The Well of the Drowned Caravan

In the first light of dawn, the Desert of Sand glittered like gold — but Mehran's heart was heavy. The crown-shaped storm that had risen over the horizon the night before had melted away into the morning heat, yet another image still stood before his eyes: the stone eyes of Sardar Aman Khan in Zarnabad's darbar. Eyes that had once glowed with love for every caravan.

"Abba," Mehran whispered, touching his father's sword. "I will bring the third piece too. I promise."

His mother's words rang in his ears: "In hardship, generosity is the greatest sword."

"Mehran!" Sahil called out, his voice muffled by the sand. "This sea never ends! And my tongue…" He ran his tongue over his dry lips. "My tongue has turned into an old leather water-skin!"

From Sahil's turban, Sabz piped up: "Water! Water!"

"Yes, yes, you want water too!" Sahil made a face. "You're a parrot — all you do is talk. What do you know of thirst?"

Toofan, Mehran's black horse, walked slowly onward. His neck was bowed, but when Mehran whistled, he pricked up his ears and lifted his head with courage. Above them, Shahin wheeled through the sky — diving low, rising high — as if he too were searching for something.

By midday the sun stood directly overhead. Mehran lifted the water-skin and shook it — not even half remained. He took three sips himself, gave three to Sahil, and kept the rest aside. "This is the last of it," he said. "Guard it well. In the Desert of Sand, water is worth more than gold."

Sahil hugged the skin to his chest. "Don't worry. It is dearer to me than my own life."

But further on, the sand revealed its secret. From behind a dune poked the broken wheels of carts, half-buried in sand. Then another. Then many. This was an old caravan — a caravan drowned in a flood of sand. And in the middle of them all stood a round rim of stone — a well.

"A well!" Sahil shouted and ran forward. But when he peered inside, there was only dry sand, and darkness below.

And at that very moment a voice rose up — weak, thirsty, as if it had been begging for water for centuries:

"Water… just a little water…"

Mehran and Sahil stared at each other. The voice was coming from inside the well.

"Who is there?" Mehran called.

"I… am Rukhsana Bibi…" the voice said. "The water-carrier of this drowned caravan. When the sand-flood came, I was standing guard at the well. Everyone else left. I remained. And now… I am the guardian of the piece. Whoever gives water freely, even in his own last thirst… the piece is his."

Sahil's face went white. "In his own last thirst?" he whispered. "But this is our last water! If we give it away, we ourselves…"

And at that very moment — while Sahil's heart was wavering — a black crow settled silently beside his shoulder. No one saw it. Only Sahil heard its whisper, sliding into his ear like wind:

"Foolish boy… your friend will pour this water into a dead well. And you? You will die of thirst. Take the skin… mount Toofan… run. Your father kept horses, not kingdoms. This war is not yours."

Sahil's hands began to tremble. His fingers closed around the strap of the water-skin. For one heartbeat he truly thought it — just pick it up, and run. Toofan is fast. Mehran would be left behind. And he would live.

He took one step. A second step.

Then he stopped.

Before his eyes rose a picture — the chamber of the broken tower, where Mehran had abandoned the golden piece and, without a thought for his own life, thrown himself over Sabz. For a friend. For a parrot. Making his own body a shield.

And at that moment Sabz — as if he had heard Sahil's heart — repeated his mother's words, clear and loud:

"In hardship, generosity is the greatest sword! The greatest sword!"

Tears came to Sahil's eyes. He lifted the water-skin from his chest and held it out to Mehran. "No," he said, his voice shaking but strong. "Them first. Mehran, give them water first."

Mehran looked at him in wonder — then a proud smile spread across his face. He took the skin and slowly poured the last of the water into the well.

The sand drew a long breath.

As if a thirst of centuries had been quenched. Cool air rose from the depths of the well, and then… a thin stream of water came floating upward. With it came a golden arc — shaped like a wave, cool and gleaming. It dropped of its own accord into Mehran's open hand.

"The third piece," Mehran said softly. "Three steps closer to Abba."

And then the well gave its reward — fresh, cold water bubbled up. The skin was filled. Toofan bent his head and drank. Sahil splashed water over his face with both hands and laughed. Sabz dipped his beak in too and announced: "Cold! Cold!"

"Thank you, my sons," Rukhsana Bibi's voice was light and glad now, as if a great weight had lifted. "My watch is over. The road ahead… goes through the forest of the stone birds. There… be careful."

But before Mehran could ask anything, Shahin gave a sharp, fearful shriek from the sky.

There it was again on the horizon — the crown-shaped storm. Closer this time. Faster. The sand whirled around it as if a giant hand were closing into a fist. And in the middle of the storm, for a single moment, Mehran saw a black crow — Zaar — laughing as it looked their way.

The storm swept over them — in the blink of an eye. When the sand settled, the view ahead had changed. Far off, where before there had been only sand, a dense forest now stood. And on every tree…

Sat birds of stone.

Hundreds of them. Silent. Motionless.

And then — on the tallest tree, a stone peacock slowly turned its head… and looked at them.

Sabz's voice trembled as he whispered: "Stone birds… stone birds…"