The Imam of the Cave

by J Randall

  He saw that it was his friend Fahd, who owned the shop next door.

  “My friend, good to see you! May Allah bless you.”

  “And the blessing of Allah on you, my friend,” replied Fahd.

  “I wanted to inform you of the discovery of a sacred cave. I realize that you are trapped in your business waiting for the few customers you see and don’t get much news.”

  “I have heard of the cave from Omed. What would you tell me that I don’t already know?”

  “The cave is real. Whether it’s ‘The Cave’ or not remains to be seen, but the military have ensured that it will remain off limits until confirmed or disproven.

  “The hills there have been explored many times. How it was overlooked for centuries is a mystery.”

  “So they have found a cave…” said Nasif.

  “Yes, but that isn’t all. The military are trying to lay their hands on a cleric out of Iraq, one who they say has committed offenses against the state.”

  “How could you have heard this?”

  “I have a cousin…a captain in the army. My wife talked to his wife last night and learned that the military was holding the man who found the cave. He confessed to preparing the cave for the cleric’s arrival.”

  Nasif thought for a moment before asking, “They believed him?”

  Fahd grimaced. “I’ve heard they have ways and they are not very pleasant.”

  “You mentioned offenses against the state? What offenses would a cleric commit?”

  “I cannot be sure, but it’s rumored that he claims to have something that belonged to the Prophet. The royal family and the religious community in Saudi Arabia are interested in obtaining it.”

  “Something that belonged to Muhammad?”

  “That’s what I heard. An ancient religious object. Apparently unearthed in a cave. Of course, these rumors haven’t been confirmed. A good number of clerics have been questioned but they deny any knowledge of the matter.”

  “That’s indeed news, my friend. I guess I do spend far too much of my time in the shop. Perhaps I’ll let one of my sons work here and I will go on a buying expedition. I have heard of some fine bronze pieces up north that I would like to have a look at.”

  “It has been many years since you purchased an item outside your shop, Nasif. Do you think your eyes are strong enough to tell the difference between an original and a fake?” Fahd joked as he left.

  Nasif el-Hafez put the “Closed” sign in the window and locked the door.

  The rumor that an item belonging to Muhammad had been found in a cave was a shock to Nasif. He felt that it was his duty to investigate.

  Because he came home before the hour when he usually closed the business, Nasif’s wife assumed that he was sick and questioned what malady he suffered from.

  “I’m fine, wife—business was slow. Go find out where our sons are. I would talk over some business with them.”

  Nasif began packing his bag for the trip, knowing it would be at least an hour before his sons would turn up.

  The people he maintained contact with throughout Saudi Arabia and other parts of the Middle East would be surprised at receiving a visit from him, but he hoped that would work in his favor.

  When his sons received word that their father was at home and wanted to have a business meeting, they rushed to the house thinking there must be a crisis.

  In the three men sitting before him Nasif could see a reflection of himself as a young man. They had the same thick black hair, the round chocolate brown eyes and the thin, pointed nose of their father. Their chins were narrow and sported a small dimple.

  All three were taller than Nasif’s five and a half feet, though none had his girth, which was expanding as the years went by.

  “I’ve decided to take a trip to the north and examine some items that may come on the market soon.”

  Alam, the eldest of the three, spoke first, “Father, is something wrong?”

  “No, I simply realized today that it’s been far too long since I visited distant friends. I do enjoy working in the shop, as you know, but I want to make one more trip before I’m too weary to travel.”

  Hearing his father talk about age, Alam was worried that perhaps he was suffering an ailment, but he didn’t broach the subject.

  “When will we leave?” he asked.

  “I’ll be leaving after morning prayers. I expect you to keep the shop open with the help of your brothers.”

  “Father, I’m not questioning your wisdom, but I would ask you to reconsider going alone. There are unscrupulous dealers outside Saudi Arabia who would take advantage of a lone man.

  “If you’ll be traveling in other countries, I would recommend that you at least take Omed with you. There are things he still needs to learn and there’s no better teacher than you.”

  A moment’s thought convinced Nasif that it would indeed not only look strange if he went alone but would also be foolish.

  “Yes, Alam, you’re right, of course. Omed will accompany me. We shouldn’t be gone longer than a week. I plan on driving to Tayma tomorrow then north on the old trade route. We’ll keep you informed of our plans.

  “Remember, I expect the shop to be opened on time and I would ask that you and your brother Nabil stop by and check whether your mother needs anything.”

  “Yes, Father,” they answered, almost in unison.

  “Omed, you had better get your bag packed. We’ll be leaving after morning prayers.”

  “Yes, Father.” With a proud smile on his face, Omed left to pack his bag.

  CHAPTER 34: THE SECRET

  THEY ARRIVED IN TAYMA a little after nine on Monday. Nasif dropped Omed off at a small market block that had grown from open stalls selling goats and the occasional donkey to covered shops that offered a variety of handicrafts.

  “Omed, I want you to visit the porcelain dealers and see if they have anything you think looks interesting. I want to visit an old friend who has retired. I’ll return in an hour.”

  Nasif left and drove toward the older section of the city where his friend, a tribal cousin, lived.

