Nexus Point (Meridian Series) (26 page)

“What is this?” He held the document closer to the
lantern, noting the earthy tones in its coloring, ochre, violet and umber.

       “Ah, that is a map.” Jabr brought another
oil lamp to the table and they spread the document out. “It is the world as we
know it now, drawn from accounts of many travelers we have dealings with.”

       “A map?” Paul squinted at the document,
cocking his head to one side, somewhat perplexed. It was like nothing he had
ever seen, and had not the slightest resemblance to the maps he often doted over
back home. “I can’t make any sense of it,” he said. “Which way is north?”

       “At the bottom, of course,” said Jabr. “Here
is the land of the Arabs, and here is Egypt.” He pointed with a slim, brown
finger, indicating abstract areas of the map offset by dark shading.

       Paul rotated the scroll, turning it 180
degrees about, his eyes widening as Jabr continued his narration, and he
labeled the areas mentally, slowly beginning to see familiar shapes in the
diagram.

       “But now you have it turned the wrong way,”
said Jabr. “Mecca, the jewel of the south, is always placed at the top.”

       Paul stared at him, as if he was playing out
some mischievous prank. “One of your men drew this? Well he certainly could use
a geography lesson or two. Where are we?” He slipped the question in
nonchalantly, hoping Jabr would not draw that veil of guarded secrecy about
their exchange.

       “See the sickle there,” he pointed to the
Northeast quadrant, the shape Paul took to be Syria. “That is the realm of the
Sheikh, where we now hold forth.”

       “Is he your leader?”

      
“That and more!”
Jabr’s eyes gleamed in the lamplight. “He is
sâhib al-kawn
the Master of
Creation; Master of Time. He is the Witness, the Watcher, the Dispenser Of
Mercy at the beginning and the end.”

       Quite the humble soul, thought Paul. Not
even Osama bin Ladin was that fond of himself. He was suddenly possessed with a
driving urgency to know who these people were, and what they were about here in
their mountain hideaways.

       “Jabr,” be said firmly, “I am far from home,
quite lost, in fact. I have no idea who you are, really, or what you intend to
do with me. I suppose I should be grateful to you for all you have done for me,
but the truth is, I feel a captive here, a hostage taken against my will. Is
that so?”

       “Hostage? Oh no, Do-Rahlan. You are an
honored guest! You came to us through the Well of Souls, and you have the
Kadi’s favor and protection until such time as the Sheikh may decide otherwise,
peace be upon him.”

       “Ah, then you are waiting for instructions
from this other? What then?” He searched Jabr’s face for some sign of a truth
kept hidden from him, but he saw only sincerity and empathy in the man’s brown
eyes.

       “I am not told these things,” said Jabr.
“The Kadi received a letter from the Sheikh at the setting of the moon last
night. It warned him that the Sami was misguided, and fallen into error. It
specified that you were to be taken from the castle, and that the woman
assigned to your care was to be closely watched. Allah be praised, I was just
in time to prevent her foul deed. It was said that she meant to poison you!”

       “Samirah? I think she was innocent,” said
Paul. “She came to my side as always, bearing that wonderful drink you have
been offering me each evening. Yet I could see that something was disturbing
her. She seemed upset; afraid.”

       “She knew the darkness of her own heart,”
Jabr pointed to his chest for emphasis.

       “No, I rather think she was simply terrified
of something. She poured the cup, but then, as I was about to drink, she struck
it from my hand and embraced me. A moment later you burst into the room.”

       Jabr gave him a thoughtful look. “I see,” he
said, stroking the thin curled wisp of his beard. “It may be that she heard my
approach and sought to secure her innocence at the last minute. Then again, it
could be as you suggest: that she was forced to this deed by threat of pain, or
worse. In any case, such is not for us to decide. The matter of discernment is
for the Kadi—or the Sheikh when he should come.”

       Paul gave him a perplexed look. “About this
Sheikh,” he began. “You say a letter came with all this written?”

       “Yes,” Jabr nodded enthusiastically. “In the
hand of the Sheikh himself! He sees many things—even before they happen!
Apparently he left Alamut, riding fast horses five days ago—why, the very day
of your arrival here. He draws nigh, and may arrive any time now.”

       “Riding fast horses? You can’t be serious. I
realize you folks may have adopted a low-tech lifestyle to prevent your
discovery, but horses?” Images of US special forces  operatives riding horses
in the highlands of Afghanistan returned to him, lending just the hint of
credibility to what Jabr was saying.

       “Alamut is far. It would take many weeks for
a man on foot. But the fleet riders of our brothers can devour the land and
soar like the wind itself.”

        “Where is this place you speak of—Alamut?”
Paul’s eyes scanned the makeshift map again.

       “I am not permitted to say,” said Jabr. “It
is a hidden fastness, far to the east.”

       “I understand,” said Paul. “But I am very
confused. I have told you I was in Wadi Rumm, a place you seemed to know well
enough.”

       “Yes, yes. It is far to the south, where the
finger of the sea points the way to Akaba.”

