Dear readers, tonight with us is a young sculptor working the art world in the spectacular Nabataean Kingdom of ancient Arabia (you know its capital as the fabulous city of Petra). But his secrets of implication in the
deaths of his sister and mother, and his father’s abandonment, leave a
dark chasm in the flint of his heart.
Tell us a little about where you grew up. What was it like there?
I was born near Hawara, Nabataea—a place the Greeks called Arabia. It was a few days travel south of the capital city of Raqmu, or Petra as you call it. It was one of the last stops on the caravan road from the port at Aila, on the way to the capital, and finally on to the port at Gaza. From Gaza, they shipped luxury goods—incense, silk, and gemstones—to the rest of the world around the Great Western Sea.
Any memories of childhood?
I loved roaming the rocky white hills beyond Hawara, and swimming in the cool waters of the town’s underground cistern—when no one was looking. And I recall times of joy I spent with a girl about my age—Qainu. At the tender age of seven, I thought I might marry her.
But the place holds bitter memories as well, since I was implicated in my younger sister’s death, and later, that of my amma. And for that reason, my abba abandoned me in Raqmu/Petra, leaving me in the care of a stranger. But that man became a better abba than the one who sired me.
What did you first think when your father abandoned you in Petra ?
I couldn’t really imagine that he was abandoning me—in a city I’d never known, and to a man I’d never met. I could not grasp that I would never see my family again. I don’t think my mind, and my heart, could face the terror of that reality.
What do you do now?
I was on the fast-track of the art world in Raqmu, as protege of the famed sculptor Aslah—the man who was my foster abba. He instructed me well, and also said I had a gift like none he’d ever seen. But that all came to a horrendous end one day at the stone quarry. The collapse of a rock wall crushed him to death, and caused grievous injury to my right hand. I not only lost the ability to excel at my craft, but lost the man I cherished as my abba.
I then went on a quest to find something—the Shamir—that I thought might resurrect my career. It was said to be a powerful, but mysterious object, buried beneath centuries of myth. It took me to the very ends of the earth. And the cost of this quest grew far more than I could possibly imagine.
Continue reading “Nahor (of The Stone Cutter, by Brock Meier)”
The Protagonist Speaks 
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