One Day in Damascus

The red cloths flapped in the hot fragrant winds of Damascus. Doors everywhere would be shut now until a whole day later, with not one soul to walk the roads or come and go, in trade or talk, the city was forced quiet and even the birds hushed with the anxiety that something different can bring.

Windows were covered, some, painted over and flags slung adorning the limestone mantles.

One stray puppy wobbled over the hot road - too young to know where to forage through the rubbish for food; and one old goat sported the hollow streets, sampling the pomegranates and blossoms that draped invitingly without sentinel.

A party of weary men straddled the road leading into the quietened city. One walked clumsily beside a mule, clutching to his side, as if to steady himself. He was not elderly but appeared insecure, stumbling like a novice to his sightlessness.

He was a tall man with large features and a long face. Although his robes were dust infested, one could see he wore a cloth of quality. 

The vacant streets had made it difficult for the visitors to find their way to the sanctuary they sought, and there was no one there to point the way.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series