Chapter 7

Tired and hungry, we took the wind-swept mountain path that led up to the residence of one Ali the Merchant, the last person on our list that we were due to visit. The path wound its way through the granite, loose scree crunching under out boots, daggers of broken tree-trunk, twisted by the wind, sprouting up from the ground making our climb all the more difficult. Already I could feel the soreness in my limbs, and I was sure I'd twisted my ankle some time ago, so swollen did it appear to me. The trail was cracked with a spider-web of thin fissures, tendrils of mist curling up from the gaps. I began to wonder at what kind of person would build their house in a place such as this. Glancing up, my hand shielding my eyes from the sharp glint of the sun, I saw the house in the distance, thin like a fingernail and wrapped in a cloak of fog, its features faint as though it were a painting.

In between our little visits to the notables of the city, I had finally managed to find the time to take the tariqa, finally managed to connect myself to a spiritual flow that led all the way back to the Prophet (upon him be blessings and peace) himself. Somehow I'd expected a massive change instantly, that the person I became after I took the oath would be completely different to the person I was before I took it.

Musa had laughed gently at my folly. "It doesn’t quite work like that," he had said, his expression kind and his voice soft. "It takes a time, a lot of time. And effort-"

"-a lot of effort," I had chimed in, smiling.

He'd taught me the wird, the daily recitations I had to undertake in order for my heart to shed the scaly skin of dunya, in order for the seed of my ruh to sprout into what it was always meant to be. At least, that's how Musa had described it to me.

The wird went like this: first, I had to recite 'astaghfirulah', 'I seek the forgiveness of Allah', a hundred times. "This you do," Musa had explained, "to rid yourself of yourself. That your nafs believes it has some sort of independent existence is a sin in itself."

Then came the blessings upon the Prophet (upon him be blessings and peace), a hundred times, too. "So that you connect yourself to him," Musa had said. "So that you see the potential that every human being has, the perfection that they can come near to if they but try. We were created to be Allah's khilafah, and it is the Prophet (upon him be blessings and peace) who is the very embodiment of that."

Finally, I had to recite la ilaha ilAllah, a hundred times as well. "And by this," Musa explained, a twinkle in his eyes, "you enter into the Presence of Allah. Or, at least, your heart does - for you’re always in the Presence, whether you realise it or not. Keep this up, hold on to it, hold on to what He has commanded you, keep away from He has forbidden you, and then you will see reality as it truly is, not as the delusion your nafs thinks it is."

"As it truly is?"

"Yes," he said. "So that you see that everything around; indeed, see your own self - see that everything is under the shadow of Allah’s power. The tree, the path we step upon, the sun in the sky, the words on my lips, the sounds that you hear - everything is being created and sustained by Allah now, as we speak." He turned to me. "It is not me who is speaking, it is Allah who is creating these words on my tongue. It is not you who is hearing, it is Allah who is creating those sounds in your ear. Once you realise that everything has submitted itself to Allah's power, then it is sheer foolishness to be afraid of anything save Him - nothing has independent action from Him, in reality everything is His action. Everything you see around, including your own self, is nothing more than Allah saying 'Be, and it is.' When you see with your ruh that everything is being created and sustained by Him now, with no separation from His power, that's when you truly realise that there is no god save Allah." Noticing the bewildered look on my face, he added. "But, my boy, there’s still a lot of time for that to enter your heart. Just stick to the wird for now."

It grew colder as we went higher, a chill that bit into my skin, the winds snapping at my face, cracking the air like a whip. Bizarrely enough, we entered a small clump of trees, looking distinctly out of place on the trail. The foliage above shielded us for a moment, the sun trying to burst through, but doing nothing more than filling our sight with an emerald hue. The oval shadows of the leaves trembled on the ground before us, occasional drops of water, collected no doubt from a past sprinkle of rain, breaking through and splashing into the piles of perfumed blossom that lay strewn across the undergrowth.

And then it was gone, and we found ourselves back on the featureless, craggy path. Musa looked over his shoulder. "Cheer up," he said. "We’re going to visit the sick, and in that is tremendous blessing."

A flicker of a frown crossed my face. "Ali the Merchant is sick?"

"Not physically," Musa murmured, a wry smile on his lips.

Running around after the nobles had been a very time-consuming experience. At the back of my mind, I knew that we hadn't even begun to Musa's journey yet, hadn't even begun our quest to find that which is the most beloved to the Lord of the Worlds. I still had little inkling what that could be.

I'd been most impressed with Musa’s skill in diplomacy. Pushing, prodding, and putting our hosts into positions where they'd be shamed if they'd disagreed, Musa had managed to cajole most of the nobles to acquiesce to the Governor’s wishes. And he'd done all this without ever having to ask them outright even once, without ever having it seem that he was criticising them. In fact, all those who had been present had remarked on what a simply wonderful idea it was for the host to join in the Governor's war effort. I shook my head, still not believing how Musa had managed to rein them in so easily.

"Those with the biggest nafs," he said, after we'd departed from our last call, "are the easiest to bend. You just have to pander to their egos."

What I'd been less impressed with was the sheer opulence these people lived in. I'd sat silently as Musa had worked magic with his tongue, the hard wooden spheres of my misbaha running through my fingers, clicking as they slipped down the string. Everything around me was either incredibly expensive or ridiculously exaggerated. I noticed, with a sneer that I had kept well-hidden, that when the call to prayer came, not one of them had moved an inch. It wasn't surprising, either - their massive forms wrapped in flabby flesh would have found it a challenge to have pulled themselves upright just to make the oh-so-lengthy journey to the masjid around the corner.

It sickened me. The lavish amount of food they bestowed upon us - second only to the lavish amount of hollow, false praise they poured onto Musa's lineage - the uncovered women, their modesty torn from them, and the constant reminders of their wealth; all of it made my heart quiver with anger. Completely worthless that's what they were. And yet, I felt a sense of elation surge from within my soul, too. There I was, sitting amongst all this dunya, and I was the only one whose tongue was moist with the Remembrance of Allah. These people were nothing compared to me. I imagined the angels reporting back to the Lord of the Worlds, and I was certain that Allah would be proud of me, certain that Allah would see how special I was because I was worshipping Him, while those around me indulged in wrong actions.

Musa came to a sudden stop, dust and gravel puffing up from under his sandals. I almost careened into his back, and had to spin away at the last moment. His sudden motion broke me out of my thoughts.

"What is it?" I asked.

He looked at me, his lips pursed in a thin smile. "You're not listening to me," he said, sunlight dancing on his face. "What did I say?"

