Caravan Earrings - Amber Green

- Japanese seed beads, Austrian/Czech crystal pearls - Post or Clip-on backs available - Approx. 6 cm long, 1 cm wide ‹Repetitive forms, repetitive arrangements, repetitive journeys, the dust and exhaustion of endless travel. Caravans follow closely in the wake of the companions ahead, this is by no means a leisurely, tailwind journey.› Two weeks had passed since Malik left the palace with the gem merchant on the eve of Ramadan, venturing into the desolate sands. The expected pursuit by the Caliph's army had yet to materialize, but his destination remained uncertain; he rode the rearmost camel, taking sips from his water skin. His most precious love, however, remained within the four-wheeled carriage closest to 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 voluminous beard, his brow furrowed with wrinkles. His attendants dared not utter a sound, merely allocating more water and fodder to the accompanying black horses – fine Arabian steeds destined for the kingdoms of the fair-haired folk in the far west upon the caravan's arrival in Constantinople. Malik had never been there, only hearing tales of verdant hills and plains replacing the familiar dunes of his homeland. Another dusk descended. As Malik looked back once more, the shimmering mirages that had danced at the edges of his vision vanished. The true crisis, he knew, lay in the Caliph's banners and the glint of sunlight on armor. The gem merchant raised his silk-wrapped riding whip, gently striking his mount and quickly turning towards the weary rear of the procession. "You, head north, quickly," the old merchant commanded, his free hand gesturing to an attendant while the other held the reins. A black horse was brought to Malik's side, tethered to the right rear of the camel. Another attendant disappeared into the carriage, only to re-emerge with a tightly sealed, broad-mouthed copper urn, intricately carved with silver and adorned with lapis lazuli. Malik leaned down slightly, carefully taking the urn and placing it into the travel satchel hanging from the camel's left side. "Here is extra water and food, not much, use it wisely," the old merchant called hastily, his weary voice drowned out by the growing sound of pounding hooves. Before Malik could offer thanks, the merchant's whip cracked, and the camel and black horse bolted, stirring up clouds of reddish-brown sand. Malik steadied himself, guiding his mount in the intended direction, and plunged into the desert night. At the port, he sold the black horse and camel for a ship ticket and sufficient provisions. The copper urn, heavy in his pack, represented safety—he mused—as he followed the other passengers onto the ship. Upon reaching the land of the fair-haired people, Malik was penniless, with only the ornate copper urn in his possession. He learned the local language and found temporary lodging as a blacksmith in a village. He knew he could not openly worship the deity he recognized, so he fashioned a small silver cross to wear on his chest, hoping to avoid suspicion from the Frankish King's patrols who passed through the villages, given his dark hair and eyes. Before the end of the tenth summer, Malik bid farewell to the small village and continued northward. Here, dense forests abounded, and only slivers of sunlight filtered through the canopy to the fallen leaves at his feet. Everything was different from his childhood—sight, taste, hearing. The region of Normandy was cold; he exchanged a few fine knives he had forged for a thick fur coat. One snowy day, while dining in an inn, he rushed outside in amazement; snowflakes landed on the tips of his long, curved eyelashes, melting into water within seconds. Another kingdom, speaking a different tongue, lay across the sea. "The English," a fishwife pointed towards the gray horizon, expertly gutting a fish. Although the weather was bleaker than in the previous village, Malik decided to stay for a while, setting up his own small shop for forging ironwork. The spring breeze brought a touch of life to Normandy, and the vibrant wildflowers reminded him of the mosaic murals in his homeland. The tenth winter had ended. As he adjusted a silver ring to fit the finger of Maria, a village bride-to-be, and securely set a ruby he had brought from the great desert years ago, he looked up to see a patrol of Frankish officers. "You are not from here," the officer stated calmly and courteously, his sharp blue eyes obscured by pale lashes. "Your skill has been heard of in the royal palace, and thus we must take you." Malik had but one request: one day and one night to bid farewell to his beloved. He returned home and pulled open a trapdoor beneath his bed, built for protection against passing Dane robbers. Wrapped in rough cloth lay the exquisite copper urn. He saddled his horse, took the urn, and set out for the sea at midnight. Twenty years later, his speed on horseback was certainly different from the impetuous vigor of his youth. It took some time before he could smell the sea breeze and hear the cries of seabirds. Dawn, filtering through low-lying clouds, swept across the Norman beach, the damp, sticky sand clinging to his feet. He had heard tales of the Frankish royal palace – of silks, jewels, and feasts – but to Malik, they were merely cages of gold and stone, much like the high halls of Khurasan's oases. He twisted the lid of the urn, untouched for twenty years. The carvings on its surface were still as exquisite and detailed as ever. Inside lay ashes. Malik continued onward until the saltwater reached his waist, holding the copper urn tightly against his chest. The rising sun was at his back; the water was cold—cold enough, Malik thought, to extinguish the searing pain of a pyre. The ashes cupped in his hands were quickly swallowed by the sea. Faint spots of dawn light, 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, nor had he spoken the name in all those years. "Altaïr," Malik finally answered softly, his throat thick with sorrow and longing, but holding back tears, so that his beloved could rest eternally. "Altaïr Ibn-LaʼAhad, which in your tongue means 'bird of flight'."