"I suppose not, but-"
"Then an answer is not required."
"Your evasion of the question suggests you would deem such knowledge a curse, not a boon."
"I did not say that," Faysal objected. "You misconstrue my words."
"You did not say anything," I pointed out. "How could I misconstrue it?"
We talked in this way for a time, eventually losing interest in the pointless exchange. Later, as the men were making camp for the night, I found myself sitting next to Sadiq as he scanned the valley through which we had passed that day. The setting sun flamed the rocks and tinted the shadows violet; away to the south the sky was rose-coloured in the dusk. "There is a storm coming," Sadiq said, observing the southern sky.
"Good-a little rain will be most welcome."
"No rain this time of the year," the amir replied. "Wind."
"A sandstorm then." My heart fell at the thought.
"Yes, a sandstorm. As God wills, it may pass to the east." He turned from his inspection of the sky, and eyed me with the same severe scrutiny. "Faysal tells me you are talking about death."
"True," I conceded, and told him what we had discussed. He seemed interested in the question so I asked him whether he would consider knowledge of his death a boon?
"Of course," he replied without hesitation.
This intrigued me. "Why?" I asked, and confessed that I could see no benefit whatsoever.
"That is where you are wrong. A man armed with such knowledge would be free to accomplish mighty things."
"Free?" I wondered at the use of this word. "Why do you say free? It seems to me that such knowledge is a terrible burden."
"Terrible for some, perhaps," allowed the amir. "For others it would be liberation. If a man had foreknowledge of his death, it would follow that he would also know all the places where death could not claim him. Thus, he would be free from all fear, and could do whatever he pleased." A quickened intensity charged his speech. "Just think! This man would be a hero in battle, braving every danger, fighting with exquisite courage because he knew in his heart he could not be killed."
"What would happen," I pressed, "when this man came at last to the place appointed for his meeting with death?"
"Ah," replied Sadiq, turning his eyes to the valley once more, "when he came to that place he would also have no fear because he would have prepared himself properly for this meeting. Fear arises from uncertainty. Where there is perfect certainty, there is no fear."
As one who had lived with such knowledge, I found this line of reasoning unconvincing. Certainty, in my experience, only made the thing more difficult, not less.
I was still contemplating what Sadiq had said, when he rose abruptly. "Ya'Allah!" he said softly.
Glancing up, I saw that he was gazing down into the valley, his eyes fixed on the place where the trail began its long torturous climb up to the promontory on which we now sat. "What do you see?" I asked, following his gaze.
But Sadiq was already hastening away. From over his shoulder he called, "We are being followed!"
58
Still staring at the place Sadiq had indicated, I perceived a minute movement along the valley floor: a solitary figure, desert pale, picking its lone way slowly along the trail in the dusk. I strained my eyes to see more, and could, with difficulty, make out the form of a horse ambling behind the figure. Very soon the shadows would steal both from view.
"Get back!" Sadiq ordered, and I edged away from the overlook wondering how Sadiq could have seen the follower. Even after being shown where to look, the lone figure was all but impossible to see. The answer came to me then that the Amir had seen the figure because he knew it was there, was looking for it, and likely had been searching for some time.
Concealing ourselves among the tumbled rocks on either side of the trail, we settled down to wait-and waited long, but the follower did not appear. After a suitable period had elapsed, Sadiq left his hiding place and crept once more to the promontory where he lay on his stomach and gazed down into the valley for a moment before returning to call us from our places.
"Our friend has made camp for the night," he said. "It is a poor thing to travel alone; I think we must persuade him to join the companionship of our fire." The amir chose four of the rafiq to accomplish this task. "Go quietly," he warned, "for we do not wish to inspire unholy fear in our guest."
The four proceeded into the valley on foot, leaving the rest to make camp. As Faysal and the others went about their chores, the blue-black twilight stain deepened in the sky and the stars began to shine. It was full dark by the time the welcome party returned with our solitary pursuer.
They came abruptly out of the night, emerging into the circle of light provided by our campfire-two warriors, leading their charge, the third coming behind, and the fourth leading a horse and donkey. We fell silent as they appeared; Sadiq stood. "I am pleased you could be persuaded to join us," he said, speaking to the figure still in darkness.
I peered into the gloom beyond the firelight and saw a slender form swathed head to foot in a pale robe.
"Come forward, friend," Sadiq invited. "Sit with us; warm yourself by our fire, and share our meat."
The figure stood silently, but made no move to accept Sadiq's invitation. Neither did the warriors move, but held themselves stiffly, as if afraid or embarrassed to stand too near the stranger.
"Please," the amir insisted, his tone growing firm. "My next appeal may be less to your liking."
Lowering the hood, the stranger stepped into the circle of light.
"Kazimain!" I cried, leaping to my feet.
"Ah, Kazimain," sighed Sadiq, shaking his head wearily.
I went to her and made to embrace her, but among the Children of Allah, it is held a sinful thing for a man and woman to be seen touching one another, so I stood uncertainly before her, aware of the eyes on us, and Lord Sadiq's inevitable displeasure. "Kazimain?" I whispered, pleading for an explanation.
She glanced at me, her dark eyes defiant; she seemed on the point of speaking, but thought better of it, stepped past me and settled herself at the fire. Sadiq stared at his kinswoman, an expression of exasperated pride and annoyance warring on his swarthy face. Annoyance won. "You should not have come," he said at last.
Kazimain, without taking the slightest regard, extended her hands towards the fire. No doubt she had foreseen this meeting and had prepared what she would do. "One would almost think you were not happy to see me, Uncle," she observed, her voice sweet and soft.
"It was a foolish thing to do." The amir frowned. He dismissed his men to their chores, and sat down, folding his legs beneath him. He placed his hands on his knees. "There are wicked men in the hills. You might have been killed," he paused, "or worse."
Kazimain raised her head and regarded him with regal disdain. "I was ever within sight of the amir," she replied coolly. "Is his arm so short that he could not protect me?"
"You have been hiding all this time?" I wondered.
"The fire is warm," she said, holding her hands before the flames. "It is a luxury I did not allow myself." She glanced at me, the merest hint of a superior smile touching her lips. "If the amir had known, he would have sent me home."
"The amir will send you home!" declared Sadiq firmly.
Kazimain inclined her head nicely. "If that is your decision, my kinsman, I will not disagree."
"You should not have come," Sadiq said again. "No daughter of mine would ever do such a thing."