Operation Scheherazade
by Sinbad

Chapter 1

The sides of the Wadi, the valley between two hills, were covered in stunted thorn bushes, small football-sized shrubs of sparse twig and thorn, looking for all the world like a ball of chicken wire. Trailing a cloud of dust behind him, a small boy ran helter-skelter down a narrow path of bare earth made by the goats that grazed the hillsides. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, almost out of control, diagonally down the hillside, careless of the risk of stepping on a thorn which would surely penetrate his foam rubber flip-flop and dig deep into the sole of his foot. He knew the risk and would normally have been more careful but today he wanted to get to his destination as quickly as ever he could, because he had a story to tell, a story bursting to be told. So even when his flight took him close across the front of one of the big black Bedouin tents that dotted the valley sides he didn't slow, or nod to the occupants respectfully as he passed, as he would normally have done. Today this tent was occupied by an elderly woman with a face the colour and texture of a walnut, dressed in a floor-length long-sleeved black traditional dress decorated with a square of intricate colourful embroidery over the chest, who sat comfortably on her haunches at the entrance, tending a pot on a beautifully polished brass Primus stove. As the boy passed, running with arms and legs flailing, she scowled and flapped a hand ineffectually in front of her as she became enveloped by the dust that followed in his wake.

The bottom of the Wadi was a stream bed. Now it was dried-up, just a grey brown dusty path of pebbles and boulders, but each year for a week or two the rains came and it turned into a raging torrent, as do countless other riverbeds in the arid countryside that is Jordan. The boy careered down the path and leaped across the narrow stream bed at the bottom, and then continued his headlong journey up the other side, still keeping to the goat track.

Out of breath, he reached his destination, a lone stone-built house, single-storey, flat roofed, with an elegant verandah built out over the valley and offering a commanding view of the city on the opposite hilltop. He didn't stop running until he'd bounded up the steps to the front door. He crashed into the stone wall beside the door as a less energy-consuming way of bringing himself to a halt, and stood leaning heavily against the precisely-chiselled stone blocks from which the house was constructed. After pushing hard on the door bell he waited and panted.

This house was some distance from its nearest neighbour and although a road ran past it and occasionally a car could be heard passing, there was no passer-by to watch the boy in the doorway. Had there been, they might have been struck by the shock of unruly sun-bleached blond hair, the bright blue eyes and the deeply tanned skin with a sparse dusting of blond fuzz on the forearms of this clearly not native Jordanian twelve-year-old, wearing a short sleeved shirt and short trousers, and the flip-flops, thankfully thorn-free.

The door opened, and there was no onlooker to notice that the boy who appeared at the door could have been the brother of his visitor, being similarly tanned, blond-haired and blue eyed. This boy was taller by a couple of inches and with curlier hair, a rounder face and freckles across his nose but otherwise they looked much alike.

The taller boy beamed his pleasure at seeing his visitor. “Hi, Ricky, when did you get back?”

“Last night. Where's your mother? I've got something to tell you.”

“She's gone swimming. There's no-one here. Do you want a drink?”

“Pepsi, if you've got some. Good. Can we go to your room?”

“Sure. You go ahead, I'll see what's in the fridge.”

Ricky made his way down a corridor to his friend's bedroom, enjoying the cool of the interior of the house, a house designed to protect its inhabitants from the fierce heat of the sun. The floor was made of polished granite tiles and the walls of cool plaster. The windows were each fitted with wooden roller blind shutters which could be raised and lowered using a canvas strap from the inside.

As the taller boy followed Ricky into the room with two soft drink bottles, ready opened, chilled from the fridge, he held one out to his friend.

“Thanks Chris.” said Ricky as he took the bottle and put it to his lips, taking a generous swig to wash the dust out of his mouth.

The two boys sat on the bed, the only furniture in the room apart from a chest of drawers. For some minutes they sat in companionable silence, as small boys sometimes do.

It was Chris who spoke first. “So, what did you want to tell me about?”

And Ricky began the telling of the story of his seaside holiday, the holiday that he had returned from just the previous evening.

“I met the King!”

“You're kidding!”

“Cross my heart and hope to die. It was on the beach and he came and talked to me. It happened like this....”

The story that Ricky told was halting, recursive and over-excited, but through it the underlying account could be discerned.