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The Sword
Chapter 2 - Zaina Stumbles Upon a Grand Treasure
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It was the sound of Zaina’s voice,
brightly singing an old Andalusian song, that helped her
father Farraj locate the young lady down by the stream that
bordered their modest farm. He paused as she came in to
view, a bucket of water in each hand, making her way back up
the gentle slope toward him. He started to call out to her
but checked himself, not wanting to interrupt her song.
Zaina was special. From the time she was born, Farraj
somehow knew she would be. Tradition said that he should
prefer his children to be boys. But in his heart he knew
that he would not trade Zaina for a dozen sons.
Her great talent and joy was music. She could play several
instruments and her beautiful voice was astonishingly strong
and clear. But beyond her musical gifts, she was simply a
wonderful young lady with a generous spirit who enjoyed
nothing more than bringing happiness to others. Everyone
loved her.
And yet soon, he reflected sadly, he would have to give her
up. She had just turned sixteen. Other girls her age were
already married. The family he had made arrangements with
years before was becoming impatient. Soon the sound of her
voice would leave his house and he could hardly bear the
thought.
“Wonderful morning, isn’t it father?” she called when she
spotted him. He didn’t reply for a moment, having forgotten
why he had been looking for her. Then it came to him.
“Yes, my songbird, much cooler after last night’s rain.
There will be new grass in the hills. I want you to take our
sheep up there for the afternoon.”
Zaina beamed her father one of her characteristic broad
smiles in reply as she set down the buckets and trotted over
to him. Farraj knew that caring for the sheep was one of
Zaina’s favorite chores. Their small flock had been her
“audience” since she was six.
“I’ll be back in time to help with the evening meal,” she
said adjusting the ribbons of her headband. “Tell mother not
to do too much before I get there.”
Farraj frowned. “There are other children, Zaina. Let them
learn to help your mother.” Then he smiled and brushed an
errant strand of her mane of dark, wavy hair out of her
eyes. “You go sing to the sheep.”
Zaina nodded. She understood her father’s meaning. Before
tears could have a chance to appear, she quickly turned away
and hurriedly retrieved her buckets. Soon Zaina and the
flock were on their way into the rugged hills in search of a
rich meadow.
It was still early afternoon when she and her parade of
sheep reached the small bowl-shaped valley. Zaina had
correctly guessed that this low spot in the hills would
collect enough water to turn green after the rains. The
sheep immediately spread out over the meadow and began
contentedly munching the rich grass.
Zaina headed for a large rock near the center of the field
where she could sit and watch over the flock. She had only
gone a few yards when she came upon a path where the grass
had been trodden down by a number of horses. Curious, she
followed the path for a little ways. In many places the
hoof-prints were very clear in the still-damp ground. Some
of the prints were deep – the unmistakable mark of heavy
warhorses.
Silently, she said a prayer to Allah that the wars that
constantly plagued much of Spain would not come to her home
and family. As she finished the prayer, her eye caught a
glint of something shiny from within a stand of wildflowers
not far from the path. Nervously, she looked all around and
listened. The whispering of the breeze and the occasional
call of a sheep were the only sounds. As far as she could
see, she was alone.
Zaina cautiously made her way over to the mysterious object
that so brightly reflected the sun. Gently pushing aside the
taller plants, she caught her breath as she suddenly
realized what it was. Half out of its ornate leather sheath,
the bright steel and decorated hilt of a sword lay seemingly
discarded among the flowers.
In disbelief, she again scanned the hills all around. Why
would someone so carelessly abandon such a valuable
possession? Satisfied that she was indeed alone, Zaina
lowered herself to her knees. Grasping the hilt, she slid
the sword back into its sheath and then lifted the weapon
out of its grassy bed. Standing up, she inspected the hilt
more closely.
The workmanship and decoration were finer than anything she
had ever seen. It was like the work of a skilled jeweler or
goldsmith. She drew the sword from its sheath. It was heavy,
but it felt well balanced in her hand. Dropping the sheath
to the ground, she took the hilt in both hands and swung it
across the stand of wildflowers like a scythe.
The result both amazed and terrified her. In a great arc,
the decapitated heads of flowers lay strewn across the
field. She had not even felt resistance. It was like slicing
through air.
A shiver ran down Zaina’s spine as she surveyed the damage
she had done to the lovely flowers. This thing she had
discovered was at once beautiful and terrible. She quickly
returned the sword to its sheath. What should she do with it
now, she wondered. For a moment she considered returning it
to where she had found it. But finally she concluded that
her father should be the one to decide what to do. He was
the wisest man she knew.
Removing her waistcoat, she wrapped the weapon as best she
could to disguise it in case she should encounter someone on
the way home. She gave the sheep a little while longer to
graze and then led them out of the meadow back the way they
had come. Along the way, Zaina sang to them a song from long
ago -- from the time of the Caliphs of Córdoba when Al-Andalus
was united and there was peace. The song was about gardens
-- and beautiful flowers.
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