Part III The Well of Souls

“That is the way,” he said.

“But there are no stairs!”

“You must throw yourself in. There is no other way.”

The Golden Key – George MacDonald

7

The Sami sat musing in the tower, his mind filled with the recollection of the of seven young initiates. He could still see the red flush of youth upon their cheeks, and the light of hope and discovery shining in their eyes. The image of their naked bodies lingered in his mind, their smooth, brown skin gleaming in the guttering torchlight, freshly oiled with sweetened liniment as they listened, for the very first time, to all that they must learn.

He had seen many others come before him, naked and willing, ready to pledge themselves to a great cause, and the iron will of one master. Seven gates would be set before them, and they must pass each one in turn. Yet how many would reach the last gate? How many would come to the knowledge of that final truth?

He smiled to himself, for the very notion of truth seemed a strange thing to him now. His hand strayed to the long grey beard on his lap, painted with the glow of the torchlight. His dark eyes seemed to catch and hold the icy fire of cold stars, sharp and remote as they followed his thoughts, gazing at the high lancet window of the tower.

Seven boys had come to him, listened to him, as though spellbound with enchantment. Did they even understand a single word of all he had spoken?

“I do not say these things for any benefit or hope of worldly gain,” he told them, “but only that in hearing them you might be brought to the hidden truth that underlies the whole of the world. Yes, for long you have walked, as shadows walk, seeing and hearing only the barest thread of the cloak of that truth. And while all you have heard may be holy and good, it is nothing compared to the things that will be revealed to you.”

How unseemly of him to use the word truth, he thought. It was nothing—nothing at all. That was the heart of it: all piety, dignity, and forms of behavior; every ablution, offering, rite and prayer, every oath shall come to dust. Even the five pillars of the faith would crumble and fall and the feet of the faithful will turn no more to seek the holy places. Every leaf of the Holy Koran itself will vanish and become empty paper, and all memory of those words will be forgotten.

So it was nothing, nothing at all.

He breathed deeply, taking in the scent of incense where it burned beside him at the edge of a small iron brazier. The thin wisps of purple smoke trailed up from the burner, and his thoughts danced with them. It was all as this, he thought: just so much smoke, so much vapor to be swept away by a great wind. Form and shape were but illusion. Time was a mystery, without purpose, and nothing could be predicted. Nothing was certain, nothing true, nothing written…

That was, in fact, the only truth: uncertainty. It was not a notion for simple minds. It was not something the young would easily embrace or understand. But the Sami was not young. He had seen too many days, lived, and then lived again. Once he thought each day of life was a precious thing, to be savored for the moment and then lost. He knew better now. Once he held tightly, with greed and avarice, and the desire that plagues all men, but no longer. Once he feared loss, knew tears, mourned death. But all that was forgotten and his eyes were finally open. Now he knew the whole of it. Every stroke of the hand or pen, every spoken word, every deed, be it valorous or vile, every hour of the day could be renewed and made again. Nothing was written, and all belief was a futile thing.

And he knew one thing more: that if nothing was written then everything was permitted. Every prohibition and sanction, every stay and all restraint was mere folly. A man could do whatever he pleased, without fear of reproach or condemnation. Only one thing mattered—action. A man’s actions would give birth to the world he lived in. If he found them suitable, then he lived in peace. If he found them unsuitable, then all could be made new. Every destiny could be written anew, and every purpose undone. How strange it was to know this. How strange it was to be the master, sitting at the wheel and spinning anew the threads of Time as he desired. The masses of men moved in ignorance, but he could pronounce all judgment, and every fate was his to command.

The Sami paused in his muse, the faintest inkling of a smile playing upon his dry lips. His eyes narrowed, as with some inner mirth. He moved his arm, seeing the shadow it cast on the hard stone floor and he recalled how the torch keeper had swayed his hand before those seven young boys. The torch moved, this way and that, with ritual motion. Its flickering light cast wild shadows about the room as the seven initiates looked on. It was his cue to recite the next intonation of the ritual.

