Post by SkipJack on May 18, 2007 2:53:55 GMT
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History: [glow=yellow,2,300]***[/glow]Realism: [glow=yellow,2,300]*** -> ****[/glow]Prose:[glow=yellow,2,300] ** -> ****[/glow]
Noon Wednesday, August 1, 1798
Along one of the many distributaries of the Nile there was a great location for fishing. All manner of fish wiggled their way up and down and around the murky waters: Tilapia, Nile Perch, red-tailed catfish. As ancient Pharaohs and their people turned to dust and fed the river, so the river in turn fed the people and future Emirs. A carp may feed on a king and that carp will then go a course through the bowels of a fisherman, so, thus, a king might also go a course through the bowels, but the fisherman, like Hammit al Ihsan, had first to catch that fish.
Hammit stood on the road that overlooked the bank and leaned upon his left leg as he gazed into the muddy waters. Over his shoulders, draped like the sash of a Mamluk warrior, were yards of fish netting that had been mended with care after the previous evening’s supper while his dog, Halil, licked his feet and his children ran naked in the shade. The early desert sun glimmered on the lazy waters and reflected off the pensive eyes of the fisherman. There he stood with his hand pulling on his knotted beard until he tied his loins about his waist and climbed down through the stiff reeds and red mud of the steep bank and waded into the waters. Treading carefully, looking out for snakes, jagged rocks, or a stone that might instead be a snapping turtle, Hammit found himself a spot a quarter of the way into the stream and praised Allah that he hand not found a snapping turtle. A crocodile or an asp would at least send one to Heaven quickly, but a snapping turtle could make your remaining days so much more uncomfortable and awkward.
Atabey al Fadil, Hammit’s neighbor across the stream, lost his big toe and a few small ones by stepping on a snapping turtle once. Atabey joked that he had intended the turtle to trim his nails but that the animal accidentally clipped too deep. Atabey, however, was one of the lucky ones. Hammit’s uncle Mehmet, having slipped off the shell of a snapping turtle which he had unknowingly stood upon, and, discovering his misstep had slipped into the Nile out of the shock of the surprise, lost both of his feet to the particularly irritable, if not terribly ravenous, turtle. Uncle Mehmet spent the remainder of his very long life balancing on the painful stumps where his feet had once been. When Allah at last called him to paradise the glow on his face was beyond measure. His last words, spoken in the delirium of the end, were, “My feet! Praise be to Allah! May my nails never be clipped.” Uncle, Mehmet, until his accident, you see, was quite punctilious about trimming his toenails. Atabey, on the other hand, was, much to the complaint of his wife, negligent in the care of his feet before he had his own accident. Some attributed Atabey’s luck to the great length of his nails. Other’s, namely his wife, claimed that it was the nails that set the turtle off in the first place. Hammit was an adherent of the former explanation and since the accident, he had grown his own toenails out in defense against the snapping turtles. Surprisingly, they came in quite useful. They acted almost like the whiskers of a catfish against the bottom of the river, feeling the area out, detecting vibrations, forewarning of nearby turtles. Other men in the village had adopted the precaution as well, but Hammit was renowned for having the most sensitive nails of all. So every time he walked out into the river he praised Allah for his sensitive toenails which guided him across the river bottom and protected him from those creatures which would seek to trim them.
There, Hammit, the fisherman, toed his way around the river setting his nets as the early morning sun continued to rise over the horizon. Sometime around five he climbed out onto the bank, washed, wrapped himself in a plain but clean galabya, laid out his prayer rug in a grassy place, and knelt towards Mecca for the Shurooq, the prayer at sunrise which he followed by a quiet morning under a palm tree with his Quran, nets that needed mending, and the soothing calms of the river: the rustling of the reeds, the lapping of the water, the calling of innumerable birds, the hums of the cicadas. At noon, he said prayers again, got into his dirty clothes, then again tied his loins about his waste, searched his way across the bottom of the river and checked his nets. The full ones, wiggly with glimmering perch, were drawn across the water and hauled up the bank where their contents were deposited in a tall whicker basket after which the fisherman toed his way back to a new spot in the stream to reset his nets
By the time he got to his third net of perch, Hammit heard the clamor of hooves upon the dusty road that ran along the top of the bank. “Is it the Mamluks come to save us from the French?” he wondered. More likely it was the French bounding their reckless way across the Nile, killing every exotic animal they caught sight of for the sport of conquering a mighty and strange beast and for the stories they would take home to their barracks or write home to their lovers. “How long now since they despoiled Alexandria?” his wondering continued. Fortunately for himself and his family, they lived in a village outside the city and were spared the majority of the devastation. Though not the sorrow. Several of the fathers and sons from his village were slain defending the city at Napoleon’s landing. Mercifully, his own sons were too young to fight and he was too poor to outfit himself for battle so they were spared (“Thanks be to Muhammid, peace be upon him.” thought Hammit) Nevertheless, there was no lack of bitterness toward the French.
