26. Sinking into Repose (3)
As the walls of Damascus faded behind the sand dunes, the thick, heavy air that had filled his lungs to the depths finally escaped. Fresh river breeze rushed in to take its place, easing the tension from all four travelers. Especially for Baraka, who had been dragged here against his will, the knots in his mood unraveled bit by bit.
The clamor of the industrial district and the scorching heat of the forges gave way to the desert sun's embrace, infusing him with a vitality that felt all too real. After all, their routine of eat, sleep, work had been upended by this unexpected outing—it was a welcome jolt from habit, worthy of high praise. The pure wind untainted by sand and the crisp rush of water soothed the soul, dulling the throbbing headache that had plagued him.
Three camels ambled leisurely along the riverbank, their steps unhurried. The lush green foliage released a fresh grassy scent, banishing boredom from the journey. If there was any regret, it was that Baraka's condition held him back. Having barely snatched minimal sleep for days—collapsing into it like blacking out—he bobbed atop the double-humped camel like a balloon at a gas station, swaying with every jolt. That he hadn't tumbled off was thanks to Miriam, riding behind him, one hump between them.
"Not feeling bad, right?"
Perhaps catching the relief on his face, Miriam's voice tickled his ear. He nodded naturally, and her girlish giggle flowed in. Glancing back carefully, he noted how she'd dressed up more than usual—her thin, soft kaftan clung just so, her body heat radiating through vividly, snapping him alert. Sleep might evade him now, but what did it matter? He hadn't rested properly cooped up in the office anyway. Better to compliment her outfit, he thought, opening his mouth cautiously—only for it to snap shut upon truly seeing her.
Miriam, whom he saw daily, looked different today—fresher, more mature in her attire. It made sense now, the village folk's fuss over their occasional outings, especially the aunties' reactions. As the town's popular girl, her daily visits to the complex drew laments from those aunties about their sons' regrets—and today, she exuded that understandable allure. Better to call her a woman than a girl; the thin fabric tracing her curves painted her not as a lively maiden, but a mature lady. That was his verdict.
But such trivia paled. What mattered was the soft, yielding pressure pressing into his back—the plush warmth transmitting from behind. Amid that gentle squeeze and the stronger whiff of fresh acacia, his thoughts stuttered to a halt.
Missing his cue to reply, he let out a long sigh. In the distance, the oasis panorama drew nearer, impressive in its reveal: trees draping the path linking their route through it, fruits hanging from branches, riverbanks thick with streamside willows. It was a scene so striking, one wondered if this was truly the Middle East, a desert culture.
History stretched longer here than in the original timeline, but Crusader clashes would eventually bring noise. The worry flickered, then faded. For now, the Lombards were hunkered in Ankara, weren't they? Too early for frets—with distance yet to cover, focus on rest.
"See? Without me, this place would've gotten noisy before you ever saw it. Grateful, huh? Your face says you need this more than scribbling pictures and numbers in a dark room."
His mind had wandered long. She peeked around, teasing, and he startled late. Her laughter rang—amusing, apparently. Refreshment was overdue, it seemed. Committed to recharging fully now that they were out, his resolve must've shown; Miriam gazed at him, beaming innocently, then lightly flicked the reins to quicken the camel.
Thus, they arrived in the green heart of Damascus, cradled in the arms of the Guta Oasis.
Guiding their camels to the shade of a massive willow—grand enough to qualify as ancient—the group dismounted and bustled into action. As Baraka slid down carefully, Miriam grabbed his arm, leading him to sit atop the tree's exposed roots.
Hasim and Rashid herded the camels to nearby trees, then— as if pre-planned—grabbed tools and headed off, rods in hand like fishermen, leaving Baraka and Miriam alone under the willow on a spread mat.
Miriam, unsurprised, fetched a picnic basket from the saddle and plopped down close beside him. Sunlight fractured through leaves, dazzling on her.
"Give me your hand?"
At her abrupt request, he extended it reflexively. She seized both, her touch sticky with oil. He flinched to pull away, then paused at the slick sensation. Her small, soft hands enveloped his large, rough ones, meticulously massaging oil from knuckles to joints to palms. The heat-roughened skin drank it in, leaving a rich rose scent that pleased.
