The Kadi heaved a disconsolate sigh, as if to shrug off the burden the meeting with the Sami had placed upon his shoulders. Now he must speak with the stranger, and the time of judgment was at hand. His able servant of the watch, Jabr Ali Sa’d, had reported that the visitor was well, and ready to pass the discernment of his eye. Jabr was Mukasir, the breaker, charged to greet the unbeliever and begin the long process that would break his attachment to heathen ways. He had made a warm greeting with the man, and opened his voice. Yet there was still so much left to discern and time was short.
He stood up now, and his servants, sensing his movement from the adjoining room, rushed at once to his side to see to his needs. He told them to prepare the conference room, and set out fine pillows, food and drink. “And send to Jabr Ali S’ad,” he said. “Tell him we will see our guest in an hour’s time.”
11
Paul sat in the quiet warmth of his bed chamber, surrounded by silken pillows and soft linen. Until moments ago, the sensuous maid, Samirah, had been curled at his side, her warm body pressed close to him while he slept. There was certainly something to be said of Arab hospitality, he thought, yet he wondered at the treatment that was lavished upon him. This did not seem like the austere and oppressive manner he had been told to expect on his trip to Jordan.
He knew that Westerners, particularly Americans, were not liked in the Middle East these days. It was dangerous to travel there after the long simmering unrest that grew from the US invasion and occupation of Iraq in 2003. Yet, here he was, smothered with scented oil, dressed in fine Arabic robes, plied with sweet wines, food, wonderful coffee and, to his great surprise and delight, visited by this quiet beauty each night! It was the fifth day since he had fallen into the sinkhole, and the long hours of pampered rest had restored him.
God only knows what happened to Nordhausen, he mused, but if he knew about this hidden warren in the desert he would probably have jumped in himself. Where was he?
Paul threaded through the vague recollections of his coming to this place—the fall, the water, the struggle to save himself in the wild underground stream. He came up against a blank, and his memories became tattered and disjointed, until they coalesced again in the sensation of soft warm hands on his body, and the smell of incense and spiced coffee.
His host, Jabr Ali S’ad, had been cautious at first, but grew more open and genuinely warm as they spoke together. In his conversations with Jabr, Paul had come to the conclusion that he was no longer in a subterranean vault beneath Wadi Rumm. Yes, he could still hear the constant flowing of water, but Jabr’s references to rooms and battlements and walls and gates led him to believe that he had been rescued from the stream and then taken off, unconscious, to some nearby outpost. Could he be in Akaba? Wherever he was, he had not seen daylight once in all the time he was awake. Apparently he was still being kept in a hidden room, on the lower, underground level of some greater complex. Sounds came to him in the night—strange ghostly horn calls, the whispered passing of feet on smooth stone, sonorous chants that echoed in the halls above and an occasional hard grate of metal on rock, resounding sharply in the distance.
It occurred to him that he may have been taken hostage by some rogue group that used Wadi Rumm as a base of operations. Perhaps the underground stream he fell into had carried him some ways to the shore of their hidden outpost. It was all he could determine for the moment. Still, there were other things that seemed oddly out of place here. If he was hostage, why was he being treated like a prince? His expectation would be more of blindfolds and harsh treatment; rough interrogation and abuse. Yet, in spite of the fact that he did feel that Jabr was quietly trying to extract information from him, he was coddled and comforted by his captors, if they could be called such. It did not make sense.
Jabr told him he was chosen to greet him because he spoke the Saxon tongue. He obviously meant English, but Paul found that his host often used archaic expressions, and made references to things that were wholly bewildering to Paul. He spoke in metaphor, and took a manner that assumed Paul was privy to every nuance and image he used—as if his language was secretly understood by them both. He called the sink hole the ‘Well of Souls,’ and referred to Paul as a fellow ‘Walker.’ Could he mean that he was a tourist, or perhaps a pilgrim? The old pilgrim’s road did traverse the region of Wadi Rumm, just one stage on the long journey to Mecca in days of old.
That thought gathered prominence in his mind. He had the distinct feeling that these people were living out some fantasy from the tales of the Arabian Knights. Jabr was amiable, and chatted with him over each meal before leaving him in the care of the maid he called Samirah. Yet every time Paul had tried to question his host about his status and whereabouts, there was only a polite smile, and artful nod of the head. “These things in time,” Jabr told him. “All things in time. Tomorrow you will meet with the Kadi. He does not speak your tongue, and so I will be honored to accompany you as translator, if you will permit me.”
This was the morning set for the meeting. Samirah had caressed him to wakefulness, and then brought him fresh baked bread and minty spiced tea. Paul knew that Jabr would soon be at his side again, smiling, watching, quietly probing at him in their conversation, as he had for the last two days now. Paul still puzzled at the riddle of the man’s speech, and wondered how he would fare when trying to communicate with this Kadi, as Jabr called him. It was difficult enough sorting through Jabr’s odd statements. Trying to span the cultural chasm and language barrier with the Kadi might prove a frustrating and difficult experience.
Jabr was very punctual. Samirah withdrew, trailing the sweet scent of perfume and roses, and Jabr made his entrance a moment later. He shuffled to Paul’s side, bowing cordially with his greeting.
“The Peace of Allah be upon you.” He waited, somewhat hopefully, and Paul recalled how Jabr had labored to teach him the etiquette of the formal Arabic greeting the night before.
“And with you, peace.”
“Morning of goodness, morning of light,” Jabr rejoined.
“God grant you long life.”
“Our family, our gardens, be yours.” Jabr’s dark eyes brightened, his thin brown cheeks stretching in a broad smile. “Very good!” Then he added: “You are not offended to speak of Allah in this manner?”
“Offended?”
“I know you are not of the rightly guided—not an adherent of Islam.”
“You mean you know that I am an infidel.”
There was a blush of embarrassment on Jabr’s face. “I do not call the unbelievers such. It is only my hope to touch the heart of one who has not known the bliss of Islam, and make greeting, in the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate. In this light, no man is an infidel, and all are subject to the will of Allah. You were born to another way, that is all. Yet you do not seem hard of heart. Your mind is open, yes? Are you willing to learn our ways, and hear the wisdom we might share with you without harsh judgment?”