The Dark Lord

CHAPTER TWELVE

Beneath a Fig Tree

The sky was still perfectly blue. Mohammed opened his eyes to cerulean heavens unmarred by cloud or wind and a round yellow sun. Despite the brightness, his skin was cold and the falling sunlight brought him no warmth. He was unsure if any time had passed while his eyes were closed, but he forced himself to sit up against the bole of the tree. The sound of his parched skin rubbing against the skin of the fig was very loud. His movement made the hand-shaped leaves tremble, and they rustled softly, disturbing a perfect silence.

Pale-barked woods surrounded him on three sides. On the fourth, a grassy sward led down to the walls of the city. He looked through the open gate, seeing men and women passing by, going about their daily tasks. As he watched, the sounds of their conversation and business swelled around him. The smell of roasting meat, of fresh-baked bread, of decanted wine assailed his nostrils and he began to salivate.

Mohammed wiped his mouth, then looked down at his hand. A fine white dust covered his palm. He raised his hand, squinting, and saw the dust was composed of tiny, broken hairs.

"My beard." He coughed and felt his lip split. Tentatively, he touched the wound and his finger came away clean. Even his blood was parched and dry. Yet, he thought, I have not died of thirst, or of hunger. What is this place?

"You are outside the city of Iblis," a gentle voice said. "In a wood."

Mohammed looked up and saw the well-featured man who had spoken to him before. Moha knelt on the grass, strong-limbed body clad in jewel-colored silk. As before, he smiled and nodded in greeting. "You are not well. I can bring you water, from the city, or food, if you are hungry."

"I am not hungry," Mohammed said, looking the man over very carefully. "You are the guardian of this place? A servant, who watches over those within?"

Moha shook his head, puzzled, and his golden eyes danced with laughter. "I am not a jailer," he said. "I keep a watch upon the wood and the city. Sometimes-though not, I must admit, in my lifetime-a disturbance might rise in the wood to trouble those who live in the city. I am… a shepherd."

"Your flock seems content," Mohammed said, indicating the bustling crowds in the city only by the movement of his eyes. Even this much effort left him drained and weak. "What happens if they wish to leave?"

"I don't know," Moha said, standing up and brushing off his tunic. Mohammed watched closely, but did not see grass, leaves or dust fall from the man's clothes. "No one has ever wished to leave."

The man turned, looking back at the city. A procession was passing the gate, holding aloft banners and gaudy icons. Drums and pipes sounded, making a merry noise. The people were laughing, carrying a golden idol on a platform of glossy wood. Mohammed started in surprise, then felt a chill creep across his arms. The face of the idol was his own.

"I'm sorry, but there is poor news," Moha said, turning back. Now his perfect face was troubled, creased with worry and anguish. "A message has come for you."

Mohammed blinked, looking away from the idol and the cheering crowds filling the streets of the city. Many of the faces were familiar-his friends and neighbors-even those he had not seen since he was a boy. Was that Khadijah, in her wedding veil? "A message?"

"Yes." Moha squatted, clasping his hands. He seemed worried. "You are sorely missed, at home. The young Khalid al'Walid-he has betrayed you-taken your army, your woman, even your name. Did you know he was of the Makzhum tribe?"

Mohammed frowned for a moment before his face cleared and he remembered his father, speaking vigorously in the house of the black stone. "The Makzhum… they were driven from the Zam-Zam by my grandfather. They fled the city, into the desert in shame." The face of Khalid wavered into his memory, and now-thinking back across many years-Mohammed saw the resemblance to those proud, hawk-faced chieftains. "Was he even born, when they were driven from Mekkah?"

"No," Moha said, shaking his head in sympathy. "He was whelped in the sand, among scorpions and snakes. His people wandered in the desert for a long time, without a home, without lands or flocks… forced to banditry. The last of the Makzhum were betrayed and ambushed by the Banu Hira. Khalid, still a child, was taken prisoner. In time, he was a slave, and then a scout in the Persian army after Bahram Choban destroyed the kingdom of the Mondars."

"Yes," Mohammed whispered, remembering. "He was at Palmyra. He saw our final battle… Uri said…" Mohammed fell silent and his mind became entirely clear. A shadow fell away from his sight and he looked upon the man, Moha, with a piercing glance. "Your master is known to me, creature. I will take nothing from you, or from this place."

Moha ran slender fingers through his dark hair, sighing. He seemed concerned. "My lord Mohammed… Khalid has seized control of the Sahaba, your boon companions. He urges and guides them to fight for Persia, for your ancient enemy. Your teachings are being ignored and forgotten. The lady Zoe is under his spell, his servant. Even such stalwarts as Jalal and Shadin follow him. They continue to fight against Rome, heedless of the danger to their own lives."

