The Prophet's Ladder

by Jonathan Williams

  The rust-orange wave swept across the barren wastes. Particles of acrid sand scattered across the mud-brick walls of the kasbah, as they had a hundred thousand times before. The sun was setting, and the thick, russet-green haze that enveloped them stuttered on, choking, driving them to shelter. The locals called this type of sand storm the "lejej d' Shaitan" or the "devil's breath.” It was an accurate description.

  Driss had to practically drag the camels into the caravanserai, shuttering the wooden doors before he himself quickly sought refuge in the aged fortification. The screaming wind seemed to siphon the very lifeblood out of him. He wore the end of his indigo headwrap across his mouth, to protect his face from the cruel gusts; it was hot and dry and each breath seemed to burn his lungs even as he made his way to the ristora, the inn where he would sip hot tea and reflect on his journey across the great desert. The smell of tagine welcomed him as he stepped inside. Undoing his protective garments and removing his worn leather shoes, Driss entered into the candlelight that emanated from behind screened brass hanging lanterns.

  "Thanks be to God," he uttered, "that is some storm! It is an evil something in the air!" He laughed heartily and sat upon the cushions that lined the walls, bordering the low tables that were placed about the floor of the inn. The room had some few people in it, those asleep in corners or talking in low murmurs, eating flatbread in silent contemplation, as if afraid to speak over the storm’s low keening. The innkeeper standing in front of the recessed cooking fire turned to him and smiled, his worn, bearded face spoke of an age-long familiarity with the indigenous, inclement weather.

  "Rest my friend, and partake of our fine tea and victuals. This storm will not let up until well into the night. I suspect you have come from afar?" The innkeeper handed him a worn clay cup, the scent of mint and lemon leaves wafting from the hot waters within.

  "Indeed I have," replied Driss, sipping his tea, “though I do not wish to speak of my journey so soon after having traveled its byways and suffered its travails. It is due proper consideration, and I will recount it to many after a time, though not this evening. Tell me Hajj, good uncle, what stories do you know? What tales can you issue forth to accompany my evening meal?”

  “Haha, I am no storyteller, or some Sufist poet from Fes!” replied the innkeeper, slapping his knee. We have few stories native to this lonely outpost. We only collect from travelers those grand enough, those entertaining enough to pass through our walls, as a cast net in the sea trawls for prize fish, letting those too small slip through its weave. I can recount the tales of others, but no, we have no stories of our own worthy of your ear.”

  “I have a tale for you.” The exclamation came from a shadowy corner of the inn. Behind a wooden pillar carved in the likeness of a serving girl sat an old man hunched over, his dark gnarled hands wrapped around a worn walking stick. A tattered brown djellaba covered his face and body, his voice raspy like a rusted hinge on a door. “I must warn you though, it is not for the faint of heart.”

  The traveler and the innkeeper both approached the hooded figure, eager for a tale to invigorate their minds. His face still wrapped in the shadow of his hood, the old man tapped his stick on the stone floor three times, to invoke the protection of Allah and to ward off the evil eye. He was clearly of the Imazighen, a Berber, and he spoke with an accent that echoed of the deep desert.

  “You have heard of the Great General Uqba ibn Nafi?” asked the old man.

  “Yes indeed.” acknowledged Driss. “It was he who tamed this land and brought the true faith to the Maghreb.”

  “Hmm, yes, yes, so they say. He passed through here, this very village, if you can call it that, centuries ago, on his way back east.”

  “I had not heard this,” said the innkeeper, belligerently, “and I have lived here all my life. Who told you this?”

  “No one. Everyone. Those who know, know.” The old Berber scowled. “Will you let me tell my tale?”

  “Yes, please continue.” Driss nodded encouragingly. He watched as a small boy and his father sat down beside him, wealthy travelers by the look of their clothes, curiosity piqued by the tale.

