John Schettler - Nexus Point

“The council chamber of the Kadi General,” he said, his voice hushed with reverence. “Remember the words of greeting I taught you?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“In Arabic?”

“I will do my best.”

“Good then. I will be at your side at all times. There will be three cushions set before the chair of the Kadi. Take the centermost one and be comfortable. I will sit on your right. When the Kadi speaks I will translate in your ear. You may simply utter your response in the Saxon tongue, and I will be your voice.”

The leading guard knocked once upon the door, clanging a thick, wrought iron oval. It was answered by more men, dressed in the same fashion as their escorts, only with a threaded line of gold along the sides of their trousers. Jabr bowed, and gestured for Paul to enter. As he did so he took in the high, vaulted ceiling, supported by two rows of thick pillars with ornate capitals. The stonework was well crafted, and the pillars flanked a long hall with richly colored carpets. The far end of the room opened on lofty colonnades and arched windows above a flight of wide steps. There, on a dais lit by torches, beneath a wonderfully carved Arabic arch, sat a man in simple white robes. He wore a jeweled turban upon his head, and his eyes seemed weary and strained above his cinder beard. As Paul advanced, he soon made out the man’s features—tawny skin, aged yet not withered; a prominent nose above thick purplish lips. The man regarded him with a steady gaze, and Paul seemed to catch a hint of surprise in his eyes as he watched the visitors take their places on the silken cushions.

Jabr looked at him, nodding. Paul soon realized that he was being prompted to greet the Kadi, and he flushed, a bit embarrassed that he had been gawking at the architecture and forgetting his manners. He bowed low and rose, speaking the words Jabr taught him in Arabic.

The Kadi responded warmly, obviously pleased, and Paul completed the brief litany before seating himself again. There was a moment of quiet regard and the Kadi seemed to be deliberating something in his own mind. Then he spoke again, and Jabr translated quietly in Paul’s right ear.

“I trust you are comforted here and it is my hope that your health and life are well protected.”

“I had a harrowing fall,” said Paul, “but your hospitality has restored me to good health. Please accept my thanks and gratitude.”

“It is graciously given, as the welcome of Castle Massiaf. We were told to expect you on the night of the full moon, and we hope your journey was not arduous.”

Castle Massiaf—that was the first inkling Paul had of his whereabouts, but the name did not mean anything to him. He hesitated wondering what the man meant with that last remark. “Forgive me, but how could you anticipate my coming?”

The Kadi waited briefly. “It was written. Sent to us by the messenger before you, but we did not expect that you would be Saxon.” The look on Paul’s face spoke across the language barrier without any need for translation. The Kadi seemed suddenly infected by Paul’s bewildered expression. “Are you not the Walker in the Valley of the Moon—that we call Wadi Rumm?”

“Wadi Rumm? Yes, I was in that place, seeking shelter from the sun and fresh water. Yet I came there by chance. My fall was not intended—“

“Not intended?” The Kadi seemed perplexed by this revelation. “Yet you came by the Well of Souls. You came in on the river, just as we were forewarned.” Jabr was translating quickly, and Paul looked from him to his questioner on the dais.

“I’m very sorry,” he said, “but my fall was an accident. I can only be thankful that your people were close at hand to render assistance.”

The Kadi seemed more and more perturbed with each word Paul spoke. He ran his hand over his thick beard, considering.

“Then you did not jump willingly? How strange.” The man leaned in to study Paul’s face more clearly. “Do you mean to say that the Dawa was not revealed to you? You were not prepared? You are here simply because Allah wills it?” He cocked his head to one side. “Or do you say these things to avoid discernment here?”

Paul’s confusion redoubled. More riddles and metaphors. “What is meant by Dawa?” he asked.

“By that we mean the divine intent of your journey—the summons that calls you to become a pilgrim. You are a Gray Walker on the eternal Hajj, and all who walk that road are called and prepared. That is your Dawa: your mission. Could it be you have forgotten? Was your fall a grievous one—or are you simply unwilling to speak freely?”

“Well,” he began, “I’m still not entirely sure what you mean by all that. You may call my coming the will of Allah, but I assure you, he did not take the time to confer with me before I took that headlong fall.”

The Kadi allowed himself a thin smile. “Do you play with words here?”

Paul was as confused as ever. “Let me be plain, sir. We were trying to reach a ship in the Red Sea, as Jabr here has undoubtedly told you by now.”

“He has spoken of a celestial flight. You say there was a great vessel in the Red Sea to the east—the Arabesque , as it was called.”

“I never saw it. Our flight was… interrupted, and we landed in Wadi Rumm. It was necessary for us to find shelter, and fresh water. We began to search the caves there and I was alone when I slipped and fell into the sink. I suppose my only mission was to find my way home. We meant to try and reach Akaba, you see. Is that where I am now?”

It was clear, as Jabr translated, that the Kadi did not expect to hear such a revelation. In fact, he had the aspect of a man who was unwilling to believe what he was being told. His heavy lips pursed with disapproval, and his eyes narrowed. Paul saw how he clenched his fist in the palm of his other hand, as though distraught, or greatly troubled. Then he fixed Paul with an avid stare and spoke tersely, with stone in his voice. Jabr hesitated, and whispered a hasty translation.

“Are you a Templar? You must answer truly now.”

The man’s manner carried a presentiment of warning. Paul could sense how the tension in the question had infected Jabr as well. His translator swallowed, his throat dry, and Paul could not help glancing at his dark eyes. The fear had returned to them, traced with just the barest hint of suspicion.

He wracked his brain, knowing that his answer was somehow very important to these men. A Templar? What on earth did they mean? His hesitation prompted the Kadi to push harder on the door he was opening, and before Paul could answer the man spoke again.

“Are you Hospitaller then? What order do you serve?”

“What order? I don’t understand what you are asking me. I serve no order.” Then the words broke through to a point of understanding in his mind. Templar… Hospitaller… Those were the names of the fighting orders of Christian knights in Medieval times. There were modern equivalents, but they were nothing more than church socials and fraternal lodges, like the Knights of Columbus. Some were still shrouded in mystery, and rumored to be secret societies of the Church. Perhaps these men placed credence in those stories, and thought him to be some kind of agent.

“Look,” said Paul. “It is clear that I am a Westerner—an American, in fact. I have told you how I came here, or at least all that I can recall, yet you people have been talking in these riddles and I can’t seem to get a straight word out of anyone. Now, answer me this: am I a prisoner here? Do you mean to hold me hostage? If so get on with it then and bring out your video camera or whatever else you intend. I’ll be more than happy to become a star in your little show.” He folded his arms, angry and frustrated, yet also a bit unsettled that he had allowed his emotions to get the better of him. Who were these people? The question rankled him, and he had decided to have it out with them here and now—in spite of the gratitude he felt for their rescue and the kindness of their hospitality.