The Amulets of Sihr

by Abu Bilaal Yakub

  He knocked on the tattered wooden door of Saif’s house, and waited, contemplating the various approaches he would use to bring Saif back under his friendship, each one seeming less likely to succeed than the last. Unlike Adil, Saif was of a more calming, soothing, and ever-forgiving nature, as long as the other party showed their sincerity. Manipulation was not one of his traits, and he was intelligent enough to read it if it were tried on him.

  “Mukhtar!” he gave a groggy and mildly startled mumble when he opened the door. “Salaam.”

  “Salaam, brother,” Mukhtar greeted him with a solemn smile.

  “What is the matter?” Saif asked simply.

  “Must something be of concern for me to call upon my friend?” Mukhtar responded.

  Saif raised an eyebrow. “It is barely past dawn, your thaub treks mud, your body shows signs of weakness, and your eyes are laden with sleep. Something must certainly be troubling you if you have chosen to visit this early.”

  Mukhtar sighed. “I need your help.”

  Saif stood aside and allowed him to enter.

  The room was only as large as Mukhtar’s own, but served Saif with every one of his requirements. A tiny door in one corner led to a lavatory, and in the opposite corner was a small fire pit where he prepared his meals. Against one wall was a prayer mat, and next to it sat a floor-desk with a few books and scrolls in its immediate vicinity. By the other wall was where Saif slept, a simple straw mattress with a few disheveled sheets. Above the mattress, Saif had hung all his garments, thaubs, and cloaks.

  “Sit,” Saif gestured at his mattress and opened a window to welcome the morning breeze.

  After taking off his muddy sandals by the door, and wiping his feet on a sisal sack that served as a doormat, Mukhtar pushed all the sheets into a heap to make room, and sat on the edge of the mattress. Splashing sounds of water came from the lavatory, and Saif emerged a few moments later, wiping his face with a cloth.

  “Have you eaten?” he asked. “I have already had my breakfast, but I can prepare some tea for us.”

  “You ate breakfast in there?” Mukhtar pointed at the lavatory door. “I thought you only went to wash?”

  Despite his reserved attitude, Saif gave a small chuckle. “I ate when I woke for prayer at dawn. May I offer you bread and dates?” He held forward a small wooden plate of shriveled and dehydrated dates, and bread that was so dry, it could be crushed into crumbs.

  “This is indeed welcoming,” Mukhtar received the plate with humility, and indulged himself as Saif prepared a kettle over the fire pit.

  Meanwhile, Mukhtar narrated his experiences with the voice in the darkness, describing its daunting approaches. He tried to recall the horrid dreams, while nervously glancing about, unable to shake off the shuddersome thought of something watching them.

  Saif was abashed. “Jinn are known to harm humans if they feel threatened, or out of pure malice. Magicians are also known to use the powers of Jinn to bring misfortune upon their victims, and they tend remain adamant until they have results. However, this is unlike anything I have ever heard. ”

  “Have I been cursed then?” Mukhtar became horrified.

  Saif shook his head and shrugged. “I cannot say. This is beyond my knowledge.”

  They sat in silence until the water in the kettle began to boil.

  “I have become helpless,” Mukhtar rubbed his eyes and forehead, and leaned back against the wall. He felt heavily laden with sleep, and wished for nothing more than to just lay down on Saif’s mattress, and shut his eyes.

  Saif poured the tea into two cups, and pushed forward the plate of dates. Mukhtar hungrily helped himself to more of the sweet, dried fruit, and washed them down with short sips of the hot and spicy, ginger tea. As simple as the meal was, he could not remember the last time he felt such satisfaction.

  “Rest now, Mukhtar,” Saif gave him a concerned look. “Today, noon prayers will be held in mass. We can go to Masjid Naqi. I rarely offer prayers there, but I have heard that the Imam is knowledgeable in such matters.”

  Mukhtar nodded, and within moments, he had sunk into Saif’s mattress and drowned into a dreamless sleep. He was woken after what felt like mere moments, and they prepared for prayers, Saif looking grim, but fresh and well rested. Mukhtar felt sore, looking like he had been subjected to an endless cycle of weariness.