  “He passed through with only a small retinue, a mere bodyguard of ten men. General Uqba was making his way back to his liege lord the Caliph, who was visiting his newly conquered provinces. But the great general and his few men had become lost, in a sandstorm very much like this one.” The old man paused and looked up, as if to listen to the moaning of the storm that beat waves of grime, sand, and gravel atop the caravanserai’s roof. Driss and the innkeeper now glanced at the Imazighen’s face; his eyes were pearly white, the color of goat’s milk, and he bore a scar across half his face. A blind old warrior then, thought Driss, or else a thief or an exile.

  The blind storyteller continued. “The travelers became disoriented in the weeklong storm, separated from their horse and camel: few supplies, no food, no water. The general and his men wandered for days, no signs of civilization, no peasant homestead to take them in, no Tuareg nomad to guide them to an oasis. Just the endless shoreline of the Great Desert and the ripped and broken earth that is this blasted land. They fed off scorpions and drank tortoise blood to survive, sleeping in the noonday sun, traveling due east.

  On the eighth day of their wandering, sunburnt, half-blind, tongues swollen for lack of water, they came upon a gorge with a cave carved into its mouth. The general and his men dragged themselves inside, thanking God for the respite, though privately the general cursed himself for this shelter would but prolong their suffering before death took them.

  The cave was cool and the air inside was moist, though there was no standing water to be found. The soldiers pressed their faces to the walls of the cave, hoping beyond hope the rock would syphon the heat from their tired bones.”

  At this the blind storyteller paused in his telling, and took a sip from the teacup that rested beside the hem of his djellaba on the floor of the inn, as if the dry thirst pervading his tale had seeped out into the reality around him. The listeners, seated about him in a semicircle, unconsciously did the same.

  “The retinue of men that had escorted General Uqba quickly fell into a deep sleep, their bodies exhausted and near to breaking. The general though, he drew upon an inner reserve that was uncommon to men of that time, even less so today in this age of decadence and sin. Keeping his left hand upon the wall of the sandstone cave, he began to explore the inner recesses of their shelter. Eventually the general came upon a crook, near invisible to the naked eye, which led into a hereto-unseen room of the cavern. The general tore off a tattered piece of cotton cloth from his shirtsleeve and wound it around his dagger, lighting the fabric with flint to make a torch.

  Stepping into the second chamber, the general’s eye’s adjusted to the dim light sputtering from his torch. It was a vast hollow, filled with rocky stalagmite teeth. To his immense relief he espied in one corner a shallow pond, filled with tiny white fish, their eyes grown wide for lack of sunlight. The general issued thanks to God and nearly tripped over himself dashing towards the water, his thirst driving him mad with desire.

  Seconds before his hand touched the surface of the pond, his torch sputtered out, and a swirling smoke filled the space before him, causing him to cough and choke on the polluted air.

  ‘Banu Adam.’ A voice, seemingly from all about him assaulted the general’s senses; it was a sonorous voice that spoke with the crackling roar of fire and the vaporous emanation of flame. ‘Banu Adam. Why do you intrude into my home?’

  ‘Forgive me, brother djinni. I did not know this was your abode. I merely seek to drink of this water, that I might not die.’

  ‘This I cannot allow,’ said the djinni, its fiery voice hardening in disdain. ‘Your rude trespass has insulted my sensibilities. Go away and pass into your next life with what dignity remains to you.’

  ‘Please, brother djinni, I would beseech you for but a cupped hand of water to slake my thirst. I have read that those born of the smokeless fire ar
e exceedingly just and eminently merciful. Is this not true?’

  ‘Your flattery is clumsily wielded, though not entirely misplaced,’ said the djinni, becalmed. ‘I will allow you the cupped handful of water, but this alone, and then you must depart.’

  With great caution and careful movements the general brought the water to his lips and drained his cupped palm of the liquid, which was akin to the manna of heaven.

  ‘Oh masterful djinni, I thank you; you are indeed quite generous and possessed of great mercy as the tales say. But I must ask that you duplicate this grand favor for ten more men, who are my escort and compatriots. They sleep at the entrance to this cavern.’

  ‘Banu Adam you ask far too much,’ said the djinni, its voice rising with anger. ‘Leave now, before I deign your flesh to be my evening meal.’

