Nomads

Chapter 1, Pt 2- Mahha

The next evening, after he had wrapped up his business, he decided to walk along the shore again, half expecting to see Mahha. When he reached the beach, he didn’t find her there.

With a slight disappointment in his mind, he sat down on the sand. He took out his bamboo flute and began to play a soft, sweet, melody to feel peace.

He must have played for a few minutes when memories from his homeland slowly began to crawl into his thoughts, and when the nostalgia became too overwhelming, he stopped playing. He saw the setting sun and remembered how his mother would be waiting for his arrival from his sword fighting lesson. He would then go with his brothers, riding their horses across the setting sun behind the desert dunes, to their favorite mosque for the Maghrib salah.

“What caused the beautiful music to stop?” he heard a sweet, tangy voice from behind him. He recognized the voice immediately. He turned around to see Mahha standing just a few steps away, smiling at him, in the same dirty clothes, her big blue eyes displayed melancholy this time, her long curly hair was dirty with sand.
“Mahha”, he said, “I didn’t expect to see you here again.”

“Is that why you are sitting at the same place as yesterday, at the exact same time?” she taunted, smiling at him.

“I just like the sunset here.” Al Saqr said quickly, trying to hide his embarrassment.

She walked up to him and sat down. “Sure indeed.” She said.

They sat there quietly for a while, just looking at the sun. 

Al Saqr couldn’t help but notice that her condition had gotten worse.
“You don’t look well today.” He said.
Mahha just kept silent.

“What happened?” Al Saqr asked.

Mahha looked at him for a while, in annoyance.

“I cannot just go telling everything about my life to a stranger.” She said.
Al Saqr felt a sharp, short shoot through his chest. He did not let it show on his face. He raised his eyebrows and sighed. “I guess you’re right.” He said and smiled as he slid his flute in his bag and got up to leave.
She looked at him, with slight regret.
“Why are you leaving?” She asked.
“It has been a tiring day”, he said, “I need some rest.”

After he was gone, Mahha got up to leave too; it was supposed to be her first evening at work.

Al Saqr decided to go to the market to a food shop selling fried fish, which he had spotted when he was trading. He was on his way to the shop, and had just entered the market area when he felt a change in the wind. The wind blew faster and became cooler. The sky became dark as grey clouds started to blanket it. It was still dusk, but it felt as though it was already night time. He looked at the crowded market that had picked up pace. He stood there and observed birds that flew quickly to the trees. He felt a something small, wet and cold suddenly drop on his cheek. He looked up, nothing.

He started to walk slowly, and felt that same, cold, small wet drop on his hand, then an ear, then his neck; he looked up and a drop fell into one of his eyes. He rubbed his eye and looked up again. Hundreds of water drops, falling from the dark sky. He placed a hand on his forehead to shield his eyes from the drops, to see the rain. The hundreds of drops grew into thousands, and then a hundred thousand. He was getting wet, he was getting cold. But it didn’t matter to him; he felt he could get drenched in this all night.

He looked at the market, people were gone now. Only a few roamed in the streets, the others hidden in shops or under stall roofs. The stalls and shops had lit up candles in jars and glass lanterns; some even had sheltered wooden torches. The dim, orange-yellow glow of the torches and candles on the wet, stone market street and the pouring rain blurring the small lit shops all around were something way too beautiful for him to have ever imagined. He came from the hot desert sands of Arabia; rarely had he seen rain. But the short lived, dry rain in desert was something of no beauty compared to what he was witnessing.

He was getting wet, cold, and colder than he had ever been. He walked to the shop selling the fried fish. He sat down in the wooden shop, still drenched, and refused to wipe himself. He sat there, eating warm, spiced, fried fish. Drenched in the showers from heaven, watching the showers of heaven. He could think of nothing else then, even when he tried to think what had happened between him and Mahha, of what was happening back at his house in Arabia. He could think none of it, just the warm food, the cold rain and the beautiful street all glowing with water and dim light. It was at that very moment, that he knew, that he had fallen in love with the rain.