A British soldier, lost in the desert, stumbles upon an enemy camp The evening sky—infused with soft pink and purple hues of twilight from the last dying rays of the sun—was beginning to darken, and a silvery, pale crescent moon was emerging, along with the first pinpricks of light from the stars, bathing the barren landscape underneath with their warm glow. Fine, powdery sand whipped into the air in unpredictable spurts and swirled about like gentle whirlpools before settling down in sinuous ripples—fragile patterns that could easily be effaced by a wave of the hand. Somehow, these tiny specks of grain gathered, in unquantifiable amounts, to create giant dunes, piles and piles of differing heights. In the dimness, their silhouettes dipped and peaked like a surreal mountain landscape, except these were continuously changing shapes, continuously moving, continuously being molded by the direction of the wind. In this place, time almost holds still—like a land that has not been polluted by human touch. Almost, but not quite—in the distance, an open-topped, weather-beaten Jeep crawled slowly and laboriously up the side of a sand dune. Its searching headlamps jolted here and there as it worked its way through the desert, finally coming to a halt at the crest of the last dune, before the drop to the valley. Leaning back from the illuminated dashboard—where a flashing red light indicated he was out of gas—a young, ginger-haired man with doleful eyes peered over the windscreen. From below, a melancholy, hollow sound drifted up with the cool night breeze. It was the song of the Arabian ney, an instrument capable of making the most mournful melody that reaches the depth of one’s soul. He suddenly succumbed to an overwhelming sense of sadness. It brought back memories of his tragic loss, so many years ago, so distant yet still so fresh, and of his solitary journey through life ever since. Dejectedly, he wiped away the tears from his cheek and hopped out of the Jeep, feet sinking deeply into the soft, fine sand, still a touch warm from the searing heat of the day. Looking down, he saw with much relief the inviting sight of a flickering fire dancing and twirling in the midst of a tented Bedouin camp. He could make out tiny, dark figures striding about, some carrying plates, others sitting cross-legged on ornate carpets laid about the fire. Weary but still vigilant, he hesitated slightly until the wafting aroma of skewered lamb, along with the tang of frankincense, reached him. He shivered in the chill of the evening, his stomach growling plaintively, in need of a satisfying meal. He could resist no longer. Guided by the scent of the food and the welcoming warmth, he treaded down the dune, tripping occasionally on a parched, desiccated shrub in the semi-darkness. Bleary-eyed, he adjusted to the glowing light ahead as he approached the camp. Robed men wearing thawbs were crouched on the sand, consuming chargrilled chicken and lamb kebabs that had been roasted above the seething fire. A platter of rice, strewn with barbecued prawns and dolloped with spicy sauce, was being passed around and spooned generously upon plates. He closed his eyes as he envisioned the tantalizing morsels sliding down his throat. A low, raspy voice behind jerked him violently out of his trance. He whipped around to see a man, face cloaked in shadow. “Welcome, stranger,” said the dark figure. “You have strayed upon the camp of Walaba. Tonight, however, we receive you in peace. For tonight is a special night.” He motioned with his arm and a tilt of his head. “Please, join us.” “Well, soldier, you came on a very unique night.” Heart racing, but tempted by desperate hunger and thirst, he followed obediently to the circle of men around the fire. They looked up in unison, interested but unalarmed, as their leader spoke to them in Arabic, seemingly explaining this unplanned arrival. The weathered, crinkled faces, partially illuminated by the crackling firelight, stared up at him, nodding, before resuming their low chattering. He sat down cautiously upon a beautiful, intricate carpet and could have cried with relief when he was handed a goblet overflowing with cold water. Gulping it, along with a plate of wonderfully seasoned, possibly the best, food he’d ever tasted, he lay down at last, content, upon the rug. The leader of the group studied him carefully and looked genuinely pleased that his unexpected guest was satisfied with his meal. He brought out a hookah and lit the coals beneath the large water pipe to smoke. “I am Ahmed. And you? What brings you to our humble tent tonight?” “I am a British soldier. My troop sent me on an errand across the desert and I . . . lost my way.” Ahmed nodded. “Well, soldier, you came on a very unique night.” He continued to smoke, slowly. The gurgling of his water pipe was very calming to the soldier. After a long while, Ahmed raised himself off the ground and signaled to the rest of the group. One by one, they got up and followed him silently. The soldier, suddenly feeling uneasy again, remained seated until the group turned to wait for him. Reluctantly, he followed them out of the camp. Fiery World They passed the slumbering herd of camels, whose single humps were visible in the moonlit night. The soldier marveled at how much larger these creatures were than he had imagined. The camels were quiet, huddled in a group after what must have been a long day of toil. Ahmed led the men on and on through a winding track in the valley until they were very far from the camp. The first thoughts of panic started to grip the young soldier. Where were they taking him? Suddenly, an intoxicating scent washed over him. It wafted sweetly through the air and brought back memories of his mother’s garden— filled with wild mixes of peonies, delphiniums, hollyhocks, and rambling roses that she loved.

