He thought a long time about this sign. Dreams at shrines call for the expertise of soothsayer interpretation. Sheikh Musa was well versed in the kinds of visions that took place around Muslim saints’ tombs. But only the witch doctors of Kano had the special competence to read visions inspired by ancient tombs, pagan tombs. Kano soothsayers often traveled with merchant caravans in the desert — but where could Ukhayyad find one? One could not treat the revelations of shrines lightly. To seek out the knowledge of scholars at any cost was no less a duty in Muslim law than pursuing holy war. That is what the sheikhs said. But where could he find a scholar of shrines in this empty waste? Where would he come across someone who knew how to read the signs of heathen idols?
His maternal grandfather had been wise in these matters. Whenever he had dreamed, he would not rise from his bed until they brought him soothsayers who could interpret the dream for him. The whole tribe remembered how he liked to say, “If God ever sends you a warning, and its secret is revealed to you, you must pause and take heed. If you do not, you will have no one but yourself to blame.” He was a firm believer in the treachery of two things — time and people — and neither failed to disappoint. No misdeed ever surprised him, nor did any enemy ever catch him off guard. Everyone agreed that his wisdom sprang entirely from the attention he paid to occult signs. It was said that even death did not take him by surprise. One night, he dreamed of the fabled lote tree, said by some tribes to exist in the middle of the western desert next to the spring whose waters grant immortality. In his dream, he drank from that pool. In the morning, the soothsayer told him, “Ready yourself for a journey. What you have seen is the lote tree at the furthest reaches of existence.” So he prepared his burial shroud, washed his body with ritual care, and donned his finest clothing, then waited for the King of Death. He did this each day for a week after the dream, until he breathed his last.
7
Thick purple clouds hung above the fields of Maimoun cleaving to the peaks of the mountains, then receding into the endless desert void. While each mountain rose separately out of the surrounding desolation, together they effected a wall that split the desert in two. Across the spaces between the lone summits rolled a sea of rich, red soil, where grew patches of grass and wild flowers whose sweet odor filled the air. It was the end of spring, but the sun was not yet overpowering. Ukhayyad gathered a good number of desert truffles and killed a snake with his stick. Then he began to search in earnest for the herb the sheikh had promised. Toward sunset, he found an entire field of the fabled plants — each stood a meter in height with dark green leaves. The branches of the plant dangled low to the ground, revealing magical, delicate stalks. At the top of each stem opened a yellow bud that gave off a dark, musky scent — the flower of jinn!
Repressing his own shudders and misgivings at the fruit of generations of myth and terror, he led the camel toward the field, where he hobbled the camel’s forelegs with thick palm rope. He secured the bridle to the camel’s tail, letting the rope hang slack so his neck could move freely while he grazed. Ukhayyad stood there, thinking, trying to remember how the jinn in such places plotted their schemes. He told himself, “Old women say with confidence that jinn are not like humans. There’s no deception and no trickery with jinn. The kernel of their difference lies in their dignity. If there were a contest over who was more dignified, man or jinn, the latter would win. If you wrong a jinn, he’ll respond in kind. If you treat him right, he’ll do the same. Jinn do not know how to deceive, they play by the rules. The important thing is to always be aware of your own motives and actions toward them.”
The hungry animal began to devour the jinn plant, filling his mouth, raising his head toward the horizon, then chewing for a long time before swallowing what was in his mouth.
Ukhayyad stood still, watching him until nightfall. He lit a fire and roasted the truffles on the coals. He continued to observe the piebald, but saw no change of behavior. Sated, the camel kneeled on the green field, and was absorbed again in chewing the taboo herb. To Ukhayyad, it seemed as if the spark had returned to the animal’s eyes. Life had returned to the dead sockets. He could not completely make out the pupils in the darkness, but the hale, alert, and steady glance flashed again and again by the light of the fire.
The shadows intensified, and silence descended, a silence unbroken by anything but the sounds of the piebald as he chomped on the cud of the magical herb. Using his arm for a pillow, Ukhayyad lay down and went to sleep.
He passed the night in broken fits of sleep, the anticipation of surprise keeping him from a more restful slumber.
In the morning, Ukhayyad looked closely at his friend, who on waking became active, jerking his head back and forth in agitation. Yesterday’s spark was no illusion. A flash really had returned to his shiny eyes, displacing their former sadness. God be praised — was this the harbinger of health? Or was it a sign suggesting the onslaught of insanity? Where was the madness? Wasn’t it tied to the cure? If the animal didn’t lose his mind, how could he hope to be healed? Mustn’t reason depart if vigor was to return? Good God! But Ukhayyad did not lose hope. Miracles often happened in the desert, and he was not asking for a large one. He was asking the jinn of the silphium fields only this: to take his friend’s suffering and spare him. He prayed and pleaded incessantly. The tomb of the old saint would not let him down. He would not lose hope. Still, where was your magic, silphium? Where was your spell, your effect? Was the spark in the piebald’s eyes a sign? A sign of something. One had to heed signs. As in his dream, as in all inscrutable visions. These signs were the language of God. The one who ignored them would be damned in this world. Whoever paid them no attention would receive what was coming to him. God protect us from that!
The sparkle in the eyes had indeed been a hidden sign. The following day, the battle erupted. It began in the late afternoon. The Mahri stood frightened, stiffening his tail, then began to whip it as if he were chasing imaginary flies. Then his ears began to twitch and his black skin began to quiver and tremble. He tried to unfetter his front legs. The spark in his eyes had become desperate. Ukhayyad readied himself, though he did not know what to do. Anxious as the piebald, he watched as the animal began to chomp at the air and spit up white spume. The foam rose up around his lips, then began to fall to the ground in large, frothy clusters. The raw skin dripped sweat. Ukhayyad had never seen such profuse, searing sweat on the skin of a camel as he did on that day. Then the Mahri began to stand up, trying to break the cords around his legs. He cried out with a horrible gurgling sound that pricked Ukhayyad’s heart. He ran to the camel, struggling to calm him, stroking his body. “Patience, patience. Life is but patience,” he repeated mechanically. “Don’t we have an agreement? If you remain patient, you’ll be cured. I know the jinn are powerful. But patience is even stronger than they are.” But the Mahri was not patient. He howled out a long, pained complaint, “Aw-a-a-a-a-a-a.”