  Masjid Naqi was one of the larger and more elaborate places of worship in the district, magnificently built of marble and richly adorned with brass ornamentation. Its minarets rose high above the structure like tall, whitewashed towers, and the brass dome in its center was fabled to have a unique resonance that amplified the voice of the Imam to all corners of the Masjid.

  Devotees were already gathering and settling in the courtyard, where long, lush carpets had been spread to accommodate the larger than usual numbers. Unlike regular prayer sessions, more guards had taken station in various locations around the Masjid, to ensure security, and despite the continuous buzz of the masses, the voices of the Muadhin and Imam were clearly heard.

  “…we must strive to protect our own!” the Imam was saying in his sermon, and while most of the worshippers indulged in their own conversations, many still listened intently at his commanding and demanding voice.

  “… and for our sons and our daughters. To our leaders, our lives have become nothing but tools at their disposal, to govern and dictate every aspect of our existence. Their treachery knows no bounds…”

  Mukhtar and Saif found spots in one of the rear rows, and settled down to listen to the sermon. To Mukhtar’s right was an old man with dark, shriveled skin, and on Saif’s left was a much younger man who sat crisscrossed with his two-year-old son in his lap. Behind them, three men chattered away shamelessly, not paying any attention to the sermon, nor displaying an ounce of respect to the fact that they were in a place of worship.

  “It is an insult to everything we believe in,” the Imam went on. “An innocent man would wake at dawn, and walk the streets to the Masjid, without a worry in the world. He would walk with pride, with peace and assurance that his family was safe. But no more!”

  Saif sat up upright and became stern, listening intently. Still laden with sleep, Mukhtar also tried to focus, but found his attention wavering.

  “… have shown us their true colors! They have shown us what they are capable of! Should we stand aside and allow them to continue? Should we cower beneath our sheets and hope for the best? The infidels will take our homes next! They will dictate our every step! Govern our very breath! Are we to stand aside and allow the disbelievers to take away our very existence? Are we to bow down to their injustice?”

  Beside him, Saif began making odd noises of discomfort.

  “We must fight! We must shed our blood, and not our tears, for the sake of our future. For the sake of our children and their children. Never should they look back upon a world destroyed, and blame their fathers, and those before them, for doing nothing when the need arose!”

  Saif shuffled where he sat, and Mukhtar gave him a curious look.

  “What is the matter?” he asked.

  “Listen,” Saif responded, and Mukhtar heeded.

  “We call upon our youth. The strong. The able-bodied. Join the cause of freedom. Stand up to these oppressors, and drive them back…”

  “I hear nothing provocative,” Mukhtar shrugged. “Is he not speaking what everyone is thinking?”

  “Is he really?” Saif frowned at him. “Or is he planting a seed of his own ideologies? Inciting the youth to violence? Preaching upon their temperamental ages? He is creating unrest. Not preaching peace!”

  “Saif, considering recent events—”

  “Recent events instigated by the very same thoughts!” Saif argued. There was a hint of controlled anger in his voice. “Is it not what led you down that path, Mukhtar? Do not forget, that since Immorkaan implemented their curfew, much of the conflict has been between ethnicities and beliefs, most of it instigated by the likes of such a
postates.”

  Despite the early morning downpour, the sun was searing upon their backs, but that was not the cause of the hotness he felt around his neck and ears.

  “Listen, Mukhtar. Listen!” Saif urged him again.

  “Before we stand for prayer,” the Imam continued, “we must come together and contribute to the true cause of this Masjid. I stand before you, brothers and sisters, humble and contrite. Give coin to the Masjid, and let your blessings flourish! Come together brothers and sisters, pledge your wealth, and secure your place in paradise! Who among you is prepared to invest for the Hereafter?”

  “Look!” Saif pointed. Amidst the rows were several young men, moving from person to person, collecting money in sisal sacks.

  “They are collecting for the upkeep of the Masjid,” Mukhtar stated. “They are securing their place in the hereafter. What is wrong with that?”

  “Faith without knowledge is ignorance,” Saif said simply. “Through ignorance, people believe that by merely giving coin, they will be granted heaven, and such thoughts are always prone to extortion. Paradise is earned through devotion and worship of the Almighty God. Through true faith and belief.”