"What do you mean?" I replied. A knot tightened in my stomach, my brow creasing in a frown. Our relationship had changed now that I'd taken the tariqa. In the absence of the Shaykh, the muqaddam - Musa - was the Shaykh, and I was obliged to listen and obey, both the good he commanded me to, and the criticisms he charged at me. Somehow I got the impression this would be from amongst the latter.

Musa let out a breath, his features softening, an easy smile coming to his face. "Allah is creating and sustaining everything, I said, you remember?"

"Yes," I replied, my voice stumbling. "I know that-"

"No, you don’t." There was no edge to his voice, only a soft sense of melancholy. "I told you this morning. Allah is creating your actions; He is the one who is creating your deeds, too -your 'good' deeds. He's not creating them for you, He's not creating them so you're special, He's creating them for Him, because He wished to be worshipped, and because through them He is known." He paused, resting a hand on my shoulder. "Haven't you heard of the one condemned because his wealth made him arrogant, made him feel better than others?"

"Yes," I replied. It was a child's fable, one that I'd heard for many years.

"What was his error?"

"He had no right to laud himself over others. His wealth was from Allah."

"Exactly." Musa began to stride on, gesturing to me to follow. "And your good deeds, your ibadah is all from Allah; it was created by Allah. It isn't from you, it isn't by you - you simply choose it, and Allah creates it.” He flashed me one last smile. "So how can you possibly feel any hint of pride, how can you feel unique, over something that doesn't even belong to you at all?"

Chapter 6

"Allah is as His slave expects Him to be."

His words struck deep.

It was only then that I'd realised that deep down I'd always held a simmering sense of resentment towards the hand that destiny - that Allah - had dealt me. Always, tucked away in a little corner of my heart like a glowing ember of ash, I'd expected the worst. I'd fully resigned myself to living as an outcast, flung far from any sense of human warmth, and so that's what Allah had created for me, shaping my reality to the my heart's wrong actions. Always, I'd entertained that niggling doubt that Allah would let me down in any endeavour that I pursued, and it was precisely that that He'd created for me. I'd made the choice, and Allah had created for me the consequences of my choice.

We walked, Musa and I, as free men, entering the stream of people that poured into the souk, the shimmering mid-day heat ringing with the calls of the traders and the protests of the hagglers. Fractured sunlight glinted off the wares spread out on the various stalls, streaking up through the flawlessly blue, cloudless sky, as we were drenched with a wave of noise, eager and merry.

The scene opened up in my eyes and I viewed it afresh - no longer did I see it as a chaotic mix of random actions that were to be feared or that could prick me with the itch of irritation; no, now I saw it - and the world - for what it truly was - the manifestation of the acts of Allah. It was Allah who created these needs in his Creation, and it was He that created the means for those needs to be fulfilled. It was a simple thought, and one that took root in my heart. Everything that I saw before me - the sun and its heat and light, the people with their needs waiting to be fulfilled, the traders who earned their livelihood by fulfilling those needs, everything was nothing more than the manifestation of His acts of Generosity and Mercy.

"You’re learning," Musa said as he tugged on my shirt, pulling me into a line of people waiting in front of a rust stained water pump. The earth around the pump was drenched, the air stinging with the tang of metal. A young boy waited on it, his fingers crimson and raw as he pushed down on the lever. The line was long and I was suddenly aware of my parched throat and the sweat that made my tunic cling to my back. My head spun for a heartbeat, my eyes glancing down the line. Most of the people shuffled impatiently, their sandals scuffing the earth. Some growled, others spat out irritated curses. One or two jostled with each other, their eyes burning with anger, their faces flushed scarlet.

A creeping sense of dismay curled around my heart, threatening to drag it down. I wallowed in the emotion for a moment - and then stopped. Closing my eyes, I let out a deep breath, then focused my heart on the reality of the situation. Allah had created my need for water, He'd created the means for my thirst to be slaked, He'd created this line for me to stand in, and so, if I succumbed to anger, how could I be angry at these people who - along with their actions - were nothing more than His creations, too?

A sense of peace flowed through me, relaxing my limbs. I pondered further - if Allah had created all this, then, out of His Generosity and Mercy, He could create an opening for me to get my water sooner. I repeated the words like a mantra, focusing my whole being upon them. Allah, in His Generosity and Mercy, could create for me an opening... Allah, in His Generosity and Mercy, could create for me an opening... Allah, in His Generosity and Mercy, could create for me-

"Water, sir?" I opened my eyes to find a small girl, a grin spread across her soft features, holding up a small leather pouch, clear water jostling inside and sometimes spilling over the edge.

"May Allah reward you," I murmured as I let myself be submerged under the wave of gratitude I now felt. I took the pouch, brought it to my lips, then let the cool water tingle my lips, and then handed it over to Musa, who took one sip before giving it back to the girl. The child's grin grew wider, and she skipped away happily.

I glanced up to catch Musa observing me with a lop-sided grin. "As simple as that?" I asked.

He gave a small nod. "As simple as that."

I stretched my neck to look down the line. "But the others..."

He shushed me with a gesture. "Dear boy, you’re not listening," he said, though his tone was warm, not scolding. "Allah promised that He is as His servant thinks He is." He thrust a thumb back at the others. "They didn’t hope in Allah's Generosity and you did - so Allah created for them one reality, while He created for you the true reality."

Finally I knew why Musa had been so calm back at the Governor's palace - he'd always expected the best from Allah and it was that that had won us our freedom. I knew a moment of pride as that realisation came to me, but then I saw Musa regard me with a sharp glance.

"It was Allah who created that knowledge in you," he said softly, "so there’s nothing to be conceited about. Instead, all that’s left for you is gratitude."

He was right, and it was that overwhelming sense of thankfulness that bubbled then fountained into my heart just then. And, for the first time in a very very long time, I felt a true, genuine smile spread across my lips. How could anyone worry when their Lord was so Generous and Merciful? I felt like laughing, I wanted to proclaim to the world the joy that was cleansing my soul just then.

A horse-drawn cart trundled into our path, its wooden frame shuddering with the effort, the round, ripe vegetables it bore giving off a grassy scent. There was a sudden snap, like a whip cracking the air, then a panicked shout. The horse broke free from the cart, reared up on its back legs, then broke into a run. I knew a jolt of pure shock as I saw the animal bear down on me, saw its eyes burn red, saw its snout flare. Fear and horror fought for dominance in my mind, but somewhere deep inside my panicked heart frantically repeated the following thoughts - Allah created the horse, created its actions, He can divert it from me, He can divert it from me, Hecandivertitfrom-

At the very last moment, the horse veered away from me, and I flung myself to the ground, choking on dust and feeling my skin burn against the sun-drenched earth. I lay there for a while, panting, my heart thudding wildly in my chest. I just wanted to stay there, clinging to solid ground, but then I felt a pair of arms - Musa's no doubt - pull me up.

