Usually when such visitors arrived it was Reggie who would welcome them.
First offering them a seat, as he had been taught, and pouring them a tea: ginger root, lemon rind and honey from hived bees, specially blended by Mohammed Muneer to rejuvenate weary souls. Then he would listen as each of them asked him the very same question that had haunted every one of them separately since their journeys had begun.
Did Mohammed Muneer realise he had the moon on his roof?
Reggie always found the question to be quite absurd.
Of course he did.
Everyone did.
No one, not even Reggie, could miss the sickle-shaped ornament that spun on his roof. Shimmering rose-gold in the dawn rinse of the sky.
But Reggie was a gentle fellow not out to fool others.
So instead of calling them ridiculous or laughing in their face, he would simply lean over the counter (being very careful to tuck in his own personal moon which tended to appear rather regularly on account of his low-slung pants) and say with a wink: “The moon on his roof, eh? Well y’ don’t say. I’ve heard that the sun shines out of his arse too.”
It was a lonely life for Mohammed Muneer, despite these strange visitors (and Reggie, of course.) A life most men would have despaired at. Grown hairs on their palms. But Mohammed Muneer accepted it without gripe or growl. For Mohammed Muneer believed he was more than a simple tea shop owner and if anyone (other than his stray, passing travellers) had cared to look closely they would have noticed that his spinning rooftop crescent was no ordinary ornament. That what lay cradled in its gold-plated curve was no strange adornment, no waxed pearl or satin button or lost tooth from a baby. It was the very moon itself, come down from the sky to rest on Mohammed Muneer’s rooftop during the light hours of each day. Weary from the night spent travelling the skies, casting a light one million times greater than its own actual size. For the moon was, in truth, no larger than a juniper berry and as delicate to touch as a silkworm’s cocoon. Easily worn out by its nightly travail it would sleep through the day until evening came once more. Then it would rise to the sky to shine once again, as a whole or a part or sometimes not at all, depending on how tired it was, how well it had slept.
The fact that the moon rested on his rooftop was known by no one else but Mohammed Muneer himself. A secret so small it could fit in the palm of a man’s hand as it had in the past and would do so in the future.
Insha’Allah.
He told no one of its existence, not even his strange visitors, for he feared were it to fall into the wrong human hands, it would be its undoing. It would be its very end.
It never bothered him though, the idle banter of his guests; swearing they’d seen the moon sitting on top of his roof. For he knew they might talk until their teeth ground to gum but there was nobody about who would pay them any regard. Apart from Reggie, of course, but Reggie was much better with his hands than his head, so though he always listened he seldom understood.
Now it wasn’t as if the moon had always lived on Mohammed Muneer’s rooftop.
Since the beginning of time it had worn many guises:
the jewel in a queen’s crown;
a polished fountain stone;
the centre piece of a mosaic in an ancient Persian garden.
Every time it changed guises it had changed for one reason; because its keeper had been lost or had moved on in some way.
The queen with the crown, dethroned in a battle.
The gardener from ancient Persia dead amongst the pomegranates.
Whenever such an event happened, which inevitably it did, the moon would be forced to seek out a new keeper; for the moon knew very well that it could only ever have one—a person whose sole responsibility was to shield it from harm.
Now it wasn’t as if the moon consciously chose who its keeper should be. It just gravitated towards those folk it could sense had pure hearts. Who would sacrifice themselves and expect nothing back. Who had been born on the nights when the moon had been full and whose souls compelled it to shine brightest when it hung over their heads.
Sometimes, once found, the moon would reveal itself to its new keeper. Other times it did nothing at all. Just slept in their presence with a deep, abiding certainty that should it suddenly require protection this mortal soul would provide it. Indeed the only reason at all why Mohammed Muneer even knew about the moon was because he’d spied it one morning while polishing his gold crescent. He never breathed a word though, just raised his fingers to his lips. For Mohammed Muneer was a wise man. He had a good heart. He knew the moon was precious, too precious for this earth.
As host to the sleeping moon, Mohammed Muneer rarely left his tea service in the hours that it lay resting on his roof. However, once a year at the beginning of summer he would leave for the big city to see the doctors about his arrhythmic heart—a condition he’d inherited along with bowed legs. How he hated leaving his teashop for the choking grind of the city but every year Reggie, bless his own perfectly beating heart, would offer to keep things running until he returned. And every year Mohammed Muneer would thank Reggie with a bowl of sugared almonds, while explaining that he’d really much prefer to keep the teashop closed. Whereupon Reggie would clap his short foreign friend in the small of his back and say “alrighty mate” invariably throwing Mohammed Muneer’s capricious heart into even greater chaos.
Mohammed Muneer was only ever gone three days. And every year he was assured by the doctors that his heart seemed fine—as fine as a heart that chose its beat from whim instead of necessity could ever really be. And every year Mohammed Muneer would drive back home feeling restored and confident that he could shelter the moon for another coming year.
But not this time.
Driving west with the remains of the day, Mohammed Muneer could see from the sky that something awful was unraveling around him. Gone was the cobalt blue of summer: the Indian yellow of the sun. Both had been swallowed, or so it seemed, by a blood-orange beast with cindering breath.
Roads had been closed by burly policemen. Fire engines screamed past, their lungs cranked up high. Radios shrieked warnings of firestorms out west, as if the raw, blistering sky wasn’t warning enough. But Mohammed Muneer knew the back route, down by the dams, so he drove like a desperate bugger, crouched low in his car. Praying out loud that he would make it in time, though deep in his heart he already sensed he was too late.
Arriving in town, Mohammed Muneer saw that Munch was already gone. Nothing remained but a grim twisted melt of gristle and plastic: a super-size imitation of a Munch daily special. Some of the local folk had gathered around, licking their chops and rubbing their hands. They could feast on the remains for days before the crows came to town.
Mohammed Muneer left them to scavenge (for it is what they did best) and trailed down the black road in search of his tea house. His head slung low, shoulders defeated, he was afraid to look up though he knew that he must.