“Do not be deceived by the changing of appearances,” he told them. “Nothing is as it seems. Everything is mere shadow: the life you have brought to this place, and everything you have ever known—is all a shadow that may dance at the beck and call of he who holds the light.“

As if on cue the drum began beating in his mind again, slow and steady, its dark rhythm cut by the quavering of a horn in the hollowed roots of the castle. He closed his eyes, seeing the servants appear before the seven boys, draped in silken white with bright red sashes trimmed in gold. Each one held a gold chalice, adorned with many jewels. They glided to face the seven initiates, and slowly descended until they rested on their haunches holding out the golden cups before them in offering. He remembered how he had exhorted the boys to take the cups and drink… drink and forget.

With that the Sami opened his eyes, folding his cloak about him in the chill of the room. He knew what would happen to them, seven bright boys too eager for the truth. They would tip the cups and drink, and a languorous mist would fill their minds when the strange haze of the brew enveloped them. Their senses would soon grow dull, and then vividly sharp again. Shadows and sounds would become one. Form and movement would merge; substance and thought would each wear the same garment. Then they would grow still, their eyes heavy with sleep, until, one by one, the cups would fall from their trembling hands and they would swoon in a dreamless sleep.

He did not wait to watch them slip and fall beneath that wild enchantment, for he had other errands to perform. Soon they would awaken in Paradise, or so it would seem. The guards would carry the sleeping boys away, through secret hallways to a hidden garden of delight. For two days they would languish in oblivion, and then awaken. The chamber maids would be at hand to greet them, and platters of fruit and every delicacy imaginable would be set before them. They would be fed milk and honeyed bread, and drink the finest mead that could be had. And each night the maidens would smooth soft, oiled hands over their lean bodies. They would know every pleasure, and the boy in each would be lost forever in the warm embrace of a maid.

So it had been with him once, long ago.

He remembered it still, and almost wished he could release all the days he had lived since then and return to that one moment of awe when he first opened his eyes in unknowing bliss. It was a foolish thought, he knew, for no matter how deeply a man would drink of that cup, there was no forgetting. Once a thing was known, it was known forever. There was no going back to the time of his youth. While he could spin the wheel and change every outward circumstance, he would not forget what he had done. And that was the sadness of it all—that was why a man would lay himself down one day and wait for death. Yes, he knew it could all be overthrown, and he might find himself here again, sitting in this very same tower, with visions of seven new initiates fresh in his mind. Then again, he might not. He would just have to wait and see.

Now there were other things to muse on, not the least of which was the coming of the stranger. Who was this man? The Kadi was meddling, as he was always first to set his hand upon the business of the castle. He was keeping the man under close watch, waiting for his awakening.

Thought of the Kadi gave him a moment of unease. He had quarreled with that man too long. In truth, the image he had of himself as the master of the wheel was not entirely true. There was another set as his equal in the clan—the Kadi. In spite of all the Sami knew, there was still the Kadi to darken each hour of the day with his ceaseless questions and his sanctimonious judgment. No doubt he would have much to say about this stranger.

The Sami sighed. Let him have his hour, he thought. For every man in the castle pledged to the Kadi’s bidding, there was another that would answer to the Sami’s command. If it came to it, and the two elders could not agree, what then?

If the protocols were rigidly followed the stranger would be sleeping now, guarded in the lower chambers near the well. Was this another messenger, as the Kadi insisted? It was said that his clothing and effects were very odd, and that was more than enough to rouse the Sami’s interest. He stood up, resolved on something, and glad to be moving again, on his feet, and done with his doleful muse.

Action.

A man might do as he pleases. A man might do anything at all. He would go to the chamber of the burning and see what he might find. Perhaps there would be some mark, some sign that would open his mind on the matter. He would learn nothing, and know nothing, sitting here in the tower. A man had to act. Only then would the world become real.

8

Paul was alive. His fall had been broken by a vast subterranean pool of water, alight with a hazy phosphorescence. It was actually a kind of whirlpool, and the swirling motion of the waters swept him dangerously near the rocky shards of the cavern wall before they spilled down a low fall and ran away in a swift moving underground stream. Paul was carried with them, struggling to keep his head above water, his arms and legs flailing about with a reflex born of panic.

He could not swim.

