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Gulls were fighting over fish guts on the kay. Their shrieking calls dumbly irreverent of the muezzin’s call to morning prayer. Haroun stood at the open window of his small rented room overlooking the harbor and the ancient battlements of Essouiari. The long barrels of a Hydra gun-system stood out in the lightening hues against the still-dark western sky. Haroun wondered briefly if the anti-ship artillery still worked, whether its circuitry had decayed like its rusted outer shell. And, if the guns didn’t work, who would still care to raid this ragged coastal hub?
Two years ago he had seen the aftermath of a pirate attack on a small fishing village further south. Being pressed to pay tribute to a new local ruler the villagers could no longer hand anything to the Canari Island corsairs. The pirates eventually turned up in force and laid waste to the town. Haroun arrived two days later as part of an armed convey. Someone in the village had send out a radio plea for help, but when the help arrived nothing but burned rubble strewn with bodies. The marauding force had been quit creative in their slaughter, and at times Haroun still had nightmares.
Shrugging of this darkness, he cleared his mind and turned his thoughts to God. Announcing his intentions, he unrolled the rug he always carries on the dusty floor. Scooping water from the battered metal bowl on the ground. Rinsing his mouth, washing hands, head and feet. Standing on the mat and reciting prayer, bending and kneeling. The ritual is part of him now. Meaningful and intimate. Ending with the acknowledgment of the angels to either side. Those who recorded your deeds, good and bad. Haroun remained kneeling on his rug, staring at the eastern wall. The plaster crumbling, dead electrical cable hanging useless. Outside the gulls still screeched.
Two years ago he had seen the aftermath of a pirate attack on a small fishing village further south. Being pressed to pay tribute to a new local ruler the villagers could no longer hand anything to the Canari Island corsairs. The pirates eventually turned up in force and laid waste to the town. Haroun arrived two days later as part of an armed convey. Someone in the village had send out a radio plea for help, but when the help arrived nothing but burned rubble strewn with bodies. The marauding force had been quit creative in their slaughter, and at times Haroun still had nightmares.
Shrugging of this darkness, he cleared his mind and turned his thoughts to God. Announcing his intentions, he unrolled the rug he always carries on the dusty floor. Scooping water from the battered metal bowl on the ground. Rinsing his mouth, washing hands, head and feet. Standing on the mat and reciting prayer, bending and kneeling. The ritual is part of him now. Meaningful and intimate. Ending with the acknowledgment of the angels to either side. Those who recorded your deeds, good and bad. Haroun remained kneeling on his rug, staring at the eastern wall. The plaster crumbling, dead electrical cable hanging useless. Outside the gulls still screeched.