An Evil Eye

106

The man with the knife stood in the low doorway of the caravansary, rubbing his chest.

He had hoped the welt would fade; it was less than a scratch, after all, the skin scarcely broken, and there had been no blood. But it did not fade. It felt hot, instead, and around it the skin was flushed. In the mornings, when he moved his arms, the welt was sore.

The guardian of the caravansary received him doubtfully. He was not a merchant, with goods to protect; nor did men wander at this time of year, looking for work.

“Three days,” he said reluctantly. “Three days, then you’ll move on, see?”

For a day and a night the man slept, feverishly. On the second day he showed the guardian his wound.

A doctor was fetched. He frowned at the scratch, and prepared a hot poultice to draw the poison out.

But the man knew what happened when a mad dog bit you and drew blood. It could be weeks, or months, but in the end you went mad, too, and died.

The pasha’s life hung by a tiny thread.

He had so very little time.