He remembered the day that he had first been thrown into water that was well over his head. He was on a sliding board at the Matillija Hot Springs Pool in the hills near Ojai, California. He was twelve years old then, and the family was enjoying the hot Saturday afternoon with an outing to the pool. Paul climbed up to the top of the sliding board, and slid too fast on the way down. He intended to guide himself to the shallower water near the pool’s edge, but instead he landed smack in the middle, in deep water. His slender legs poked down to find nothing beneath them, and he was suddenly terrified. Somehow, in a flurry of thrashing arms, he made it to the rim of the pool—even as he managed to reach the edge of a shelf of stone now on the margins of the stream.

He pulled himself out of the water, shivering with fright and the trauma of his fall. He could barely move. It was as if the fear and adrenaline had overloaded his system, and his mind needed to shut down before he could function again. He tried to stand up, but his legs gave way beneath him and he fell on a sandy shelf, dizzy and nauseous.

He did not know how long he lay there that way. When he opened his eyes he was completely disoriented. He had been dreaming, strangely aroused. It was a wild erotic dream and it almost seemed that he could still feel the hands of a beautiful young woman as they smoothed and caressed his naked body. As his senses coalesced, he suddenly realized that he was lying in a dimly lit room! The light of a flickering oil lamp was wavering on the walls and ceiling, and there was someone at his side—someone touching him, soft hands spiraling over his bare chest.

He thought of Jen, the young lab tech that had become his partner after the mission. He had been waking up next to her for the last several months, and it was only natural for his mind to reach for the familiar. Was she having another nightmare, he thought. The troubling dreams about that night on the project had plagued her ever since. She would awaken, confused and disoriented, not knowing where she was; the fading echoes of memory still shaking her with fear. “Did you hear?” she would cry out in the dark. “It was on the news just now!”

She was remembering things from the old, unaltered time line in her dreams. The new world they were in—the one in which Ra’id Husan al Din had never lived, was still besmirched with the lingering underpainting of the old. It would take some time for her to remember that things had changed; that things were different now. Paul would hold her in the dark, whispering that everything was going to be alright. She must have slipped out of the Nexus during the mission somehow, he thought. Her memories are all mixed up. Sometimes she remembers the old world, and sometimes it’s all just a dream.

A dream…

Soft hands… The warm smooth touch… A floral scent of jasmine and—

He started awake, eyes opening wide with surprise. A young woman was sitting at his side, her arms extended as she smeared a sweet oil over his body. But it wasn’t Jen. Paul caught the scent of olive oil at once, and there was a strange spicy odor in the room, like sandalwood incense mixed with jasmine What in god’s name was going on here?

His gaze was instinctively drawn to the face of the woman. She was very young, eyes dark ovals above her delicate features and smooth, rosy brown cheeks. She wore a sheer, silken gown that covered very little, and it draped open in a languid disarray to expose her slender body, alight with the gleam of oil. A beaded pendant dangled between her naked breasts. Loose, dark curls of black hair framed her face, and she wore a circlet of silver ovals at her forehead, adorned by a bright pink flower. He stared at the woman, somewhat amazed and confused, yet captivated by her youth and beauty. Her eyes brightened in a smile, round almond brown and full of energy.

The woman bowed low, with a slow reverence, and then leaned back, regarding him with a graceful curiosity. Her hand smoothed the residue of olive oil on her bare thigh, and she smiled at him again, warm and inviting.

Paul was completely taken with the situation, his amazement increasing as he eased up to see more of his surroundings. He was in a room of smooth, shaped stone, the amber walls draped with falls of rosy curtains. There was a lacquered wood lattice at one end to serve as a kind of room divider. He spied a small window there, propped open with a polished wood rod, and could dimly discern that there were other rooms beyond. Close by the bed there was a small settee with an inlaid glass top trimmed out with beautifully carved wood. A tall tapered vase sat on the settee, with a slender pouring spout on one side, like the neck of a swan, and the wide oval of a thin handle on the other. A small glass of carved crystal sat next to the vase.

The woman saw him gape in awe at the scene, and smiled, with some amusement, as though she expected the surprise. She reached for the vase with a graceful movement and slowly poured a dark liqueur into the crystal glass. Paul had managed to prop himself up on one elbow now, suddenly flushed with the awareness of his own nudity. His clothes were gone and he wore little more than a thin loincloth, his slim body gleaming with the sheen of scented olive oil.

