Ibn Rushd Answers Back
Ibn Rushd Answers Back — a philosophy story. 10 illustrated pages, narrated, on the kids shelf, free to read on Wonder Philosophy.
Page 1
The wind off the Guadalquivir came without warning, slamming into Ibn Rushd's open folder just as he paused to point at a line for Yusuf. In a heartbeat the loose pages of his first chapter leapt into the air and scattered over the parapet of the old Roman bridge, spinning down toward the brown water below. 'My chapter!' Ibn Rushd cried, lunging and grabbing only empty air. Zahra was already running, snatching a fisherman's net from a startled old man leaning on the railing, and flinging herself to the edge to scoop pages before the current dragged them under the arches. Yusuf sprinted the other way, toward the great turning waterwheel, and threw himself flat on the stones, stretching his long arm out over the scoop as it rose dripping, snatching the last page a breath before it tipped back into the river. Ibn Rushd hurried between them, catching the wet sheets Zahra passed him and pressing them gently against his chest to keep them from blowing away again.
Page 2
The page spun up out of Zahra's hands and lodged high in the orange tree, caught between two leafy branches twice as tall as Yusuf. 'There! Right there!' Zahra shouted, already dragging the gardener's wooden ladder, taller than three of her stacked, across the gravel path. Yusuf grabbed the ladder's sides and planted his wooden sandals wide, bracing it against the trunk. 'Climb slow, I've got it,' he said, leaning his whole weight in. Zahra scrambled up rung by rung, bells chiming on her braid, reaching into the glossy leaves until her ink-spotted fingers closed on the page's corner. She tugged, and the branch shook loose a shower of ripe oranges, tumbling down one after another. Ibn Rushd, standing below with his indigo robe gathered wide, lunged side to side, catching them in the folds of cloth against his chest. 'Six!' he laughed, nearly overbalancing, his reading-stone swinging wildly on its cord. 'A fine harvest for a ruined chapter.' Zahra climbed down waving the rescued page triumphantly, while Yusuf steadied the ladder's last wobble with both hands.
Page 3
The paper mill at Alcolea rattled with water-hammers pounding linen rags, and the air smelled of wet rope. Ibn Rushd counted coins into the miller's palm for a fresh stack of blank sheets while Zahra stacked them carefully into her satchel. Yusuf, trying to carry too many quires at once, skidded on the pulp-slick boards near the great waist-high vat of grey paper-pulp. His wooden sandals flew out from under him, his arms windmilled, and he slammed into the vat's edge, tipping a wave of thick grey sludge sloshing across the floor. "Yusuf! Grab a paddle!" shouted Zahra, already splashing through the mess barefoot. Ibn Rushd rolled up his wide sleeves and scooped pulp with a flat wooden paddle, shoving it back toward the vat while Yusuf, red-faced, scraped the floorboards clean with both hands. Together they hauled the dripping new sheets outside, arms full, and pegged them one by one along the long drying lines strung between posts, the cloth-like sheets flapping like pale flags in the river breeze.
Page 4
The lane of the Souk al-Warraqin narrowed to a crack between whitewashed walls, stalls stacked high with bound volumes on every side. Squeezing past a square-shouldered woman's stall, Yusuf's bandolier of reed pens caught the edge of her tower of books, shoulder-high, and sent it swaying. 'No, no, no!' she cried, lunging, but the whole stack toppled, volumes slapping onto the dusty stones. Zahra dropped to her knees, scooping up books two at a time. Yusuf flung his arms wide and caught three in a falling cascade against his chest. Ibn Rushd, stooping despite his long robe, snatched a volume spinning toward a water channel before its pages could soak. Together they rebuilt the tower, spine by spine, the woman checking each cover for scuffs with quick fingers. Satisfied, she pressed a borrowed book into Ibn Rushd's ink-stained hands — al-Ghazali's own words — then swung her wooden binding press onto her back, brass screws rising behind her ears, and fell into step beside them.
Page 5
Lamps burned low under the horseshoe arches as the night wore on, pages piling up line by line. Ibn Rushd paced between the shelves, dictating his answers to al-Ghazali's arguments while Yusuf scribbled fast, his elbow swinging wide with every word. Then his sleeve caught the big clay ink jar, waist-high beside the table, and it toppled, spilling a black river across the stone floor, racing toward the stacked quires. Zahra dropped her feather bookmark and scrambled for the sand bucket, flinging handful after handful across the spreading ink, stamping the wet patches flat with her bare heels. Lubna lunged past her, scooping the finished pages off the table before the flood could reach them, hauling them up on tiptoe to the highest shelf, far above anyone's grasping reach. Yusuf stood frozen, hands black to the wrist, staring at the mess he'd made, until Ibn Rushd laughed and tossed him a rag. Within minutes the floor was dry sand and scuffed footprints, the precious pages safe above, and the old philosopher simply picked up his dictation exactly where he had left off.
