John Schettler - Nexus Point

“Is he your leader?”

“That and more!” Jabr’s eyes gleamed in the lamplight. “He is sâhib al-kawn the Master of Creation; Master of Time. He is the Witness, the Watcher, the Dispenser Of Mercy at the beginning and the end.”

Quite the humble soul, thought Paul. Not even Osama bin Ladin was that fond of himself. He was suddenly possessed with a driving urgency to know who these people were, and what they were about here in their mountain hideaways.

“Jabr,” be said firmly, “I am far from home, quite lost, in fact. I have no idea who you are, really, or what you intend to do with me. I suppose I should be grateful to you for all you have done for me, but the truth is, I feel a captive here, a hostage taken against my will. Is that so?”

“Hostage? Oh no, Do-Rahlan. You are an honored guest! You came to us through the Well of Souls, and you have the Kadi’s favor and protection until such time as the Sheikh may decide otherwise, peace be upon him.”

“Ah, then you are waiting for instructions from this other? What then?” He searched Jabr’s face for some sign of a truth kept hidden from him, but he saw only sincerity and empathy in the man’s brown eyes.

“I am not told these things,” said Jabr. “The Kadi received a letter from the Sheikh at the setting of the moon last night. It warned him that the Sami was misguided, and fallen into error. It specified that you were to be taken from the castle, and that the woman assigned to your care was to be closely watched. Allah be praised, I was just in time to prevent her foul deed. It was said that she meant to poison you!”

“Samirah? I think she was innocent,” said Paul. “She came to my side as always, bearing that wonderful drink you have been offering me each evening. Yet I could see that something was disturbing her. She seemed upset; afraid.”

“She knew the darkness of her own heart,” Jabr pointed to his chest for emphasis.

“No, I rather think she was simply terrified of something. She poured the cup, but then, as I was about to drink, she struck it from my hand and embraced me. A moment later you burst into the room.”

Jabr gave him a thoughtful look. “I see,” he said, stroking the thin curled wisp of his beard. “It may be that she heard my approach and sought to secure her innocence at the last minute. Then again, it could be as you suggest: that she was forced to this deed by threat of pain, or worse. In any case, such is not for us to decide. The matter of discernment is for the Kadi—or the Sheikh when he should come.”

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.”