I opened my eyes and looked at my friend. "As simple as that?" I asked weakly.

He flashed me a grin and laughed. I felt myself tremble then, as though a knot had been untied in my soul, a chuckle flew free from my mouth, before erupting into a laugh. It wasn't long before the two of us, oblivious to the stares we were receiving, were engulfed in howls of amusement.

My eyes, their vision blurred with tears of joy, fell upon a masjid, its marble form glistening as it caught the sun's ray, its minaret spearing the sky, crowned as it was by a ring of clouds. I looked at my friend. "There’s something I have to do."

Musa simply nodded, offering no questions. I asked him, "The Prophet, upon him be blessings and peace, said that he who prays two rak'ats and asks Allah for forgiveness, then Allah will forgive him." I paused to swallow. "Is this true?"

Musa's eyes twinkled. "It is."

"But-"

He held up a hand. "There is no 'but,'" he said quickly. "If the Prophet said it, then it's true." Again, as though reading my thoughts, he added, "No matter how many wrong actions you have. In the sea of Allah's Mercy, your sins are nothing but a speck of dirt."

I turned towards the masjid, relief tingling me once more. He is as His servant thinks He is. Such a simple phrase, one that I'd heard so many times, but I'd never let it take a firm handhold in my heart. Could it be that the ummah was beset with enemies just because we'd forgotten that simple teaching? The shade of the masjid fell upon me, cooling my skin instantly. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the sudden loss of light. Salat-al-Tawba and a good opinion of my Lord, that's all I needed.

"And obedience." It was Musa. I hadn't even heard him follow me in. I gave him a quizzical glance. "And obedience," he continued. "But know that it's Allah who creates your good deeds, out of His Generosity and out of His desire to fulfil for you your purpose - that you were created to worship Him. It's your nafs that chooses wrong actions, that takes you away from that purpose, and that's why tawba is necessary, but never feel that you own your good deeds; it's as I said - just Allah fulfilling your purpose."

"So, all I have..."

"...is gratitude." Musa smiled his familiar smile. "Gratitude that He chose you to as one of those whom He uses for the reason they were created." His fingers curled around my arm and, even through my tunic, I felt the cool touch of his skin. "He chose you not because of anything you did, or because you deserve it, He chose you simply out of His Love for you, just like He enters people into His Jannah, not because of what they did - since He created what they did - but because of His Mercy. He chooses from His Love and He turns away others out of His Wisdom. Once you realise this, you realise slavehood, and a slave is always grateful to a Generous Master." I felt tears prick my eyes and took in a deep, trembling breath.

As though noticing my discomfort, the muqaddam glanced up at the sky, and added, "Do what you need to do." He turned away. "After the dhuhr prayer, we leave to fulfil the task placed upon us."

Chapter Five

Fear.

Despite Musa's advice the creeping emotion curled around the inside of my heart, turning my soul cold. My heart pounded in my chest as we entered; first, an antechamber, an arch of polished marble framing our passage, then yet another smaller room where, watching with furtive glances, stood a small man.

Greetings of peace were exchanged before the man, sweat glistening on his forehead as he wrung his hands, whispered, "You have to forgive the Governor." His eyes darted to the left and the right, as though searching. "He's become a tad bit...eccentric over time. The Caliph is well aware of the problem, but hasn't had time to address it yet." My heart sank further - what were we getting ourselves into? "Just...just don’t irritate him. Do whatever he asks." He took Musa's hand, then mine, his grasp tight, but trembling. "Do whatever he asks."

"May Allah reward you well," Musa said as he - much to my annoyance - smiled, his teeth glistening. A cocktail of irritation and fear washed over my heart as I watched the nameless man scurry away.

"What was that all about?" I murmured.

Musa gave a slight shrug. "A blessing."

I looked at him with bewilderment, but when he offered no explanation, I said no more. The doors ahead opened and a courtier, stiff necked with cold eyes, announced our presence.

We entered, my heart now large and seemingly stuck in my throat. I tried desperately to calm myself, but failed, trembling slightly from what was to come. The new room was large and elaborately decorated, a lush crimson carpet blanketing the floor, a row of small marble pillars, twinkling as they caught the light from one large window, leading towards a large chair, atop of which sat the Governor, richly dressed and somewhat plump. My mouth went dry.

Somewhere at the back of my mind I noted that on the top of each of the short pillars there stood a sculpture of a human head, each one different from the other. I shot a glance at Musa and, noticing his disapproving frown, desperately hoped that he wouldn't do anything that would put the both of us in jeopardy.

"Welcome, and upon you be peace," the Governor said, his voice rich and deep.

"And upon you be peace as well," Musa replied.

The Governor's eyes flicked over to the muqaddam, pausing to give a brief disinterested glance at me. It seemed that I wasn't worth his time, and was somewhat glad that his attention was focused solely on my friend.

"I know you," the Governor said, gesturing at Musa.

"That you do," the muqaddam replied. "I assumed that’s why you called us here."

"You assumed correctly," the Governor replied. "I know you, and know your family. In fact, I find it strange to see such a nobleman as yourself in my dungeons. But no matter. I have a transaction that you may be -" He was cut off as a sharp knock rang from the door. Looking up, his face a mask of irritation, he snapped, "Yes, what is it?"

Another courtier entered. "It's the head of the Trader’s Guild," he said. "He wishes an urgent meeting with yourself."

The Governor hissed through clenched teeth. "Tell him I just died."

"Very good, sir."

I blinked once, twice, trying to make sense of what had just happened. I snuck a glance at my friend but, to my consternation, he looked the very portrait of peace itself. Somehow I found this extremely exasperating.

"You were saying?" Musa said.

"What?" the Governor said, blinking. I felt something clench my heart. This was not going well at all.

"You had something to offer?"

"Oh." He sat up straight as he composed himself. "Yes." He cleared his throat. "But first - how amiss of me, where are my manners? Please, eat." Snapping his fingers, another courtier appeared, carrying a bowl of fruit.

I glanced over it, but the sour taste in my stomach had destroyed any appetite that I may have had.

"An offer you said?" Musa pressed on.

"Yes...an offer. Your freedom, of course, both yourself and your friend," he gestured towards me, and I smiled weakly in response, "but I'm sure you'd already came to that conclusion yourself." He held his palm out towards the courtier. "Please, eat."

