John Schettler - Nexus Point

“In fact,” Jabr explained, “we expected you—at least we expected someone to brave the stream at the setting of the last moon. You were a bit untimely, and perhaps that is why you were so distressed by the fall.”

“You expected me? You mean to say you were waiting for someone here?”

“It was written,” said Jabr. “As much as anything can be written, I suppose. My Kadi told me to be very vigilant on this night at the setting of the moon. I took my prayers on the uppermost battlement, and then came down to the deep places here where we wait. Allah be praised—you were sent to us as it was foretold. Yet, we do not think you are the man we expected. We have much to talk about, my friend. We have so much more to share with one another.”

Paul passed his hand over his eyes, as if trying to rub away the confusion and bewilderment. Jabr smiled, and touched his knee with a gesture of displacement.

“Forgive me,” he said with genuine concern. “You are still gathering yourself. I know what this feels like. I will let you rest a moment, and then Samirah will return with nourishment. Tonight you will dine with her, and she will pamper you so that you can truly believe that all is well and you are whole again. Tomorrow, we will meet after morning prayer and speak once more. My Kadi will wish to see you, but have no fear. He is a wise and generous man. He will be the judge of things, and all will be well.”

Jabr gave Paul a warm nod and rose, stretching his legs a bit. “Enjoy the evening, Pa’ul Do-Rhalan. You have been very gracious to speak with me. Peace be upon you.”

He bowed low, and Paul returned his compliment, almost on instinct. “And on you,” he said haltingly, as he watched Jabr recede into the shadows. There was a quiet unlatching of a door at the back of the room, and he was gone.

Paul settled into his bedding, unaware of another set of eyes upon him as he rested. The Sami was watching from a hidden spy hole, intent upon the newcomer. The Kadi will wish to meet with you, he thought, but I will see him first. Yes, he may be wise and generous, but he is also foolish, and easily deluded. Thankfully, another is set upon the watch this night, the Sami of the Seventh Gate.

The Kadi bowed low, completing his morning prayer and releasing that tenuous yet vital hold on the thin spiritual line that reached out across the globe to holy Mecca. The qibla , an invisible line of direction that connected him to the very center of Islam, was a sacred meridian of the faithful, as sure and reliable as the lines that navigators used to navigate the oceans on their journeys. He took hold of that line five times each day, and this time he paused to visualize the great black-draped shine of the Ka’ba in his mind, and remember the holy black stone within that his lips had touched on during the last pilgrimage of the Hadj . The stone, it was said, fell from the heavens, a gift from Allah.

Now he sat with the sweet memories dancing in his mind, the chanting masses swirling about the squat shape of the shrine that had been built by the hand of Abraham himself. It was Jibra’el, the Angel of heaven, who had given instruction on its making. How fortunate that he had been able to fulfill his holy duty to visit that place as a young man. He was blessed by Allah, and grateful that he had been able to make the journey before the infirmities of age and time took hold of him. His experience of that moment remained a central pillar in his own life, and helped him to remain one of the rightly guided, true to the teachings of Islam.

The morning chill fingered the hem of his gown and he pulled it close, his mind drawn from the dream of the faithful to the matter that was now at hand. The Kadi was uncertain in his heart when he turned his thoughts to the man he would soon encounter. He was the third Walker that had fallen through the Well of Souls to reach this place, all predicted by the scrolls the Kadi had received from Egypt, all expected. Yet surely this was not the man intended. By all accounts and appearances, he was an unbeliever! How was it that an infidel should appear in their midst, and not the messenger he had been led to expect?

It was clear to him now that the Order was behind this. Somehow, by some means, they had uncovered yet another of the cherished hidden sanctuaries his people had long guarded. Perhaps the Sami was right to argue with him. That thought shook the Kadi more than the cold morning wind of the desert. If what the Sami said was true then the gateway in Wadi Rumm, the Valley of the Moon, had been breached! The Well of Souls had been defiled, and now an infidel was in their midst, or so it seemed. Was he an agent of the Order sent to this very place to work some mischief as the Sami argued? Where had he come from? Why was he here?

He lowered his head with the shame of his circumstance. Yet, Allah had placed this burden upon him, and he could not set it aside without just resolution. Could this be my great trial, he wondered as he stroked the long grey-white beard that fell upon his breast? He was not yet old, but he grew his beard long as the sign of his office—Kadi, the judge. It was his to preside over discernment, and make decree. A Walker was not to be dealt with lightly. He had conferred with the Sami long, throughout the night, and with some distress. The Sami was driven by his fear and hatred of the infidels. It was his to receive the initiates, to prepare the warriors of the faithful—the Fedayeen . His was the charge of the sharpened sword and the vial of poison. Therefore it was not surprising that death was on his lips from the very first when they met to consider the fate of this man.

“You say he is a Walker?’ the Sami’s face was still mirrored in the Kadi’s recollection, the ice of his eyes flaring like blue fire. “But he does not first walk in the manner of the rightly guided!”

“Yes, he is an infidel,” the Kadi had returned, “By his own admission. Jabr Ali S’ad is very skillful. He has loosened the man’s tongue. Still, we are not the only ones who walk the unseen paths.”

“Then he is of the Order, I tell you. All the more reason to slay the man now, before he rests here in harmony. Why is he pampered? Why is he sent fine linen, and the hospitality of our table? No doubt he is an enemy, perhaps even a Templar; I warn you here and now! He should be chained in cold iron, and collared with the Lightstone. You know this. Why must I argue?”

“A Templar? I do not think so. He certainly did not shun the attention that was lavished upon him by the maids. No Templar will treat with women. Besides, his coming was written!” The Kadi remembered how he had extended the rolled scroll so the light from the lamp would illuminate the thinly traced script for the eyes of the Sami. “This was late received from Egypt. You have not seen it, and so how can you know the torment of my heart in this?”

The Sami eyed the parchment with disdain. “Written? How can the coming of a heathen be written? Do you inscribe such when you throw the scraps from your table to the dogs beyond the castle gate? How, then, would this be written in the tomb of the ancients? I tell you he is not the messenger you were told to expect. He bore no scroll, and his effects were strange to behold. He should be tortured until he speaks his charge. Perhaps he killed the one you waited for, and came here in his place. Ask him, and if he remains silent then his life should be forfeit.”

“That is not for me to judge,” the Kadi reminded his adversary. “Mine is for discernment here and now. Only the Sheikh may order the death of a Walker. You may read the scroll yourself, if you wish. You are initiated. You are rightly guided. Let your eyes read and see that I speak the truth in this. His coming was written. He arrived on the very day we were told to look for him. Do you still grasp the hilt of your dagger as the only greeting we can then make with this man? Perhaps it was necessary for him to assume this guise as a measure of protection. Do you not train the Fedayeen to walk among our enemies, eating as they do, and assuming their manner and speech? So do they become invisible in the enemy’s own tent, and our work is accomplished.”