Thughra

Thughra curls up into himself, warding off the morning chill. The sun hasn’t quite risen over the top of the mountains, leaving the valley in a purple haze, turning the shadows into lurking figures hiding between market stalls. A small wrinkled woman lays out prunes at the fruit stall, her hands melding into the crumpled skins and a young man carefully displays his colorful scarves of silk and linen. A pain fills Thughra’s stomach, his mother used to wear the same silk scarves, they smelt of burnt amber and frankincense, now their remains drift across the desert, the smell of smoke lingering behind, a black stain on a golden dune. He squints and shakes the thought from his head, focusing on a small beetle scampering across the dusty ground. It’s difficult to distinguish the difference between the pain of loss and the pain of hunger and he wraps his arms tighter around his ribs. The wind sneaks in through the holes of his clothes. As the sun shyly appears above the tip of the mountains, the market begins to wake up. Traders and hagglers begin to fill the streets, replacing the menacing shadows. Life returns and an energy buzzes through the air, an energy that Thughra hasn’t been able to connect with since he lost his family to the fire. He scans the crowd and is drawn to a particular figure. The thick brown cloak is unusual for these parts of the world. The figure stands with his back turned, peacefully still. If it had not been for the colourful patterned bag that whispered stories of travels and different lands Thughra would have completely missed him.

His eyes lock into the pattern and the thought of what the bag contains is unbearable. The need for certainty of its contents begins filling his body and he moves closer. The bag is now at arms reach and Thughra's thirst for the content is growing. As he runs through different scenarios to snatch the bag from the man's shoulders, divine intervention takes place and he places the bag to the ground. Thughra lurches forward and grabs at the leather handles, a wash of adrenaline flows through his body and he weaves past a group of old men playing checkers to escape being caught. Dropping to the ground he opens the bag. He shuts the bag again in disbelief. Quickly scanning his surroundings he gently opens it again. Inside, wads of paper money line the rich silk interior, there must have been up to $20,000 in there. Thughra has never seen this much money all in one place. He begins to stuff as much as he can into his pockets. As he reaches in one more time, his hands clasp around something cold and slim. Out of the bag he pulls a small black notebook. He flips through the pages not caring much for the contents, it seems to be a diary of sorts. Dates are wedged in between words and small scribbled drawings fill cracks and corners. Although the leather binding seems expensive, he discards the book. The past couple of years he has barely been surviving and how his pockets are filled with enough money to last a lifetime.

The market is shaped as a circle, wherever you start you always end. A continuous loop of fragrant smells and small trinkets. To the untrained eye it would be impossible to maneuver through this pulsing crowd, but Thughra has learnt to squeeze through, unseen, softer than the desert breeze. People are yelling and haggling prices in foreign dialects, chickens cry out and children laugh, running through the legs of distracted parents. Just past the auction arena, a frail figure sits, engulfed by his deteriorating tunic. Out from the pitiful pile of threads, the delicate voice of a flute floats above the market. A swell of emotion rises into Thughra’s throat and the familiar sting of tears prick the back of his eyes. He decides to linger in the shadows of a stall and listen for just a moment. Faint images of his mother flicker through his mind, the tune takes him back to a time before the fire. It’s eerily similar to a melody she sang the night he lost his family. The musician is a man in his late twenties, his arms are barely thicker than the rusted flute and are covered in the sinister love bite of a needle's teeth. Thughra winces and averts his eyes in discomfort, he too had been drawn by the lure of forgetting the past.

In that moment, a well dressed man strolls past. A large, glinting watch snakes around the man's wrist. Thughra scoffs and drops back into reality to follow his target. The watch is an easy object for an experienced thief. Such a watch is rarely found in markets like these and Thughra ponders on what a man of this status could possibly be doing in a hagglers market like this? The man slips through the spaces with surprising agility and Thughra finds it almost difficult to keep up. If it weren't for the unusual watch occasionally glistening through the grime the man could have merged into the shadows as easily as Thughra. His target abruptly stops and Thughra freezes, had he been noticed? However a smirk of realisation paints across his face as he watches the man show interest in a selection of gold rings at a young jewelcrafters stand. Thughra knows this jeweler, and he knows she creates fakes from cheap materials keeping the originals tucked away in a small wooden box for people she cares for. To his utter surprise she pulls out the wooden box for this man to browse. Thughra steps close enough to hear their conversation. The jeweller asks the middle aged man what he is looking for. The man, keeping his eyes glued to the box responds. “My wife left me. I have only ever looked out for myself. My whole life I have cared more about my job and my money. I never appreciated the things she did for me, now she is gone and I am back where I started, alone.” The girl's face softens in compassion and she dives in to help the man find the perfect ring. Thughra isn’t moved by the story at all and his eyes drift back over the watch. He knows just the right way to turn and place his fingers so the watch opens and slides right off in one smooth motion. The man is now paying for a golden ring and the window is slowly closing, Thughra has one chance. He places his fingers and closes his eyes, waiting for the sweet click of release.This is it. The watch slips free of the man’s wrist and Thughra scurries off before he is caught. Twisting through the crowd he begins to study its smooth edges, flipping it around his breath catches in his throat and he drops the watch to the ground. A few standers- by stare at him, he is drawing attention to himself. There, engraved into the back flowed the words; for Farrah. The name of his deceased sister. The coincidences of both his mothers song and his sister’s name all in one day whirr around his mind as he tries to make sense of it. The air becomes thinner as memories he’s pushed down re emerge, memories he wished he would never have to think of again. He stumbles off to the side of the street to avoid the peering eyes and curls up into himself again. The chill he felt this morning was nothing compared to the chill tingling up and down his body now. Thughra gets the sense he is still being watched, the hairs on the back of his spine rise. He feels unnerved and off balance, slowly lifting his face Thughra notices this old man’s eyes staring directly at him. His eyes are dead and cold. This man is without any smiles or happiness, dripping with loneliness. He is not wealthy and he is not poor, just a man who has not achieved anything with his life. Above the right eyebrow a long ugly scar plows his face, running all the way to the temple. Thughra’s hand touches his own eyebrow, feeling the exact same scar.

Everything is now spinning in Thughra’s head. The sun is blinding him and he places his face into both of his hands. What is happening? Everything comes to a standstill. A moment of realisation hits him. He lifts his face from his hands and looks up, the sun is no longer blinding and gently caresses his face. Thughra looks around and realises he has come full circle. The little black notebook lays where he discarded it. He looks through it again and finds the date of his family’s death. There scribbled beneath that date and stained with tears the notebook holds the story of the fire. He flips through a little further to a date in the future. He is in his late twenties and has nothing left, begging for money on the streets and hooked on medicines to forget the past. The next page he is now in mid forties. His wife has left him and he is once again alone in the world.

The linen sheets are moving in the wind making a deep subtle sound. The man in the brown cloak walks into the crowd. The market is shaped as a circle wherever you start you always end.