  Passing through small alleys on the way, he became absorbed in the sounds and smells of his youth. It had changed very little since 1948, when as a young man he had lived with his older cousin’s family.

  Nasif found the house and parked. He stood for a moment before the door that he remembered so well, then rang the bell.

  Nasif was surprised at the appearance of the man who opened the door. The robust cousin he remembered from the last visit years earlier now displayed a head of thinning gray hair peppered with the black that hadn’t turned yet and a round face crisscrossed with wrinkles.

  When Medhat saw his cousin standing at the door, he exclaimed, “Nasif, my young cousin! How long has it been?”

  The men embraced tightly.

  “Medhat, my dear cousin, time and Allah have treated you well.”

  “Come in, come in—it has been too long, Nasif. I’ll have tea steeped and we can talk.”

  Medhat asked a servant to bring refreshments.

  “Are you alone? I understood that you didn’t go far from your shop and your sons did all of the buying these days.”

  “No, cousin, my youngest son, Omed, has accompanied me.”

  Medhat looked out into the street.

  “He’s at the market seeing what wares they have for sale.”

  “Are you making your last trip, Nasif?”

  The ‘last trip’ was something the young said of the elderly. When a man became weary of travel, he would make one more trip on the routes of his youth. He would visit the people and places he had encountered as a young man, before secluding himself near family and friends.

  “I truly wish it were so, cousin…Have you heard the news of the cave found outside Mecca?”

  “I’m no longer active in the antiquity market and new discoveries don’t interest me. Is it an important cave?”

  “I don’t know,” said Nasif, “bu
t it’s rumored that it’s the cave where Muhammad received his revelations.”

  “You didn’t come all of the way here to tell me that—or have the years been kinder to your body than to your mind?”

  “Yes, it would be wondrous, but that’s not the reason for my visit. There’s another rumor. About a cleric out of Iraq. They say he has a relic that once belonged to Muhammad. They say he found it in a cave where it had been buried for centuries.”

  The two old friends sat in the room drinking tea, speculating about what the cleric’s journey into Saudi Arabia might signify. Neither man could decide on a course of action, but they agreed that it was their filial obligation to try to learn the truth about what this cleric might have found.

  They talked for a long time, pausing briefly for afternoon prayers.

  Nasif was drawn into the excitement of the moment and forgot about Omed at the market until Medhat mentioned him.

  “Ah, I must go and get my son. I told him I’d return in an hour and, look, I’m already way late.”

  “When you find him, bring him here. You’ll both stay with me.”

  * * *

  Nasif parked his car near the entrance to the deserted market and was relieved when he saw Omed sitting on a bench outside one of the shops.

  Omed smiled when he saw his father and arose to get into the car.

  “Omed, I’m sorry for being so late.”

  “I knew you would come, Father. I didn’t mind waiting…

  “You said you were talking to your cousin—is he my uncle?”

  “No, he’s a tribal cousin, but he was like a brother to me in my youth. We’ll be staying with him tonight.

  “Did you learn anything interesting?”

  “Yes, I met a lot of nice people who offered me tea and gave me the news in Tayma.”

  Nasif detected Omed’s excitement and sensed where it might lead. “Promise me something, Omed. Don’t bore Medhat with the gossip you heard today. He’s a very serious man who has no sons of his own. He may not appreciate the ramblings of youth.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Back at Medhat’s house, Nasif saw his friend standing in the door with a contented smile on his face as he watched the car drive up.

  “Come in, come in! You must be Omed.” He ushered the two men into his house.

  “I’m Medhat—that’s how everyone addresses me and you’ll do the same. Please sit down. I’ve ordered tea and it will be served shortly.

  “How did you like our small market? I’m sure it pales by comparison to the markets in Medina, but it’s known to have some nice pieces for sale.”

  “It was very nice and I met some of the shopkeepers. They gave me tea and told stories about Tayma. The stories were very interesting and so were the people they were talking about. One of the shopkeepers—”

  Omed’s words were bubbling from him and he stopped talking when he noticed his father staring at him sternly and remembered his promise.

  “Your father tells me you have an exceptional eye for pottery. Did you see anything of interest that could be displayed on the shelves of your father’s fine shop?”

  “Oh, yes! I didn’t get a chance to show Father, because the shops are closed, but maybe tonight we can return.” Omed glanced at his father then back to Medhat. “May I ask you something? I don’t want to be an embarrassment to my father and I don’t want to appear a foolish youth. But I heard a strange tale today which puzzles me.”

  “What’s the question you wanted to ask me?”

  “In the market today I heard of a cleric who travels at night. Some of the shop owners said he is on a sacred quest. Others said he has lost his faith in Allah and is searching for it—”

  Omed’s eyes searched Medhat’s face for a sign of recognition. “Have you not heard of him?”

  “I don’t know…How did they learn about him?”

  “They said someone saw him arrive in Tayma very early one morning and depart after the sun went down. With his followers.”

  Medhat and Nasif exchanged glances and Medhat became very serious. “When did he arrive in Tayma, Omed? Did they say what day?”

