The Wandering Falcon Read Online Free Page A

men. He knew that his people’s sense of honor and grace were such that they would attribute all heroic deeds to him and all failures to themselves. Nor would they admit to any man that in reality he—their chief—was a creature to be pitied, that the man leading them was one who could not even guide his own camel without muted words of advice from his companions.
    Three of the camels were slim-bodied riding animals with graceful necks and slender legs. The fourth was a transport camel. Ugly, thick-bodied, and large-footed, its present mood of ill temper was manifesting itself in the growling rumbles rising from its stomach.
    The camels, like the men, had been equipped for the journey. Their finery and decoration had been carefully removed, any unnecessary metal which might sparkle or jingle had been left behind, their saddle loads reduced to the minimum.
    Since there was no cover around the water hole, they were able to approach it without fear of an ambush.
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    T hey halted a short distance away and took down the water skins. Then one animal was brought to the water and allowed to swallow a few gulps before being led away. There was a rumor in the air that all the water holes were being poisoned so as to deny their use to the rebels. When the animal showed no ill effect, the party proceeded to decamp.
    The routine had been established a long time ago. Camels had to be unsaddled, watered, and hobbled. Their pitifully thin bags of provisions were opened, and small quantities taken out. One man was assigned to collect shrubs, another to build a fire from a tinderbox. Food had to be cooked and eaten hurriedly before the sun set.
    While this was going on, one of the party walked over to the opposite edge of the water hole to take a closer look at the dead camel. There he discovered the small boy sleeping, pressed against the camel’s belly.
    The boy awoke suddenly as the man’s hand touched his shoulders. When he opened his eyes and saw a stranger peering at him, he closed them quickly and screamed. The other men came running. The boy kept on screaming while they lifted him and carried him, struggling all the while, to the old chief sitting next to the fire.
    As the boy was set down before him, the old man turned his blind, unstaring eyes in his direction. “Stop your crying, son,” he said. “It is not good to hear a Baluch—even a child—cry.”
    Instantly, the boy fell silent, and Roza Khan, sounding both kindly and stern, added, “And there is another good reason for you not to cry. Wailing in a man is like honey in a pot. As honey attracts flies, so does wailing attract trouble. Now, tell me, how did you come to be here?”
    The boy remained silent. At last one of the men spoke: “He chooses not to tell, but the story is plain enough. The two towers and the dead camel tell it. We have no need to ask him.” The old man thought for a while. “We cannot leave him here,” he said finally. “We will take him. If there is any food on his camel, add it to ours.” As the men moved away, the chief muttered to himself, “There is surely some kind of an omen in this, though who can read if it be good or bad.”
    After finishing the meal, they sat around the smoldering embers and the stones, warm from the heat of the fire. The stars were out in their millions across the clear desert sky. Every now and then, a meteorite would streak across, burning brightly for an instant before it disappeared.
    As they waited for Roza Khan to break the silence that had enveloped them, each man, oblivious to the others, started fashioning a small, strange structure on the ground in front of him. Starting with a flat stone to serve as a base, tiny rounded pebbles, sharp splinters of rock, wisps of straw, and twigs were patiently and with complete concentration being balanced and fitted onto one another. In fractions of inches, these diminutive structures were taking