A translation of a Turkish fable about a very forgetful man tasked with buying some “hik” In Turkey there was a farmer. He had a servant. The servant’s name was Hasan. Hasan was a very good man. He was very good indeed, but there was a small problem. Hasan was very forgetful. Here he hears, over there he forgets. One day the farmer gave Hasan money and said, “Go to the shops and buy ‘hik.’” In Turkey they call salt hik, and hik also means “nothing.” Hasan thought, Is there some way to not forget . . . ? Aha! I know! I’m going to keep on repeating “Hik! Hik!” Now I’m not going to forget. Hasan was loudly saying “hik hik” and going straight to the shops. On the way to the shops there was a river. Under the bridge was a man fishing. Hasan really liked fishing. When Hasan was walking on the bridge saying “hik, hik hik,” the fisherman thought he was saying “nothing, nothing.” The fisherman was angry. “Why are you saying ‘hik’!” shouted the man. “Then what should I say?” asked Hasan. “Say, ‘May God give you ten or twelve.’” Now Hasan forgot the word hik and loudly said, “May God give you ten or twelve! May God give you ten or twelve!” When Hasan walked for a bit longer, he found a funeral prayer. At the funeral, there were lots of ladies and gentlemen crying. Hasan was still saying, “May God give you ten or twelve! May God give you ten or twelve!” People became very angry. A man said, “What are you saying? Get away from here!” “Then what should I say?” asked Hasan. “Say, ‘May God forgive him,’” said the man. Now Hasan was saying that. After a while, Hasan saw a dead fish on the road. Hasan was staring at the fish. He was still saying, “May God forgive him!” Then another man came. He said to Hasan, “Silly, what are you saying?” “Then what should I say?” Hasan asked. “Say, ‘Eww! It smells bad,’” said the man. Now Hasan was saying that. A bit further along, there were three ladies walking. The ladies were wearing fancy clothes. Hasan was walking behind them and he was also loudly saying, ‘Eww! It smells bad!’” The ladies were cross and gave him a good beating. Then they said, “Where’s the bad smell coming from?” “Then what should I say?” asked Hasan. “Say, ‘Wow! Very good!’” said the ladies. “I will say that,” said Hasan, and kept on repeating it. A bit further along, Hasan saw two men fighting. The first man punched the second man and Hasan said, “Wow.” Then the second man kicked the first man, and Hasan said, “Very good.” When the men heard that, they said, “What are you saying?” “Then what should I say?” asked Hasan. “Say, ‘Brothers, don’t fight!” said the men. “Okay,” Hasan said, and he started saying that. Hasan saw two dogs fighting. He said, “Brothers, don’t fight.” An old man was passing by. He started laughing. He said, “Son, what are you saying?” “Then what should I say?” asked Hasan. “Say, ‘Run away, dogs.’” Now Hasan was repeating that. Hasan came to the shops, and there was a cobbler. Hasan was also saying, “Run away, dogs.” The cobbler said, “How dare you call me a dog!” “Then what should I say?” asked Hasan. The cobbler said, “Hik!” (“Nothing!”). When Hasan heard this, he said, “Cobbler, thank you very much. You reminded me why I’m here!” Hasan quickly went to the shop and said, “Hello, can I have hik, please?” Hasan bought the salt and went happily home.

