by J. J. Harkin
Muhammad looked back to the horizon and sighed with relief. It seemed he had not been followed further, or perhaps that his pursuers had much shorter legs than his. Either way he was not about to stop any time soon. If he could have no privacy in life, at least he might achieve it in death. As he continued, a long defile between the dunes began to lead him somewhat northward. The mid-afternoon sun beat down upon him, but soon the place bourgeoned with sacred bliss for the man. It had been a claustrophobic morning. He had always idealized the solitude of the wilderness, and today he was finally seeing it in person.
The day wore on as Muhammad trudged deeper and deeper into the desert, eventually leaving the dunes behind. By sunset he found himself upon a massive stony plain, which seemed to stretch on into the distance indefinitely. At last he had reached ground his feet would leave no mark upon, he thought. Feeling satisfied, he spread out his cloak before him, and lay down to rest, knowing a brief nap might recharge him better than anything else. This did not last more than a few minutes, unfortunately, for the grinding of metal gears soon reached his ears from far off.
“What now?!” demanded Muhammad, looking up. “What?!”
To his utter dismay, some sort of military convoy seemed to be approaching from the northeast. He wished he had his binoculars, but they were probably being worshipped by some random idiot who regarded them a sacred relic by now. Muhammad had excellent vision anyway, and soon concluded that the size of the dust cloud kicked up by the force revealed it to be rather small, not that this was particularly comforting.
“Fine!” shouted Muhammad at last. “Fine! If you want me, you can have me!”
With that he grabbed his things and jumped to his feet, charging headlong toward the oncoming expeditionary force. He screamed as he ran, filling the air with every exclamation of anger he could think of. Perhaps he could convince them to shoot him, whomever they were. Then he might leave the cruel world at last, never to return.
When the line of tanks was close enough, Muhammad saw that they bore the Syrian flag for some reason. This came as quite a surprise. What on Earth was a Syrian force doing in Saudi? Certainly they could not have entered the country without official permission. When they were only a couple kilometers away, Muhammad saw clearly how small the detachment really was: only about four tanks and a jeep or two. But then he found himself blinking furiously, as suddenly they disappeared! A mirage? No, it had not been an illusion, for his eyes made certain they had seen the whole lot falling downward, as if tumbling down a hill before them which he could not see. The sounds of crunching metal and screaming men echoed back to him. Then all was silent once again.
More fascinated than annoyed now, Muhammad hurried forward, determined to discover the interpretation of his odd vision. As he approached, the reality of the situation resolved for him quickly, for a massive hole in the rocky ground had indeed opened up. He approached the gorge carefully, therefore, not being certain how stable any of the ground might be. At the bottom of the hole which had swallowed them all lay the obliterated mass of military vehicles and men, silent and motionless. All around them lay massive slabs of broken rock. Yet these were of shaped stone rather than the crumbled remains of some collapsed cave or mine, and the surrounding forest of pillars about the collapse seemed to stretch on in every direction beneath the dry desert plateau.
Clearly this was some sort of shrine or temple, long lost beneath the desert. Whom might it have belonged to, and what purpose might it have served? Excitedly Muhammad skirted the massive hole in the temple’s ceiling, hoping to find a safe way down into it, his troubles utterly forgotten. Presently he did find a way down, for the last tank to fall had landed on top of another, forming a rudimentary stairway into the ruins. The descent was dangerous, for everything was unstable, but by the time the cool shadows of early evening had fallen, the wanderer had reached the bottom.
“Allahu Akbar!” he whispered excitedly to himself. It was a common phrase known as the Takbir, and meant “God is Great.” Muhammad had never uttered it with more sincerity.
