King of the South

July 13 2022; people 107

Daield Firnd laughed heartily. He stared down at the palm-sized, black, leatherbound book in his hands. After all these years, after all that searching, grasping at stories that were but chafe in the wind. I wonder where he found it. He turned the book over. It was untitled, as is customary with journals and diaries. But this isn’t just any old journal, he reminded himself… not that he needed it. It is the legendary journal of Kaliff Ali, the king of the south, rumored to lead the way to his treasure to those who know the ancient tongue.

“Which I do,” He whispered to himself. He flipped it open.

“Ahem,”

Daield, irritated, looked up and pushed back his wide brimmed desert hat. “Yes?” He asked slowly, knowing full well what the white robed Arab wanted.

“There is the small matter of payment,”

“Not too small,” He growled. “£7000 is a fortune,”

“It is but a part what you may find,”

“May? Ha! Will is more like it,” He brought out the preprepared check.

“Thank you,”

Daield nodded and left the shop. He read as he walked, leaving footprints in the desert sand that served as the streets in this small city. The sinking evening sun was still shining brightly, but it carried a reddish tinge. Daield’s long mocking shadow stretched out behind him. The old Arabic houses cast down long shadows and Daield, had he been less absorbed reading, would have noted the shadows of men leaping from roof to roof. These shadows’ men were dressed in black. They were adroit and lissome, quick and silent.

“A ring, a glade, a treasure, a spade,” Daield mused. But as he read, a shadow fell on the page and upon his heart. He looked up just in time to see the dropkick that knocked him down and jarred the book from his hand. But Daield was not an altogether novice to this kind of life. He leapt to his feet and struggled against his black robed assailant, wrestling for the expense little book that was just out of reach.

“Ali, help me!” The attacker called out to an unseen comrade desperately. He was fighting a losing battle, for Daield was both stronger and more experienced.

But his cry brought more than just his companion, for, as the assaulter’s assistant dropped to the ground, from around the corner, came a police officer wielding an oversized machine gun.

“What… stop!” He yelled. Daield used the split-second hesitation of the other two to snatch the book up.

“Ach!”

“What is the matter?” The officer asked, speaking Arabic. One, presumably Ali, slunk back into the shadows and disappeared.

But the other man started to jabber in Arabic at the officer, probably so that Daield could not defend himself. But, unknown to him, Daield could understand every word that he said.

And I used to think it was a waste time to study Arabic, he nearly laughed aloud.

“Sir, my name is Uthman Bakr, and I had just bought that little book when this man jumped me and stole it right out of my arms. I was wrestling it from his arms when you came around the corner. It is the journal of my great-grandfather, and it has been in our family years. It tells of his exploits in the jungles of…”

A bad liar, Daield thought, as he let out an exasperated sigh. “Creative, but still a bad liar.” The other two glanced at him quizzically, but Daield noted a spasm of hesitancy cross Uthman face. The officer addressed Daield in rusty, deeply accented English.

“Sir, it woulds please us if you hands him hiss book,”

“But sir,” Daield protested, “We are yet to establish the fact that it is indeed the book of his grandsire and certainly Uthman’s pretext would be repudiated by any assiduous perusal, for this man is, without doubt, a presumptuous prevaricator,” The police officer stared blankly at him, which was what Daield was going for, using such words. He added a little gibberish just for good measure. “The proctemium is esturim in the monolociun dicarbinate.” The sergeant turned and addressed Uthman.

“What did he say?” He asked, speaking Arabic once again.

Daield noted the sly look that slid across Uthman’s face and knew that he just made a mistake. “He just told you that you are a liar and then he insulted your mother. In fact, he even said that…”

Daield shook his head. This was not going well, so, as Uthman continued to infuriate the man, Daield slowly slipped the book in his hand into his vest and then, leisurely removed a nearly identical book from his pocket. This was a cheap knockoff that he had bought years ago, hoping for the real thing. Now he kept it for a memento.

The officer shook his machine gun threateningly at Diaeld. “Hands us hiss book!” Daield smiled inwardly and pretended to vacillate, then hesitantly handed the book over. “Go!” Daield was more than happy to comply. Fleeing into the darkening twilight, Daield fingered the book that would lead him to the treasure and laughed.