“Anaya,” the woman’s voice was a melodious whisper as she extended the glass, holding it to his lips. A pungent, spicy aroma effused his senses as he drank, gently encouraged by the smiling woman at his side. The drink had a sharp, alcoholic bite and he nearly coughed when he swallowed. The woman reached out, her hand softly cupping the side of his chin to help him finish. Then she set the glass aside and sidled closer, eyes alight with an almost mischievous fire. The closeness and fragrance of the woman seemed to bring a heat to Paul. He felt flushed and light headed; his vision blurred.

As if sensing the change, the woman extended her arms and gently guided him until he lay prone again, cradled in soft cushions. A warm drowsiness settled on him, but he passed a moment of keen awareness when the woman slipped off the silver gray robe and slid next to him. She lay at his side, pressing close and draping a long, brown leg over his body. A floral fragrance surrounded him. Her arms pulled him into a silky embrace, a hand whispering softly over his chest to his throat and then up to smooth through his hair. She nuzzled at his neck, and he felt a warm, moist kiss there. What in God’s name was happening here?

The light in the room seemed to diminish, and his vision faded. Now there was only scent, and smell, and touch; warmth, and the soft trailing caress of the woman’s hand. He heard something whispered in his ear, but he did not understand the words. The voice at his ear became a soft kiss, laden with affection and the barest hint of a tease. A tingling heat seemed to effuse his body, as he passed into a state of semi-consciousness.

He had to be dreaming, he thought—a dream so real that it was totally convincing; totally absorbing. One moment he had been falling to a certain death, and then the water. Tattered memories intruded on the dream as his mind struggled to create some sense of his situation. But the dream became ever more engrossing, suffusing his body with an ardent heat. As his consciousness faded, a fleeting thought suggested that he may have died after all! He must have fallen on the rocks, but how could this be happening?

It was as if he had landed in Paradise.

9

He awoke to find he was alone, the room dark and masked with purple shadow. Off in the distance he could hear the faint sound of water running over stones. The smell of sweet incense was still on the air, and now it was mingled with another aroma that seemed to summon his senses to clarity—coffee! He moved with languid motion, his limbs still numbed and sluggish. Images of the soft skinned beauty still floated in his mind, bound up with the rising notion of incredulity, but she was nowhere to be seen, and he was inclined to think the whole episode a dream. Yet… the room he was in was the same. Where was he? Could this be a hidden sanctuary in the heart of Wadi Rumm? He knew the place had long been a hideaway for the Bedouin tribes, but this was more than he could have imagined.

There was a sound, and shadowed movement. He heard a sharp scrape and then the darkness was scored with a bright flash. Someone was there, sitting quietly in the shadows. He strained against the darkness, hoping to see the lovely woman he had awoken to earlier. An oil lamp sputtered to life and the warm glow pressed back the shadows to reveal the figure of a robed man seated on a billowy cushion. Paul squinted, trying to focus on the man, but his vision was blurred and indistinct. The figure leaned closer, and Paul saw that he had a thin, hungry face, with delicate bone structure, long hollow cheeks and a scraggly gray beard falling just a few inches from the point of his chin. The eyes were dark and deeply set over a narrow nose. On his head the man wore a headpiece of thatched palm fronds woven to an onion dome point. The eyes seemed to penetrate him with an unblinking gaze. They were full of knowledge; full of silent conclusions, and they stared at him with just the hint of curiosity in their welcome.

“Bismi llaahi r-hrahmaani r-rahiim. As Salam ’alaykom ” The words whispered out in Arabic, and then, to Paul’s surprise, in English.

“In the name of Allah, the compassionate, the merciful. Peace be with you.” The man’s voice was quiet, yet firm. He waited as Paul struggled to sit upright.

Paul cleared his throat to speak, yet his mouth was very dry. The man extended a small porcelain cup, eyes bright with invitation. Paul looked at it with some suspicion at first, but the aroma of pungent coffee pulled at him. He reached out and took the cup, raising it to his lips with a shaky hand. The nutty earthiness of the brew seemed to enliven him, and he drank, grateful for the taste of dark, roasted coffee after missing it for—how long had he been here this way?

“Arabica,” the man said softly. “I see you find it enjoyable. Please, indulge yourself. It is polite to drink three times before we speak.”