"And what is it," the muqaddam said, "that you want in return?"

The Governor’s eyes flashed. "Eat!"

Quickly I grabbed one of the fruits - an apple - while Musa, taking his time as he peered inside, picked one out and took a bite. "May Allah reward you well," he said.

The Governor's mouth pressed into a thin smile. "Your family is very well-known here in my city and, as you know, the Romans are massing at our borders. I'm sure the Caliph will deal with any invasion, but it seems the people here are a little too reliant on him. They haven't - what are you doing?"

I turned to Musa and, seeing what the Governor was seeing, felt my stomach turn to ice. What was he doing? The muqaddam, seemingly oblivious to all around him, was busy turning all the carved heads on pillars so that they faced away from the room.

"Tidying up," Musa said.

The Governor opened his mouth to speak, then paused, thinking better of it. I let out a breath that I hadn't even realised I was holding in until that moment.

"Yes. So," the Governor went on. "Some of the nobles here are not willing to provide either money or men for any war effort. Rest assured, if the Romans invade it will be this city that will be first in their sights. What I need from you is to go and persuade them otherwise. People listen to you. They respect your family and - put that down!"

Slowly Musa put down one of the statues, then looked up at the Governor. "Who are these...people?"

The Governor's cheek twitched. "People I admire. Men from the annals of history; great leaders." A pause, before adding quickly, "I have fatawa from my ulema permitting to keep these."

Musa’s eyes narrowed to slits. "Is that so?"

I felt the temperature drop slightly; imagined or not, I couldn't tell, but at that moment in time all I wanted to do was get back to our cell. At least it was safe there.

"Oh, come now," the Governor went on, a touch defensively. "You, of all people, know the value of having role models, of having people to look up to."

"This is true," Musa conceded. "The people of Allah, however, are not like...these." He nodded towards the statues.

"Well," the Governor went on. "You can keep them; I'm not going to stop you. So what if I consider these people to be examples of good leadership? It's their methods I subscribe to, not their beliefs."

"Do you?"

Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw some of the courtiers and guards peek out from behind thick, silk curtains, eager to watch this battle of wills. The spectacle unnerved me. I remembered the warning we had received earlier, and knew that the muqaddam, with his pushing and prodding, was ignoring it. A tingling sense of dread ran through my veins. I’d never been so scared, nor so miserable, in my life.

The Governor sniffed, before asking, "What do you mean?"

A smile touched Musa’s lips, as he stood pressing his fingertips together. "A person mustn’t become so enamoured with people who are examples of true humanity that they forget to be examples of true humanity themselves."

Flicking his wrist, the Governor smirked, chuckling. "We are not meant to be like them."

"All that is asked of us is that we try."

"Save your preaching. I get enough of that from the ulema here. Hypocritical, impotent and unrealistic the lot of them."

Musa stepped forward. "That's only because it reflects the hypocrisy, weakness and doubt in your own soul."

I froze. That did it. I knew we wouldn't leave this room alive now. The Governor's eyes flared, blazing, and I waited for the inevitable explosion. The two of them -the man of the world and the man of Allah - stared at the other, the atmosphere between them thick. Spinning dust motes swam lazily through the air, sunlight glinting off of them. Then, as though the tension itself had been sucked out of the room, the Governor relaxed, smiling. "I'll keep your words in mind, thank you," he said. "And now...do you accept my offer?"

I looked at my friend, my throat raw, though I hadn't yet said a word. I knew very well why the Governor was sending us instead of his own men. The high-born families in this city were, bar a few exceptions, far from noble. Death was the usual response to any criticism of their ways, death that was then conveniently swept from public view by the authorities.

Musa couldn't possibly put us in such a situation. My life couldn't turn any worse now, and besides, we still had his journey to undertake.

Imagine, then, my surprise when the muqaddam smiled saying, "We accept."

I looked from my friend to the ruler, and then back again, a numb sense of disbelief clouding my mind. The Governor's gloating smile made me sick. "Excellent," he said. "My servants will prepare everything for you. May Allah go with you."

And with that we were dismissed. Spinning on my heels, I followed the muqaddam out, tears stinging my eyes. Anger and fear, a volatile mixture, fought for dominance in my heart. Everything bad that had ever happened in my pathetic little life rushed into my mind at that moment - living off the streets, being shunned from society, living alone in my hut, being arrested, losing A'isha. Why, oh why, was my life so unfair?

Musa's head snapped up, and he turned slightly to face me. "The way we think shapes our reality."

A felt a hot jolt of anger at him at that moment and could only spit out, "What?"

This time, he stopped, turned to face me completely and took my wrist within his fingers. I shrank back from his cool gaze. "Allah is as His slave thinks Him to be."

Then he let go, walking away swiftly, leaving me to catch up, my mind awhirl.

Chapter Four

The morning sun, burning blood red, peeked up from the horizon, splitting the night sky and chasing the shadows away. It cast its wan light over the prison and then, seemingly for a single heartbeat, the sun froze, catching a lone figure, clad in black, but now outlined with a crimson glow, as he stood on a high wall, his breath escaping in a wisp of steam. I watched him for a moment through the thin window, perplexed, then turned away as myself and Musa were unceremoniously pushed along the corridor towards the main chamber where the Governor waited. Abdul-Malik was his name, a representative of the Khalif.

A cloak of darkness tarred my heart, chafing my soul from within. I felt restless, anxious, not just from what was happening, not just from Aisha's departure, but from...something I couldn't quite place. The world seemed dim, despite the torches hanging on the wall, crackling as they dripped with melted wax. Everything seemed disjointed...unreal.

"You need to do some dhikr," Musa piped up from beside me, not looking in the least bit afraid. His words opened up a pit deep in my soul, a gaping hunger that begged for satiation. He was right. I needed to do some dhikr, needed to feel the cool breath of rahma that would still the unrest inside.

"Food for the ruh, it is," he continued. "Your soul will die without it."

I didn't really need his dire predictions, the itch within my heart being a more powerful reminder than his sermons. I had remembered, too, exactly what I'd wanted to do before we'd been interrupted. I'd wanted to take the tariq. I'd wanted to join the ranks of the seekers searching for the only thing that was worth searching. I wanted Allah.

My mind drifted back to my very first encounter with Musa. He'd not been a muqaddam then, and I was nothing but a child, and not a very well-behaved one at that. Son of slaves that had been beaten to death by a ruthless owner, I'd drifted from town to town, city to city, a tight knot of anger blistering my heart, feeling hard done by that my parents' murderer had not been brought to justice by the virtue of the fact that the fat oaf had paid off the authorities. At least, as I'd come to realise later, paid off those within the authorities whose qibla was the coin and for whom dancing girls were their dhikr.