All around him the building stretched into the distance. He fumbled through his bag, as this was a job for his flashlight. Upon closer examination it became clear that these were indeed the remains of some lost Islamic shrine, for each column was circled in Arabic proverbs at its top and bottom, all of which were well known to him. A little nervously, he ventured forward beneath the high ceiling to explore the rest of the ruin, the conical flashlight beam leading the way before him. As it turned out, the whole structure was not much larger than a couple football fields, but expertly carved from pearlescent stone. When Muhammad found a sanctuary at the center of the place, he became sure this had once been a richly adorned mosque, though he could think of no reason why the place should be so thoroughly hidden.
As he wondered at all this, the circle of light before him fell upon an ornate wooden cabinet at the back of the sanctuary. He stepped forward with increasing curiosity. With a creak the door opened. Inside he found a lush red robe hanging beside a sharp silver sword, and at the bottom he found a neatly folded camel hair banner. He wasted no time unfurling this last item, and found it to be rectangular in shape, like a flag. In the shaky beam of the flashlight he could see it was unstitched and black in color, and that – to his lasting chagrin – there was a halo on it.
“It seems you’ve found something there,” said a voice.
Muhammad jumped in fright at this, for he had not heard anyone approaching. “Talman!” was all he said upon turning around, for indeed here was his old friend, appearing – as usual – as if from nowhere. “What in the name of heaven are you doing here?”
“I’m here to rescue you, of course,” replied Talman. “I heard you were being chased through Mecca like some sort of sacred sacrifice. Glad to see you’re still alive… But what is all this?” He was referring to the contents of the cabinet before them.
“I d-don’t know,” stammered Muhammad, still a little put off by the impromptu arrival of his visitor. “I’d only just opened it up when you got here, but…”
“But it couldn’t be clearer what these are!” Talman exclaimed.
“W-w-what d-d-do you m-mean?” asked Muhammad nervously, slapping his left thigh with his right hand to punish himself for the stutter. He had always been slow of speech when anxiety gripped him, though the stutter itself had developed a little later on, when he realized the strange reaction people so often had to his appearance.
“Come now,” said Talman, clearly overjoyed at the find before them. “These can only be the long-lost sword, standard, and robe of the Great Prophet himself! Peace be upon him… Look, his name is right here!” He pointed to a prominently placed plaque upon the cabinet.
“The P-prophet M-m-muhammad you mean? P-p-peace be upon him…” replied the other lamely, desperately trying to play dumb, while slapping himself again to halt the stutter.
“Yes, my friend. Enough with the cloak of ignorance,” said Talman triumphantly. “Remember that it was I who funded your extended education all these years, seeing as there wasn’t much else you could be expected to do under the circumstances. So don’t expect me to believe you’re unaware of the prophecies which got you dragged through town today.”
“But it can’t be, Talman! This will only make things worse…”
“Nonetheless it remains true.” Talman fixed the man with one of his most serious man-to-man glances to drive the point home. “You are a descendant of Rasulullah, the very one who said his progeny would produce the Mahdi. Also you are forty years old exactly, just as he said al-Mahdi would be when he came to full prominence. You even have the black spot on your left cheek, just as he described! Plus, everyone who meets you thinks you’re an Israeli, as you know full well he also mentioned!”
“Y-y-y-yes, b-but…” interrupted Muhammad, slapping himself again.
“Rasulullah even said you’d have that stutter!” insisted Talman, picking up speed. “And now you’ve found the Prophet�
�s sword, standard, and robe – peace be upon him – just as the Mahdi is meant to do! And you even did it all without trying! Come now, Muhammad, don’t be silly…”
“I don’t wear two Q-q-q-qutwani c-cloaks, as the prophecy says…”
“Yes you do. I know you’re always cold. I bet the other one is in your bag right now!”
It was true, but Muhammad wasn’t quite ready to give up. “This is a Tallit: a prayer shawl such as the Israelis wear. It is part of my disguise…” He fingered the woolen shawl’s fringed border as he spoke.