As she finished his hands and kneaded his grip—flirtatiously, it felt—was that his imagination? "What's this...?" he asked, awkward with the oil.
"Rose petal oil, so thank me! Damascus roses are so beautiful and precious!" She smacked his hands proudly, hands on hips, eyes shut, chest puffed expectantly. Her cuteness drew his oiled hand to stroke her hair; she twitched adorably. A fine reaction—safe to pet often, he mused. As he finished, she redoubled on his fingers, the honest fragrance easing his mind naturally.
Different from modern perfumes—more like aromatherapy, not overpowering. His taut nerves softened. Did she feel it too? Giggling softly, she shifted, withdrew her hands, patted her knee. "Good oil, right? You're tired—nap here?"
What temptation. He eyed her worriedly—falling asleep now might waste the outing. But her face shone bright, unphased.
"Can't skip sleep forever. When else?"
No complaint about him sleeping on an outing—her sunny smile guided his head to her lap. His body yielded to the kind urging, melting slowly. His heart matched. No reason or energy to refuse—truth be told, no desire to resist this slumber's pull. Just park his head on this cozy pillow, set aside the taut reality awhile. A malfunctioning brain shuts down naturally. Primed for rest, his dry hair met soft thigh.
Moderate firmness and warmth enveloped his skull; throbbing headache and spinal tension ebbed away.
"Good boy."
Gentle fingers swept hair from his brow. Their softness and kindness, with cool breeze, brushed him like a fan's breeze. Petting strokes, ear-tickling hum. Watching willow leaves drift on the river, he thought, 'Ah, just one cigarette would perfect this...'
But even modern craving lost to sleep. Rose scent, soft lap pillow. Into perfect medieval oasis repose, his consciousness sank helplessly.
Watching his shoulders rise and fall rhythmically, I let out a small sigh of relief.
'Really, he gets on my nerves. Good thing I dragged him out by force.'
The strict factory lord barking at artisans was gone from his sleeping face. Instead, deep in slumber, he looked far younger and purer than Rashid uncle mentioned—wrinkles eased from his brow, sharp eyes softened behind closed lids. The drooping outer corners gave a tame puppy vibe over wild hound.
Cautious not to wake him, I brushed sand and dust from his cheek. Rose oil mingled with his even breaths, wafting back.
First noticed him at market: hauling water to help Father, spotting the rumored outsider smith Baraka inspecting an auntie's worn kitchen knife.
'Steel quality's trash. Tempering's a mess.' Grumbling, yet he pulled a whetstone from his pocket, honing it meticulously. Showing off skill for fresh bread seemed natural. Men boast what they're good at, right?
Yet this quietly sleeping man on my lap differed—hence special. Of course, bad men then surrounded me rushing back to shop. Vivid still: sword threats, my scream summoning him before Father's call. Aunties later said Rashid uncle dropped a price spat with Father at Hasim's shout, all rushing led by him.
No hesitation against drawn mercenaries. No mere smith—he smashed weapons to scrap, slammed them bone-crushing to ground. Months on, recalling that cool, solid back quickened my heart.
Probably then: orbiting him, peering into impassive eyes. Then confronted: behind calm smile and heavy duty, childlike loneliness. Thrust to factory lord seat, yet rootless, solitude swelling.
From small forge to factory to complex—burdens grew, walls rose. I knocked daily, fed him goodies to breach it. Yet this fool sleepless nights gnawed himself. Finally, conspired with Hasim for this reckless kidnapping.
"......"
Silent gaze down. His breath deepened on my thigh. Gripping my kaftan excitedly, his rough fingers slackened.
I stroked his hair tenderly again. Time passes; men call him factory lord, Damascus-shaker genius, infidels devil. But this lap-pillow man? Just weary, pitiful guy craving deep sleep.
Oasis breeze pleasantly whisked between us. Smiling at his oblivious face.
Daughter of Damascus merchant, after all. Massive cost of factory shutdown demands full value. Won't return him till fatigue's scrubbed to bones. Till burdens lift, lightened fully.
His sleepless dark nights finally ebbed quietly in my sanctuary. Sunlight as moonlight, ample willow as blanket. In midsummer oasis heart.