The irony of my current situation hit home. Me, the former scavenger and thief, put into prison because I'd taken a street urchin to task. A grim smile spread across my face.

That day, from all those years back, I'd earned myself a satisfactory meal, darting from stall to stall, deftly swiping an apple here, a cut of lamb there and a roll of bread here. Pleased with my find, I left the town, climbing up the mountains nearby finding a rocky cavern and sitting back as the soothing sound of trickling water tinkled in the background.

From my regular vantage point high above the town I could see for miles; the never-ending carpet of green grass, the traders that made their way down winding paths, the wispy smoke that floated above the town at daytime, and the sparkling lanterns that shone during the night. It was relaxing, and the fact that the people and buildings looked so small from up there made my problems seem to shrink as well, dulling the throb of pain in my soul for just a while. Little wonder then that I ended up living so high as an adult. I'd always wanted to be king of all I surveyed.

I had decided that day to go exploring, to see what lay beyond the mountain. I climbed, struggling as I did so, setting free a rain of rocks from under my feet, and scraping my skin against the jagged surface. Reaching the summit, I had stopped suddenly, inhaling a sharp breath as I viewed the vista that lay ahead of me. Shimmering crystal blue as the sun beat down upon it, and tipped with a halo of sparkling haze through which birds were soaring, there lay, at the foot of the mountain, a large lake, its waves lapping the shore lazily. Bizarrely, the first thought that had entered my mind had been: So there is beauty in the world.

There was opportunity, too, as sitting by the lake, content and oblivious, there sat a man, turbaned and robed. I didn't care as to what and why he was there. My heart registered only one thing: money.

Slowly at first, and then quickly picking up speed, I softly made my way down, my eyes funneling in on the bag that lay by his side. Quick scenarios sped through my mind's eyes, and I knew that, judging from the man's appearance, I'd be able to scoop up the bag and run, my lithe form being far too speedy for an old fool like him.

My thumping heart felt enlarged, reaching into my throat, and my breath was shallow, ragged. I cursed them both. They were too loud. They'd draw attention. A tremor of anticipation washed over me as I reached the bottom, cold sweat prickling my skin. He hadn't seen me yet.

My mouth watered as I considered my prize. Food at the least, expensive trinkets for his wife at the best. Both were acceptable. Both would give this day the perfect seal.

Coiling all my energy into my limbs, my eyes narrowing, I waited, waited. The world fell away; all that existed was me, this man, and his bag...and...now.

The man turned away, his attention on something else, and I sprang forward, pushing with my whole being. The landscape bounced in my eyes as the bag grew bigger and bigger in my vision. Closer, closer...my hand reached out, the tips of my fingers brushing against the fabric...

He was too fast. Like a liquid blur he spun around, snatching his bag out of harm's way. I tried to follow, but my momentum was too great, and with a yelp, my ankle twisted under me. My arms flapped uselessly as I fell, the sky above whirling dizzyingly.

I plunged into the lake with an almighty splash, the shock of icy cold water jolting my mind. It stung my eyes and nose, wrapping around my face in a suffocating grasp. Death, I had thought, had come for me then.

And then I felt a pair of strong arms wrap themselves around me and tug, pulling me free. Black spots exploded in my vision as I gasped for breath, the soil under my wet hands turning to mud as I clutched at it, so thankful I was to be alive.

"You seem to have slipped," the man said dryly.

I glanced up at him, fearful of what was to come. I knew from experience that my misdemeanors, whenever they'd been thwarted, always resulted in pain. It was puzzling to me, then, that all I saw was a serene face smiling down on me. It had to be a trick. "I'm sorry, sir, truly I'm sorry...I didn't see where I was going, so stupid of me."

My eyes flicked to his bag. He caught the gesture and my heart froze. But all he did, to my amazement, was to grin even wider. "Fear Allah."

Anger erupted inside. "Why?" I spat. "I'm going to the Fire anyway."

He paused, his eyes turning inward as though pondering, then said, "Love Allah."

I opened my mouth to speak, then realised I had nothing to say. I hadn't expected that. I could tell, from his demeanor and attire, that he was some sort of religious preacher. Again, my anger boiled. No one had cared about righteousness when they'd considered my case. "Are you going to tell me to pray and be a good little boy?" A pause. "Because I'd rather you throw me to the Qadis than do that. I'd rather take their lashes than your hypocrisy."

The man's eyebrows arced. "You're very well-spoken for a young boy, you know?" His eyes twinkled. "You must have been educated well."

I was, my parents desperate for me to learn something useful and using most of their money to help me achieve that, but I wasn't going to tell him that. I turned away with a shrug. "Let me go."

He sighed. "You seem troubled," he called. "I think you need to pray."

My momentary relief that the old fool wasn't going to turn me in vanished, and the corner of my mouth curled into a scowl. I looked at him over the top of my shoulder. "Because Allah commands it?" I sneered. "Because He commands us to pray, to fast to jump when He says jump?"

"No," the man said, leaning forward, his eyes growing wide. "Because you need to. Because so far in your short life, you've been searching for something...something to aim for. You need to test yourself. You set yourself challenges every day. And, yet, each aim you achieve leaves you empty." His pupils seemed to widen for a heartbeat. "What you've been truly searching for, what you've been truly craving is Allah. He's your goal like an island in the distance, the one you couldn't quite see because you'd focused your eyes on the fish in the sea instead. He's your goal, and you can ride an ocean of bliss to reach him."

I turned away quickly, snorting with disgust. The fool now wanted to help me. The man was mad! Disappointment sunk my heart - how had I been thwarted by someone so simple? "Leave me be," I said. "And you don't know anything about my life."

"Let me make you a deal," he said quickly. "You can have my bag."

I stopped, glancing back warily. There was another pause, and I could hear the hypnotic sigh of the waves rolling against the shore. Perhaps I could use his stupidity to my advantage after all. "Go on."

"You can have my bag," he continued, pulling himself to his feet. "If you just say something for me." He walked towards me, his tall frame seemingly blocking out the sun. As he reached me, he placed his hand on my chest. It trembled in time to the beating of my heart. "Say La ilaaha ilAllah."

Almost as a reflex I repeated the words after him, the words rolling around my tongue, familiar, and yet, on that day, very different.

