In the mists of antiquity, beyond the veil of the Wuma River, across ten turbulent seas and past the jagged peaks of a thousand mountains, there lay a realm known as the "Good Land." It was a domain of emerald pastures and sapphire skies, where the earth yielded its bounty with a generosity that seemed divine. The rivers teemed with silver-scaled fish, and the air was perpetually filled with the hum of industry—the rhythmic clatter of looms, the scratch of the scholar’s quill, and the song of the sower. Peace was not merely a state of being there; it was the very breath of the land.
But peace is often a fragile glass, easily shattered by the iron fist of greed. Into this paradise descended a man named Ashour, a figure whose heart was a cold stone and whose soul was a desert devoid of the dew of mercy. He led a band of marauders, men who mirrored his cruelty, clad in iron and mounted on steeds bred for war. They descended upon the Good Land like a plague of locusts. Ashour declared himself the master of all—the soil, the stone, the rivers, and the very souls of the people. He claimed the harvest before it was reaped and the cloth before it was woven, leaving the inhabitants nothing but the bitter husks of poverty and the dust of despair. Those who dared to whisper of rebellion were silenced with the spear, their bodies hung from the high branches of the Great Oaks as a grisly testament to Ashour’s absolute dominion.
Dominating the horizon of this oppressed land was the Mountain of Fire. Its summit was perpetually shrouded in heavy, swirling clouds, and from its peak, fountains of molten flame erupted like the beating heart of the earth. Yet, paradoxically, crystalline waterfalls cascaded down its slopes, feeding the rivers below. For millennia, many had attempted to scale its precipices, seeking the source of its dual nature, but none returned. The people spoke of it in hushed tones as a "Enchanted Mountain," a place where the laws of man and nature ceased to function.
Yet, an ancient prophecy, whispered from grandmother to child, persisted: “When the shadows of tyranny grow longest, a youth of pure heart shall arise. He shall be the salvation of his kin, the one destined to reach the flaming summit upon a Carpet of Wind, and from the heights of the Fire Mountain, he shall bring forth the end of darkness.”
The Weaver and the Foundling
In a humble corner of this land lived an old weaver. He was a man of solitary habits, possessing neither wife nor kin, yet his hands held the magic of creation. He could take the raw wool of the highlands, the silk of the forest cocoons, and the cotton of the plains, and transform them into tapestries so vivid that the birds depicted upon them seemed to warble, and the rivers seemed to flow. He had spent a lifetime saving his gold, dreaming of building a palace of marble walls and ivory floors, crowned with silver domes—a sanctuary where he could spend his twilight years in dignity.
But Ashour had taken it all. The gold was gone, the dreams plundered. All that remained was a rickety loom and a hut that shivered in the wind.
One winter night, as a tempest roared against the coastline, the old weaver heard a cry that pierced the howling gale. He rushed to the shore to find a man and a woman struggling against the mountainous waves. They were holding a small bundle above their heads—a child—fighting their final strength to keep him above the suffocating brine. The weaver, despite his age, dove into the freezing depths. He reached the child just as the parents were claimed by the dark abyss. He swam back to the shore, clutching the shivering infant to his chest, weeping for the lives lost and the life saved.
He named the boy Saad, for he brought "Happiness" to a heart that had long been hollow. He raised Saad as his own, teaching him the sacred language of the loom. As Saad grew, his hands became as nimble as his foster father’s, but his spirit was forged in the fire of indignation.
"Father," Saad would say, his eyes flashing as Ashour’s men hauled away their week’s labor. "Why do we allow these vultures to feast on our sweat? This silk belongs to us!"
The weaver would sigh, his bones aching. "They are many, Saad, and we are few. They carry steel; we carry thread. It is not wisdom to strike a mountain with a pebble."
"But until when?" Saad would cry.
"Until the Prophecy is fulfilled," the old man would whisper. "Until the Hero of the Carpet ascends the Mountain of Fire."
The Palace of Dreams
One particularly bitter night, Saad found the weaver weeping in the dark. The old man lamented his lost palace, the dream that had been stolen by Ashour.
"Father," Saad said, a spark of inspiration lighting his face. "Ashour took your gold, but he could not take your skill. We do not need stone or mortar to build a palace. We shall weave it! We will create a palace of silk and wool, so grand and detailed that the eye cannot tell it from reality. It will be ours, hidden in the threads."
The old man’s eyes brightened. "A palace of weft and warp? But where would we hide such a thing from the tyrant?"
"We shall work by the light of a single candle, in the deepest hours of the night," Saad planned. "By day, we will double our labor for Ashour so he suspects nothing. By night, we will build our kingdom."
