He would see the written characters in the sand before the wind wiped them away overnight, would see them on swords, skins, and rocks in the middle of the desert — the cross, the circle, the triangles and dots — and would have liked to know their meaning. See, saw, seen. But he was an akli, a slave. All he could read was the stars. The seven sisters of night, the warrior of the desert, the mother camel and her child.
