C is for Caravans
Dawn broke over the desert. The ochre and sienna shifting slowly with the passage of the sun were almost imperceptible to the group as they unpacked their morning victuals. Water was boiled, tea was crushed, garments were adjusted to shade from the encroaching heat, although the temperatures remained still low enough to require rapid movement to keep warm. This was day 24 of the journey – there were 77 days left in this round trip. Arwan sat looking at the steaming water. Although this was a lucrative commission, he resented being away from his home for so long; away from his comforts and the familiarities of life. The camels in the troupe carried ostrich feathers, salt and scrolls, whose importance had been stressed to him by the commissioner in Taoudenni. Their trade was to take place in Aïr, and Arwan had been warned of the dangers surrounding outsiders’ desirous intent towards the cargo. At first, he had assumed the scrolls were of import but he had noted the bristling of the commissioner each time the Ostrich feathers were mentioned. The troupe had been attacked several times already and had only escaped by the skin of their teeth. Two camels had been lost to the marauders, leaving only 9,997 left to carry the heavy panniers. The Ostrich feathers had been weighing on his mind heavily over the last few days and he twirled one in his hand now, deep in thought. What could these be to cause such a commotion, he thought. He turned at a loud sound behind him and saw Awa racing at speed towards the fire. The ostrich feather fell from his hand and into the water at his feet.
“Awa!” he exclaimed “You must be careful!”
As he turned back, the water began to turn a vivid shade of red, crimson like the bands of a new day on the dunes. It started expanding and grew before them, knocking the pan from the heat, making Arwan jump back in alarm. He shouted to alert the rest of the caravan. A crowd was soon around them, Awa holding Arwan’s hand tightly. From the bubbling pot a shape began to emerge – winged, stretching, hollow bones forming at horrifying speed from within the liquid. A guttural sound formed from the mass as it expanded and within a few more moments an enormous bird sat before them, preening it’s newly acquired wings and shaking water from it’s feathers. The crowd stood silent. Arwan let go of Awa’s hand and went towards the creature. It was his duty to ensure the safety of the caravan. The bird looked left and right at him but did not shy away. It must have been 3 metres high at least, enough to catch the smallest of the children. It appeared to be friendly and moved towards Arwan curiously. These were the birds of legend, and they had chosen Arwan and his caravan. This was a new day and from hereon in, they would be known as the Simurgh Caravan.