Paul gave him a perplexed look. “About this Sheikh,” he began. “You say a letter came with all this written?”
“Yes,” Jabr nodded enthusiastically. “In the hand of the Sheikh himself! He sees many things—even before they happen! Apparently he left Alamut, riding fast horses five days ago—why, the very day of your arrival here. He draws nigh, and may arrive any time now.”
“Riding fast horses? You can’t be serious. I realize you folks may have adopted a low-tech lifestyle to prevent your discovery, but horses?” Images of US special forces operatives riding horses in the highlands of Afghanistan returned to him, lending just the hint of credibility to what Jabr was saying.
“Alamut is far. It would take many weeks for a man on foot. But the fleet riders of our brothers can devour the land and soar like the wind itself.”
“Where is this place you speak of—Alamut?” Paul’s eyes scanned the makeshift map again.
“I am not permitted to say,” said Jabr. “It is a hidden fastness, far to the east.”
“I understand,” said Paul. “But I am very confused. I have told you I was in Wadi Rumm, a place you seemed to know well enough.”
“Yes, yes. It is far to the south, where the finger of the sea points the way to Akaba.”
“Well that would be about here, yes?” He pointed at the map. “Yet you moved me all the way up here?” His finger traced the distance north along the scroll. “How did you manage that? Horses again? It’s a distance of several hundred kilometers!”
“Move you?” Now it was Jabr who wore a bemused expression. “Yes, we pulled you from the water and carried you from the deep pool of the well up to the chamber of greeting. It was not far.”
Paul shrugged. “Come now,” he breathed. “That can’t be so. Or do you simply want to keep me in the dark about my true whereabouts? Are we really in Syria, as you have said, or still in Jordan? I assure you, I have no intention of giving you away to the authorities. I’m just trying to get home, that’s all.”
“No, my friend, we are far from the River Jordan. Look here.” He paused briefly, angling his frame to orient himself to the map. “That way is south, to the holy city of Mecca. To come there you must first traverse the lands of the Emirs of Damascus—or pass through the County of Tripoli instead. We do not walk that road, for the Templars exact payment from travelers there, and the way is dangerous. East lie the Atabegs of Mosul; to the north is the principality of Antioch, and beyond that, Far Edessa, the source of the two rivers that embrace a land that is dear to us—that we call Al Jazira, the island.”
Paul stared at him, slack jawed, a mixture of disbelief and amazement on his face. “You people really like this little game,” he said. “Very well, have it your way master Sinbad. I’m not playing anymore.” He strode away from the table, clearly annoyed and slumped down on the carpeted quarter of the floor, seeking comfort in the bolster lumped against the wall.
Jabr followed him with his eyes, a pained expression on his face. “Do-Rahlan, how have I offended you? Ah! I have left out the land occupied by the Franks and the Christian Lords—that they call the Kingdom of Jerusalem in Palestine. Please understand that it has not always been their realm and, one day, we hope to see them gone and have all those lands returned to us.”
“Yes, yes,” Paul said disdainfully, “the endless war against Zionists and Crusaders you people seem intent on fighting. I suppose you mean to use me as some pawn in that game, right?”
“Then you favor the Christian Lords? You said you were not a Templar, or in their pay. Yet, you are clearly a Westerner, and come from their lands over the sea. Who are the others you speak of in this war? Zion? What is meant by that? It is a word from the Christian holy scripture, yes?”
“Zionists, Israelis, call them what you like. I suppose you people have had your fill of us ‘Westerners’ infesting your land by now. I’m not angry with you, Jabr. But you can see that this whole situation is really unfortunate. I am not your enemy simply because I come from the West. That’s the whole problem! A man is a man. We have to learn to live together at one time or another, don’t we?”
“Very true, Do-Rahlan.” Jabr set down the map and shuffled over to Paul’s side, intent on mending fences with him. “You are not like the men of the West I have known,” he said. “The crusaders are hard, mailed in steel. They are haughty and filled with pride. Yet, their knights are fearsome and without equal in all the world. Even our best horsemen will quail with fear at their thunderous approach. They build great stone castles, impregnable, on all the borders of their land. That they call Krak de Cheval is not but a long day’s march from this very place. It is awesome, vast and unyielding—a fearsome stronghold, to be sure. We hold forth here in our mountains, the followers of Hassan. In truth, we do not favor either side, and have quarreled with both the Sultan and the Christian Lords at times. Yes, we even quarrel amongst ourselves when the Sheikh is not among us—as our presence here attests. You may be thankful that you came to us, Do-Rahlan, and that you were not first taken by the Saracen riders, or even the iron soldiers of the Krak.”
Now Paul was truly disturbed. He took the words in, a look of disbelief resolving to fear and amazement… Crusaders, Castles, Assassins and Sheikhs… Horses, Knights, Saxons, Franks and nary a cell phone to be found… It sounded, for all the world, as if this man was plucked right from a chapter of Medieval History! He had to be joking, or carrying out this colorful extended metaphor in his manner of dealing with the world. Yet the map, the clothing, the odd incongruities that had cropped up in all their hours of conversation. It sounded as if… but it could not be so, he thought. It sounded as if… but no, that was impossible!
“Jabr,” he said quietly. “Tell me truly now, will you? What year is this?” It was a question he never thought to ask before. Why should he?
“The year? Five-eighty-three, Allah be praised.”
“What?” The look of incredulity on Paul’s face prompted Jabr to touch his knee and offer correction.
“Forgive me, you reckon the years differently. We count from the time of Muhammad, peace be upon him. All the West counts from the time of Jesus the Christ, peace be upon him. It seems every prophet has his followers. We turn our maps one way, you turn them another. Let me see,” his dark eyes rolled to the vaulted ceiling. “That would make this the year eleven-eighty-seven, as the Christians reckon.”
Paul just stared at him, saying nothing at all.
Part VIII
The Wolf
“And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?”
22
Nordhausen sat in the mouth of the cave, staring at the russet colors of sun and shadow painting the canyon walls of Wadi Rumm. He was still trying to fathom the incredible revelation in Rasil’s words. The man had come here with the intention of making a time jump through a hidden Arch that was powered by the natural nuclear chain reaction in the guts of a bacterial colony. What genius! How many of these sites did they have secreted around the globe? Where did they all lead? Rasil seemed to indicate that this well, as he called it, was a one way journey, but he would not say where it led. Poor Paul. Was he lost in some distant past or flung forward into the future? How would he ever know?