Whispers of the Jellaba: The Moor Prince

By Adam Simeer

When dawn rose over Meknes, the first light touched the Fountain not as stone, but as memory made whole. The water glimmered with stories, each droplet carrying the laughter, tears, and prayers of a city reborn.

The people gathered in silence. They did not cheer or shout — they simply listened. For within the water's song, they heard what they had forgotten: that the heart of the city had always been mercy.

Mohammed stood by the Fountain, his reflection rippling like a half-remembered dream. The Jellaba still hung about his shoulders, though its whisper had grown faint. It no longer spoke in riddles or warnings; instead, it hummed softly — a lullaby of endings and beginnings.

The Old Man approached, his staff now dim, its light spent. He looked upon the Prince not as a mentor, but as an equal — one who had crossed the deserts within and found the oasis beyond.
"You have restored the water," he said, "but more than that — you have restored its meaning. May you never again mistake strength for righteousness."

The Prince bowed, understanding that power was never meant to rule, only to serve.

Later, when the sun climbed high, he walked alone through the market — once a place of lost names, now alive with reunion. Merchants called out, children ran between the stalls, and somewhere a song rose — a tune carried on the same desert wind that had once whispered warnings.

At the edge of the city, where the dunes began, he paused. The horizon shimmered, and for an instant, he thought he saw her — the vision of the Pearl, radiant and smiling, watching him as she faded into the light.

He smiled too, and said a quiet farewell.

As evening came, the Jellaba stirred one last time.
"Will you leave me behind?" it asked, its voice no louder than sand shifting beneath the stars.
"No," said the Prince. "You are the memory of what was, and the promise of what may be. I will carry you, but not as a burden — as a reminder."

And so he did.

When the night settled over Meknes, the Fountain sang again. Not loudly, not proudly — but with the steady, patient rhythm of life restored. And if one listened closely, beyond the sound of flowing water, one might still hear a whisper — gentle as wind on silk — telling of a prince, a robe, and a city that remembered mercy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adam Simeer
• Release date: Nov 8, 2025
• ISBN: 9798232535698

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The Moor Prince

Whispers of the Jellaba

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Dedicated to my family and my TWO amazing boys, now grown men whom I love without limit.

And

To all the young at heart and imagination whom fly into the world of The Moors Adventure

Adam Simeer

Chapters:

Chapter 1 – The Eyes Beneath the Souk

Chapter 2 – The Cup of Water

Chapter 3 – The Gift of Shadows

Chapter 4 –  Whispers in the Fountain

Chapter 5 – The Pearl That Weeps

Chapter 6 – The Curse of the Jinn

Chapter 7 – The Muted Fountain’s Trial

Chapter 8 – The City of Forgotten Faces

Chapter 9 – The Mirror of Smoke

Chapter 10 – The Market of Lost Names

Chapter 11 – The Song of the Desert Wind

Chapter 12 – The Pearl of Love

Chapter 13 – The Jinn’s Last Breath

Chapter 14 – The Jellaba’s Whisper

Chapter 15 – The Fountain Restored

EPILOGUE

Chapter 1 – The Eyes Beneath the Souk

The souk of Meknes breathed like a living creature.

From dawn until the last ember of sunset, its heart beat through the rhythm of barter and laughter, the clang of copper pans, and the drifting scent of mint tea. Colours wove themselves through the air — crimson carpets, indigo silks, saffron piled high like sand dunes of spice. The world here was sound and shimmer, never still.

Among the traders and storytellers walked a young man in plain wool, his face half-hidden by the hood of a modest cloak. He carried no weapon, no insignia, and yet his posture betrayed something royal. His name, though no one here knew it, was Prince Mohammed Dehhbbi, heir to the Sultan of Meknes.

He came to the souk not as a prince, but as a seeker. To walk unseen among his people was the only way he could breathe freely, away from the marble corridors where voices bowed and truth bent. Here, in the crowded lanes, he felt the pulse of the real kingdom — sweat, dust, laughter, hunger.

He paused by a stall where a young woman bartered for figs. Her voice was soft but firm, and when she turned, he caught the light in her eyes — large, brown, and alive with something that made the noise of the market fade.

She was Fatima Bint Fillah, though he did not yet know her name.

Her hair, dark as date syrup, escaped from her veil in loose curls. Her hands, though delicate, bore faint calluses — hands that worked, not adorned. When a beggar’s bowl clinked beside her, she knelt without hesitation, offering him half her basket.

Blessings, my child, murmured the beggar.

Fatima smiled, and the smile lingered in Prince Mohammed’s mind long after she vanished into the crowd.

He followed her without meaning to. The souk’s twisting alleys swallowed her figure, and soon he found himself lost among unfamiliar corners where light bent strangely and the air grew cooler.

A voice drifted from a shaded archway — old, cracked, and knowing.

You seek more than the way, young man.

Prince Mohammed turned. There, seated at the souk’s corner, was an Old Man in a torn Jellaba so worn it seemed made of shadows. His face was almost hidden; only a silver beard and eyes like burning coals peered through the folds of cloth. In one hand he held a crooked staff carved with symbols older than the city itself.

I only seek the way out, said Prince Mohammed carefully.

The Old Man chuckled. Then you have already found something far rarer — humility.

For a moment, Prince Mohammed felt as if the air itself leaned closer to listen. Around them, the market’s sounds seemed to muffle; the traders’ cries grew distant, the clatter softened. The scent of incense curled around them like a whisper.

Tell me, said the Old Man, when a prince walks as a pauper, does he learn who he is — or what he is not?

The words struck like arrows. Prince Mohammed stepped back. "How do