going to stay and help with the preparations," Esmaael informed them. "Do you both know the way back home?"

"We'd like to stay and help out instead," Abru asserted, not letting Pierre speak for himself. "It would be rude of us not to."

Esmaael and Meryem looked taken aback. "O-of course," Meryem granted, uncertainly. "If you feel up to it, you could come and help out, I suppose."

"Thank you, Meryem, we really appreciate it." Abru plastered a smile on her chubby face.

"Actually, oof–" Pierre grunted as Abru stomped his foot with the strength of a full-grown man.

"Let's go, then." Meryem chuckled. Esmaael beckoned for Pierre to follow and Meryem took Abru's hand, leading her towards a different part of the mosque.

Esmaael and Pierre set down the long wooden table, which was supported by short, spindly legs, causing one to sit on the floor in order to eat on them. Pierre moved back as Ebd Sebor and another boy, one of Dema's younger brothers, Ebd Hekim, placed cushions to sit on near the table.

"Esmaael, can I ask you a question?" Pierre started, placing wooden plates and spoons onto the table. "How exactly did this village end up under the tyranny of these... djinn?"

Esmaael looked up from where he was placing a wooden tumbler on the table. He glanced nervously at the boys who were now playing with some cushions and took a deep breath.