Paul let the rich coffee swill a bit in his dry mouth, tasting the hint of cardamom and ginger root in the cup. His mind was shouting questions, but for the moment he was more than happy to simply smell and drink the delectable coffee—a brew worthy of Peet’s, he thought. The cup was small and it did not take him long to drink it down. As he finished the stranger extended a thin arm holding a golden pot with a long spout shaped like a raven’s beak. He finished the third cup in little time.

“Al-hamdillaah,” the man breathed. “Praise be to Allah. You have taken a sufficiency of our hospitality, I hope. For a Bedu this is a duty and great pleasure. Samirah has attended to your bodily needs, as is our custom. I trust she was pleasing to you. Now you have slept and awakened, and soon we will fill the yawning chasm of your stomach with a feast that would satisfy the Sultan himself. But first we will speak, if you are able.”

The man proffered a smile, and Paul could not help seeing more in those eyes than his words seemed to offer. The visitor was watching him very closely, studying him with a mixture of both dignified respect and wary caution. Paul chanced to speak, his voice cracking a bit as he cleared his throat.

“Where am I?”

The visitor smiled, as though the question was little more than a ruse and not to be taken seriously. “You either know very well where you are, or you take me for more of a fool than I appear if you are sincere. Come now. Let us begin more graciously, as equals. For you have come in through the Well Of Souls, and you are changed now. You are here. Is it not a place you intended to be?” Again, the smile that masked more than it revealed, a thin veil over layers of hidden emotion.

Paul was confused. “The Well Of Souls,” he said, pulling the odd piece of fruit from the man’s basket. “You mean the sink I fell into…” He rubbed the back of his hand over his forehead in a moment of distress as he recalled snatches of that headlong, rushing fall. “I thought I was dying.”

“Yes,” the man maintained his knowing smile. “It is often so when you jump. In a way you have died, yes? The harmony has changed, as you have changed. Now you are here. Your soul has been reborn, and if your body follows reluctantly, it is but a small price to pay. Tell me, were you bold enough to open your eyes when you fell? Did you see it? I think you were brave, my friend. Otherwise you would not have needed three days, and all the considerable skills of Samirah to persuade you to return to the world of men. But you are safe now. You are solid. The vibration has resolved itself. You must tell me why you have come.” The question was tacked on quickly, with forced levity dressed out in a thin grin above pearly teeth. Yet the more the man said, the more confused Paul became.

The man waited a brief moment, and the bemused expression on Paul’s face swung him to a new tack. “Forgive me.” The dark eyes shifted and the smile faded. “I have not introduced myself. I am Jabr Ali S’ad, the Gatekeeper here. And you?”

“Dorland,” said Paul more on instinct than anything else. “Paul Dorland”

“Ah, is it a noble name—an ancient name? Pa’ul Do-Rahlan! It sounds fearsome. Would that I had such a name, but the Bedu speak of things in very simple terms. It is the desert in us. We see things with a clarity and simplicity that you Westerners may not fully appreciate. My name is an ancient one and, for that reason, it is common. But it is also a lucky name as well. And you? What is signified in your name? Is the house of Do-Rahlan a venerable one?”

“Venerable?”

“I thought as much. Why else would you be chosen.”

The man paused, smiling again, yet his eyes were wells of deliberation. Paul thought he caught just the barest hint of fear in them, and he was very perplexed. His first question had been lost in the man’s forced civility and feigned joviality. He asked again: “What do you call this place?”

Now the man laughed. “Very direct! I like that. You wish me to open myself to you? Why not. We are one and the same, yes? But the guest should be the first to speak. You are already in my debt, you know. The river was not being kind to you, and it was only fortunate that I was at hand in meditation and prayer when you fell through. As Allah willed it. So then, you begin.” The man rested his elbows on his knees, leaning in to close the distance between them. “Have no fear, we are completely alone. I have sent the serving girls away while we speak, but I can call them back for you later.” There was that fleeting smile again, and then the man’s eyes settled into a quiet stare—waiting, penetrating the stillness with hushed anticipation. “You begin,” he whispered, “and I will follow after.” He had a look on his face that was one of a polite final offer, and the silence seemed to add fire to the eyes, building their resolve as he waited for Paul to speak.

After an uncomfortable break, Paul began to try and piece things together, more for his own sake than for that of his questioner. Yes, that was it! He had the distinct feeling now that the man was questioning him, not out of any sense of hospitality, or even to make polite small talk. It was an interrogation. The realization put the man’s strained humor into a new context for Paul, and those eyes, determined yet patient, seemed to brand him with a warning. Yet he spoke, spilling out his tale in a disjointed manner as he pieced the recollections together again in his mind.