“Then it is a terrible disguise if you’re trying to look more like an Israeli. That is, after all, what everyone is looking for!” Talman was beginning to become exasperated with the man. How many other people were capable of blundering through life to the accidental fulfillment of so many prophecies, while simultaneously maintaining such a high level of denial? “Anyway,” he continued, “that isn’t a Tallit. It’s much too large. What you’re wearing is a Qutwani cloak, just as the Pashtoons wear. I bet your cousin in Afghanistan sent it to you…”
Why was Talman always so hard to argue with? Muhammad Abdullah had nothing left to say – no defense left to give. It was hopeless; he would be pursued forever to the ends of the Earth. “It’s j-just that I still have nothing to say to the people,” he explained, the stutter beginning to subside at last. “I just want to be left alone. I have nothing to say. No message…”
“You will find it, my friend. You will!” smiled Talman, slapping him on the back. “Just as you found these artifacts today. I can’t get over how chance always seems to play into your hands!” This was also true as true. Though Talman more than anyone had wished to find these artifacts for years beyond count, their final resting place had always remained a mystery to everyone. As a matter of fact, he would have delivered them to Muhammad Abdullah personally had he found them any sooner. “Don’t you understand?” continued Talman. “This banner hasn’t been seen since the days of Muhammad himself – peace be upon him – and everybody knows the rest of the legend: that it would not be unfurled again until the coming of al-Mahdi! What do you expect me to think? The first thing I saw upon my arrival was you standing there, unfolding it!”
Muhammad Abdullah made no reply, but hung his head in misery. How did he keep doing all this?
Talman was actually beginning to feel a bit sorry for the poor man, so he spoke his next words more encouragingly. “But come now, let’s put all these things into your bag and be gone from this place.”
So together they stowed the new finds, and headed back toward the hole in the ceiling which had provided them entry. “How did you get here so fast?” asked Muhammad. It seemed an obvious question.
“Simple – I was following the Syrians, though I dawdled as I stopped to refuel,” replied Talman briskly. “And they wouldn’t have harmed you, you know. They were here under my supervision... until they all came to a tragic end, that is.” Talman laughed in spite of himself as he made the point, for it was an undeniably ironic twist of fate that the lost ruin had only ever been revealed by the destruction of the good Syrian brigade.
“But why would you be here with a Syrian group?” They had arrived at a rope ladder which Talman had evidently used to climb down into the ruins. This was a relief to Muhammad, for he did not relish the idea of trying to escape the caved-in temple by climbing the precarious pile of tanks again. Soon they were both climbing upward, their discussion still in full swing.
“The Saudi government says you’ve become a bit of a distraction to their authority,” Talman continued, “so I convinced President Bashar al-Assad of Syria to give you a place in his government. Apparently someone important has died or something…”
“But I haven’t said I’m interested in government. I don’t even have any experience!”
“You have a masters degree in political science!”
“You made me get that!” replied Muhammad, climbing faster.
“And your marks were excellent!” continued Talman determinedly. “Anyway, you’ve taught yourself to read and write every language there is – both the ones still in use and the dead ones. You’ve studied every culture on the planet. You even have a PhD in Middle Eastern history! You’re a scholar, my friend! I hardly think you’ll have any problems.”
They had reached the top, and as he cleared the edge, Muhammad saw that the rope ladder had been tied to another, luckily much smaller, tank. “You know how to drive this thing?” he asked, feeling somewhat surprised.
“Sure – nothin’ to it!” exclaimed Talman jovially, as he pulled himself over the precipice as well. “Anyway, if you stay in Saudi any longer the government will have to kill you.” Seeing Muhammad’s surprise at this remark, Talman patted him on the shoulder. “Oh, it’s nothing personal,” he explained. “You’re just getting too popular here. If the people get any more excited they’ll be forcing you to claim the kingship, whether you want it or not, and that obviously can’t be allowed.”
“Well, I guess Ariadne did always say my intellectual struggle would begin in Damascus. Whatever that means…”
“Yeah, she and every scripture ever written about you!” laughed Talman. He jumped up onto the tank and offered the other his hand.
“Where are we going?” asked Muhammad, as he was pulled up.