  The general’s mental agility returning with the taste of water, he thought now of a way to win the waters from the djinn. ‘Brother djinni, how do I know you are not the one of your race called Iblis, whose cruelty knows no bounds? How do I know you do not whisper malignance into my heart and the heart of all mankind, the one whose name was Azazel, now Shaitan, the devil?’

  ‘I am not he, for what it is worth,’ said the creature, repulsed by the general’s suggestion. ‘I worship and serve God as you, though in a way unseen to your kind.’

  ‘If you are not he then, surely you will give me your true name, that we might part in peace as brothers?’ replied the general.

  ‘You could not pronounce my true name if you tried,’ said the sonorous voice of fire, laughing.

  ‘Come come,’ said General Uqba. ‘Let us not be rude. I will give you mine. Peace be with you, elder brother. I am General Uqba bin Nafi, Servant of the Faithful, leader of the Jihad, scion to the Umayyad dynasty, nephew to Amr ibn al-’As, one of the holy Companions to the Prophet, peace be upon him.’

  ‘A notable name, a great many titles,’ replied the voice, marginally impressed. ‘Very well, I shall give you my name, that we might part in peace, that I shall not roast your corpse and suck the marrow from your bones. There is no danger in the act, for you mortal men possess not the tongue to speak it, nor the eloquence to understand its meaning. Very well then, let us finish this, for I grow weary of your company. And peace also with you, General Uqba bin Nafi. I am called…’

  And here there was a great ringing and clanging, as of a thousand brass and iron bells echoing in a hollow chamber, and a flock of birds chirping, alighted in a grove of olive trees. It deafened the general to hear it. But the Baraka was with the general that day, for he was blessed by The Most Compassionate One, and he was able to hear the true name of that creature of the race of djinn, they of the smokeless flame. As the djinn were commanded to bow before Adam the first man, so too did the general have authority over this djinni, now that his true name was known.

  ‘Brother djinni, you whose true name is ****************, I respectfully command that you leave this place, that we men might drink of these waters and not perish. Do this in the name of the Most Merciful, Great Allah, and we shall part in peace.’ And here the General voiced the djinni’s true name in full, every ringing syllable, and the djinni did as he was bade do, for Uqba had spoke his true name, which to the race of djinn is the same as an iron collar about one’s throat.

  The general and his men thereafter drank the pond’s water and consumed the fish that swam within, replenishing themselves. Days later they scouted the lands surrounding the gorge and located a caravan’s trail, and by that way returned to the lands of men.”

  The blind Berber storyteller finished his tale, and propped his head on his walking stick.

  “A masterful story,” Driss the traveler said, clapping his hands in appreciation. “But tell me, what happened to the djinni?”

  “They say he dwells about this very village,” the old man replied. “The Djinni of the Voice sustains our oasis and keeps the sandstorms from washing us away. He remains eternally grateful to General Uqba for not ordering him into his water skin as was his right, to keep as a weapon or for some terrible act.”

  “I did not know, I did not know,” muttered the innkeeper, watching the inn’s wooden door bang on its hinges as the storm buffeted the caravanserai. “I thought most djinn were evil, malicious.”

  “You should read your Quran my friend.” Driss replied sanctimoniously, finishing his tea.

  ****

  Ali returned home to find his entire immediate family present in their tiny, old quarter dwelling. His two brothers, his father, and even his mother were seated around the blue knee-high dinner table. His brothers and father were ripping pieces off a disc of bread, dipping each handful into a communal dish of olive oil before shoving it into their mouths unceremoniously. His mother was propped up against the wall next to his father, not partaking of the afternoon snack.

  “Ali,” his father called to him, summoning him to the table’s edge. “What’s this your brother Abdel tells me about your writings being on the news today?”

  So we get right to it, Ali thought. “Father, it is nothing. I merely maintain a...website…. about various cultural issues and...and one of the posts was mentioned on Tunisia Today, that’s all.”

