Thuleman ob Mephisté, known as Thuleman the Terrible, sat with his back to the tent doorway. It was his incredible arrogance that enabled him to do this. His Chief at Arms, Jhampur ïbn Marnük, was frantic with rage, and paced back and forth in a state of apoplexy. His eyes flashed as he spoke, his shrill voice rising and falling as he admonished his beloved leader.

He chided Thuleman for being careless in the face of rumors of insurrection. But Thuleman sat calmly drawing on his favorite waterpipe, the tent filled with the sweet smelling smoke of the leaves of the favored paht plant. Jhampur stopped in front of Thuleman, bent his angular face level with his, and screamed that the infidels were infiltrating his band at arms.

Thuleman grasped Jhampur by the throat with one huge hand, and squeezed ever so slightly. Jhampur’s face flushed and he gasped for breath, and slumped in a heap before his leader. Thuleman said softly that the infidels were too fearful to challenge his authority; they were incapable of matching wits with Thuleman the Terrible; thus there was nothing to fear. Jhampur rubbed his throat, and rasped that Thuleman was indeed very wise, and perhaps Jhampur had been hasty.

In the village of Jhijiarssi the insurrection had its unintended leader, Rhita bar Nonne. Rhita lit candles, burned incense, and tossed bones on her lavender blanket, and thus invoked the powers of the plane of spirits. She once read the entrails of chickens, but no longer found it relevant in this day and age.

Over the past several years she had been warned numerous times not to practice her craft by Ricqert och Nhurd, the local vice mayor in charge of craft taxation. But Rhita was proud and not a little stubborn, and took very seriously her training in the ancient arts, especially those taught by her mentor and great aunt, the wondrous Ceres bar Ennon, witch first class and matron saint of the village.

One day Ricqert became enraged when he found bones strewn on his lawn, and believing the culprit to be the old woman, castigated her publicly in the village square. Later that evening Ricqert och Nhurd went for a walk near the oasis, but by midnight had not returned to his tent. A search party scoured the area, but found only a thong from his sandal. He was nowhere to be found.

The next day, Marh-Lihn ish Beech, the village high mayor, directed the royal guards to search high and low until Ricqert och Nhurd was found. She also reiterated Ricqert och Nhurd’s prohibitions against the practice of witchcraft. Rhita smiled, and in the hours following sunset burned a joss stick under the awning of her tent, and the scented smoke rose into the air and dissipated into the midnight ether.

The following morning, the village high mayor was nowhere to be found – she had vanished during the night. The people of the little village thought these disappearances were brought about by Rhita bar Nonne, but she remained silent about any involvement.

Thuleman heard the rumors of insurrection. He heard reports of incantations and tossing of bones. His spies listened in on whispered conversations in the market place and at the lower spring, and reported back to him. “She is a witch, some say,” reported a lean and hungry looking young man.

“There are mysterious things happening in her tent at night,” said a heavy barrel-chested old man with long white hair. “She tosses bones,” whispered a blind boy. “She burns incense to invoke the powers of darkness,” said the priest. Thuleman asked Jhampur to summon this Rhita person, and bring her to the royal tent. Jhampur hesitated; he raised his finger in a gesture emphasizing the words falling from his lips – “She is a danger to your kingdom! Do not bring her to this place – banish her to the desolate realm!”

Thuleman stamped his foot and shook his fist at the startled man, and with blood rushing to his face, shouted “Fool! Bring the witch to me!” Jhampur stumbled backward out of the tent, and scrambling to his feet, rushed off to the trees where his camel was tied. Jhampur rode with the furies, the winds howling past his ears, his hood and hair flowing behind him. Just before sunrise, he came to Jhijiarssi and stopped on the ridge overlooking the lower spring. Everything was quiet, and there were only a few people near the well.

Jhampur pulled his cloak close around him to hide his countenance, and asked a woman at the well directions to the tent of Rhita bar Nonne. He followed in the direction she had pointed, along the dusty pathway through a cluster of tents, and came upon a tent of brilliant white furs.

Seated on a lavender rug in front of the unusual tent, was an old crone with a purple and blue shawl over her shoulders. She was humming, rocking gently back and forth, her eyes closed against the morning sun. On the rug in front of her, was a crystal bowl of oil, with a reed wick feeding a tiny flame.

Jhampur cleared his throat, and walked slowly up to the seated woman. “Thuleman has sent you…” – a statement, whispered; her eyes remained closed. Jhampur was startled. “Yes,” he stammered. “He is upset,” said the woman. Jhampur whispered “Yes.” “He hears of unspeakable things occurring in our little village, and has sent you to summon me…” Jhampur looked around nervously, and because words stuck in his throat, he could only nod in agreement.

The woman absently fingered a number of bones, worn smooth from years of handling. Jhampur watched her hands, and his nervousness increased. His voice cracked: “Will you come if summoned…?” “Of course,” said the woman. She opened her eyes, and holding his gaze, murmured “Just one moment.” She rose from her lavender rug, ducked her head as she entered her tent, and Jhampur could hear her rustling around inside.

