Al-Anbiyā
Sūrah 21 Al-Anbiyā’
“In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful
Closer and closer to humankind comes their reckoning, yet they heed not and turn away.
Never comes ought to them of a renewed message from their Lord, but they listen to it as in jest.“
Amir rested behind the counter, reading his dogeared holy book. Like a thorn in his mind, he repeatedly returned to chapter 21 Al-Anbiyā (Prophets of Old) until he had memorized its 112 verses. He practiced his oratory to get the right inflections and tone to give the verse life in his voice, which often trembled with his emotional struggle under the weight of its profound prophecy.
He heard silk on silk and looked up from his book into the face of the woman who had haunted his dreams. His mouth could not form words.
“I know it’s the day of rest, but do you have any day-old bread you can sell me?” Her accent was foreign, stretching the consonants of her words into a soft song.
“We have day-old bread. Would you like a full round or a partial round? It’s still fresh and will go well with goat’s milk or cheese.”
“I need to feed many children whose parents have fallen in this struggle between the Red Scorpions and White Falcons for control of the city.” Her plea for help was palpable as she handed her basket to the baker’s son. “I will take whatever you have that can fill my basket.”
“One moment, please.” Amir went into the darkened storage room and fought back his tears. This woman appears to me at this moment. It is a sign from Allah. I must help her. He filled the basket with the best loaves and partials he could find.
The woman looked worriedly into her tiny purse when Amir reappeared behind the counter with the full basket. “How much do I owe you, sir?”
The tall man walked to the narrow gate at the end of the counter and stepped out into the alley with the loaded basket of bread. The woman backed up as he approached. “I don’t think I can carry it all. May I leave some of it with you and come back later?”
“Miss, it would be rude to sell all this to you and expect you to carry it alone. I’ll carry it for you. Lead the way, please.”
“But I haven’t paid you,” she said.
“Ah, my hands are full now. I can get the money from you after I drop it off at your door.”
He followed the woman through the winding cobblestone alleys that snaked into the heart of the old city. Her colorful dress, made of ancient tiles composed of geometric shapes, flowed in an invisible breeze. Amir imagined the ripened grains of wheat writhing in the wind like waves on a restless sea. A mesmerizing scent drifted from her body and black hair like flowers and herbs. She had a natural sway in her hips, like King Nebakenezer’s court dancers.
Their footsteps sounded like distant drums reverberating from the dried clay walls surrounding them. The flinty smell of dirt, stone, and burning camel dung was familiar and reassuring.
Rounding a curve, Amir saw a surprisingly healthy pomegranate tree in the corner growing from a small patch of dirt with a stone wall around it. The woman stopped at a gate next to the tree and reached for the basket of bread. Amir held her gaze as he studied her face. He needed to remember exactly how she looked for his dreams.
“Thank you, sir. I can take it from here.” Her soft voice said many things to Amir’s heart.
“My name is Amir. You are welcome to come any time when you need bread for the children – or yourself,” he added.
“I am Layla. This is my home and business, where I make folk medicine for the poor. If I can help your family, come to me.”
The baker’s smile was evident through his beard, but the kindness in his eyes and benevolence in his voice caused Layla to blush and avert her eyes. She attempted to speak, but Amir had turned to go.
After a moment, she remembered, “Wait, Amir. I didn’t pay you.”
Layla sighed, it was too late. He was gone.
Hyperion Sky 
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