Nexus Point (Meridian Series) (14 page)

       Jabr told him he was chosen to
greet him because he spoke the Saxon tongue. He obviously meant English, but
Paul found that his host often used archaic expressions, and made references to
things that were wholly bewildering to Paul. He spoke in metaphor, and took a
manner that assumed Paul was privy to every nuance and image he used—as if his
language was secretly understood by them both. He called the sink hole the
‘Well of Souls,’ and referred to Paul as a fellow ‘Walker.’ Could he mean that
he was a tourist, or perhaps a pilgrim? The old pilgrim’s road did traverse the
region of Wadi Rumm, just one stage on the long journey to Mecca in days of
old.

       That thought gathered prominence
in his mind. He had the distinct feeling that these people were living out some
fantasy from the tales of the Arabian Knights. Jabr was amiable, and chatted
with him over each meal before leaving him in the care of the maid he called
Samirah. Yet every time Paul had tried to question his host about his status
and whereabouts, there was only a polite smile, and artful nod of the head.
“These things in time,” Jabr told him. “All things in time. Tomorrow you will
meet with the Kadi. He does not speak your tongue, and so I will be honored to
accompany you as translator, if you will permit me.”

       This was the morning set for the
meeting. Samirah had caressed him to wakefulness, and then brought him fresh
baked bread and minty spiced tea. Paul knew that Jabr would soon be at his side
again, smiling, watching, quietly probing at him in their conversation, as he
had for the last two days now. Paul still puzzled at the riddle of the man’s
speech, and wondered how he would fare when trying to communicate with this
Kadi, as Jabr called him. It was difficult enough sorting through Jabr’s odd
statements. Trying to span the cultural chasm and language barrier with the
Kadi might prove a frustrating and difficult experience.

       Jabr was very punctual. Samirah
withdrew, trailing the sweet scent of perfume and roses, and Jabr made his
entrance a moment later. He shuffled to Paul’s side, bowing cordially with his
greeting.

       “The Peace of Allah be upon
you.” He waited, somewhat hopefully, and Paul recalled how Jabr had labored to
teach him the etiquette of the formal Arabic greeting the night before.

       “And with you, peace.”

       “Morning of goodness, morning of
light,” Jabr rejoined.

       “God grant you long life.”

       “Our family, our gardens, be
yours.” Jabr’s dark eyes brightened, his thin brown cheeks stretching in a
broad smile. “Very good!” Then he added: “You are not offended to speak of Allah
in this manner?”

       “Offended?”

       “I know you are not of the
rightly guided—not an adherent of Islam.”

       “You mean you know that I am an
infidel.”

       There was a blush of
embarrassment on Jabr’s face. “I do not call the unbelievers such. It is only
my hope to touch the heart of one who has not known the bliss of Islam, and
make greeting, in the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate. In this
light, no man is an infidel, and all are subject to the will of Allah. You were
born to another way, that is all. Yet you do not seem hard of heart. Your mind
is open, yes? Are you willing to learn our ways, and hear the wisdom we might
share with you without harsh judgment?”

       “Certainly,” said Paul. “You
have been a gracious host, Jabr, and I am much in your debt.”

       “Then even in spite of our long
enmity, you wish to find accord with us? This is not trickery or deceit?”

       “Trickery? I’m not sure what you
mean. To be honest, Jabr, I’m a bit lost with all of this, but very grateful
for the care and courtesy you have shown me. Perhaps our meeting with this Kadi
will clear everything up for us both. In any case, I don’t know what you mean
with this business about our long enmity—we have only just met.”

       Jabr smiled. “If only the men of
the West would think as you do in this, then perhaps we could live in peace
instead of vying with the sword.”

       “Do we go to the Kadi now?”

       “If you are willing,” said Jabr.

       Paul rose, stretching his long
legs as he did so and gesturing to the shadowed, wooden lattice where he knew
there must be a door. Jabr cautioned him briefly before he led the way.