“West, to the Red Sea! As usual you were already headed in the right direction...”
“And why would we want to go there?”
“You’ll see,” Talman assured him. “You’ll see.”
Riding in the tank was fun, and Talman was a great driver. Since it was dark and cool, he let Muhammad stand halfway out the round hatch atop the turret to enjoy the breeze, like a teen in a limo on the way to prom. The night was beautiful as it peeked out amid the moon and stars, but eventually he forgot all this, when new questions he wanted to ask Talman floated to the surface of his mind.
“What have you got there?” asked Muhammad, as he came down the ladder.
“Beef jerky,” came the reply. Talman was still busy driving, and did not turn from the infrared display as he answered. “Want some?”
“Sure!” It was Ramadan after all, and Muhammad had eaten nothing all day. “So long as it’s not pork jerky, if there is such a thing…”
“Certainly not,” said Talman, as the other took a seat nearby. “Here.” He handed him a stick of the dried meat. “What’s on your mind?”
“I saw you on TV behind that new King, Mosi Mukasa. What is he like?”
“I’m glad you asked.” Talman had already planned on addressing this exact subject, actually. “He is fine. Not much experience in government, of course.”
“Like me?”
“Yes and no,” Talman explained. “To be honest, he has far, far less experience in civilized affairs than you do, having spent the entirety of his adulthood waging jihad, though I’m sure he will improve.”
“And you don’t think he is Dajjal, as all the gossips are saying?”
“Dajjal or not, he has found his way into a powerful position without a bit of help from me,” lied Talman. “I consider it my duty to befriend him. Perhaps I can be a positive influence. I mean, I do see how closely he resembles the image of Dajjal conveyed to us by prophecy, but I refuse to give up on him nonetheless.”
Talman’s false positivity had impressed Muhammad. “So you’re willing to risk association with him if that’s what it takes to save his soul? Commendable!”
“No, no, not commendable,” replied Talman, feigning humility. “It’s just that I’ve fought for peace in the Middle East for so long. I simply can’t allow my own prejudices to get in the way of real progress.”
“Was his open acceptance of the Israelis your idea, then?”
“Goodness, no!” lied Talman, more blatantly now than ever. “No, that was his idea. Apparently his family is from Isfahan in Iran – just as mine is – and evidently he is one of those who believe that area was originally populated by one of the lost tribes of
Israel.”
“Is that true?”
“Nobody knows, do they?” replied Talman flippantly, though in truth he knew it to be so. “The point is that we’ll never have peace if this religious war with Israel rages onward indefinitely. I could think of no good reason to disagree with him. As of now we’re in talks to combine Iraq, Israel, and Jordan into one super-nation. Should be interesting…”
“But they’ve rebuilt the Hebrew Temple in Jerusalem!” exclaimed Muhammad, now unable to contain himself. “You can’t possibly think that’s a good idea, can you?”
“The Israelis have a right to worship, just like anyone else,” said Talman, doing an excellent impression of open-mindedness. “They’ve agreed not to damage the Dome of the Rock or al-Aqsa, so what’s the problem?”
“Well…” began Muhammad. In truth he could think of no reason this should not be allowed. His opposition to the idea had been due to the fact that he was certain the Israelis were only rebuilding the Temple as an act of defiance to their Muslim neighbors. Talman was as convincing as ever, though, so that finishing the sentence was not difficult. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
“Course I’m right!” exclaimed Talman, laughing again. “When have I ever been wrong?” He wasted no time waiting for an answer. “My concern is for you, Muhammad.”
“Oh?”
“Certainly. Let me remind you once again of the prophecies of your ancestor Rasulullah...”
“Believe me, I know them all,” interrupted Muhammad in exasperation.
“Then you’ll remember that he said al-Mahdi would be directed toward a secret matter – that he would extract the true Torah and other divine books from a cave in the mountains of Damascus.”
“I thought it was Constantinople, actually…”