“The Chinese eat the flesh of all men who are executed by the sword.”

The voices of women, and of a kind fatherly man, and of little Niko, spoke worriedly about ‘The Good Doctor’ the ‘Baby Doctor’. He felt as he had on that cloud-tipped day in early childhood when he had slipped under the pond water of the garden and become tangled in the water plants—‘lilies! Was the Master of the Lilies eying me with wicked intent oh so long ago? Have I always been doomed? Am I the Baby of the Lilies?’

‘No! I am Abd al-Latif, doctor, submissive to God, and God alone.’

‘Than wake, speak, stand.’

He began to stand and felt himself being aided. His eyes, having never closed, began to take in his surroundings, the people who seemed concerned for him. He had not realized that his reputation was so good, so widespread among those he did not know, had not ministered to. Strong hands sat him on a comfortably cushioned upholstered stool.

Foremost before him were Niko and Tuman, who seemed worried each in their own way. Behind them crouched some servant women, and behind them stood some men of the same low class. The eldest of the three women said, “He has not had enough to drink. He’s dried out. This cold clammy sweat drained him of water.”

‘This wench would proclaim on my health!’

His voice came back to him as he cut her off from her next statement. He could only imagine what folk remedies she was already prepared to foist on him. “Quite correct woman. I have neglected my water intake. This triggered a seizure, as indicated by the fact that my eyes did not close. I thank you all for your concern and promise I will be fine if given some time to rest here with my boy and our friend Tuman.”

He felt drained by the day and threatened by the night even as he sat in the late morning light.

The people had dispersed and Niko was going on about fish prices. Tuman was looking into his eyes with concern.

“Niko make the purchase that you judge best. Our friend Tuman, Tuman of the Reeds, has information for me. Take your time Niko. Enjoy your haggling.”

The boy was off like a dart, without a word, seemingly intent on making the salt fish seller’s life an unprofitable misery. He heard a brief snatch of Niko’s opening gambit. “Your price was so outrageously high that my good Master took a spill in the street…”

Tuman was now squatting before him, as fishermen were want to do while caring for their nets and making their knots. The dirty, haggard and emaciated—but strong—fisherman looked up into his eyes with a kindness that made Abd al-Latif miss his father a great deal. This man, in reality, was as young as he, but looked many years the elder.

‘Why am I so anxious? Why can I not have this man’s steady way under stress?’

‘The problem is you are serving as your own doctor, which is no good. You need a doctor you can depend on.’

‘And indeed I do, right here in my medicine bag. There you are my poppy doctor!’

Abd al-Latif took a slight smear of poppy paste from the wooden bowl with locking lid which he kept for this purpose, and applied it between his cheek and gum. He immediately felt more at ease and less haunted in his mind by the terrible things he had seen.

“I have heard tell of the canal hands. I believe you on that account. I am also interested in locating the roasting pit of the Moroccan so that the warrior I serve—the Commandant—might bring an end to that detestable practice. I recovered the body of one child who had been roasted there. Please tell me of the thing that strains the bounds of your mind to bursting.”

Tuman leaned closer, which was unfortunate, as his breath was sickeningly rank, and spoke softly, “It was the first day of Aquarius, quite a while back now. The old bitch had taken off up this way with my family, along with the other fisherman—me; the odd man out they said. I decided to take the long scud down to the sea, my favorite thing as a boy that had been, dragging my hand in the water as my grandfather captured wind in sail and ‘tricked the old gods’ as he said, into dragging us to the sea.

“I had become accustomed to the bodies in the water, had seen four hundred—I counted them doctor—and I can count like a miser. Four hundred bodies and, I said to myself, ‘Tuman, it is time to sail to the sea and know the clean salt water, catch the clean salt fish!’

“Doctor, as I neared the tern reeds I heard a wind that sounded of piping, like the Indian fakirs that wander up from the Red Sea. I was drawn to it. Then the wind that sounded like piping turned into a piping that sounded like wind. Then a corpse bumped my boat, common enough in those days…

Tuman shivered despite the heat, then squatted lower and spoke to Abd al-Latif hesitantly, staring up into his eyes with his own haunted ones through the unruly tangle of his hair.

“Doctor, the corpse swam off, in lurching gurgling fashion, not as the living swim. It swam toward the sound. I then became fearful that Grandfather’s blasphemes might have brought wrath upon me, and hid my boat—and me within it—in the reeds.

Tuman then rubbed his shoulders as a man who is freezing does, and continued, “A raft, above which swooped gulls, came into view. The raft was poled by two Franks in murder cloaks of the wicked cross. The Franks I swear to you—just as was the swimmer—were dead. The raft they poled was a raft of corpses, into which the swimmer plunged, breaking its own bones to become a tangled plank in its construction.”

Tuman’s tone became more shrill, his pace more frantic.

“And the raft had a captain, a little black fakir with a turban of tresses and a gown of human skin piping on a flute made not of a reed, but of a human leg bone! The fakir had large hands and feet for one so small and, most of all, had great glassy eyes that pierced the soul. I averted my eyes, but still felt the chill of his gaze passing through me like an arrow through cloth.”

‘We are doomed it is true. Do not show your doubt.’

Tuman looked up at him as if hoping Abd al-Latif could cure him of this memory, or perhaps do more.

‘Can I do more? Has God not put this man in my path to point out my duty? If it came from the delta—this weed of menace, might I not snip the root stem?’

He took the wretched man’s hands in his, and despite the rank breath addressed him directly, “Tuman, God has brought us together; two who have seen that which threatens sanity. Will you accompany me to the Commandant’s house and take up residence there?”

“Yes Doctor, yes!”

“Tuman, we shall direct the Commandant to the Moroccan’s pit, then ask his support for the actions that shall right our minds, for we have both looked into the eyes of The Deceiver.”