In the golden age of a kingdom where the minarets touched the clouds and the markets hummed with the rhythm of life, there lived a mighty King. Despite his absolute power, his vast treasuries of gold, and his silk-laden chambers, the King was a prisoner to a silent enemy: Insomnia.
Night after night, he would toss and turn on his plush pillows, his eyes wide and burning with exhaustion. He had employed storytellers to weave tales of ancient heroes, but their words felt like dry sand. He had listened to the softest lutes, yet the music felt like clashing cymbals in his restless mind. Desperation finally drove him to summon his Grand Vizier in the middle of a moonless night.
The Vizier’s Unusual Remedy
The Vizier found the King pacing the balcony, his face pale and his nerves frayed. "Your Majesty," the Vizier whispered, "the walls of this palace have become your cage. Your mind is trapped in the echo of your own authority. To find sleep, you must first find the world."
The King scoffed. "And how? Should I march through the streets with a battalion of guards? The clanging of their armor would wake the very dead!"
"No, Sire," the Vizier replied, pulling a small, weathered bundle from beneath his cloak. "A king sees only the backs of people fleeing in awe. A beggar, however, sees the soul of the city. This is the cloak of a wise Dervish who lived a century ago. Wear it, let your beard grow wild, and walk the earth as a man with nothing. Only then will your heart grow quiet enough to sleep."
Intrigued, the King donned the rough, woolen cloak. He felt its surprising lightness—as thin as a spider’s web yet warmer than fur. He slipped out of a hidden postern gate, disappearing into the labyrinthine alleys of his own capital, disguised as a humble wanderer.
The House of the Singing Shadow
As the King wandered, he was amazed. For the first time, he saw people laughing, arguing, and singing. No one bowed; no one fled. He was invisible, and in that invisibility, he felt a strange, budding peace.
Deep in a secluded district, he heard a thunderous, joyful song echoing from a small, sturdy stone house. Through a window, he saw a giant of a man—a mountain of muscle and soot—lifting a massive pitcher to his lips. The King, driven by a curiosity he hadn't felt since childhood, knocked on the door.
The window slammed open, and a face as broad as a shield looked down. "Who is this pebble disturbing my peace?" the giant roared. "Do you want a bucket of slops on your head, little Dervish?"
"Peace be upon you, Master," the King said, masking his voice. "I am but a weary traveler seeking a moment’s rest."
The giant narrowed his eyes. "A Dervish, eh? Tell me, have you eaten? No? Then enter, but on one condition: you sit in the corner, you keep your mouth shut, and you do not touch a single grape unless I invite you. My voice is loud enough to shatter your eardrums if you annoy me."
The King agreed and climbed the stairs. Inside, he was stunned. Despite the humble exterior, the room was filled with the aroma of roasted meats, fresh fruits, and honeyed nuts. A beautiful woman sat in the corner, playing a flute that sounded like a desert wind.
The giant, whose name was Masoud the Blacksmith, ate with a ferocity that was hypnotic. After he had his fill, he slammed his fist on the table, making the plates dance. "You! Little shadow! You have sat there like a mouse watching a cat. Come, eat! A guest who doesn't eat is a curse upon the house."
As they ate, Masoud revealed his philosophy. "I am a blacksmith," he boomed. "I toil all day in the heat of the forge to earn five dirhams. One for meat, one for juice, one for sweets, one for oil and candles, and the fifth I give to this lady to fill my home with music. By the time the moon sets, I have not a single coin left. I live for today, for tomorrow is a debt no man has yet paid!"
The King, playing his role, whispered, "But Master Masoud, what if the King—may he be guided—decides to ban blacksmithing tomorrow? How will you survive with no savings?"
Masoud laughed so hard the rafters shook. "The King? He needs me! Who will shoe his horses or sharpen his swords? But even if that fool did such a thing, I would find another way. I will always have my five dirhams, and I will always have my feast. Now, drink!"
The Battle of Wills
The King returned to his palace and slept better than he had in years. But his competitive spirit was piqued. He wanted to test this blacksmith's resolve.
The next morning, the King issued a royal decree: "All blacksmithing is strictly forbidden for three days. Anyone caught at the forge shall face the sword."
That night, the King disguised himself again, expecting to find Masoud weeping in the dark. Instead, he found the house louder than ever. Masoud had spent the day carrying water skins for the thirsty, earning his five dirhams just the same.
The King tried again. The next day, he banned the sale of water.
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When the King visited that night, he found Masoud feasting again. This time, the giant had dressed in a fine kaftan and spent his day in the market pretending to be a Royal Tax Inspector, "fining" bickering merchants a few dirhams to settle their disputes.
"You are a fox!" the King-Dervish laughed, though internally he was fuming. "But what if the King finds out you impersonated his officers? He might make you a real guard and forbid you from taking bribes, leaving you with nothing until the end of the month!"
Masoud glared. "You are a bird of ill omen! But listen, little Dervish: no king, no law, and no bad luck will stop Masoud from his evening joy. Come back tomorrow, and you shall see!"
The Wooden Sword of Mercy
The King decided to end the game. He summoned Masoud to the palace the next morning. He didn't arrest him; instead, he appointed him as a Royal Palace Guard. "I have heard of your 'talents' in the market," the King said, hidden behind his golden mask. "You are now a guard. I give you this magnificent steel sword as a symbol of your office. But beware: you shall receive no pay until the month's end, and if you take a single dirham from a citizen, your head will roll."
Masoud left the palace in a daze. He had the status, but his pockets were empty. He looked at the sword—it was worth a fortune. He knew what he had to do. He went to an arms dealer and sold the steel blade for thirty dirhams. He then went to a carpenter and paid half a dirham to craft a perfect wooden replica, which he tucked into the ornate scabbard. With the remaining money, he bought the greatest feast of his life.
That night, the King (as the Dervish) visited. When he saw the feast, he was baffled. Masoud told him the secret of the wooden sword.
"But Masoud!" the King cried. "What if the King calls you tomorrow to execute a prisoner? If you draw a wooden sword, he will kill you!"
"God is merciful," Masoud replied, unbothered. "He will provide a way."
The next morning, the King did exactly that. He brought a "prisoner" (actually a pardoned servant) to the center of the court. "Guard Masoud!" the King bellowed. "This man has insulted the crown. Draw your steel sword and strike his head off!"
The court went silent. Masoud stepped forward, his heart pounding. He looked at the prisoner, then at the King. He raised his hand to the heavens.
"O Almighty!" Masoud shouted. "If this man is guilty, let my blade be as sharp as the wind! But if he is innocent, I pray for a miracle—turn my steel into wood so that I may not shed innocent blood!"
With a theatrical flourish, Masoud drew the sword. The crowd gasped. The blade was made of common pine.
The King burst into a roar of laughter that echoed through the halls. He threw off his mask and revealed himself as the Dervish. "Masoud! You have beaten me at every turn! Your wit is sharper than any steel, and your heart is freer than any king's."
The King realized that Masoud’s secret to sleep wasn't a cloak or a walk—it was the refusal to let worry steal the joy of the present. Masoud was made a permanent advisor to the crown, ensuring that the King never lacked a story, a laugh, or a reason to stay awake—or finally, to sleep in peace.
Keywords:
Blacksmith, King, Dervish, Wisdom, Insomnia, Folklore, Wit, Happiness, Ancient Tales, Middle Eastern Stories.
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