Well-Wisher
by Bob Shaw
Ibn Zuhain, Lord of the Long Valley, walked through the evening shade of his private garden. Beyond its filigreed triple walls the desert sand and rocks retained the oven-fierce heat of the day, but within Zuhain’s sanctum the air was thick and fresh, seeded with moisture from a centrally placed fountain of elaborate design. The water, drawn from a deeplying spring, was so cold that as Zuhain approached the cascade he could feel himself breasting concentric rings of coolness. This, he knew, was yet another form of Allah’s bounty, and he was smiling his appreciation of it when he noticed a small blue flask sitting on the fountain’s onyx rim.
He examined the bottle without touching it and saw it was a poor thing, imperfectly glazed and sealed with resin, most certainly not one of his own possessions. Its presence meant that an intruder had entered the private garden.
Zuhain sighed heavily, both irritated and saddened by the fact that he would now—on an evening which should have been entirely devoted to prayer and pleasure—have to order one or more executions. He had no relish for seeing trained servants beheaded, but they all knew the punishment for failing in any duty, and to withhold it would be to encourage sinful laxity.
Using the hem of his robe, Zuhain swept the offending bottle off his fountain and let it smash on the bright tesserae of the courtyard. He turned and strode away, intent on summoning the captain of his guard, but had taken only a few paces when—incredibly—a voice sounded behind him.
“Why such haste, my lord?” it said. “Are you so rich and powerful that there is nothing more in all of creation that you desire?”
Zuhain swung round, his hand on the ornate dagger at his waist, and saw a tall man of Persian or Indian appearance regarding him with a smile. The stranger’s calm, relaxed manner was both an insult and a threat—an assassin had to be very sure of himself to retain such composure—and Zuhain glanced about him, wondering if all his guards and servants could have been overpowered without his knowing.
“I am alone and wish you no harm,” the stranger said, apparently divining Zuhain’s thoughts.
“Tell me why you are here—before I have the pleasure of slaying you,” Zuhain said.
“From me you can have the pleasure of three gifts—anything you desire—but nothing more.” The stranger was standing close to the fountain and its spray shimmered colourfully all around him, making it difficult to see him clearly.
“You may be alone, but I am not,” Zuhain assured him, “and from me you can have but one gift—that of death.”
“Death? For me?” The stranger’s smile grew broader. “The ’Lord of the Long Valley’ must be a powerful ruler, indeed.”
“Where have you come from?” Zuhain snapped, not liking the other’s manner.
The stranger disturbed some blue shards with his sandal. “Must you ask?”
“I must.”
“Then there can be no answer. Come, my lord, my time is short—state your first wish.”
“My first …” Zuhain narrowed his eyes, trying to eliminate the luminous haze which blurred the intruder’s outlines, and old memories began to stir. He held up his left hand, which had been injured eight years earlier and since that time, despite all the efforts of his physicians, had steadily withered into the semblance of a mummified claw.
“Restore this hand,” he said, “and I will know who—or what—you are.”
“It is done,” the stranger replied carelessly.
Zuhain opened his hand, the fingers spreading like the petals of a long-dormant flower, and comprehension blossomed likewise in his mind. Allah was indeed favouring him above all other men, for here was his chance to be young again and—with the vigour of youth allied to the wisdom of age—to spread his kingdom to the limits of Islam and far beyond. Much though he wanted to shed the burden of his years, however, Zuhain’s restless mind was drawn by another and, to him, more alluring prospect. History was one of the passions of which he was still capable, and he devoted himself to it, not for what it taught him about the past, but for what it enabled him to teach himself about the future. He saw the world as being in a state of continuous change, and it was one of his principal regrets that life was too short to allow more than a glimpse of the mighty spectacle of the Sons of the Prophet triumphantly carrying the true faith to the ends of the earth. But now, suddenly, it was within his power to soar like an eagle above the hidden landscapes of times to come.
“Tell me,” Zuhain said to the stranger, “what is your name?”
The tall figure’s eyes gleamed. “Is that your second wish?”
“Do not jest with me.”
“Very well, my lord—you can call me Emad.”
Zuhain pointed at him with a steady finger. “Emad, I command you to show me the world as it will be a thousand years from this day.”
The stranger shook his head. “It would be well for you to understand that I cannot be commanded to do anything—not even by the Lord of the Long Valley. I am required only to grant you three wishes.”
“Is it within your power to show me the world as it will be?”
“It is—but is that your second wish?”
“That is my…wish.”
“Very well, my lord. See!”
Emad gestured at the floor of the courtyard between them, and suddenly the mosaic designs began to move, acquiring the fluidity and depth of a clear and sunlit sea. Zuhain found himself looking down on the familiar hills and valleys which surrounded his own capital, but vast and disturbing changes had been wrought. Of the thriving centre of commerce nothing remained but a scattering of shabby, ill-constructed huts, and the once-busy harbour had degenerated into a refuge for a handful of neglected fishing boats. Most vexatious was the fact that on the site of his own palace there remained nothing but a vague outline of the foundations, with streamers of white sand drifting across them like smoke.
Under Zuhain’s mesmerised gaze the scene began to shift, and within the space of a few minutes he had visited all the far-flung territories of his fore-fathers and had ranged beyond them to the ocean of the east and the narrow sea of the west. In all of Arabia the picture was the same—one of poverty and degradation, of wasted farming lands, of sparse, dispirited communities in which the people scratched for a living amid the ruins of their former greatness.
“What devil’s trick is this?” Zuhain’s voice was cold. “What false visions are you showing me?”
“I have nothing to gain by deceiving you,” Emad said emotionlessly, though his eyes had flashed again in what might have been anger. “This is your world as it will be a thousand years hence. This, Ibn Zuhain, Lord of the Long Valley, is the extent of your achievement.”
“I warn you,” Zuhain whispered fiercely, “your tawdry tricks will not avail you if…”He paused for a moment, his attention caught by a detail in one of the bright panoramas unfolding below. A caravan was climbing a mountain road, and to Zuhain’s amazement he discerned that it was composed of large wheeled vehicles which moved—as though by magic—without the aid of any beast of burden. On the side of each vehicle was a white square upon which had been painted a red cross. The scene expanded until Zuhain could clearly see men inside the marvellous conveyances, and his nostrils flared as he realised they were infidels—sleek, well-fed, arrogant infidels, journeying without fear where they would once have been cut down and fed to dogs.
“What now?” Zuhain breathed. “What is the meaning of this?”
“It is quite simple, my lord.” A hint of malice was now audible in Emad’s voice. “The world is very large, and it has many lands where the sun does not burn so furiously, where there is water in abundance—and the future belongs to the peoples of those green lands.”