As Hammit mounted the bank he caught the horsemen in the corner of his eye and “Oh!” suddenly found himself tumbling back “Ah!Ya!” down the bank. The horses had been galloping much faster than he had thought and caught him unawares as he reached the road.
“Al Muruwwa!” Cried one of the horsemen. “Master, you will be late.” The other horseman, a man with fair skin and grey eyes, not at all like an Egyptian, but dressed in fine Egyptian linens, a green vest embroidered in the native fashion and a white turban had galloped back to help the toppled fisherman.
Hammit shouted curses and exclamations as the man helped him back up the bank. “Damn French!” he cried. His wife had always warned him about his loose tongue. He may be shot for cursing at a Frenchman, but if he couldn’t shoot at one with a gun or slash one with a scimitar he might as well fight with his mouth. Hammit looked down at his throbbing, sore feet as he reached the top of the bank again. “Look you made me break my toenails! The turtle is sure to…” Hammit looked up. “Al Muruwwa?!” the fisherman fell on his knees.
“Oh, no-no-no-no, get up, get up. No please…”
“Forgive me, I thought you were one of the French. I take all I said back.”
“For God’s sake, please…”
“As-Salâmu `Alaykum al Muruwwa.”
“Wa `Alaykum As-Salâm. Now, please get up. You owe me nothing.” Hammit stood. “You have no need to apologize to me. I must apologize to you. I was so pressed by time that I did not see you standing on the side of the road. Please…” the westerner looked down at Hammit’s battered feet. “Here, sit in the shade and let me examine your feet, they must be terribly sore.”
“My feet?! Never, I could not let you touch my feet. It is not fitting.”
“I am a doctor and your feet are atrocious. Would you rather you suffered with them?”
“It is not fit,” Hammit repeated.
“Hogwash!” Said the frustrated westerner in English and paused for a moment wondering how a Muslim would understand the term ‘Hogwash.’ Hogs were not well received in the near-east. Let’s hope he doesn’t know any English, thought the westerner and continued in Arabic, “If the profit Isa can wash his disciples feet, then I can treat yours. Now will you please let me see your feet?”
Hammit silently consented and sat against his palm tree.
“Al Muruwwa!” said a swarthy, robed man with a broad turban, sash and a curvy, tasseled blade--the westerner’s riding companion. “We must not tarry here. The French may suspect you if you are late.”
“No, no Iskender,” said the westerner this time in Turkish. “This is the perfect excuse for our delay. Running a local off the road and treating his injuries is absolutely perfect, as regrettable as the incident is.” Turning now to the fisherman, “When was the last time you trimmed your toenails?”
“Five years ago.”
“Five?” As surprising as it might be to some, the westerner acted as if five years without trimming one’s toenails was a commonplace complaint. After almost a decade traveling in the East one, if not overly excited to shock in the first place, can easily become jaded to such simple hygiene issues as trim nails. The westerner, Doctor Mathew Seaford, had seen thousands of cases from Hong Kong and Deli to Cairo and Marrakech of poor podiatric care. “You must trim them at very least once a month. You could cause all sorts of injury to yourself.”
Hammit just smiled and nodded. He was smart enough to know that his toenails helped guide his feet along the river bottom. He didn’t expect westerners to understand, even the honorable Al Muruwwa, for all his wisdom and understanding, he could not fathom it. Hammit knew better than to contradict the good doctor. The doctor would insist that he trim his nails. He would even make weekly checkups just to see how his feet were doing. Hammit would have none of that. Better to humor the man and appear acquiescent and have him believe that the toes will be trimmed regularly than to make a point of the issue and give the ever concerned doctor cause to make house calls.
Seaford washed the man’s feet, trimmed them and filed the jagged broken nails. Hammit remained passive to the doctor’s whims and showered the man with thanks and praises when he was finished but in his mind he held onto the knowledge that the nails would grow back.