For two years, they labored. They dug a great pit behind their hut, lined it with dry grass, and hidden within it was a growing marvel. They wove a carpet a thousand meters long and a thousand meters wide. On it, they rendered a palace of silver domes and marble halls. They wove gardens with every flower known to man, rivers with leaping fish, and stables with stallions of midnight black.
WWW.JANATNA.COM
The detail was so profound that when Saad leaned over a woven rose, he swore he could smell its perfume. When the weaver touched a woven apple, his mouth watered as if he held the fruit itself.
On the final night of their labor, they spread the masterpiece out under the moonlight. It was a vision of paradise. But as the sun began to peek over the horizon, the thundering of hooves shattered their peace. Ashour and his men had arrived early.
The Theft and the Storm
The villains discovered the pair before they could hide the massive textile. Ashour stood over the spread-out carpet, his jaw dropping in uncharacteristic wonder.
"This..." Ashour breathed, "this is no mere rug. This is a kingdom in silk. A king may own a palace of stone, but only the Gods could own a palace such as this. And I am the God of this land!"
The old weaver fell to his knees, pleading for the work of his life. But Ashour, with a cruel laugh, ordered his men to seize the carpet. As they began to roll it up, the weaver collapsed in a fit of uncontrollable sobs. The more he cried, the louder the bandits laughed.
Suddenly, the sky turned the color of bruised plums. A gargantuan black cloud blotted out the sun. A wind, fierce and unnatural, roared through the valley. It tore trees from their roots and tossed the bandits from their horses. The great woven palace was lifted by the gale, unfurling in the air like a giant wing, and was carried straight toward the summit of the Mountain of Fire.
Ashour was livid. "Witchcraft! You have used sorcery to hide my prize!" He seized the old weaver, binding him to a horse. "You have one month, boy!" he screamed at Saad. "Bring back my palace from the mountain, or your father’s head will decorate the palace gates!"
The Ascent of the Pure Heart
Saad spent days in despair, watching the fire and steam of the mountain. He tried to climb, but the waterfalls washed him away, and the jagged rocks tore his flesh. He was a mere man against a primordial titan.
Just as he was about to give up, he remembered the prophecy. The Carpet of Wind. He looked down at the mud puddle where he had fallen and saw silkworms—strange, iridescent creatures that drank from the mountain’s runoff. They were spinning cocoons of a thread so strong it could not be broken.
"Magic silk," Saad whispered.
He gathered the thread and, for four weeks, worked without sleep. He wove a small carpet, vibrant with the images of eagles and hawks. As the deadline approached, he stood upon the silk and prayed. "For the life of my father, fly!"
The carpet shivered. It rose. It soared!
Saad flew through the clouds, past the lightning, until he reached the summit. There, he found a sight no mortal had ever seen: a lake of crystal water surrounded by gemstones. Floating within the lake, preserved by the magic water, was the Master Weaver’s palace.
Saad used a strand of his magic silk to hook the great carpet. With a roar of effort, the small carpet pulled the massive one into the sky.
The Transformation
As Saad descended toward the village, the people fled in terror, thinking a demon was arriving. But as he touched the ground, a miraculous rain began to fall—not water, but liquid light of every color.
Where the yellow drops hit the woven flowers, they bloomed into real blossoms. Where the red drops hit the woven apples, they became heavy, sweet fruit. The silver domes turned to solid metal; the ivory floors became cold, hard bone. The woven horses let out a thunderous neigh and stepped off the silk, their coats shimmering. The palace was no longer a carpet; it was a physical reality, a monument of sovereign beauty.
Ashour, hearing of the miracle, arrived not with a sword, but with a heart full of greed. He saw the palace and claimed it instantly. Then, he saw Saad’s small flying carpet.
"I must have the power of flight as well!" Ashour demanded. He jumped onto the magic silk. "Take me to the heavens!"
The carpet rose. It climbed high into the freezing stratosphere. But the prophecy was clear: only a pure heart may command the wind. Sensing the darkness in Ashour, the carpet suddenly flipped. The tyrant fell, a screaming dot against the blue, and vanished forever.
At that moment, the Mountain of Fire erupted one final time. It did not send lava toward the village, but toward Ashour’s remaining bandits, consuming the evil that had plagued the land for so long.
Saad rushed to the dungeons and freed the old weaver. Together, they walked into their palace—the dream made flesh. The Good Land was finally good once more, governed by the wisdom of the weaver and the courage of the orphan.
Keywords: Magic Carpet, Fire Mountain, Ancient Prophecy, Master Weaver, Orphan Hero, Tyrant's Fall, Enchanted Palace, Silk Alchemy, Folklore, Bravery.
0 Comments