If your steadfastness pays off you’ll arrive in the city of Dahranjia before sunset and be one step closer to your final destination. For a moment, you lament the wealth your friends may have taken from you, but then you let bygones be bygones. That past—your material past—is behind you now. You’re never returning to that life, so perhaps they did you a favor by stripping you of the things that once bound you to it.
Yes, they betrayed you. But in truth, you would have given them everything anyway—you just didn’t have the mind to do it back then. And so, retroactively, you gift it all to them. You allow them, in your heart, to divide among themselves everything that once belonged to you.
Your muscles are killing you. You can’t go on without rest any longer. You don’t know the desert—and, as with all things unknown, you fear it. The sky begins to turn orange, and all you see around you is sand. Still, you refuse to despair. It’s not in your nature. Your have faith in your good fortune; you know it must eventually rise to meet your courage.
And so it does. You spot what appears to be a mirage shimmering ahead—but you’re not deceived. It isn’t a mirage, but a real oasis. Nestled within it are several small tents. You approach one and find an old man seated beside it, calmly sipping tea. He looks at you reassuringly, but before you can greet him, you collapse onto the sand from sheer exhaustion.
When you wake up, you’re tied to a palm tree. You look around in despair. Who are these people, and what do they want with you?
You don’t have to wonder for long. One of the Bedouins approaches and says:
— Greetings, foreigner. What brings you to our lands—or should I say, to our waters? — He gestures toward the vast expanse of greenery, dotted with countless wells sparkling in the desert light. — I apologize for the inconvenience, my friend, but precautions are necessary this deep into the desert. I’m sure you understand. We have a saying in Arabic: trust is the heart, but caution is the soul.
— I understand that I’m being held captive for crimes I neither committed nor intend to commit. I assure you, I’m nothing more than a weary traveler, seeking safe passage to Dahranjia. My journey ends in the distant city of Zalenica—perhaps you’ve heard of it?
— I have indeed, just as I’ve heard of the atrocities committed by the Slavs against my people.
— That was a long time ago—and we, I mean they, were only defending themselves against incursions from various tribes, including your ancestors.
— Memory is eternity, as we say in our tongue. You may have evolved into civility, foreigner, but we have not. We remain as savage as the desert sun, as volatile as drifting sand, as coarse as our rusted blades. — And saying this, he unsheathes his weapon—not rusted at all, but gleaming, slick with a sheen of oil that makes it glisten like a diamond in the harsh daylight.
— I’m sorry, in the name of my ancestors — you plead, catching the murderous glint in his eyes.
— I’m a simple man with a simple wish: to cross this desert and be out of your way, sir. If you grant me that mercy, I’m sure God would reward you for it.
— Keep Allah’s name out of your infidel mouth, foreigner! — he snarls.
As he steps closer, his fury mounting like a sandstorm, you realize you have no other choice — no escape, no persuasion — but to raise your voice to reveal your most valuable secret.
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