History: [glow=yellow,2,300]***[/glow]Realism: [glow=yellow,2,300]*** -> ****[/glow]Prose:[glow=yellow,2,300] ** -> ****[/glow]
Noon Wednesday, August 1, 1798
Along one of the many distributaries of the Nile there was a great location for fishing. All manner of fish wiggled their way up and down and around the murky waters: Tilapia, Nile Perch, red-tailed catfish. As ancient Pharaohs and their people turned to dust and fed the river, so the river in turn fed the people and future Emirs. A carp may feed on a king and that carp will then go a course through the bowels of a fisherman, so, thus, a king might also go a course through the bowels, but the fisherman, like Hammit al Ihsan, had first to catch that fish.
Hammit stood on the road that overlooked the bank and leaned upon his left leg as he gazed into the muddy waters. Over his shoulders, draped like the sash of a Mamluk warrior, were yards of fish netting that had been mended with care after the previous evening’s supper while his dog, Halil, licked his feet and his children ran naked in the shade. The early desert sun glimmered on the lazy waters and reflected off the pensive eyes of the fisherman. There he stood with his hand pulling on his knotted beard until he tied his loins about his waist and climbed down through the stiff reeds and red mud of the steep bank and waded into the waters. Treading carefully, looking out for snakes, jagged rocks, or a stone that might instead be a snapping turtle, Hammit found himself a spot a quarter of the way into the stream and praised Allah that he hand not found a snapping turtle. A crocodile or an asp would at least send one to Heaven quickly, but a snapping turtle could make your remaining days so much more uncomfortable and awkward.
Atabey al Fadil, Hammit’s neighbor across the stream, lost his big toe and a few small ones by stepping on a snapping turtle once. Atabey joked that he had intended the turtle to trim his nails but that the animal accidentally clipped too deep. Atabey, however, was one of the lucky ones. Hammit’s uncle Mehmet, having slipped off the shell of a snapping turtle which he had unknowingly stood upon, and, discovering his misstep had slipped into the Nile out of the shock of the surprise, lost both of his feet to the particularly irritable, if not terribly ravenous, turtle. Uncle Mehmet spent the remainder of his very long life balancing on the painful stumps where his feet had once been. When Allah at last called him to paradise the glow on his face was beyond measure. His last words, spoken in the delirium of the end, were, “My feet! Praise be to Allah! May my nails never be clipped.” Uncle, Mehmet, until his accident, you see, was quite punctilious about trimming his toenails. Atabey, on the other hand, was, much to the complaint of his wife, negligent in the care of his feet before he had his own accident. Some attributed Atabey’s luck to the great length of his nails. Other’s, namely his wife, claimed that it was the nails that set the turtle off in the first place. Hammit was an adherent of the former explanation and since the accident, he had grown his own toenails out in defense against the snapping turtles. Surprisingly, they came in quite useful. They acted almost like the whiskers of a catfish against the bottom of the river, feeling the area out, detecting vibrations, forewarning of nearby turtles. Other men in the village had adopted the precaution as well, but Hammit was renowned for having the most sensitive nails of all. So every time he walked out into the river he praised Allah for his sensitive toenails which guided him across the river bottom and protected him from those creatures which would seek to trim them.
There, Hammit, the fisherman, toed his way around the river setting his nets as the early morning sun continued to rise over the horizon. Sometime around five he climbed out onto the bank, washed, wrapped himself in a plain but clean galabya, laid out his prayer rug in a grassy place, and knelt towards Mecca for the Shurooq, the prayer at sunrise which he followed by a quiet morning under a palm tree with his Quran, nets that needed mending, and the soothing calms of the river: the rustling of the reeds, the lapping of the water, the calling of innumerable birds, the hums of the cicadas. At noon, he said prayers again, got into his dirty clothes, then again tied his loins about his waste, searched his way across the bottom of the river and checked his nets. The full ones, wiggly with glimmering perch, were drawn across the water and hauled up the bank where their contents were deposited in a tall whicker basket after which the fisherman toed his way back to a new spot in the stream to reset his nets
By the time he got to his third net of perch, Hammit heard the clamor of hooves upon the dusty road that ran along the top of the bank. “Is it the Mamluks come to save us from the French?” he wondered. More likely it was the French bounding their reckless way across the Nile, killing every exotic animal they caught sight of for the sport of conquering a mighty and strange beast and for the stories they would take home to their barracks or write home to their lovers. “How long now since they despoiled Alexandria?” his wondering continued. Fortunately for himself and his family, they lived in a village outside the city and were spared the majority of the devastation. Though not the sorrow. Several of the fathers and sons from his village were slain defending the city at Napoleon’s landing. Mercifully, his own sons were too young to fight and he was too poor to outfit himself for battle so they were spared (“Thanks be to Muhammid, peace be upon him.” thought Hammit) Nevertheless, there was no lack of bitterness toward the French.