Shortly she emerged with a small leather satchel hanging from a sash at her waist. Jhampur offered to have her ride behind him on his camel. The woman shook her head declining his offer, and turned to the west. Taking long strides she moved with surprising speed toward the horizon.

Rhita bar Nonne maintained a steady pace, and didn’t look back. Jhampur rode easily on his camel, and kept a little distance between the fast moving old woman and his camel. Soon the blazing sun beat down on the unlikely pair, and the dry winds blew and sucked the moisture from the air.

Jhampur perspired heavily and struggled to breathe, but knew he could not take his cloak off lest the sun parch his body and leave him for the unholy scavengers of the desert. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see their wheeling presence above them. The old woman kept her cloak pulled tightly around her slight body, and through some power of mind over matter, kept her body temperate and cool. She did not rest or falter, nor did she waver from her appointed destination – the meeting with the high Thuleman.

By early nightfall they had reached the circle of tents of Thuleman ob Mephisté. Jhampur led the way to the large royal tent where they were met by the ruler himself. Thuleman’s mouth opened to a wide smile showing his yellow tobacco stained teeth. His eyes flashed with an unknown fire deep within. He bowed slightly, and opened the tent flap, and invited his guest to enter.

Jhampur followed them in, and sat on a pillow away from the low table. Thuleman in a gesture of feigned magnanimity poured the old woman a glass of wine, but she declined. Thuleman tried to make conversation, all the while smiling through his yellowed teeth. Rhita held his gaze but said nothing, and Thuleman squirmed a little with the overwhelming silence.

He set the glass down, and broached the subject of her magical powers. Rhita asked, “What are these powers of which you speak…?” And Thuleman cited the burning of candles, of incense, and the tossing of bones. Rhita spoke softly that she did practice the rituals taught by her great aunt, but they were by no means magical – they are religious in nature. She smiled ever so slightly, and was silent again.

Thuleman pressed harder, telling the old woman of the reports heard at the lower spring and in the market place, reports that spoke of magical and mysterious things, things attributed to one Rhita bar Nonne. These rituals were the cause of the disappearances of the vice-mayor and of the village high mayor. “These are but the prayers of an old woman,” said Rhita. “They are harmless in your world.” “I think not,” said Thuleman, his eyes narrowing to slits. “But enough of playing with words,” he added with an edge in his voice.

“You will stop these rituals, and cease from paying homage to your muse,” he continued, “for these are acts of defiance and insurrection!” He was standing now, and towering over the tiny woman. He glared at her with a most venomous visage. “I can do no other,” she said softly, and then was silent. The look on her face silently said what angered Thuleman all the more: “The next move is up to you.”

In an incredible fury Thuleman overturned the low table, and cups and bottles of wine went flying across the tent. Jhampur ducked, just being missed by a flying missile. He scampered to his feet. Thuleman snarled “You are forthwith forbidden to practice your high and unholy rites. If you disobey and continue to invoke your rituals, you will be taken and banished to the land of moving sands beyond the northern mountains.” He glared at the woman seated silently on her pillow, and whipping around, stormed out of the tent.

The woman sat motionless for a long time. Jhampur watched as she slowly took the satchel fixed to her belt and emptied the contents on the blanket next to her. She lined several pieces of willow twigs in a row; she placed two cubes with figures and runes on the many faces above the willow twigs; she then placed several chicken bones beneath the arrangement, and closing her eyes she began rocking back and forth. Very softly she recited an ancient lyrical prayer.

Jhampur became increasingly uneasy with the scene unfolding before him. Eventually, the woman stopped rocking, opened her eyes, and looked over at Jhampur. Her eyes were deep pools of darkness, although Jhampur thought he could also see in them the fires of the sun. Jhampur blinked, and turned his eyes away – he could not hold her gaze. Rhita bar Nonne gathered the artifacts from the blanket and placed them in the satchel tied to her sash, then rose and walked out of the tent and into the night.

Thuleman ob Mephisté awoke the next morning to shouting and considerable commotion. He arose and threw aside the tent flaps to find Jhampur astride his camel in front of the tent. Jhampur’s face was ashen, and his words came haltingly.

“Most exalted Thuleman….your entire band at arms left you in the night…!” “What do you mean?” asked Thuleman, not understanding. “All your men – they have taken their tents, all their belongings, and with their families have left for the mystery mountains beyond the deserts to the south,” whispered Jhampur. “They have all gone…!” “Why? Why have they done this?” a disbelieving Thuleman raged. “I believe it is the work of the old crone,” said Jhampur. “Her powers are ancient, and the people believe – and worse, your powers no longer touch the people. I have searched the village of Jhijiarssi, and the woman is no longer there. The people say she, too, has left for the mystery mountains beyond the deserts to the south.” Jhampur looked pained, and added: “The people have placed candles and crystal bowls of oil in their tents, and there is the scent of incense throughout the village. I cannot return there…”