Talisman: The Dervish's Tale

Chapter 1

The village sat before the traveller. As the clouds rolled away, the daub caught the sun brightly, and the clustered houses were difficult to view. Looking down to the dirt path, the skirts of his red tennure clung at his legs, vapour slowly rising from the heat. The first house was to his left where the path widened, and he looked up. On the corner beam of the house, four fingers rested on the darkened wood, for but a moment.

There was no one between the neighbouring houses when he passed. The second house had a high glass window. A face came to it, in a frame of grey hair. 'Hail, friend.'

The man who came from around the second house stooped a little, leaning on the stout black timber. He had impressive mutton chops, chestnut.

He smiled. The stranger stopped, 'Hail.' He nodded, as did the other.

'Might you help me? What village is this? And in what territory? I am hoping to be on the right path.'

'If the village has a name I don't know it.' The man maintained a wide-toothed grin 'Perhaps some do. It's the only one for miles. If you call it the Village, people will know what you mean. The territory is the Land of Talisman.'

'Excellent! It is the place I sought. Would you tell me, kind sir is there a blacksmith in this village?'

'Yes, yes there is. I'll take you to him.'

The stranger gave one look back. The window was empty.

A bearded man sat on the edge of the lane, in front of a small hut of untreated wood.

'A rich fabric you wear, sir. I don't recognise the garment shaped of it.'

The stranger looked across at the smiling face. 'It is called a tennure. It and my sikke – that is the name of the hat – are signs and instruments of my order. I am a Dervish. Have you heard of us?'

'No, friend.'

'We are worshippers and followers of that which has no name, but which often is called Good in the place I come from.'

'Yes. It is known here, too. Though I confess some care little for it.'

'Such as they are found, perhaps, everywhere. Anyway, the order of Dervish splits itself into many different disciplines. And the hue of the clothing betokens which. The white tennure, for instance, is worn by the dervish who serve Good in prayer, and use the art of the inspirational whirling, called dhikr, to that end. I wear the red, for I am a warrior. I am trained in a manner of dhikr that defeats the lackeys and saps of evil in physical confrontation. Would you care to observe?'

The moustached man stopped. His face was intrigued. 'Why yes. Go ahead!'

The Dervish set space between his companion and the buildings. A toe reached forward, and the movement began. The red skirts waltzed as they floated upward. A flash caught the sunlight, and joined the dance. As the tempo dropped, the other man could see the dervish had drawn a fine curved sword. When he stopped, it was put away. Down the street, a peasant boy and girl stood watching.

The Dervish breathed heavily, his face a happy glow. 'I've never seen something like that, friend. Thanks for the display,' said his companion.

Between two deep breaths, the Dervish gave a laugh. They walked on.

The blacksmith's was five doors down. They stopped beside a sign of a green star, stuck in the ground outside a tent.

'My thanks, good neighbour. If all in the Land of Talisman are as yourself, I worry not for my purposes here.'

'It's no problem, my old chum. You take care now.'

They nodded, and the tawny man gave a little wave, turned, and walked down the path between the tent and the next black and white house.

The high ringing of hammer blows had already been heard. The Dervish stepped through the door. The darkness was hot, not cool. The heat came from the walls as well as the forge, which lit the ceiling diffuse orange.

'Sir ... Sir ... Sir.'

A boy uncurled himself from a sack by the door-frame. Walking over to the Blacksmith, he tugged at his apron. The Blacksmith looked up straight away.

'Would I be able to buy a sword, sir?'

The Blacksmith stood. 'Come closer.' He started back up the hammering.

The Dervish moved forward. The Blacksmith spoke, attending to his work 'Sword's two gold.'

'Sovereigns?'

The Blacksmith gave a quick glance, and the hammering paused. It resumed. 'Yes. Long as they're gold, whatever. Gemstones take me to the City and away from work. Not worth it. Gold coin.'

'I have them here,' but when his hand clutched in his purse, it was empty.