As Hammit mounted the bank he caught the horsemen in the corner of his eye and “Oh!” suddenly found himself tumbling back “Ah!Ya!” down the bank. The horses had been galloping much faster than he had thought and caught him unawares as he reached the road.
“Al Muruwwa!” Cried one of the horsemen. “Master, you will be late.” The other horseman, a man with fair skin and grey eyes, not at all like an Egyptian, but dressed in fine Egyptian linens, a green vest embroidered in the native fashion and a white turban had galloped back to help the toppled fisherman.
Hammit shouted curses and exclamations as the man helped him back up the bank. “Damn French!” he cried. His wife had always warned him about his loose tongue. He may be shot for cursing at a Frenchman, but if he couldn’t shoot at one with a gun or slash one with a scimitar he might as well fight with his mouth. Hammit looked down at his throbbing, sore feet as he reached the top of the bank again. “Look you made me break my toenails! The turtle is sure to…” Hammit looked up. “Al Muruwwa?!” the fisherman fell on his knees.
“Oh, no-no-no-no, get up, get up. No please…”
“Forgive me, I thought you were one of the French. I take all I said back.”
“For God’s sake, please…”
“As-Salâmu `Alaykum al Muruwwa.”
“Wa `Alaykum As-Salâm. Now, please get up. You owe me nothing.” Hammit stood. “You have no need to apologize to me. I must apologize to you. I was so pressed by time that I did not see you standing on the side of the road. Please…” the westerner looked down at Hammit’s battered feet. “Here, sit in the shade and let me examine your feet, they must be terribly sore.”
“My feet?! Never, I could not let you touch my feet. It is not fitting.”
“I am a doctor and your feet are atrocious. Would you rather you suffered with them?”
“It is not fit,” Hammit repeated.
“Hogwash!” Said the frustrated westerner in English and paused for a moment wondering how a Muslim would understand the term ‘Hogwash.’ Hogs were not well received in the near-east. Let’s hope he doesn’t know any English, thought the westerner and continued in Arabic, “If the profit Isa can wash his disciples feet, then I can treat yours. Now will you please let me see your feet?”
Hammit silently consented and sat against his palm tree.
“Al Muruwwa!” said a swarthy, robed man with a broad turban, sash and a curvy, tasseled blade--the westerner’s riding companion. “We must not tarry here. The French may suspect you if you are late.”
“No, no Iskender,” said the westerner this time in Turkish. “This is the perfect excuse for our delay. Running a local off the road and treating his injuries is absolutely perfect, as regrettable as the incident is.” Turning now to the fisherman, “When was the last time you trimmed your toenails?”
“Five years ago.”
“Five?” As surprising as it might be to some, the westerner acted as if five years without trimming one’s toenails was a commonplace complaint. After almost a decade traveling in the East one, if not overly excited to shock in the first place, can easily become jaded to such simple hygiene issues as trim nails. The westerner, Doctor Mathew Seaford, had seen thousands of cases from Hong Kong and Deli to Cairo and Marrakech of poor podiatric care. “You must trim them at very least once a month. You could cause all sorts of injury to yourself.”
Hammit just smiled and nodded. He was smart enough to know that his toenails helped guide his feet along the river bottom. He didn’t expect westerners to understand, even the honorable Al Muruwwa, for all his wisdom and understanding, he could not fathom it. Hammit knew better than to contradict the good doctor. The doctor would insist that he trim his nails. He would even make weekly checkups just to see how his feet were doing. Hammit would have none of that. Better to humor the man and appear acquiescent and have him believe that the toes will be trimmed regularly than to make a point of the issue and give the ever concerned doctor cause to make house calls.
Seaford washed the man’s feet, trimmed them and filed the jagged broken nails. Hammit remained passive to the doctor’s whims and showered the man with thanks and praises when he was finished but in his mind he held onto the knowledge that the nails would grow back.