Caravan Earrings - Desert Gold

- Japanese seed beads, Austrian/Czech crystal pearls - Post or Clip-on available - Approx. 6cm in length, 1cm in width ‹Repetitive forms, repetitive arrangements, repetitive journeys, repetitive weariness. The caravan wagons closely follow the figures of those ahead – this is no leisurely, fair-weather trip.› Two weeks had passed since Malik left the palace with the gem merchant the night before Ramadan, venturing into the barren sands. The caliph’s army, expected to pursue, had yet to appear, but his destination remained distant. He rode the last camel in the line, taking a few sips from his water skin. His most precious love was safely ensconced in the four-wheeled wagon nearest him, shielded from the scorching midday sun. On the fortieth moonrise, three camels fell ill, significantly slowing the caravan’s pace. The gem merchant smoothed his bushy beard, his wrinkled brow furrowed. His attendants dared not utter a sound, merely allocating more water and fodder to the black horses accompanying them – fine Arabian steeds destined for the kingdoms of the fair-haired people in the farthest west once the main contingent reached Constantinople. Malik had never been there, only hearing tales of rolling green hills replacing the familiar dunes of his homeland. Another dusk. As Malik looked back again, the shimmering mirages that had flickered at the edge of his vision had vanished. The caliph's fluttering banners and the glint of sunlight on armor were the true dangers he needed to worry about. The gem merchant raised his silk-wrapped riding whip, lightly tapping the beast beneath him. He quickly turned the caravan around, heading towards the weary tail of the procession. “You, head north, quickly,” the old merchant commanded loudly, pulling on the reins with one hand while gesturing with the other. A black horse was brought to Malik’s side and re-secured to the camel’s right rear. Another attendant disappeared into the wagon, searching. When he reappeared, he held a tightly sealed, wide-mouthed copper urn, intricately carved with silver and adorned with lapis lazuli. Malik bent slightly, carefully taking the urn and placing it into the travel satchel hanging on the camel’s left side. “Here’s extra water and food, not much, use it wisely,” the old merchant shouted hastily, his tired voice drowned out by the rapidly approaching thunder of hooves. Before Malik could even offer thanks, the merchant’s whip cracked, and the camel and black horse bolted, kicking up reddish-brown dust. Malik steadied himself, guided his mounts in the designated direction, and plunged into the desert night. He sold the horse and camel at the port, exchanging them for a ship ticket and sufficient provisions. The copper urn felt heavy in his pack, a symbol of safety, he thought, as he joined the queue of passengers boarding the ship. Upon reaching the land of the fair-haired people, Malik was penniless, with only the exquisite copper urn in his possession. He learned the local language and settled temporarily in a village as a blacksmith. Knowing he couldn’t openly worship the one God he recognized, he fashioned a small silver cross to wear on his chest, so the Frankish king’s patrols wouldn't be too suspicious of his dark hair and eyes when passing through the village. Before the end of his tenth summer, Malik bid farewell to the small village and continued northward. This region was filled with dense forests, where only slivers of sunlight pierced the canopy to reach the fallen leaves at his feet. Everything was different from his childhood – his sight, taste, and hearing. Normandy was cold, and he traded several well-crafted knives he’d forged for a thick fur coat. One snowy day, as he dined in an inn, he rushed outside in astonishment; snowflakes rested on the tips of his long, curved eyelashes, melting into water within seconds. Another kingdom, speaking a different language, lay across the sea. “The English,” a fisherwoman explained, pointing to the gray horizon, expertly gutting a fish. Although the weather here was bleaker than in the previous village, Malik decided to stay. He set up his small smithy for crafting ironwork, just as before. The spring breeze brought a touch of life to Normandy, and the vibrant wildflowers reminded him of the mosaic murals in his homeland. His tenth winter had just ended when, as he adjusted a silver ring to fit the finger of Maria, a village maiden, and securely set a ruby he had carried from the desert years ago, he looked up to see a Frankish officer on patrol. “You are not from here,” the officer stated calmly and courteously, his sharp blue eyes partially obscured by pale lashes. “Your skill has been heard of at the royal court, and so we must take you.” Malik had only one request: one day and one night to bid farewell to his beloved. He returned home and pulled open the trapdoor beneath his bed, built to protect against occasional Danish raiders. Wrapped in coarse cloth was the exquisite copper urn. He saddled his horse, took the urn, and set off for the sea at midnight. Twenty years later, the speed of his ride was of course different from the impetuous vigor of his youth. It took some time before he caught the scent of the sea breeze and the cries of the gulls. Dawn, filtering through low clouds, swept across the Norman beach, the damp, sticky sand clinging to his feet. He had heard tales of the Frankish court – of silks, jewels, and feasts – but to Malik, they were all gilded cages of gold and stone, much like the grand palaces of Khurasan. He twisted open the lid of the urn, untouched for twenty years. The carvings on its surface were still as exquisite and delicate as ever. Inside lay ashes. Malik continued onward until the saltwater reached his waist, clutching the urn tightly to his chest. The rising sun was at his back; the water was cold – cold enough, Malik thought, cold enough to extinguish the searing pain of the pyre. The ashes he scooped into his hands were quickly swallowed by the sea. The sparse light of dawn, carried by the gentle waves, lingered on Malik’s palms and between his fingers. / “Your beloved, what was his name?” the captain nodded. Malik pondered. Twenty years had passed, and no one had ever asked such a question. In those twenty years, he had never spoken the name again. “Altaïr,” Malik finally replied softly, a deep sorrow in his throat, but he held back his tears, so his beloved could rest eternally. “Altaïr Ibn-LaʼAhad. In your language, it means ‘flying bird’.” ☞ Shipping Time THRIVE Apparel Co. is an independent design studio operating on a small inventory and custom order basis. Shipping typically takes 7 to 14 business days from the date of successful order. For urgent requests or special needs, please contact us via customer service for discussion. Thank you for your support and understanding! ☞ Notes Natural materials such as pearls, crystals, and other semi-precious stones will have slight variations in color, shape, or size after selection, cutting, and polishing. Natural materials may also have imperfections such as mineral inclusions or slight cracks. These will be carefully matched by the studio and shipped randomly; selection is not available. Due to manual assembly, there may be a size error of up to 3mm in the finished product length. Products may exhibit color differences due to variations in lighting during photography or different electronic display screens; all items are subject to the actual product. The above conditions do not fall under the scope of reasons for return or exchange due to defects, and returns or exchanges will not be accepted on the grounds of "defects/different from imagination/not as pictured."