"Keep saying it." I did, completely forgetting myself, and so did he, our voices joined, ringing in the air. But that didn't matter. Before that day, they had been nothing but words, my mark of distinction that differentiated me from the Dhimmis. But that day...something unlocked within my heart. I felt a surge from the very core of my soul, melting the pain inside, soothing my ever-present rage like a fire extinguished by snow, and then it flowed through my whole body, this emotion, this light, this...love. Like a balm to my heart, I finally felt like the person I had truly meant to be. It was intoxicating.

His hand left my chest and I looked up at him, blinking. Now the whole world was a haze of light, and I noticed things that I hadn't before - the sun caressing my face, the playful buzz of the insects hovering in the air, the heady scent of the newly blooming flowers. Everything felt right.

"Now," he said. "Do you want to pray and fast?"

My answer was instantaneous. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I love Him!" And even I was surprised at the words. I hadn't even realised, until they had escaped from my lips just then, that that was what I had been experiencing.

He lifted his bag. "Do you still want this?"

My eyes fell to the said item and it looked dull, rotted, and dirty. I shook my head.

A small smile grew across his face as he held out his hand. "My name," he said, "is Musa."

The memory faded and I found myself still surrounded by guards and Musa at my side. We stopped in front of two intricately carved oak doors, glistening with polish. The guard rapped on the wood; once, twice, thrice.

"Enter," a voice echoed from within.

I looked at Musa. "What do we do?"

He smiled. "Trust in your Beloved," he said, as though reading my mind once more. "Trust in Allah."

"Have you seen the one
Who takes his ego for his god?"

Have you seen how his
Heart burns with love
For everything except
Him, over and above?

Have you seen him
When he stands for salah?
His mind awhirl
Filled with ghaflah

Have you seen
How he gives fatwa from his own nafs?
Despising the ulema
For they make his life too tough

Have you seen how quickly
He turns on the music and TV
Not really caring
About the corruption he sets free?

Have you seen how quickly
He falls in love
Twisting the Qur'an and sunnah
To believe that she was sent from above?

Have you seen him preach
about Islam; it's beautiful, you see
While he lives his life
Like a Western wannabe?

No, it's not enough
To just pray and fast
To impress the people
With your knowledge vast

No, it's not enough
To be religious for a week
Then to turn on your heels
Your iman meek

For if you believe that Allah is Real
And Jannah is Real
And Jahannam is Real
Then there can be only one goal
For your life's toil
There can only be one outcome
Only one path to step upon

That is: You love what Allah loves
You hate what Allah hates
You think like the Mesenger thought
You behave like the Messenger behaved
For without the above
Your deeds are like dust
Be like the Messenger
And set your soul free
For everything else
is hypocrisy

"Have you seen the one
Who takes his ego for his god?"



NOTES: Using 'over' and 'above' in relation to Allah is metaphorical as Allah is independent of time and space.
'Ghaflah' is heedlessness.

My Sheikh told me to recite this:

Allahumma salli ala Sayyidina Muhammadin tibbi l-qulubi wa dawa iha,
wa afiyati l-abdani wa shifa iha,
wa nuri l-abdari wa diya iha,
Wa ala alihi wa sahbihi wa sallim.

O Allah, bless our liegelord Muhammad the remedy of hearts and their medicine,
the health of bodies and their cure,
the light of eyes and their effulgence,
And his Folk and Companions and give them peace

Salawat upon the Prophet (upon be blessings and peace) brings people from the darkness into the light, saves them the oppression of wrong actions and heedlessness, and brings balance and healing back to the heart. Alhamdulilah.

A false lover loves a person because he made them happy.

A true lover loves a person because he made Allah happy.

A false lover loves a person because he guided them to pleasure.

A true lover loves a person because he guided them to the pleasure of Allah.

Chapter Three

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I watched the water fall, rhythmically regular, from the ceiling of our cell, my back stiff from laying for too long on the cold, stone slab that passed for a bed. Watery moonlight squeezed through a narrow slit on one wall, casting dancing patterns onto the floor. Musa sat, crosslegged and eyes closed, near the corroded steel bars that hemmed us in. His chest rose and fell as his lips moved, and I heard the word 'Allaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah' ejected in such a fashion that I almost believed that it came to him as regularly as speech and breath came to me.

The stench was horrendous. Urine, filth and the reek of unwashed bodies hung in the air, making the prison a claustrophobic tomb. I could make out movements from adjacent cells, dark blurs, hunched low, their necks bent in defeat. Here was where the lowest of the low resided, those who has forsaken Allah and so He had forsaken them. How had I ended up in a place such as this?

My forehead still throbbed from a fresh scar, the skin splitting from the myriad blows that had rained down upon me as I assaulted the young thief. Of course, to all observers, it seemed that a fully grown man was brutally attacking a small boy, so their horror and reaction was justified. Mine, especially when Musa had tracked me down and had tried to intervene, was not. Blinded by rage, a red haze coating my vision, I had lunged at my old friend, too. He had tried to defend himself and, in the resultant melee, both of us were taken away by the authorities. The muqaddam had tried to explain to them that we were actually friends, though they hadn't seem convinced, especially as he had been trying to speak through swollen lips. Still. They had left us both in the same cell.

An anguished guilt coated my heart, bitterness still burning within. I wished to apologise to my old friend, but I couldn't force my lips to form the words. It was just unfair. Everything was so unfair. Why was this happening to me?

My eyes flicked over to Musa, and I noticed that the moonlight had sprinkled silver nur over his face. I almost gasped, so much did it appear to my eyes that he was surrounded by a cloak of light. I dismissed it as a trick of my mind.

His eyes opened. "It's no illusion, I assure you," he said softly. "And why shouldn't it happen to you?"

I blinked, momentarily confused, until I realised he had joined my last two thoughts together. I was too fatigued to wonder at this, too irritated to even chide him for intruding in on my mind. I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off: "The world owes you nothing, my boy." I was unnerved at the deathly calm in his voice. His tone was so soft that I had to strain to hear it. "Haven't you listened to anything I have said? Everyday you choose between your nafs and Allah; that you chose your nafs leads to your misfortunes. That your nafs protests against the Decrees of Allah shows that you still take your ego as a guide over Allah." His eyes widened, a fire burning within. "Slay your nafs. And then call yourself a 'Muslim.'"

I winced, the force of his words striking hard. My confusion grew, too....hadn't it been my dream vision, and not Musa, who had given me the nasiha? Before I could ask, Musa continued: "Whenever something befalls you, your nafs says 'no,' while for a Muslim, he always says 'yes', regardless of whatever happens." He paused, his deep, brown eyes fixing me with a disconcerting stare. "Don't you agree?"

I turned away, not wishing to be drawn into a discussion. There were more important things preying on my mind than abstract philosophy. Let the old man drown in his delusions. What right did he have to chide me? I was appalled at the ugliness of my thoughts, but felt smug satisfaction that it was the truth.

