Chapter 6 - Creating Meaning

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For several days, servants left trays of food at Ghazi's door, only to return a few hours later to retrieve the same trays, untouched. Weeks later, Ghazi could hardly say that things had returned to normal. Watching the extermination of an entire people is, undoubtedly, a formative experience. As the days turned into weeks, however, and the singeing Levantine summer gave way to the cool autumn air, he thought about the events in Amman less and less. Nawfel had once told him that their word for human, Insan, came from the Arabic word for forgetfulness. "The human forgets, and that is one of the Almighty's many blessings" Nawfel had said. He did not understand it at the time, the notion that forgetfulness could be a blessing. At the time it seemed more like a flaw of the human condition, rather than a than a strength. Amman changed all of that. He certainly counted forgetfulness as one of his many blessings now.

Truth be told, life in the capital was not awful once Ghazi gave up hope that his would be a life worth living. The faster he submitted to his role as a royal pawn, the easier it became to behave like one. To become a piece atop a chessboard was easier without the overbearing weight of hope.

As part of his new royal upbringing, his father and uncle arranged to have Ghazi taught by the very best Marwanad tutors in every possible discipline. They went as far as to provide these tutors with a permanent residence in the palace. Two mornings a week his father arranged for him to attend fencing practice with Barzan immediately after morning prayer. For the first few lessons, Ghazi found the simple act of gripping a sword to be foreign and uncomfortable. Still, he persisted. He persisted through the discomfort of the cold steel against his smooth uncalloused hands, which sent shivers through his entire body so early in the morning. He persisted through the struggle of simply lifting a sword and pointing it towards his opponent, only to have it smashed out of his hand moments later. But then, after hours of practice and superhuman patience from Barzan, Ghazi finally began to find fencing utterly unbearable. It was hopeless, he had the strength of a new born calf. His swings and thrusts oozed out of him like honey dripping from a suspended jar. His physical abilities, while laughable, were marvelous when compared with his lack of interest in actually striking an opponent.

Archery was no better, and Rami was a far less patient teacher than Barzan. After just two afternoon sessions, Marwan was forced to beg Rami not to quit after Ghazi nearly put an arrow through the instructor's backside. Though I imagine another accident may send the poor tutor running off for good next time.

It was in a state of complete and utter self loathing that Ghazi arrived at his Arabic tutor's living quarters. This tutor lived in the western side of the palace, his room stood at the top of an impossibly high flight of stairs. Ghazi dragged himself up, one pitiful step at a time. The staircase grew narrower as he reached the door, eventually closing in so tightly that the walls appeared narrower than the door itself. He knocked and waited, but no one answered the door. He paused for a few moments longer and knocked again. Perhaps he forgot? Perhaps he quit? Perhaps he suffocated in this strange corner of my uncle's palace. One can always hope. Outside, the wind howled and a little gap between the bricks let in just enough of the autumn air to make Ghazi uncomfortable. He could hear someone moving about on the other side of the door, but no one came to answer. Ghazi felt a bit of shame at his frustration at being forced to wait. He hated to see himself transform into a princeling, and yet he knew that was happening. Traveling about from one poor fool to the next at the behest of my uncle. Emotionless, thoughtless, and in a constant state of annoyance. It seems my transformation into a pawn is complete. He knocked again, firmer this time, with more authority, and the door opened on its own.

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