Page 6
The hired cart lurched into a deep rut, and with a sharp crack the wheel split clean apart. The whole cart tipped sideways, and the wooden book chest slid off the boards and tumbled into the dry ditch, its lid banging open. Yusuf dropped the donkey's rope and lunged to grab a falling quire before it hit the dust. Lubna heaved the chest upright with both arms, grunting at the weight, while Zahra scrambled down into the ditch on hands and knees, gathering loose pages into her skirt. Ibn Rushd knelt stiffly beside the broken wheel, lifting out stacks of paper and passing them up to waiting baskets. Nobody wasted a breath complaining — baskets were filled, slung onto backs, balanced on heads, and the climb up the olive-grove road began. Zahra, last to leave, jammed three flat stones under the cracked wheel so the empty cart wouldn't roll further into the ditch. Goats scattered bleating from the dry-stone walls as the four of them trudged on, baskets swaying, determined not to lose a single sheet of the precious book to the dusty road.
Page 7
Thunder cracked over the broken marble terraces, and the sky opened all at once. Rain came hammering down the old staircases of Madinat al-Zahra, racing in brown sheets straight toward the baskets of paper stacked on the lowest step. 'Move, move!' shouted Lubna, already hauling her cloak off her shoulders. Zahra dropped to her knees, scrambling to drag the nearest basket back from the rising water. Yusuf yanked his own cloak free and flung it high, and together with Ibn Rushd's indigo robe-cloak and Lubna's striped one, they lashed four corners over sticks into a crooked tent above the pages. Ibn Rushd knelt stiffly, holding the makeshift roof steady with both bony hands while water drummed above his head. Below, Zahra and Yusuf grabbed fallen chunks of old palace brick, slamming them one after another into the stone channel to dam the flow before it reached the tent's edge. The rain hissed against marble, the dam held, and slowly the torrent swerved aside. When at last the sun broke through, steam rose curling off the wet terraces, and the pages beneath stayed dry.
Page 8
The crate of pages swung out over the gap between the stone quay and the rocking boat, hanging above the brown water of the Guadalquivir like a kite caught in wind. The rope creaked. Lubna threw her whole square weight backward, boots skidding on the wet boards, hauling the line hand over hand. Yusuf jammed himself against a thick wooden bollard, bracing his long legs, taking the strain so the rope would not snap through Lubna's fingers. Zahra darted forward along the edge of the quay, swinging up a boathook twice her height, and hooked the crate's rope loop, steering it as it swayed. 'Pull now, pull!' Lubna grunted, and Yusuf heaved. The crate dropped the last stretch and thumped safely onto the deck boards, rocking the little ship. Ibn Rushd, standing with both hands pressed to his chest, let out a long breath and lowered his lens, which had swung wildly on its cord the whole time, back against his robe.
Page 9
A wave slapped the hull of the little ship Nasim and spray leaped clean over the rail, soaking the top layer of the crate before anyone could slam the lid shut. Zahra scrambled up first, grabbing fistfuls of damp pages before the wind could snatch them overboard. Yusuf came hauling a basket up the mast rope, his long arms straining hand over hand until it swung level with the yard. Together they pegged the wet sheets along the rigging like washing on a line, flapping grey against the grey Rock of Jebel Tariq shrinking behind them. Ibn Rushd steadied the swaying basket, keeping it from banging the mast, while Lubna braced her little binding press against a barrel lashed to the deck, clamping dry pages between its boards and stitching the spine tight with waxed thread. The ship rocked, the sail cracked overhead, and still the four of them worked, page by page, until the Rif coast rose ahead through the salt haze, waiting.
Page 10
The camel folded its legs with a groaning sigh, kneeling low in the dust of the great square, and Yusuf scrambled over its hump to tug loose the ropes binding the crate. Lubna shoved her shoulder under the crate's edge, hauling it down into her arms before it could topple. Together they staggered to the stone table, waist-high and broad as a door, and slammed the crate down with a thud that scattered pigeons from the minaret's ledge into a clattering grey cloud over the square. Zahra scrambled up onto the table's edge, flipping back the crate's lid and dragging out the newly bound book, its leather cover still stiff from Lubna's stitching. She threw it open with both hands, pages fanning wide, as a line of waiting copyists pressed forward, reed pens ready. Ibn Rushd lifted his lens on its cord, peering at the first page, while water-sellers rang their bells nearby and palm shadows striped the stones.
About this story
- Audience: kids (ages 6–12)
- Format: 10 illustrated pages, narrated, on the kids shelf, free to read on Wonder Philosophy
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