  Mukhtar raised both his eyebrows, following the motion of the collectors, while the Imam continued to call for pledges of donations.

  “Do you see now?” Saif stated. “Do you see what has become of religion? Worship has become a playground for such men with false piety, deceiving the people, playing to their ignorance and extorting their wealth. In truth, the people have fallen prey because they simply refuse to educate themselves and learn the true essences of faith, religion, and worship. They set aside prayer to collect coin, to place material desires before divine ordinance, an act that is purely blasphemous in and of itself.”

  He shook his head in disbelief, and Mukhtar slowly began to understand. These were the true enemies of Faith. The ignorant advocates of Azazil. The devil did not need to wage open war when such men were already doing his work for him.

  “Come away, Mukhtar!” Saif stood up swiftly, and Mukhtar looked up at his silhouette against the scorching sun. “I cannot supplicate behind such men, for my thoughts will continue to be distracted by their deception.”

  Mukhtar followed him past the last few rows, and they left the Masjid in haste.

  “We should never have come here!” Saif muttered angrily.

  “What now?” Mukhtar’s voice gave a slight tremble of uncertainty.

  “Do not be disheartened, brother,” Saif assured him. “We will find no aid here. I was wrong to assume it. That man will extort every last grain from you before awarding you any guidance, which in itself will be hollow and meaningless. Come, brother. We will hasten to Masjid Nur. If we are quick, we will not have missed prayers.”

  Masjid Nur was a much smaller and simpler establishment of mud, brick, and wood, designed with traditional Khalidan architecture. It had a much smaller dome, whitewashed, and boasted only a single short minaret without any elegant ornamentation.

  The Imam’s sermon was simple but rich in both wisdom and knowledge. There was no talk of war, no incitement to violence. There were no pleas or pledges for donations, nor false vows and profound promises to heaven. Those who wished to give, did so with discretion, strengthening their bond with their Creator in true faith and confidence. Mukhtar and Saif joined the small mass of devotees prepared to stand in prayer on simple sisal mats laid inside and outside the Masjid. They followed the Imam’s every calling, and made their supplications as the masses did. After the prayers, as the crowd began to thin, Saif and Mukhtar lingered close by, waiting patiently for the Imam.

  “I am still confused,” Mukhtar said to him.

  “About what?”

  “About what you said earlier,” Mukhtar said. “About the falseness with which some religious leaders are extorting the people.”

  “I know,” Saif nodded slowly. “It is so subtly and cleverly executed, it is almost impossible to discern their treachery. This has always been religion’s most dangerous plague. Over time, people begin to stray from the truth, unable to distinguish the fine line between right and wrong. Between the permissible and the forbidden. People begin to question divine ruling. Fueled by the devil’s whispers, they begin to dispute the sacred messages and oaths sent to them through countless messengers.” He kicked a pebble and watched it roll away in the dirt, upsetting small clouds of dust in its path. “They begin to fabricate their own versions of faith, removing what they deem to be too cumbersome to follow and instating their own concoctions to suit their own conveniences of faith. Slowly but surely, they deviate away from faith, and the devil celebrates his achievement of leading mankind astray.”

  “But these are learned men!” Mukhtar asserted. “How can they be clearly versed in the ways of faith, and yet they choose to lead the people away?”

  Saif gave a small chuckle. “After these men read and memorize everything they can from scrolls and scriptures, they simply forget the fundamentals and deeper wisdoms of true faith. They forget why they pursue this divine knowledge. They allow themselves to become elevated, filled with the arrogance that they know and others do not. They proclaim themselves as men of higher statures and they preach to the people— ‘We are more knowledgeable, so follow what we say without question, or else seal your dooms to hellfire’— and the people follow ignorantly. Such apostates are worse than sorcerers.” He shook his head sadly. “Alas, very few men of true faith still remain, whom we can call upon to guide and educate us.”

  Mukhtar gazed at the doors of Masjid Nur, as the last of the devotees tied their sandals and made their ways back to their places of work. “From what you are saying, I would almost sooner ask a sorcerer about this Jinn, than trust one of those Highly Knowledgeable Imams and Sufis,” he said bitterly.

