The blade
The Blade - Part one
The last strike of the hammer breathed life into the blade. Looking at his work fondly, the smith barked to his apprentice to let the Sultan know his request was finished.
The apprentice hurried out of the smith’s place before he could be accused of laziness and ran to the castle through the downpour.
The smith plunged the hot metal into the tub of water, making it boil, and beamed at his creation. Never before was a blade so expertly made. The colors of the gems on the hilt glittered in the embers. The smith ran a finger down the edge and nodded happily. Then he sheathed the blade in an equally beautifully adorned sheath and waited for his best work to be handed to the owner.
–
With a beautiful zing, the blade was removed from its sheath and the Sultan’s eyes sparkled in delight. “Marvelous,” he praised the smith. On bent knees, the smith handed his King his best work which shone extra bright, as if proud to be in such company. “I will name it, Al-Muhaymin.”
With warm fingers, the Sultan grasped the ceremonial blade and held it out for his Malika and children. “This is exquisite work! And just in time for the ceremony,” His Malika exclaimed. The gems spoke of his power and he put it on his belt for all his subjects to see. Every time Al-Muhaymin was appreciated, the gems sparkled a little brighter.
The Sultan took Nerane on his knee and showed his daughter the blade. “What do you see when you look at it?”
Nerane traced her chubby fingers over the handle. “Pwetty!” She squealed in delight.
“Yes, very pretty. But what do you see?”
Nerane thought long while she stroked the gems on the handle. “This one is pwetty!” She said as she pointed at the black stone with an array of colors in it that sat on the guard of Al-Muhaymin.
“Yes, it is. But it’s also a protective stone that will keep you safe from harm when you hold it.” Nerane looked at her father with big brown eyes and then looked back at the black opal. “This one? Aaand this one?”
The Sultan smiled again, “That’s Agate, it will make you strong. Like me!” Then he tickled his daughter until she shrieked with laughter.
—
In the dark of the night, Nerane would unsheath the blade and run around the castle with it. Al-Muhaymin especially enamored Nerane and she would battle the snake Falak, a nasty Djinn, or a terrifying Ghoul with it until she fell asleep. Sometimes when her big brothers teased her too much, she would imagine having her own fleet and discovering new lands. A prince would be there waiting for her and together they would conquer… well, more land.
“Do you see how it shines?” Nerane whispered to the guard’s son, Shyraz, as she held the sword up to gleam in the moonlight.
Shyraz nodded in awe as the princess swung the blade as if battling an invisible enemy. “But, your highness, what if you hurt yourself?”
Nerane looked confused at Shyraz and then ignored her friend’s question. She said, “I will use it soon for the cer-em-monie and I will bring luck to our winter.”
—
Al-Muhaymin was pulled out of its sheath for the cutting of the first grapes for the wine. It was Nerane’s duty as princess to do so and she beamed with pride as the farmers and her family watched her. She hoped no one guessed know about the Falak she fought off with this very blade.
The metal reflected the small crown that was placed on her head for the occasion. They heard the silent rush of the leaves and the quiet expectation from the crowd. Nerana looked around her. The vineyard was not as fresh and green as the previous year, and as the metal glinted in the light, it reflected fewer vines than before. But Nena didn’t notice the strained smiles of the farmer families or the first signs of the 7 bad years. She was focused on the blade, the vine, and the heavy weight of her new responsibilities. Despite the yield, the grapes were made into wine and Nerane drank her first sip during the festive meals while the blade shone on her little belt. She smiled when her mother kissed her forehead, and her father winked at her before she removed the crown and sought out Shyraz to run barefoot through the palace gardens.
As Nerana grew older the nighttime adventures lessened. But every time she unsheathed Al-Muhaymin, it glowed for her as if greeting a friend. Through all her new responsibilities and lessons she found a certain anchoring in the blade. Together they discovered new places in the dark and run away from her brothers when they were in one of their boy’s moods.
—
“The farmers are hungry,” Shyraz said one day when Nerane was polishing the sword for the end-of-summer ceremony. “The ground was too dry to wield good grapes.”
Nerane bit her lip but didn’t comment. She looked at the shining blade and hoped that the young man was wrong. Shyraz saw his new beard reflected in the metal and stood proud beside her during that year’s ceremony. But even Al-Muhaymin was not sharp enough to cut through the dried-up stem this year. Nerane noticed that the people in the crowd were thinner than she remembered. Her warm hand held the blade tightly to not show the effort it took to cut the small and sour grapes from the vine while the gems shone pale.
That night, she wanted to sneak off with Shyraz, but her father took her aside and he was left standing outside on his own. It was the night to have “the talk”, but when you’re a princess that is a very different talk.
The Sultan stood next to his Malika as Nerane sat on a bench with the blade forgotten beside her. “We are very proud to have promised you to Prince Hashem,” the Sultan announced and beamed at his daughter who nodded quietly. “He is from a good family and they have told us that he is intelligent, tough, tall for his age, and responsible.”
The Malika placed a hand on the Sultan’s arm. “And he is kind, loves poetry and gardening. And soon we will receive a portrait of him.”
“Will I become Malika?” Nerane asked in a small voice trying to picture her future husband. She grasped for Al-Muhaymin and begged it to give her courage. She felt her muscles calm.
“No, Nerane. He is the sixth son in a family of sons. You will stay princess.” Her father answered and her mother sat down in front of her. “It will be some time before you are married, Hashem is 8 and will not be wed until he is of mature age.”
7 bad years would follow for the land, but that you will have to read about in another post.