Musa's chuckled floated through the air towards with me. With a jolt, I realised that I had just fallen into the same trap that he'd criticised me for. By turning away, I had obeyed my nafs, though subtle as its prompting was, I wasn't even aware I was doing so.

"Clever, isn't it?" Musa said, smiling. He cocked his head towards the bars, listening. Gesturing with his hand, he said, "Someone approaches."

I peered through the gloom, my eyes squinting. At first, I thought he had been mistaken, but then I saw the woman approach, dust collecting on the hem of her swishing skirts. Slowly I stood, then moved to greet her, my hands curling around the cold steel of the bars.

Joy blossomed in my heart as I replied to Aisha's salaams. A sense of relief washed over me, almost draining me of my fatigue.

She glanced around the cell, her eyes momentarily resting on Musa, before returning to me, her nose wrinkled in disgust. "How are you?" she whispered.

"Alhamdulilah!" I gasped, genuine sincerity thickening in my voice. "Now that you're here, everything is khayr." I smiled, but she didn't return it. A felt a cold spike of ice lurch in my heart, as an uneasy doubt lurked at the back of my mind. "It's not too bad here. A little like living in my hut. Only bigger, I think." My voice wavered. "The food is actually quite agreeable. They cook better than me. Maybe you could stay and try some...?"

She blinked at me, her face still, as though bemused at my attempts at humour.

"Erm..." I stumbled. "How was your journey? How did you get in?"

"I brought you some food." I frowned, noticing the tremble in her voice. She reached under her cloak, and handed over some fruit, the scent of which feeling like a gasp of fresh air. Her movements were too mechanical, though. There was steel in her eyes, and it unsettled me. Something was wrong.

Her eyes dropped to the floor. "I do not wish to see you again," she began, but her voice cracked. A hiss left her lips, as though she were annoyed with herself, but then I saw her shoulders straighten, and she lifted her eyes to mine. "I do not wish to see you again. This whole...matter...was a mistake." She glanced at Musa, then back to me. "I think I've disappointed my Lord, and He's now shown me why. Tawba is what I need. I suggest the same for you. Please forgive me for everything."

My heart thumped in my chest, my mind not believing what I was hearing. So used to I was to hearing that voice delivered in a soft and sweet tone, that I almost imagined that it was someone else, someone whose voice was hard and devoid of emotion, that was delivering these words.

"But....why?" I choked.

Her eyes widened, incredulous that I would even dare to ask. "You attacked a small boy!" Shaking her head, she went on: "I know he stole from you...but, still...that doesn't...." She was having trouble focusing on her words. Clearly whatever speech she had rehearsed was unravelling now that she was faced with reality. "....And the fact that you wish to benefit from me without the responsibility...that your idea of marriage was based on the drunken love sonnets of the poets and not based on....I know I was at fault, too....but...." Seemingly at a loss for words, she spun on her heels, signifying an end to the conversation. I almost reached out to stop her, but held back, as she fixed me with one last look and said: "You're weak in your deen. Like me. But I am going to do something about it." She paused, then strode off, saying one last time: "You're weak in your deen."

I recoiled, the words feeling like a physical slap, so much had they stung me. My heart sank, like a block of lead plunged into the ocean. I turned to Musa, my mouth agape, my mind whirling, hoping for something - anything- from him that would stay the crumbling of my soul that I felt within. The muqaddam watched me calmly, offering neither words of comfort, nor, as I later realised, words of reproach. He had, of course, every right to offer the latter, after I had ignored everything that he'd taught and warned me over the years.

It was then, at that most surreal of moments, covered by human filth and surrounded by human failure, that something sparked deep within me. My heart was split in two, a reaction to having had everything most dear to me torn away in an instant, but, despite that, a seed had been planted inside; a seed that, had I been more of an insightful person, I would have known had been waiting to sprout for many a year. A seed that I had ignored willfully as I had pursued the lower promptings of my nafs. The notion churned inside, then solidified, then became a resolution, then sprang from my heart and to my lips. A decision had been made. "Sidi Musa...." I said. "I wish to join the tariq-"

Before I could finish, something struck against the steel bars, and we both spun around, noticing for the first time a guard watching us with his baton. The ringing metallic echo faded into silence as we both watched, waiting. I felt my breath catch in my throat, though why I was feeling so nervous, I could not quite tell. It was not as though we had committed a capital offence. Still, I could not shake of this feeling of deep disquiet. Suddenly, everything was too loud, my breathing, the beating of my heart, the uneasy shuffling of my feet against the grime stained floor.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

"Come with me," the guard said. "The Governor wishes to speak to both of you."

Chapter Two

That night I entered the world of dreams. Thoughts and images clung to my ethereal form as I dipped in and out of the dream world, curling around date palms, stretching over fields of scented flowers of indeterminate type, and watching as blurry, shimmering stars fell upon me like waves. One of the stars, steady and constant in its intensity, winked at me, and I felt tug at my heart, pulling me in closer. Curious, I kept my gaze focused on the tiny, twinkling diamond, ignoring the strange chaos around me, the sprays of liquid fire perfumed with musk, the animals speaking in a variety of tongues. I let out a breath, as much as I could in this reality, and blanked everything else out. Instantly the world fell dark, an encompassing fortress of sheer, inky blackness that dizzied me in the breadth of its emptiness. All save the star, now glittering with the colours of a rainbow, had vanished.

A moment's pause passed, a breath of ice washing over my disembodied form, chilling me to the heart, and then the star erupted, blossoming out into petals of colours and wavy light, struggling to find form. It did; solidifying into the shape of a man, his face blazing with white fire - pure whiteness, as though I was staring into the moon - his body wrapped in an emerald cloak.

A thought came to me, unbidden, and I found myself thinking of Aisha, my beloved, and suddenly certainty, solid and stable like a mountain, took root in my heart; the certainty that this man, waiting in silent, serene patience, had the answers that I sought. Musa's words, softly spoken, but not gentle in meaning, came back to me then, and I felt the injustice of them keenly, a bitterness that poisoned my heart.

Abruptly, the thoughts became words. "Why has Allah made some things forbidden?"

I regretted the words as soon as they had left my phantom lips. They sounded weak, like the protests of a child.

