Kohled Eyes

Qaswa |Chapter Two

And so, in the scorching heat of mid-morning, we marched.
What was unique about this army was that it consisted of an infantry. Arab armies are usually made up of the cavalry and maybe, a few marching troops. (The desert - duh - it was hard enough to cross in rides, imagine foot.)But, there weren't enough rides, and hence the fifty and more marching men.
Another thing about Arab armies - they fight light. I was wearing an iron chainmail over the kurta, a scimitar hung loosely by my side and a simple round wooden shield was slung over my back- the only other defence being a helmet on top of my turbaned head. That's it ( the modest luggage of every marching soldier was with the cavalry ). This and the ancient Persians or Romans?
Those guys were as slow as turtles in their marches and what's more, they too carried (half their) homes on their backs.
Now, the Valley of Voices has been sighted. There, behind those mountains, lie a group of caravans, home to the most ruthless wolves that ever prowled the desert.
The horn was sounded; a wave of mad anger and vengeance in the form of men sweeped over the mountains, right into the midst of an army.
They've got their scouts too...

The wave never faltered though. It's like we no longer cared about ourselves.
Two minutes in and my shield was already bearing half a dozen arrows. As I rushed with the tide, I thought of Qaswa and a war cry emanated from my throat, so deadly, it even surprised me.
The things war can do to a man. It can take you and turn you into something you've never imagined possible of you. I never thought I had the heartlessness to kill, kill and keep killing. To massacre and continue. But apparently I did. Because that's what I did.
I slashed and whirled and parried and dodged and blocked and locked and cut and broke. Blood was splattered, moist and red, on my beard, face and dress. I was bleeding, yes. But this was no blood of mine.
As I pushed my way through, grabbing a sword from one of them and butchering the same one with it ( I had been disarmed a second ago by another one whose body was now searching for its head), I could feel the stares, and the opposing tide getting stronger as more men focused on me. But. I wasn't alone.
I only had Qaswa to drive me. Some of them had their wives, mothers, daughters and sons, at stake. I imagined my situation if my wife had been there. If my little ones had been here. And then, I regretted imagining. I exploded.

***
The war was over. I was washing my hands- hands that were now stained with the blood of fifty, more or less, lives - taking ablution to perform the evening prayer. I was hurt, but not badly. The entire Bani Namr had been put to the sword. But it wasn't without cost, we had lost twenty of our men as well. 

As I washed my face, the tears began to flow. A heart that was reputed to be hard. Molten. Eyes that had seldom been seen with tears. Crying.

I sat down and sobbed. There were many pats, encouraging words, consolations- no one tried to justify our position, even though we were not at fault. They were just normal farmers and merchants. They were going through the same things I was. But me, after all those tough years, this was the last straw, the dam was broke.
Something hairy brushed my ear. Expecting words, I remained as I was. Then, a grunt.
My camel, the camel. A gift from my wife.
Qaswa.
Qaswa! A bear hug was followed by a beautiful scene where rider reunited with ride. Human- animal relationships are beautiful. Yet this was a camel that lived up to it's name. This was my Qaswa. I was hugging her and crying and sobbing, I let my heart flow.
It took me a long time to compose myself. And when I did, I left Qaswa and walked to the encampment, to find that the congregation had been waiting without starting the prayer. They said me there were many people to come, but I didn't buy it. I could see the love in their eyes.
Next morning, on my beloved Qaswa, burdened with too many gifts and blessings, I set out, through the desert, again.

They never saw him again.

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First off - a big thank you to you guys for already touching ,or going to touch that tiny star which is such great support. Don't forget to criticise and suggest.
Secondly- I kinda want to say this. The Last Galley by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, is the book that gave me the idea to write stories in this format. It's such an amazing book, (it is available in iBooks). It isn't going too far to say that this book changed my very style of writing and thought process when writing.
Thirdly- any Arabic terms or names or anything, I don't include it off the top of my head if I can help it. If you think it isn't normal day to day stuff, google it,or comment it, coz it probably has a meaning or implication,
Qaswa is the name of the loyal camel of the Messenger of Allah, Muhammad ( may peace be upon him).
Lastly, the next update might take a longer time, sorry.
And thank you again for the support guys!