“We were out in the desert,” he said. “We were looking for something—the Ammonite, yes, that was it.” The man’s eyes brightened a bit at the word, yet he waited, saying nothing as Paul continued. “We came to Wadi Rumm… unintentionally I think… Yes, just by chance, I suppose. It was very hot and we were looking for something there. Nordhausen!” Paul suddenly remembered Robert, and wondered what he must be doing now.

“Norod-Hassen?” The man repeated the name with his own heavily Arabic accent. “You were with another?”

“Yes.” Paul went on quickly, and haphazardly, not catching the incongruity at first. “It was all his plan, you see—the Ammonite, the Arabesque, Wadi Rumm…”

With each word the listener nodded hungrily, taking the offerings like a man receiving food after a long fast. He was clearly quite pleased to hear what his guest had to say. As Paul pieced together more details, however, he began to wonder why the man would be so interested in any of this. As far has he could discern, he had fallen into a deep, underground sink hole, and was fortunate that it was a gathering point for the waters of a subterranean stream.

“Thank god for the river,” he breathed. “You said it was unkind to me, but were it not for that water I would be lost.”

“Allah be praised,” said Jabr with a reverent bow of his head. His dark eyes finally betrayed a glimmer of real sentiment, and Paul had the feeling that this man wished him well. Yet why the reserve of caution? What was he afraid of?

“And your mission? Yes, I know you are not wishing to speak of these things.” Jabr reached out and touched Paul’s hand as he spoke, a gesture of understanding and acceptance. “Mithaq, the sacred oath, is beholden upon us all. Yet I yearn to hear the tale and know the bravery of your heart, my friend. For the sake of honor, if nothing else. Will you not unburden yourself? Clearly, your journey must end now, yes? Those that come here have but a short time. Why hold close what you might just as easily share with the other Walkers when we gather around the evening fire. We wish you no ill—surely you must understand that, unless our hospitality has somehow failed to please you. Tell me then, truly, and without fear: what do you hope to accomplish? What is your mission? What tiding do you carry? You bore no scroll. Was it lost in the fall?”

Paul just stared at the man, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “Mission? Well I suppose our mission was spoiled the moment we came to Wadi Rumm. Nordhausen should have known better than to try and pull off something like this. And I was a damn fool to go along with it. It was that silly Ammonite!”

“Norod-Hassen? He was Kadi, then? It was he who was responsible for the working of Kuni–Qadar and the setting of time and place?”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” said Paul. He began to have the distinct impression that they were talking at cross-purposes here.

“Forgive me. My heart beats fast to hear you speak, and the mind reaches for words that do not come.” Jabr gestured to his heart and head as he explained himself. “I speak the Saxon tongue, yet badly I fear. There are three ages of that tongue, and I was taken to a far place, long ago, to learn the words of the third age. Why, I do not know, for it is not a language spoken in this country, and few have ever heard it. We listened to you while you dreamed the sleep of forgetting. You spoke out in a strange tongue, and I was called, for it was said the words resembled those of the Saxon lords. Imagine my surprise to hear you speak in the tongue I had studied, using words of the third age! All thing have a purpose, it seems, and my long years of study were not wasted. So I was honored to make this greeting, and share these words with you. Still, my mind often returns home to rest in the clarity of my own native tongue. The words of Islam are very powerful, my friend. You should study with us now that you are here. I would be honored to teach you. Yet, for now, I will do my best to walk the Saxon way with you. Let me think…” He stroked his beard, clearly enthused to have struck some meaningful rapport with his guest, and eager to have this exchange bear some fruit.

“Ah yes,” he returned to his thought. “The working of Kuni-Qadar. It is our way of finding the heart of things—how is it you say this? It is fate, destiny, the vision of the wise who see what must be accomplished, and set the path for those who must walk. I was a Walker once. I have seen the seventh gate and passed through to seek the pathway whispered by my Kadi.” He seemed quite proud to share this. “You understand?”