When they take a trip, Millie and her mother must stay with surly, strict Mr. Vinden Mr. Vinden didn’t enjoy houseguests. Mr. Vinden didn’t like people in general—but houseguests were particularly bad. Today was one of the dreaded days that he would have a houseguest. Actually, he would have two: Mrs. Perdy and her daughter, Mildred. He had never met them, but they were friends of his cousin and needed a place to stay. They sounded awful. No more than a week, he thought bitterly. If this woman tries to stay for any longer than a week, I won’t have it. He looked around the dusty bedrooms that his guests would be staying in. “This better do,” Mr. Vinden muttered, throwing some extra pillows onto the bed and brushing some of the accumulated grime off the nightstand with his forearm. “Where’s Ms. Amalie when we need her?” He was, of course, referring to his old maid, who had been working for him since he was a teenager. After making the bedroom look acceptable, he grabbed a hat and got his horses ready for the trip to the train station, which was a mere three miles away. Mr. Vinden was hardly ever seen by his neighbors, as he never left the house. Because of this, he found himself at the center of attention when he reached the town. Mr. Vinden hated attention from what he called “lower folks” almost as much as he hated houseguests— which was to say, he hated it very much. However, while he wasn’t very agreeable, he was very precise, so he arrived at the train station mere minutes before Mrs. Perdy’s train was to arrive. She was stern-faced, in a prim, purple dress. Her daughter, on the other hand, always seemed to have a smile on her face and was dressed in a very simple blue dress that Mr. Vinden thought was very unsuitable. “You must be Mr. Vinden!” Mrs. Perdy called, her shrill voice causing a few heads to turn toward them. “My daughter and I have been wanting to meet you for quite a time, haven’t we, Mildred?” Mrs. Perdy said this last bit with a tone that seemed to say, “I know I posed this as a question, but you had better answer it right, missy.” “Yes, Mother,” Mildred replied, her voice hardly above a whisper. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vinden.” Mr. Vinden could already tell he didn’t like them. For one thing, he tended to avoid anybody who attracted unnecessary attention toward him. Mrs. Perdy seemed to do exactly that. He wasn’t sure about the girl yet: the ugly dress could have been the mother’s choice, and besides this, he hadn’t interacted with children of that age in a long time, so maybe this was one of the good ones. If “good ones” even existed, that is. “Ah yes, Mrs. Perdy. Mildred, it is nice to be of your acquaintance.” Mr. Vinden’s mouth stayed in one straight line even as he said this. “Right this way.” And Mr. Vinden, though this was the polite thing to do at the time, did not offer to help Mrs. Perdy and Mildred carry their luggage or get into the rather high carriage. Mrs. Perdy whispered something in Mildred’s ear as they settled into the carriage. When Mr. Vinden glanced back at them, Mildred was nodding, a sad look on her face. Mr. Vinden’s tight face softened a little. As much as he disliked people, he wanted people to be pleased with him. By the time Mr. Vinden pulled his carriage into the rocky driveway and asked his servant to put the horses away in the stable, the sky had turned a soft, pinky color. “Dinner is at seven. I assume you want a tour?” Mr. Vinden’s face was back in a tight line, unexpressive and plain. “Yes, Mr. Vinden. That would be lovely,” Mrs. Perdy answered, dipping into a rather forced curtsy and motioning to Mildred to do the same. Hers was even more forced, and her eyes were wandering everywhere, taking in the new scenery. Her eyes paused at the great willow tree, with its soft blossoms and gently woven branches. “Your house is lovely, Mr. Vinden,” Mildred murmured, which, Mr. Vinden realized, was the first time that Mildred had addressed him without being ordered by her mother. “Thank you, Mildred,” Mr. Vinden replied curtly, without smiling. “And I prefer to be called Millie, if you don’t mind, sir.” She didn’t say it in an unkind way; however, Mr. Vinden’s face still grew sourer. “Very well then, Mrs. and Miss Perdy. Right this way is the dining hall, and to your left is the parlor. You will find other living rooms off of that one, and the kitchen is to the left of the dining hall.” Mr. Vinden made no effort to walk into each room; instead, he pointed at them with an air of great disinterest. Mrs. Perdy smiled just the same, but when Mr. Vinden turned away, he thought he saw Mildred frowning. MILLIE Millie didn’t like Mr. Vinden. That was strange as Millie disliked very few things. She was overall a very agreeable child; however, she sometimes had a hard time being as polite as most other girls her age. Besides this, she always found her mind somewhere far, far away from where she was in reality. She longed to be outdoors, away from everybody and everything that might make a fuss over something. “Millie, come on. We’re going up to our rooms to get changed for dinner,” her mother whispered, squeezing her shoulder before leading her up the great marble staircase. “Mother, I don’t like it here,” Millie whispered as she followed her mother upstairs. “Mr. Vinden is so rude, and I just want to go home!” She sighed and wiped dust from the banister. Seriously, does this man ever dust? “Now Millie, dear. Don’t be like that. I’m sure Mr. Vinden will be a very