       “Well that would be about here, yes?” He
pointed at the map. “Yet you moved me all the way up here?” His finger traced
the distance north along the scroll. “How did you manage that? Horses again?
It’s a distance of several hundred kilometers!”

       “Move you?” Now it was Jabr who wore a
bemused expression. “Yes, we pulled you from the water and carried you from the
deep pool of the well up to the chamber of greeting. It was not far.”

       Paul shrugged. “Come now,” he breathed.
“That can’t be so. Or do you simply want to keep me in the dark about my true
whereabouts? Are we really in Syria, as you have said, or still in Jordan? I
assure you, I have no intention of giving you away to the authorities. I’m just
trying to get home, that’s all.”

       “No, my friend, we are far from the River
Jordan. Look here.” He paused briefly, angling his frame to orient himself to
the map. “That way is south, to the holy city of Mecca. To come there you must
first traverse the lands of the Emirs of Damascus—or pass through the County of
Tripoli instead. We do not walk that road, for the Templars exact payment from
travelers there, and the way is dangerous. East lie the Atabegs of Mosul; to
the north is the principality of Antioch, and beyond that, Far Edessa, the
source of the two rivers that embrace a land that is dear to us—that we call Al
Jazira, the island.”

       Paul stared at him, slack jawed, a mixture
of disbelief and amazement on his face. “You people really like this little
game,” he said. “Very well, have it your way master Sinbad. I’m not playing
anymore.” He strode away from the table, clearly annoyed and slumped down on the
carpeted quarter of the floor, seeking comfort in the bolster lumped against
the wall.

       Jabr followed him with his eyes, a pained
expression on his face. “Do-Rahlan,  how have I offended you? Ah! I have left
out the land occupied by the Franks and the Christian Lords—that they call the
Kingdom of Jerusalem in Palestine. Please understand that it has not always
been their realm and, one day, we hope to see them gone and have all those
lands returned to us.”

       “Yes, yes,” Paul said disdainfully, “the
endless war against Zionists and Crusaders you people seem intent on fighting.
I suppose you mean to use me as some pawn in that game, right?”

       “Then you favor the Christian Lords? You
said you were not a Templar, or in their pay. Yet, you are clearly a Westerner,
and come from their lands over the sea. Who are the others you speak of in this
war? Zion? What is meant by that? It is a word from the Christian holy
scripture, yes?”

       “Zionists, Israelis, call them what you
like. I suppose you people have had your fill of us ‘Westerners’ infesting your
land by now. I’m not angry with you, Jabr. But you can see that this whole
situation is really unfortunate. I am not your enemy simply because I come from
the West. That’s the whole problem! A man is a man. We have to learn to live
together at one time or another, don’t we?”

       “Very true, Do-Rahlan.” Jabr set down the
map and shuffled over to Paul’s side, intent on mending fences with him. “You
are not like the men of the West I have known,” he said. “The crusaders are
hard, mailed in steel. They are haughty and filled with pride. Yet, their
knights are fearsome and without equal in all the world. Even our best horsemen
will quail with fear at their thunderous approach. They build great stone
castles, impregnable, on all the borders of their land. That they call
Krak
de Cheval
is not but a long day’s march from this very place. It is
awesome, vast and unyielding—a fearsome stronghold, to be sure. We hold forth
here in our mountains, the followers of Hassan. In truth, we do not favor
either side, and have quarreled with both the Sultan and the Christian Lords at
times. Yes, we even quarrel amongst ourselves when the Sheikh is not among
us—as our presence here attests. You may be thankful that you came to us,
Do-Rahlan, and that you were not first taken by the Saracen riders, or even the
iron soldiers of the Krak.”

       Now Paul was truly disturbed. He took the
words in, a look of disbelief resolving to fear and amazement… Crusaders,
Castles, Assassins and Sheikhs… Horses, Knights, Saxons, Franks and nary a cell
phone to be found… It sounded, for all the world, as if this man was plucked
right from a chapter of Medieval History! He had to be joking, or carrying out
this colorful extended metaphor in his manner of dealing with the world. Yet
the map, the clothing, the odd incongruities that had cropped up in all their
hours of conversation. It sounded as if…but it could not be so, he thought. It
sounded as if…but no, that was impossible!

       “Jabr,” he said quietly. “Tell me truly now,
will you? What year is this?” It was a question he never thought to ask before.
Why should he?

       “The year? Five-eighty-three, Allah be
praised.”

       “What?” The look of incredulity on Paul’s
face prompted Jabr to touch his knee and offer correction.

       “Forgive me, you reckon the years
differently. We count from the time of Muhammad, peace be upon him. All the
West counts from the time of Jesus the Christ, peace be upon him. It seems
every prophet has his followers. We turn our maps one way, you turn them another.
Let me see,” his dark eyes rolled to the vaulted ceiling. “That would make this
the year eleven-eighty-seven, as the Christians reckon.”

       Paul just stared at him, saying nothing at
all.