Paul scratched his head, trying to sort through the man’s words and make sense of them. The odd incongruities in their conversation slowly began to gather like a rift of clouds on the horizon, a quiet distress in the background of his thinking. What was he saying? What was all this talk of fate and walkers and pathways? Clearly this was no simple Bedouin hiding away in the sanctuary of Wadi Rumm. And what did he mean earlier with all that business about the Saxon tongue?

“I’m… I’m afraid this is all a bit confusing for me. You say I have been here for three days?”

“As I count them, yes, that is so. On the first day you dreamed, and we bathed you in sweet water and graced your body with scented oil. You were a very deep sleeper, my friend. Yet on the second day you spoke in your dream, and we believed you sought the wisdom of your Shaykh—your sleep guide, who had come to call you home. Still, you wandered, and we became concerned. The vibration of the fall can be very profound in this place, and I speak as one who knows these things with his own heart.” He nodded gravely, eyes wide as he spoke.

“On the third day we decided to send you Samirah, and relied on the skill of her hands and the softness of her flesh to call you back again. Allah be praised, the long, quiet hours with her were enough to convince you, and you awoke seven hours ago—if only for a brief time. It was enough to share the elixir we have used to settle ourselves. Do you not do this as well? It seems to have worked a great benefit upon you. You rested in the arms of Samirah, and in the peace of Allah, until you made your final awakening moments ago. I have been watching you as Mukasir—the one who greets the unbeliever and welcomes him to seek another path. Forgive me if I make the assumption that you are not a follower of Islam.”

“Islam? Well… No, I don’t suppose I am, but—“

“Then it is my hope that you will place your trust in me, and that we may be friends. For you are here now, and time is very short. You do understand that, yes?”

Paul would get half way up the garden path with the man, and then loose his way as he neared the gate. “I’m very sorry,” he said. “Perhaps it was the fall, as you suggest. Three days? What could Nordhausen be thinking? Poor man. If he found his way to the cleft in the rock and saw the deep sink there—why, he probably thinks I fell to my death.” That thought sent him on another tangent. “Did you hear anyone call out from above?”

“Did we hear? I’m afraid that none may approach the Well. It is not for those who are settled. It would bring the madness, yes? We wait, and the river brings us messengers from time to time. We thought you were such a man, until we saw you. No Westerner has ever come to us this way.” He smiled with that, a genuine smile this time, bereft of the pretense that had colored his remarks earlier. It was as if he was sharing a private joke with Paul, but one that made no impression on him.

“In fact,” Jabr explained, “we expected you—at least we expected someone to brave the stream at the setting of the last moon. You were a bit untimely, and perhaps that is why you were so distressed by the fall.”

“You expected me? You mean to say you were waiting for someone here?”

“It was written,” said Jabr. “As much as anything can be written, I suppose. My Kadi told me to be very vigilant on this night at the setting of the moon. I took my prayers on the uppermost battlement, and then came down to the deep places here where we wait. Allah be praised—you were sent to us as it was foretold. Yet, we do not think you are the man we expected. We have much to talk about, my friend. We have so much more to share with one another.”

Paul passed his hand over his eyes, as if trying to rub away the confusion and bewilderment. Jabr smiled, and touched his knee with a gesture of displacement.

“Forgive me,” he said with genuine concern. “You are still gathering yourself. I know what this feels like. I will let you rest a moment, and then Samirah will return with nourishment. Tonight you will dine with her, and she will pamper you so that you can truly believe that all is well and you are whole again. Tomorrow, we will meet after morning prayer and speak once more. My Kadi will wish to see you, but have no fear. He is a wise and generous man. He will be the judge of things, and all will be well.”

Jabr gave Paul a warm nod and rose, stretching his legs a bit. “Enjoy the evening, Pa’ul Do-Rhalan. You have been very gracious to speak with me. Peace be upon you.”

He bowed low, and Paul returned his compliment, almost on instinct. “And on you,” he said haltingly, as he watched Jabr recede into the shadows. There was a quiet unlatching of a door at the back of the room, and he was gone.

Paul settled into his bedding, unaware of another set of eyes upon him as he rested. The Sami was watching from a hidden spy hole, intent upon the newcomer. The Kadi will wish to meet with you, he thought, but I will see him first. Yes, he may be wise and generous, but he is also foolish, and easily deluded. Thankfully, another is set upon the watch this night, the Sami of the Seventh Gate.

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