John Schettler - Nexus Point

God only knows what happened to Nordhausen, he mused, but if he knew about this hidden warren in the desert he would probably have jumped in himself. Where was he?

Paul threaded through the vague recollections of his coming to this place—the fall, the water, the struggle to save himself in the wild underground stream. He came up against a blank, and his memories became tattered and disjointed, until they coalesced again in the sensation of soft warm hands on his body, and the smell of incense and spiced coffee.

His host, Jabr Ali S’ad, had been cautious at first, but grew more open and genuinely warm as they spoke together. In his conversations with Jabr, Paul had come to the conclusion that he was no longer in a subterranean vault beneath Wadi Rumm. Yes, he could still hear the constant flowing of water, but Jabr’s references to rooms and battlements and walls and gates led him to believe that he had been rescued from the stream and then taken off, unconscious, to some nearby outpost. Could he be in Akaba? Wherever he was, he had not seen daylight once in all the time he was awake. Apparently he was still being kept in a hidden room, on the lower, underground level of some greater complex. Sounds came to him in the night—strange ghostly horn calls, the whispered passing of feet on smooth stone, sonorous chants that echoed in the halls above and an occasional hard grate of metal on rock, resounding sharply in the distance.

It occurred to him that he may have been taken hostage by some rogue group that used Wadi Rumm as a base of operations. Perhaps the underground stream he fell into had carried him some ways to the shore of their hidden outpost. It was all he could determine for the moment. Still, there were other things that seemed oddly out of place here. If he was hostage, why was he being treated like a prince? His expectation would be more of blindfolds and harsh treatment; rough interrogation and abuse. Yet, in spite of the fact that he did feel that Jabr was quietly trying to extract information from him, he was coddled and comforted by his captors, if they could be called such. It did not make sense.

Jabr told him he was chosen to greet him because he spoke the Saxon tongue. He obviously meant English, but Paul found that his host often used archaic expressions, and made references to things that were wholly bewildering to Paul. He spoke in metaphor, and took a manner that assumed Paul was privy to every nuance and image he used—as if his language was secretly understood by them both. He called the sink hole the ‘Well of Souls,’ and referred to Paul as a fellow ‘Walker.’ Could he mean that he was a tourist, or perhaps a pilgrim? The old pilgrim’s road did traverse the region of Wadi Rumm, just one stage on the long journey to Mecca in days of old.

That thought gathered prominence in his mind. He had the distinct feeling that these people were living out some fantasy from the tales of the Arabian Knights. Jabr was amiable, and chatted with him over each meal before leaving him in the care of the maid he called Samirah. Yet every time Paul had tried to question his host about his status and whereabouts, there was only a polite smile, and artful nod of the head. “These things in time,” Jabr told him. “All things in time. Tomorrow you will meet with the Kadi. He does not speak your tongue, and so I will be honored to accompany you as translator, if you will permit me.”

This was the morning set for the meeting. Samirah had caressed him to wakefulness, and then brought him fresh baked bread and minty spiced tea. Paul knew that Jabr would soon be at his side again, smiling, watching, quietly probing at him in their conversation, as he had for the last two days now. Paul still puzzled at the riddle of the man’s speech, and wondered how he would fare when trying to communicate with this Kadi, as Jabr called him. It was difficult enough sorting through Jabr’s odd statements. Trying to span the cultural chasm and language barrier with the Kadi might prove a frustrating and difficult experience.

Jabr was very punctual. Samirah withdrew, trailing the sweet scent of perfume and roses, and Jabr made his entrance a moment later. He shuffled to Paul’s side, bowing cordially with his greeting.

“The Peace of Allah be upon you.” He waited, somewhat hopefully, and Paul recalled how Jabr had labored to teach him the etiquette of the formal Arabic greeting the night before.

“And with you, peace.”

“Morning of goodness, morning of light,” Jabr rejoined.

“God grant you long life.”

“Our family, our gardens, be yours.” Jabr’s dark eyes brightened, his thin brown cheeks stretching in a broad smile. “Very good!” Then he added: “You are not offended to speak of Allah in this manner?”

“Offended?”

“I know you are not of the rightly guided—not an adherent of Islam.”

“You mean you know that I am an infidel.”

There was a blush of embarrassment on Jabr’s face. “I do not call the unbelievers such. It is only my hope to touch the heart of one who has not known the bliss of Islam, and make greeting, in the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate. In this light, no man is an infidel, and all are subject to the will of Allah. You were born to another way, that is all. Yet you do not seem hard of heart. Your mind is open, yes? Are you willing to learn our ways, and hear the wisdom we might share with you without harsh judgment?”

“Certainly,” said Paul. “You have been a gracious host, Jabr, and I am much in your debt.”

“Then even in spite of our long enmity, you wish to find accord with us? This is not trickery or deceit?”

“Trickery? I’m not sure what you mean. To be honest, Jabr, I’m a bit lost with all of this, but very grateful for the care and courtesy you have shown me. Perhaps our meeting with this Kadi will clear everything up for us both. In any case, I don’t know what you mean with this business about our long enmity—we have only just met.”

Jabr smiled. “If only the men of the West would think as you do in this, then perhaps we could live in peace instead of vying with the sword.”

“Do we go to the Kadi now?”

“If you are willing,” said Jabr.

Paul rose, stretching his long legs as he did so and gesturing to the shadowed, wooden lattice where he knew there must be a door. Jabr cautioned him briefly before he led the way.

“We will be escorted, you understand.” He seemed to be apologizing, and Paul soon saw that he was referring to two burly guards standing in the shadows just beyond the low arch that opened to a long corridor. They were bare chested, with loose fitting, billowy trousers and white turbans on their heads. Each man held a drawn sword, which caused Paul some hesitation. Perhaps the hospitality will take a darker turn now, he thought.

Jabr seemed to sense his discomfort as he eyed the guards, and took his arm, gently guiding him on. “Have no fear,” he assured him. “Forgive me, but this is merely a precaution. The Kadi is a very important man.”

“I understand,” said Paul. But he did not understand men with swords drawn at the ready just outside his door. Kalashnikov assault rifles he expected… but swords? Who was this Kadi—some Osama Bin Ladin in charge of this group? He certainly had a flair for the dramatic. Paul watched, with a half smile, while one guard took the van and the other waited to follow behind them.

They passed the long corridor of gray stone and came to a steep, winding stair that seemed to go on forever. Paul counted five separate landings, each one continuing up to yet another flight of rough-hewn stairs of stone. He was a bit winded when they finally turned right at the top of a landing and approached a wide oaken door beneath an arch of artfully carved stone bricks. Each brick was inlaid with Arabic script, and Jabr gestured warmly as they approached the door.