"What would you have me do?" The Quraysh was curious.

"Leave this place!" Moha gestured at the pale-barked trees and the short-cropped grass. "Go home! Take up the banner of your moon and star-drive out the traitor, as your father drove out his fathers. Take back what was yours… Look, there is your future. She is waiting for you." The man pointed, off through the trees.

Mohammed closed his eyes, turning away from golden sunlight falling through the clouds. A man and a woman were riding on fine, brightly caparisoned horses. They were laughing and the air around them was clear and filled with song. Their companions followed at a discreet distance, road-weary but smiling, for soon they would be in the city and many old friends would be reunited. Mohammed banished the image, driving glorious brown eyes from his memory.

"No," he said, though his chest was being crushed by an enormous weight. "The world will continue to turn without me."

"But… look at her!" Moha's voice was anguished. "Look…"

Light blossomed upon Mohammed's face and this time, to his surprise, he felt real warmth and smelled the sea. The sound of water curling away from the prow of a ship was loud in his ears. Startled, unwary, he opened his eyes.

Zoe stood at the prow of a sleek, lateen-rigged ship, racing over a blue-green sea. Raven hair flowed over brown, tanned shoulders, and her eyes were closed, cheeks streaked with tears. Heavy gold ringed her neck and her strong arms were circled by silver and brass. Her image swelled and Mohammed beheld encompassing grief in her face. She was crying, and each heave of her shoulders cut at his heart. Anguished, he reached for her.

Zoe's eyes opened, and they were brilliant blue, the shade of crushed sapphire swirling in milk. Mohammed froze, hand-seemingly-only inches from her face.

"No," he said aloud and turned away. The light went out, and the cold stillness of the forest folded around him. He hid his face with his hands. For a moment, hidden from Moha and the forest, he allowed himself a tiny dram of grief. Burning like a hot iron, a single tear oozed from his dusty eyes and puddled in his hand. "Go away."

Some time passed. Mohammed opened one eye a fraction. Moha was watching him, chin resting on his arms. "I said… go."

"You need to go back," Moha said, spreading his hands imploringly. "She needs you. Your friends need you. Won't you help them escape Khalid's snare?"

"Each man," Mohammed said, "is responsible for his own fate. The creator of the heavens and the earth has set us here, each alone, to find our way to him, or to corruption. Zoe will choose her own way, as will Khalid, and the others. They have free will. I will not take the gift from them."

"Very well." Moha stood, shaking his head in dismay. The tight ringlets of his hair cascaded over broad shoulders. "But if they die, or fall into dark places, the fault will be upon you, who could have saved them."

"They will save themselves, creature, by following the straight and righteous path. Or they will fail, by themselves." Mohammed paused, his throat hoarse from speech. Moha looked down upon him with pity, great compassion on his perfect face. "The great and merciful one," Mohammed managed to gasp out, "keeps a ledger of all our days and acts, and each man and each woman's tally is their own. For good or ill, when final judgment is made and every soul weighed on the balance of good and evil, each of us stands alone. This is the gift of the lord's breath upon the clay, and it is precious."

"So you say." Moha was unconvinced, his mouth tight with concern. "I see my brother in the desert and his foot is upon a scorpion's back-I run to give him aid-to stand by his side. Would you let him die, if your swift action could save his life?"

"Each man-and even you, spirit-must make his own choice. I may save my brother, but I will not imprison him to keep him from danger."

Moha shook his head in disbelief. "Then return home and take your own path-never see them again-wander the earth, friendless and alone!"

"No," Mohammed said. "I will rest here, under this tree, and see what may transpire."

Distressed, Moha turned away and descended the grassy sward towards the city.

Mohammed waited until the man was gone. When he was, at last, alone, he relaxed minutely, weary with grief and loss. He missed Zoe terribly. He was not surprised Khalid had become chieftain of the Sahaba. This was the way of the world, for the young to supplant the old and with each passing generation the world changed. The tides were unceasing, the sun rose and set, even as the lord of the wasteland desired.

He opened his hand, and the tear glittered on his cracked, seamed palm like a drop of mercury. Mohammed, seeing the liquid quiver and roll in his hand, became very thirsty. Even a moment's respite from the dust in his throat would be a blessing.

The Quraysh leaned back against the tree and felt the trunk bend with him. Above, leaves rattled in the branches. They were turning yellow, curling up at the edges, and the buds were small and hard. "You are thirsty too," he said to the tree.

He closed his parched lips, trying to swallow. Dust filled his nose and mouth. Mohammed tilted his hand and the tear slid onto the roots of the fig. The drop of water vanished instantly into the mottled gray bark. Mohammed closed his eyes. I am so tired.