  At that moment Omed believed what his father had told him earlier about Medhat’s being a serious man. “Sir, I’m not sure, but I believe they said he departed after sunset yesterday.”

  Nasif’s face had the same serious expression as Medhat’s. “Did they say where he was going? What direction he took? It’s important!”

  Omed was frightened by the possessed look on the older men’s faces.

  “What is it, Father? What have I done? I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  Nasif realized that of course Omed wasn’t aware of the importance of what he had said. Seeing his son’s alarm, Nasif tried to console him. “No, Omed, you said nothing wrong. It was the news you heard in the market.

  “We have also heard about the cleric, but we didn’t realize he was in Tayma. Did the storyteller say which road he took when he left town?”

  “No, Father, he mentioned only that the cleric had left after sunset.”

  “We’ll go back to the market. Do you remember which shop the man worked in?”

  “Yes, he has the pottery shop not far from the entrance to the market…I’ve seen his wares, Father, and they’re not very good.”

  “That’s okay—I think I may still purchase something from him.”

  While Nasif and Omed visited the market Medhat contacted other members of the tribe and asked them to inquire about a cleric who was traveling at night.

  * * *

  They were back at Medhat’s house and Nasif led the way ahead of Omed, who carried the plate purchased from the vendor. Nassif removed his ghutra and bisht and placed them on a wooden table next to the door.

  As they sat down, Omed hesitated before handing the plate to Medhat. “Father said it’s a gift for your hospitality.”

  “I hope that what you learned was worth the money you paid for this.”

  “Indeed, cousin, it was. The cleric left town yesterday evening on the road to Al Jawf. There was nothing more I could learn, but I believe that’s enough for us to start.”

  Medhat stood up and began pacing, causing the white thob he was wearing to swirl around his legs.

  “Nasif, I think it’s time to inform the tribe of our findings—we’ll need everyone’s help.”

  Nasif nodded and adjusted his robe. “Yes, cousin, you’re right.”

  “Omed,” said Medhat, stopping in front of Omed’s chair and admiring his young cousin, who was wearing the dark trousers and white shirt fashionable for boys his age, “I’ll tell you what I know as it was told to me by my father.”

  Medhat caught Nasif’s eyes, as if to ask Omed’s father’s permission to proceed.

  Nasif nodded.

  “It was during the Ninth Century, when the Abbasid caliphs reigned supreme over the land. Twenty-three men of our tribe were crossing the great Syrian Desert with their camels, heading to more pastoral land in the north.”

  Medhat slowly swept his arm outward as he visualized the scene he was describing.

  “The man who led the trek was young in years, but not in experience. His name was Amil Sharif, a son of one of the tribe’s elders. He alone amongst the tribe was given the honor of protecting a treasure.”

  With rapt attention, Omed inquired, “What was the treasure?”

  “It was a chained medallion, an heirloom that had belonged to the tribe since the time of the Prophet Muhammad, whose daughter Fatima gave it to the tribe for helping Muhammad make the Hegira to Medina. No higher honor could have been bestowed on them.”

  Omed’s eyes were big. “What happened to Amil Sharif and the other men?”

  “Omed,” said Medhat, “I envy the eagerness of your youth. But the truth is, no one knows what happened.

  “There was a great windstorm, one that no one but Allah could have created and no one but Allah could have survived. The face of the desert was changed and it too
k many years before the men who crossed the desert were able to establish new routes.

  “The tribe searched for many weeks, praying that the missing men had obtained shelter in one of the many caves that were used as temporary shelter from the desert’s vehemence.

  “But the men and many of the caves were smothered in sand and the men were never found. As if they were consumed by the great Syrian Desert.”

  Medhat stood still and was silent for a moment.

  “I can tell you no more than what was told to me.”

  Nasif and Medhat got busy contacting members of the tribe, while Omed sat looking out the window and contemplating what had been revealed to him.

  The sun had set an hour ago and it was dark outside.

  The calls they made to those with phones energized the tribal grapevine. The search for tidings about the medallion and the cleric who might possibly now hold it progressed as fast as the nearest computer with e-mail and as slow as the camel and rider sent into the desert.

  The secret guarded by the eldest sons was being revealed in homes and around campfires to the remaining members of the tribe spread throughout the Middle East.

  It was late evening when Medhat hung up the phone after a hurried but brief call.

  “That was cousin Sattam. Today he observed a fleet of trucks and jeeps parked on the outskirts of Al Jawf. He said that traffic through the town was the usual, but these vehicles sat in the sun and the drivers didn’t approach the vendors for food or tea.

  “He wasn’t suspicious, because some sojourners prefer the company of their own people to that of strangers. And when he saw a cleric among them, he thought nothing of it—until he heard about the medallion from a cousin two hours ago. Then he went back and watched them.”

  Nasif asked, “Did Sattam say whether they were still there?”

  “Yes, they were still there when he left to use the telephone of the cousin who’d told him of the medallion. I asked him to return and observe the vehicles and which way they go if they leave.”

  “Omed, I’ve talked to your brothers and they’ll meet us in Al Jawf tomorrow. We’ll leave now and, if Allah blesses us, we’ll find the cleric and the medallion.”