In the distance I made out three dark men as they crested a dune. They were clothed in dirt-stained, sand-blown robes and by the looks of their haggard faces and exhausted camels, I could tell they had been traveling for many days. From where I had no idea.

As they neared, I thought I recognized one of the men. Nathan, my brother. I was awe-struck. I hurried out to meet him and jumped up on his camel to embrace him. He remained motionless in my arms, untouched. The rough texture of his cloth raiments grated against my hands. I waited for some sort of response but got none. Slowly I removed my arms. He turned and looked at me coldly, his shaggy brown hair and overgrown beard hiding the indifference on his face. Cold blue eyes stared out from the face of a stranger who had once been my brother. I hopped down from the camel, perturbed at the cold reunion. We had never been close, but I expected at least a gesture of civil courtesy, if not an embrace. I guess I didn't know my brother at all.

I was uncertain how to proceed. Sensing the pressure of Nathan's relentless glare, I felt obliged to do something. Awkwardly I recited the routine of my post, and did so with distant formality.

"I stand at the gate. Those worthy may enter the realm of Rashtan through the portal," I intoned. "Those found wanting will be doomed to wander the eternal sands of Drakmaraje, knowing no friend but the blistering sun, no solace but the sting of windswept sand, no relief from the gnawing decrepitude of thirst and hunger." This ritual was thoroughly overblown, but the Sultan insisted. "Do you wish entry?"

"Of course we wish entry." Nathan returned, "Why else would we have traveled two weeks to get here?"

"Purpose of sojourn?" I queried, following routine.

"You know goddamn well why we're here. Let's quit with this ritualistic garbage and you just let us in," he demanded.

"Are you worthy?"

"Of course we're worthy," he snapped as he handed me five well-worn bronze coins and stepped through the circular doorway followed closely by the two others and their camels.

A kaleidascope of colors greeted my brother as he stepped through the portal into Rashtan. At the far end of the bazaar an enormous beige clocktower stood serenely, chiming out the hours of the day in foreign tones. Parrots entertained themselves on elaborate perches made of silver and gold. Palm trees curved up seductively throughout the square. Dust-beaten merchants peddled their exotic wares, contributing to the frenzy of activity within. Throngs of buyers roamed the bazaar, eyeing both the vendors and their goods, occasionally quenching a desert thirst in one of the taverns. The shy, dark eyes of young arabic women peered up from veiled faces as Nathan and his companions drifted through the square.

They arrived gradually at a rather inauspicious looking doorway, shadowed beneath a low awning and further darkened by several layers of congealed grime. From within a man's voice beckoned patronizingly, "Welcome. Welcome. Please, do come in." As they entered, the fat form of the trader, Fayyaz, could be discerned along with what appeared to be the sheen of his bald head. (It may have been the muted gleam of his gold hoop earrings; in the dim, musty surroundings, one couldn't tell for certain.)

Fayyaz enjoined the travellers to be seated around a circular table. In the middle of the table lounged a giddy, bronze Buddha statuette, who grinned maniacally and presided over the encounter with an eerie mirth. Drinks were poured from a drab, dented, pewter decanter, and they proceeded to conduct their business. Before the meeting ended, a treasure map and a heap of coins had exchanged hands.

When he left Rashtan, Nathan dropped a scroll at my feet and hissed, "Here you go, you piss-poor weakling. A present from your long lost brother." I hastened to open the scroll, and, as the years sped away, I often sat in my meagre room contemplating its words, a quote from a legend, "We are all held in single honour, the brave with the weaklings. A man dies still if he has done nothing, as one who has done much. Nothing is won for me... in forever setting my life on the hazard of battle." Underneath the pronouncement, my brother had scrawled, "Justification for your measly existence."

Back where you came from