Free The Apprentice's Masterpiece by Melanie Little Page A

war
and shatters the spell.
    â€œWe want only peace,” this man says.
“To be left to ourselves.”
    â€œBut you are not free.” I shouldn’t insult them.
Not when I owe them my life.
Yet, after so many days of unbroken silence,
my tongue yearns to talk.
“With all respect, sir, you belong to the Queen.
You pay extra taxes so you may exist.
This, in the place where we once
ruled as caliphs and emirs!”
    The man is not angered.
He, too, wants to talk.
“You are young,” he tells me,
shaking his head.
    â€œMaybe so. But sages deem
slave years are ten times as long
as ones spent in freedom,” I say.
“In those, I’m afraid, I’m old enough.
And I’m tired.”
    My next words are more
for myself than for him.
“I want the rest of my years
to be free.”

Normal
    As I walk to the mosque the next morning,
a crier stops me—stops us all—
in our tracks. What does he care
that it’s time for our prayers?
    A Moor, shouts the crier,
is wanted by the alcalde—the sheriff of the Queen.
He is sought for intent to murder a Christian,
and for consorting with a Christian girl.
    All that is known are his age—
around seventeen—and initials, R.B.
Anyone knowing a Moor who fits
this description should report him at once
to the sheriff.
    Ramon Benveniste . The sheath from his knife…
it fell, I remember. I didn’t retrieve it.
It must have worn his initials.
    How much of what happened did Bea see?
No matter, I think.
She failed to stop it, or even
to try—I surely can’t trust
that she’d vouch for me now!
    For a moment, last night,
I dreamed of a life that was normal.
A father (well, father-in-law). A tall house.
A wife.
    Leave off dreaming, Amir.
It is time to go home.

Leave-taking
    I look round in vain
for a pen and some ink.
    But what words are there
to explain everything?
    It’s too soon. We’ve only
just met. It would be saying hello
and good-bye in one breath.
    I search in my satchel
for something to give.
I can’t leave the knife. It might
bring them trouble.
    Then—what’s this?
A white linen square—Bea’s gift.
I’ve not yet looked inside.
    I look now.
Nestled in there
is a tiny white tooth.
On one of its sides
is a nasty brown hole
in the shape of a heart.
    I can’t leave this!
    Perhaps I’ll drop it
in some pit I pass,
or the Guadalquivir.
The sooner the better.
The tooth seems to bite through my satchel,
saying, “Watch out, Amir!”

The Return
    It seemed likely I’d find
a new boy—a new slave—
asleep in my bed. No, Amir,
don’t be bitter. You must never forget
Papa’s kindness to you.
    Second father, I know.
But no less true for that fact.
How can I leave him?
I can’t , my heart says.
Yet how can I stay? Though I am
a free man, Ramon can’t grasp it.
Nor can the rest of Castile.
    I wait long at our door, listening.
    At first, I hear nothing.
Then, finally—there.
The snotty, moist rattle I’d know anywhere.
Ramon sleeps.
    And it’s there, by my pillow, just as before.
Tell me, Hafiz, what should I do?
    Come, for our hopes are no more than a broken-down house.
Bring wine. Life’s foundations are rooted in wind .
    Well, there’s no wine around
and no money to buy it.
But I know I’ll take you.

A Broken Mouthful
    I think of leaving
the knife for Ramon.
But after what’s happened,
it feels like a curse.
I don’t truly wish
any evil on him.
    And, once again,
I play with the thought
of a note. I hate to imagine what
Mama and Papa are thinking.
That I’ve hated it here, so I’ve run away.
That I’ve found them cruel.
That I didn’t believe
they loved me like a son.
    There’s not enough ink
in Castile to convey
the armies of thoughts
that clash in my brain.
    I would like to make peace
with Ramon.
But there are times
when peace just becomes
a broken mouthful.
A word that no tongue in the