       “We will be escorted, you
understand.” He seemed to be apologizing, and Paul soon saw that he was
referring to two burly guards standing in the shadows just beyond the low arch
that opened to a long corridor. They were bare chested, with loose fitting,
billowy trousers and white turbans on their heads. Each man held a drawn sword,
which caused Paul some hesitation. Perhaps the hospitality will take a darker
turn now, he thought.

       Jabr seemed to sense his
discomfort as he eyed the guards, and took his arm, gently guiding him on.
“Have no fear,” he assured him. “Forgive me, but this is merely a precaution.
The Kadi is a very important man.”

       “I understand,” said Paul. But
he did not understand men with swords drawn at the ready just outside his door.
Kalashnikov assault rifles he expected… but swords? Who was this Kadi—some
Osama Bin Ladin in charge of this group? He certainly had a flair for the
dramatic. Paul watched, with a half smile, while one guard took the van and the
other waited to follow behind them.

       They passed the long corridor of
gray stone and came to a steep, winding stair that seemed to go on forever.
Paul counted five separate landings, each one continuing up to yet another
flight of  rough-hewn stairs of stone. He was  a bit winded when they finally
turned right at the top of a landing and approached a wide oaken door beneath
an arch of artfully carved stone bricks. Each brick was inlaid with Arabic
script, and Jabr gestured warmly as they approached the door.

       “The council chamber of the Kadi
General,” he said, his voice hushed with reverence. “Remember the words of
greeting I taught you?”

       “Yes, I think so.”

       “In Arabic?”

       “I will do my best.”

       “Good then. I will be at your
side at all times. There will be three cushions set before the chair of the
Kadi. Take the centermost one and be comfortable. I will sit on your right.
When the Kadi speaks I will translate in your ear. You may simply utter your
response in the Saxon tongue, and I will be your voice.”

       The leading guard knocked once
upon the door, clanging a thick, wrought iron oval. It was answered by more
men, dressed in the same fashion as their escorts, only with a threaded line of
gold along the sides of their trousers. Jabr bowed, and gestured for Paul to
enter. As he did so he took in the high, vaulted ceiling, supported by two rows
of thick pillars with ornate capitals. The stonework was well crafted, and the
pillars flanked a long hall with richly colored carpets. The far end of the
room opened on lofty colonnades and arched windows above a flight of wide
steps. There, on a dais lit by torches, beneath a wonderfully carved Arabic
arch, sat a man in simple white robes. He wore a jeweled turban upon his head,
and his eyes seemed weary and strained above his cinder beard. As Paul
advanced, he soon made out the man’s features—tawny skin, aged yet not
withered; a prominent nose above thick purplish lips. The man regarded him with
a steady gaze, and Paul seemed to catch a hint of surprise in his eyes as he
watched the visitors take their places on the silken cushions.

       Jabr looked at him, nodding.
Paul soon realized that he was being prompted to greet the Kadi, and he
flushed, a bit embarrassed that he had been gawking at the architecture and
forgetting his manners. He bowed low and rose, speaking the words Jabr taught
him in Arabic.

       The Kadi responded warmly,
obviously pleased, and Paul completed the brief litany before seating himself
again. There was a moment of quiet regard and the Kadi seemed to be
deliberating something in his own mind. Then he spoke again, and Jabr
translated quietly in Paul’s right ear.

       “ I trust you are comforted here
and it is my hope that your health and life are well protected.”

       “I had a harrowing fall,” said
Paul, “but your hospitality has restored me to good health. Please accept my
thanks and gratitude.”

       “It is graciously given, as the
welcome of Castle Massiaf. We were told to expect you on the night of the full
moon, and we hope your journey was not arduous.”

       Castle Massiaf—that was the
first inkling Paul had of his whereabouts, but the name did not mean anything
to him. He hesitated wondering what the man meant with that last remark.
“Forgive me, but how could you anticipate my coming?”