  His father still appeared amiable. “Well Abdel is upset, but that sounds great! This means you will have more dinars coming in, yes?” Abdel gave Ali a death stare from his seat, silently urging Ali to be honest with their parents, each brother knowing that their father and mother had no practical understanding of how the internet or the media functioned, especially when it came to money.

  “Well no…. they can talk about whatever they want on Tunisia Today without paying anybody, and also I wrote the blog anonymously.”

  “Why would you write anonymously, my son?” replied Hassan, perplexed. “Aren’t you proud of your work? Your articles in the paper have your name above them.”

  “Of course I am proud of my work father, but it is very typical to post anonymously on these types of websites, or blogs, under a pseudonym. This way I can write what I want without worrying about every post being perfect.”

  “Nothing man creates is perfect my son, only Allah is perfect.”

  “Thanks be to God father, you are right, of course,” replied Ali, chastised.

  “Father, you don’t understand,” Ali’s other brother Youssef protested. “The Imam on TV was saying Ali’s writings were heretical!”

  “Are they, Ali?” Ali’s mother inquired, quietly. The party turned to review her sallow, sunken features. “They aren’t, are they?”

  “No, of course not, mother!” Ali grew testy. “What I wrote is merely an extension of what we all fought for during the Arab Spring. We protested and overthrew a corrupt government, and we’re supposed to rest on our laurels? No! Now is the time for the real change, the lasting change, to be implemented. Our society, our culture, must grow and adapt to the needs of the 21st century; my blog criticizes old assumptions, about what is sacred, what is not: Conservative Imams in the community, religious institutions abusing their positions, that sort of thing. But I write from a deep reverence for the Quran, a love for Allah and the prophet. You know this mother, you know me.”

  Ali’s father looked at him and nodded. “I know you are a good son, Ali. Just be careful. You say this website is anonymous, that’s fine. I didn’t see what they said on Tunisia Today. They’re usually a bunch of idiots anyways on the TV. But don’t get this family into trouble, you understand me? Don’t bring shame on your mother.”

  “Yes, father. Of course.” Ali’s parents looked mollified. The matter seemed settled given Hassan’s proclamation. Though the urge to jump online and check his subscriber numbers was almost overwhelming, Ali resisted the impulse. Instead, he stayed in the living room and chatted with his entire family, a rare occurrence these days. Ali knew why Abdel and Youssef resented him; he’d been the only one in the family to win a scholarship and attend university, the only sibling to get a chance at starting a better life outside
the medina, a modicum of social mobility that was denied to his older brothers. That was why they had so quickly brought this scandal to his father’s attention. He didn’t blame them, not really. It was the way of things just as it’d always been.

  Youssef talked about his wife’s pregnancy and Abdel complained about the hanut not getting as much foot traffic as it had in past years. Ali’s father made a show of being overly concerned about his wife’s health, fretting over not eating, offering to fetch her more pillows; all an attempt to placate his son’s concerns, or so Ali thought.

  Eventually the siblings departed, heading back to their wives and families in nearby apartments several blocks distant. Ali stayed and cleaned up while his father departed for the jamea.

  After his mother had again drifted off to sleep, exhausted from the company, Ali opened his laptop and reviewed his website. It was as he had expected: a massive upsurge in traffic. Hundreds upon hundreds of vitriolic comments lay beneath his most recent posts. There was, however, an equally impressive amount of new subscribers, almost quadruple what he’d had yesterday evening. There were even some subscribers from other countries: Morocco, Algeria, France, even the UK and Germany! I guess that show has a wider audience than I’d thought.

  There were too many comments to read, too much emotion to sift through. He wondered not for the first time how the television station had found his blog. Could they find out who I am? Would they do a followup story? He assumed it had just been a station intern trawling through every Arab language blog he could get his hands on, looking for some original content on a slow news day. Perhaps one of the station’s journalists is a subscriber….

  Ali leaned back from his laptop screen; he had been hunched over it like a vulture on a carcass, feasting on the digital prose. Not good for a young man’s back. After some consideration, he opened up his word processor and began to write another blog post, a reactionary piece to the Tunisia Today coverage. No time like the present…