“Certainly,” said Paul. “You have been a gracious host, Jabr, and I am much in your debt.”
“Then even in spite of our long enmity, you wish to find accord with us? This is not trickery or deceit?”
“Trickery? I’m not sure what you mean. To be honest, Jabr, I’m a bit lost with all of this, but very grateful for the care and courtesy you have shown me. Perhaps our meeting with this Kadi will clear everything up for us both. In any case, I don’t know what you mean with this business about our long enmity—we have only just met.”
Jabr smiled. “If only the men of the West would think as you do in this, then perhaps we could live in peace instead of vying with the sword.”
“Do we go to the Kadi now?”
“If you are willing,” said Jabr.
Paul rose, stretching his long legs as he did so and gesturing to the shadowed, wooden lattice where he knew there must be a door. Jabr cautioned him briefly before he led the way.
“We will be escorted, you understand.” He seemed to be apologizing, and Paul soon saw that he was referring to two burly guards standing in the shadows just beyond the low arch that opened to a long corridor. They were bare chested, with loose fitting, billowy trousers and white turbans on their heads. Each man held a drawn sword, which caused Paul some hesitation. Perhaps the hospitality will take a darker turn now, he thought.
Jabr seemed to sense his discomfort as he eyed the guards, and took his arm, gently guiding him on. “Have no fear,” he assured him. “Forgive me, but this is merely a precaution. The Kadi is a very important man.”
“I understand,” said Paul. But he did not understand men with swords drawn at the ready just outside his door. Kalashnikov assault rifles he expected… but swords? Who was this Kadi—some Osama Bin Ladin in charge of this group? He certainly had a flair for the dramatic. Paul watched, with a half smile, while one guard took the van and the other waited to follow behind them.
They passed the long corridor of gray stone and came to a steep, winding stair that seemed to go on forever. Paul counted five separate landings, each one continuing up to yet another flight of rough-hewn stairs of stone. He was a bit winded when they finally turned right at the top of a landing and approached a wide oaken door beneath an arch of artfully carved stone bricks. Each brick was inlaid with Arabic script, and Jabr gestured warmly as they approached the door.
“The council chamber of the Kadi General,” he said, his voice hushed with reverence. “Remember the words of greeting I taught you?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“In Arabic?”
“I will do my best.”
“Good then. I will be at your side at all times. There will be three cushions set before the chair of the Kadi. Take the centermost one and be comfortable. I will sit on your right. When the Kadi speaks I will translate in your ear. You may simply utter your response in the Saxon tongue, and I will be your voice.”
The leading guard knocked once upon the door, clanging a thick, wrought iron oval. It was answered by more men, dressed in the same fashion as their escorts, only with a threaded line of gold along the sides of their trousers. Jabr bowed, and gestured for Paul to enter. As he did so he took in the high, vaulted ceiling, supported by two rows of thick pillars with ornate capitals. The stonework was well crafted, and the pillars flanked a long hall with richly colored carpets. The far end of the room opened on lofty colonnades and arched windows above a flight of wide steps. There, on a dais lit by torches, beneath a wonderfully carved Arabic arch, sat a man in simple white robes. He wore a jeweled turban upon his head, and his eyes seemed weary and strained above his cinder beard. As Paul advanced, he soon made out the man’s features—tawny skin, aged yet not withered; a prominent nose above thick purplish lips. The man regarded him with a steady gaze, and Paul seemed to catch a hint of surprise in his eyes as he watched the visitors take their places on the silken cushions.
Jabr looked at him, nodding. Paul soon realized that he was being prompted to greet the Kadi, and he flushed, a bit embarrassed that he had been gawking at the architecture and forgetting his manners. He bowed low and rose, speaking the words Jabr taught him in Arabic.
The Kadi responded warmly, obviously pleased, and Paul completed the brief litany before seating himself again. There was a moment of quiet regard and the Kadi seemed to be deliberating something in his own mind. Then he spoke again, and Jabr translated quietly in Paul’s right ear.
“I trust you are comforted here and it is my hope that your health and life are well protected.”
“I had a harrowing fall,” said Paul, “but your hospitality has restored me to good health. Please accept my thanks and gratitude.”
“It is graciously given, as the welcome of Castle Massiaf. We were told to expect you on the night of the full moon, and we hope your journey was not arduous.”
Castle Massiaf—that was the first inkling Paul had of his whereabouts, but the name did not mean anything to him. He hesitated wondering what the man meant with that last remark. “Forgive me, but how could you anticipate my coming?”
The Kadi waited briefly. “It was written. Sent to us by the messenger before you, but we did not expect that you would be Saxon.” The look on Paul’s face spoke across the language barrier without any need for translation. The Kadi seemed suddenly infected by Paul’s bewildered expression. “Are you not the Walker in the Valley of the Moon—that we call Wadi Rumm?”
“Wadi Rumm? Yes, I was in that place, seeking shelter from the sun and fresh water. Yet I came there by chance. My fall was not intended—“
“Not intended?” The Kadi seemed perplexed by this revelation. “Yet you came by the Well of Souls. You came in on the river, just as we were forewarned.” Jabr was translating quickly, and Paul looked from him to his questioner on the dais.
“I’m very sorry,” he said, “but my fall was an accident. I can only be thankful that your people were close at hand to render assistance.”
The Kadi seemed more and more perturbed with each word Paul spoke. He ran his hand over his thick beard, considering.
“Then you did not jump willingly? How strange.” The man leaned in to study Paul’s face more clearly. “Do you mean to say that the Dawa was not revealed to you? You were not prepared? You are here simply because Allah wills it?” He cocked his head to one side. “Or do you say these things to avoid discernment here?”
Paul’s confusion redoubled. More riddles and metaphors. “What is meant by Dawa?” he asked.
“By that we mean the divine intent of your journey—the summons that calls you to become a pilgrim. You are a Gray Walker on the eternal Hajj, and all who walk that road are called and prepared. That is your Dawa: your mission. Could it be you have forgotten? Was your fall a grievous one—or are you simply unwilling to speak freely?”
“Well,” he began, “I’m still not entirely sure what you mean by all that. You may call my coming the will of Allah, but I assure you, he did not take the time to confer with me before I took that headlong fall.”
The Kadi allowed himself a thin smile. “Do you play with words here?”
Paul was as confused as ever. “Let me be plain, sir. We were trying to reach a ship in the Red Sea, as Jabr here has undoubtedly told you by now.”
“He has spoken of a celestial flight. You say there was a great vessel in the Red Sea to the east—the Arabesque, as it was called.”