       The Kadi waited briefly. “It was
written. Sent to us by the messenger before you, but we did not expect  that
you would be Saxon.” The look on Paul’s face spoke across the language barrier
without any need for translation. The Kadi seemed suddenly infected by Paul’s
bewildered expression. “Are you not the Walker in the Valley of the Moon—that
we call Wadi Rumm?”

       “Wadi Rumm? Yes, I was in that
place, seeking shelter from the sun and fresh water. Yet I came there by
chance. My fall was not intended—“

       “Not intended?” The Kadi seemed
perplexed by this revelation. “Yet you came by the Well of Souls. You came in
on the river, just as we were forewarned.” Jabr was translating quickly, and
Paul looked from him to his questioner on the dais.

       “I’m very sorry,” he said, “but
my fall was an accident. I can only be thankful that your people were close at
hand to render assistance.”

       The Kadi seemed more and more
perturbed with each word Paul spoke. He ran his hand over his thick beard,
considering.

       “Then you did not jump
willingly? How strange.” The man leaned in to study Paul’s face more clearly.
“Do you mean to say that the Dawa was not revealed to you? You were not
prepared? You are here simply because Allah wills it?” He cocked his head to
one side. “Or do you say these things to avoid discernment here?”

       Paul’s confusion redoubled. More
riddles and metaphors. “What is meant by Dawa?” he asked.

       “By that we mean the divine
intent of your journey—the summons that calls you to become a pilgrim. You are
a Gray Walker on the eternal
Hajj,
and all who walk that road are called
and prepared. That is your Dawa: your mission. Could it be you have forgotten?
Was your fall a grievous one—or are you simply unwilling to speak freely?”

       “Well,” he began, “I’m still not
entirely sure what you mean by all that. You may call my coming the will of Allah,
but I assure you, he did not take the time to confer with me before I took that
headlong fall.”

       The Kadi allowed himself a thin
smile. “Do you play with words here?”

        Paul was as confused as ever.
“Let me be plain, sir. We were trying to reach a ship in the Red Sea, as Jabr
here has undoubtedly told you by now.”

       “He has spoken of a celestial
flight. You say there was a great vessel in the Red Sea to the east—the
Arabesque
,
as it was called.”

       “I never saw it. Our flight was
… interrupted, and we landed in Wadi Rumm. It was necessary for us to find
shelter, and fresh water. We began to search the caves there and I was alone
when I slipped and fell into the sink. I suppose my only mission was to find my
way home. We meant to try and reach Akaba, you see. Is that where I am now?”

       It was clear, as Jabr
translated, that the Kadi did not expect to hear such a revelation. In fact, he
had the aspect of a man who was unwilling to believe what he was being told.
His heavy lips pursed with disapproval, and his eyes narrowed. Paul saw how he
clenched his fist in the palm of his other hand, as though distraught, or
greatly troubled. Then he fixed Paul with an avid stare and spoke tersely, with
stone in his voice. Jabr hesitated, and whispered a hasty translation.

       “Are you a Templar? You must
answer truly now.”

       The man’s manner carried a
presentiment of warning. Paul could sense how the tension in the question had
infected Jabr as well. His translator swallowed, his throat dry, and Paul could
not help glancing at his dark eyes. The fear had returned to them, traced with
just the barest hint of suspicion.

       He wracked his brain, knowing
that his answer was somehow very important to these men. A Templar? What on
earth did they mean? His hesitation prompted the Kadi to push harder on the
door he was opening, and before Paul could answer the man spoke again.

       “Are you Hospitaller then? What
order do you serve?”

       “What order? I don’t understand
what you are asking me. I serve no order.” Then the words broke through to a
point of understanding in his mind. Templar… Hospitaller… Those were the names
of the fighting orders of Christian knights in Medieval times. There were
modern equivalents, but they were nothing more than church socials and
fraternal lodges, like the Knights of Columbus. Some were still shrouded in mystery,
and rumored to be secret societies of the Church. Perhaps these men placed
credence in those stories, and thought him to be some kind of agent.