The Time-Travels of the Man Who Sold Pickles and Sweets by Khairy Shalaby

Author:Khairy Shalaby
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The American University in Cairo Press
Published: 2016-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

13

The Dregs of Madness

LIKE AN EXPERT RIDER, I gave the horse a kick, and it flew across the square as if it owned the place. I admit I had never ridden a horse before, or even stroked one: the closest I had come was admiring how they went through their paces to the sound of a reed pipe. But now that I was mounted like a knight I became a knight—or maybe it was just that the horse did such a good job of keeping me balanced that I was free to think about escaping from Qawsun, who was reportedly hot on my tail.

I thought of slipping out of the time I was in. Unfortunately, the prison of time turned out to be harder to break out of than prisons in space. When I thought about the future, I could make the different periods of history shimmer before my eyes. But every time I saw ahead clearly enough to jump beyond the time where I was imprisoned, I trembled at the thought that I might be sinning against God. Though I could see the future with my own eyes, I surprised myself by recoiling from it, afraid of whatever punishment one gets for being a fortune-teller. So I decided to let time have its way with me and left the future in the hands of the Almighty.

But where to fly from Qawsun, who with all his power was bound to catch up with me? No sooner had the question formed itself in my mind than I roared with laughter. Of course: I enjoyed diplomatic immunity by virtue of my affiliation with the Storehouse of Banners—the prison for foreigners who were originally prisoners of war but now ruled a state of their own. All I had to do now was make it to the gate and I’d be out of danger. Going back would also be a chance to show off my horsemanship, not to mention all the information I had gathered, which was so recent and detailed that even Khazaal would be impressed.

“How is it,” I asked myself, “that you forgot about the storehouse, Son of Shalaby?”

“That’s how people are,” I said, answering my own question. “Including me. I happened to be riding a noble steed and so I forgot about the storehouse. It’s hard not to get distracted when you’re riding a purebred stallion that obeys your every whim.”

The Son of Shalaby who had asked the question said that the Son of Shalaby who had answered it was harebrained and shortsighted. But the Son of Shalaby who was both of them—that is, me—laughed at them both, dug in with his heels, and sent the horse flying. But then he noticed that they would have to slow down: the crowded streets that surrounded the storehouse were straight ahead.

The horse stumbled and Ibn Shalaby was nearly hurled to the ground. He was nearly knocked out (out of what, though?), a circumstance that provoked the Ibn Shalaby who had asked the question to stick his tongue out at the one who had answered it.

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