  To his utter surprise, Saif smacked his own forehead and gave a small yelp. Mukhtar gave him a very curious look. Saif’s strangeness since that morning continued to intrigue him.

  “What is it now?” he enquired.

  “Jalil Ruwaid,” Saif gasped. “Why did I not think of it before? Many know him as Sheikh Ruwaid.”

  “And what of him?”

  “He has led today’s prayers!”

  “You sound very excited.”

  “Have you not heard of Sheikh Ruwaid?” Saif almost jumped with joy. “They say he is gifted with curing those ailed by the Jinn. He is known to be both wise and knowledgeable. Come, and let us pray we are not mistaken by trusting a false preacher.”

  NINETEEN

  SHEIKH RUWAID

  They waited until the masses had cleared away, and they crossed the street to a much smaller building that shared a wall with the Masjid. Saif knocked on the wooden door. An elderly man greeted them with a smile that was gentle, calm and composed, impressing them with a profound personality embedded with a generation of spirituality and knowledge.

  “Salaam, Sheikh Ruwaid,” Saif held out his hand.

  “Salaam to you as well,” Sheikh Ruwaid received the greeting with both his hands. His voice was slightly gruff with a deep and controlled resonance.

  “I apologize for bothering you,” Saif continued, “but my friend is troubled, and he seeks aid.”

  “Aid?” Sheikh Ruwaid shook Mukhtar’s hand. “If it is lodging you seek, I can allow you to stay at the Masjid for a few days, but you must clear away during prayer times. Always maintain peace and purity in the house of God, and when food is served, you must show empathy for those with greater need.”

  Mukhtar held up a respectful hand and inclined his head to acknowledge Sheikh Ruwaid’s kind gesture. “My needs are far more demanding.”

  Sheikh Ruwaid looked mildly confused.

  “He is plagued by the mischief of the Unseen,” Saif explained.

  Sheikh Ruwaid raised his eyebrows. “You must come in then. Tell me everything!”

  His hair was curly and silvery-gray, just like his beard. His black, hooded eyes had a distinct sparkle. Dark
wrinkly skin and a stooping posture betrayed his age. His white thaub, cleaner than Mukhtar’s by several shades, fluttered behind him as he led them into the living room with a strong stride.

  “Sit, please,” Sheikh Ruwaid gestured to the cushions in the room. “We will begin shortly.”

  He stood by the archway of the room, and called to someone. “Muneeb! Muneeb?” A young boy, about twelve years of age, appeared by his side.

  “Ask your Ummi to bring some fruit,” he told the boy. “We have guests.”

  Muneeb ran off, and Sheikh Ruwaid turned his attention to Mukhtar and Saif.

  “Noble Sheikh, we do not wish to bring you trouble,” Saif said apologetically, with regards to Muneeb bringing them refreshments.

  “A guest is a gift from God,” Sheikh Ruwaid smiled. “And a gift from God is not ‘trouble’. Although, certain guests do tend to become troublesome,” he added as an afterthought. “So tell me, what sort of trouble have you brought with you?”

  Mukhtar could not help but smile. Barely moments ago, he was tense and nervous. Now he became calm and composed.

  “Go on, son,” Sheikh Ruwaid gave him an encouraging nod. “I do not claim to be all-knowing, for that power resides only with my Creator. But I will try and help you to the best of my abilities.”

  Mukhtar acknowledged his statement with a brief nod, cleared his throat and sat upright. Narrating his tale was a difficult affair, as he tried to filter out only the relevant pieces, taking care not to reveal anything about his previous night’s experiences nor his journey through Arammoria with Ghasif and Rauf. There was no need to involve others in matters they were not concerned with. Sheikh Ruwaid’s attention was fully drawn to him, and he occasionally gasped and recited a string of supplications when the tale took a turn for the dark.

  When he was done, Sheikh Ruwaid nodded thoughtfully and pondered for a long, silent moment, his thoughts only disrupted when Muneeb appeared with a tray of grapes, sliced oranges, and a pitcher of Sherbet.