From the ramparts, I made my way to the house, and walked through the front doors into a cool whitewashed elaborately tiled greeting area. To the left and right were long, many-door’d hallways; directly ahead were tall, elegant portals that opened onto an interior courtyard. A magnificent reflecting pool ran the entire length of the inner yard, and beyond it were a running fountain and canopied lounging areas.

There were figures deep in the shade upon luxurious chaises and rugs. More stood nearby, holding trays as if of food and tea. None moved. Not at all. After watching them for many moments, I passed through the tall doorway, strolled along the pool, and joined Lhassen and his entourage beneath the billowing canopy.

Not Lhassen, but an exact strawman replica. Not the young Reguibat, but the young Reguibat in perfect effigy.

In one of the upstairs rooms, I found El Mahboul and his family, but not El Mahboul and his family. In the kitchen, among the numerous staff, I found a peerless reproduction of the astonishing washerwoman. I thought for a moment to grab her around the waist and carry her off with me, but couldn’t quite bring myself to commit such an act of — what? — trespass? theft? abduction? pillage?

The not-earth had no ground, the not-water no fluidity, the not-sky no brightness. Nothing had its shape…

Once more beneath the gently sighing canopy, I took a cup of steaming mint tea from a tray held by one of the statue servants, and sat on an empty chaise next to Lhassen. As he did not object to my presence, I made myself comfortable, gazing at the rippling surface of the reflecting pool. The day was magnificent — warm but not hot, cloudless, a mild breeze, no sounds of strife or commotion, no shouts, brays, or bellows.

As I sipped the crisp, fresh tea, the sun and light air on my face, I was reminded, yet again, that there was once no sun to bring such sweet light, no moon ever-filling its crescent, no earth enveloped by gentle airs, no seas running to remote shores. The not-earth had no ground, the not-water no fluidity, the not-sky no brightness. Nothing had its shape, and everything was in everything’s way.

After I finished my tea, I left the sheik’s compound and explored the village. As at Lhassen’s the people everywhere were not people but rather figures not of straw, and there were no animals anywhere — not even a cat lazing in the sun — no horses to borrow, no asses to liberate, no camels to otherwise employ.

I returned a few hours later to my cell and, closing the door securely behind me, settled in my usual corner beside the latticework. From among my few things, I picked up my journal with one hand and tapped the stone wall beside me with the knuckles of the other.

On the ramparts, the turban of the fellow on whose ear I tugged has come undone, and it flutters in the breeze like a banner, its end occasionally snapping in his face, his eyes.