God's Own Medicine
Written during the first days of COVID-19's pandemic. A short story thoroughly inspired by the ancient Mesopotamian tale of the Merchant in Baghdad, as well as by Mission's debut full-length "Gods Own Medicine". Locations and selected parts were not altered excessively, as it's meant to narrate a different take on the myth.
The sun had risen and set more times than Men recalled, when three brothers were born in Baghdad under the first blood moon of August. As First, Last and Always were they named, since never had three siblings been born before below the shade that arose only once in three years. It is of no wonder even the brothers themselves considered this an Omen from Nanna, the ancient God of the Moon, whom they chose to honor by never leaving their native ground. See, they all felt they carried an obligation to a sacred Deity who had been widely known for its providence to Gods and Men alike.
And for a while, their future was indeed granted great prosperity. The more years went by, the more vigor was gradually drawn from the promise of a godly sign. The eldest brother raised a healthy family of two daughters and a son, while he became the first merchant known for the rare silk imported from the lands of the far east. Baghdad's goods were now traded with soft fabric and exotic spice, adding much growth and needed value to the city. The second brother, he set on to become a ruler of the capital, in times power over law could corrupt even the purest of hearts. He was remembered as the last of the royals ever to grace the oppressed, as people were no longer starving, and justice was served even in the darkest of alleys.
However, not too many years passed since he set on his path, when ominous rumors started spreading throughout the countryside. Word did reach even him, crossing lands wild and vast to the very edge of all known kingdoms. It spoke of how Baghdad had no ruler and their trade was kept low, as his older brothers fell ill to an despicable disease. Was it random how they both drowned in the same high fever, beginning on the eve of their 33th birth date? A pale girl in dark cloak was sighted briefly close to their deathbeds, while the women who tended them also spoke of sweat flowing like crimson waterfalls. As if the blood in their veins boiled alike the shades of the crimson moon that long ago arose mystically.
It was then that his fear grew stronger and his knees started trembling. Never had he felt Death's breath upon his neck before, yet the reminder always stalked him in the dark corners of his mind. They were one and the same, his restless desire and its unjustified demise. And the more restless he became, the fullest was the life he would since then lead through his endeavors. He lived each day as his last on earth and became the most skilled troubadour in the entire region of the eastern world. Latter myths speak of distant journeys, even to lands that had not been discovered yet, where he would unfold the tunes of his experience in public squares and royal courts alike.
However, no matter how strong his fear grew, Death never knocked upon his door, not for long years to come. Neither did she drink his breath when asleep, nor await him in a dark, mudded alley. So, the third of three brothers, an old man now, eventually settled for the remaining of his days in the heart of the city of Samara. Having lived up to his potential, the only reminder of his past remained the gleaming dusk, when he would play the tunes that forged each chapter of his life. It was a moment that stood still in unspoiled peace; as crowds used to gather around the small square to ease their pain and calm their growing hunger.
It was one of these nights then when a cloaked figure finally appeared in the audience. Never had he seen her before, yet his blood run cold the very moment her eyes were set on him. Her figure may not have been one of a young girl's anymore, but her rich dark lips exhaled decay, while her vivid stare pierced light as if it was meant to absolve it. However, no matter how fear came over him, he stood tall in his place by playing the favored tune to its very end. His trembling hand moved like no other, gracing a playful scarcity to his memorable hooks as the exotic strings poured a pleasant, almost ethereal aura in the air.
It was as if nature's orchestral glow came in true alignment, with the veiled shades of a faded sparkling dusk. And the longer the play, the more did he realize even Death was intrigued by his performance. She allowed the unexpected, as he sang of Blood Brothers laying down their lives for him, wishing they took his hand and led him to the Garden of Delight. Was it maybe of the precious moments when all of people stood in awe? His playful skill capable of moving even the hearts of Deities? Or perhaps, the simple anticipation of the next piece to come? Truth is even Death would await the old man to finish his tunes until all his tales would be unwrapped and the dawn would rise anew.
In peace, so it was done and she awaited for the crowds to dissolve, bidding him to walk one last time beside her. He then laid his instrument on the ground, speaking words that were to be his last:
"-You can take me now, O' Death, for I found what I long sought".
And Death answered back:
"-But you had found it, when still young... alas, I too tasted God's Own Medicine. I am surprised to find you settled in Samara, for I long sought to meet you in Baghdad".