The man, thankfully, did not seem to take notice. "Glory to the One who created everything in pairs," he said, his voice also carrying a light, the vibrations of which lifted my heart. "Allah has tied a negative consequence to every act of disobedience, whether we see it or not." He paused to let the words sink in. "For the drunkard, a loss of reason, for the liar a loss of honour; each has it's own dessert, but all put a stain of evil on the heart that distances the criminal from Allah." He waited again, and for a heartbeat I wasn't sure whether he wanted me to respond, before continuing: "For this, no act of disobedience should be taken lightly, no matter how small."

I struggled within myself. Part of me recognised the wisdom inherent in his words; the other part of me was not willing to let go of what I certainly believed was right. "Maybe...Allah gives exceptions sometimes...maybe if my intention is good...maybe He guides us to things which seem disobedience but have benefit..." I faltered, my voice withering away. I already knew how pathetic I sounded.

The white fire flickered for a moment. "The only reason that Allah sent the Prophets and the deen is this: to remind each and every human being that they have a choice - either follow your Creator or follow your desires." I felt my heart sink at this simple truth. "The choice is presented to you many times each day. Once you make your choice, He creates your actions and the consequences of your actions, both in this world and the next."

"It's easier to follow my desires." It was another weak argument, I knew, but surely he could understand what it meant to be a son of Adam?

"Easier, yes," he said, the conviction in his voice not wavering one iota, "but that does not make it correct, nor does any feeling of apparent well-being that comes as a result. It is your choice: follow your Creator, with all the difficulty and hardship that this may entail, or follow your desires with all the ease and comfort that this may entail. In the end, in the akhira, the tables will be turned, and only the submitters receive ease and comfort while the weak-willed earn difficulty and hardship. Has He not said in His Book that only those that deny their nafs - their soul - will receive success?"

I recalled the ayah instantly. "He has."

The figure nodded. "Then all that remains is for you to adopt it. The worst is he who disobeys and doesn't care. The next worst is he who disobeys, then deludes himself into thinking he has done something good. Then there are those who disobey, then lie to themselves unknowingly, thinking that because their intention was correct, then their act is also correct. All have made the choice to follow their desires over following Allah. Had they but denied themselves then they would have tasted the sweetness of iman in their heart to the extent that everything that they had thought would satisfy them in the past would be revealed in its reality - as worthless and hollow."

Still, I couldn't let go. "But so many of us give in to ourselves, and nothing negative results."

"They are not your example; your example is the Beloved of Allah."

"It's difficult," I insisted stubbornly.

"Depriving your nafs," he replied, calm patience coating his words, "strengthens your ruh, the spirit that yearns for Allah. Once your ruh is strengthened you will be aware of the Presence of your Lord at every moment. You have but to try. One of the wise ones said: 'Whoever thinks that it is preposterous that Allah will rescue him from his desires and bring him out of the heedlessness has considered divine power to be powerless. Allah has the power over everything.' It is those that don't even try, or make excuses, that are condemned."

I would have sighed, had I been able, but instead I silenced my tongue, the figure's words latching onto my heart as though they were tipped with sharp hooks. All of a sudden, I was aware of a change in the atmosphere, and looked up. Hair-line splits of light needled their way through the darkness, like snatches of lightening through a gloomy night. The figure before me started to fade, his incandescent appearance dimming. My heart lurched, not wanting him to go, and the sensation puzzled me, as I didn't exactly know why exactly I felt that way.

"Wait..." I protested, but it was too late. Reality froze, then cracked, then splintered apart. I knew the dream was ending. One final thought, urgent and intense like a heated iron rod thrust into water, rushed into my heart. "Do you know what it is amongst His Creation that Allah loves best?"
All I received in response was a faint, tinkling laugh, delivered without malice, as I slipped out of the dream and entered back into my body.

*

The following two days passed in quiet companionship. Musa made no further comments on either Aisha or his proposed journey, choosing instead to let me puzzle out both on my own. I was grateful for that. The muqaddam wasn't the type to press home an issue. He only had to mention it once, before trusting in a person's good judgement to come to the correct decision. Privately I wondered if he was wise to have so much faith in humanity, especially as most were more than willing to trample upon anything that prevented them from their desires. I included myself amongst those people, too.

However, he hadn't left, and that was enough for me to know that he was waiting for an answer from me. I also knew that after three days had passed, he would leave regardless, not wanting to breach adab. Despite the clarity of my dream vision, I was still unsettled. I wondered, briefly, if Musa himself hadn't orchestrated the whole thing himself, either through his du'a or through focusing his himma - his spiritual aspirations - on my ruh.

My little hut no longer seemed a place of comfort and refuge for me. It had become a prison; a stifling reminder of the choices that I had made. The dream figure's words still haunted me - every person had the choice between Allah and their desires. An ayah of the Qur'an drifted into my mind: "Have you seen the one who took his ego for his god?" I shuddered, the threat in the words suddenly piercing my heart in a way that it had never done before.

Late one afternoon, Musa asked me to accompany him to the town, wanting to buy some supplies before leaving. Some sort of festival was being prepared for as we entered. Which one it was, I wasn't entirely sure of, but I knew it was none of the major ones. Fat scented candles stood in the doorways, the slowly melting wax dripping down into a oozing puddle below. Elaborate decorations, illuminated and spinning, hung from the windows.

Musa smiled. "It reminds me somewhat of Eid," he said. "Perhaps the Khalipha is coming."

I grunted my disapproval. "I doubt he would visit us," I said. "It's probably just some excuse to be idle."

The muqaddam glanced at me, his eyebrows raised, but when I offered no explanation, he went on: "Do you begrude the people for wanting to lessen the burden upon their souls, Zayd?" he chided. "There's a time and place for everything. So long, of course, as it's done in moderation and does not offend Allah."

"Of course," I said, without meaning it.

He laughed at that, adding: "Try to smile. You're scaring off the children."

My eyes narrowed at the tease, but this only set off his laughter once again. "I'm happy as I am."
"Well, you would be," he said. "If you'd stop feeling sorry for yourself. Not one person lives a life here that is afflicted, when you consider what could possibly befall us in the next."

I opened my mouth to let free a sharp retort, but seeing the fear glossing over his eyes and the stern expression suddenly sitting on his face, I felt myself humbled. "You're right. I apologise." A sudden wave of affection welled up from inside. "If you could stay another day, maybe we could both attend the festivities..?"

A sad smile came to the muqaddam's lips as he shook his head slightly. "What I need to do is more important," he said. Musa abruptly came to a stop in front of an old, weather beaten building, rotted wood peeking out from behind the metal bolt on the door. "Here first."

We entered, though I didn't recognise the place. It seemed to be some sort of lodging, though not a zawiya as I would have expected Musa to enter. A curtain of smoke hung in the main room, the result of cooking fires unseen. Musa slipped away, finding the person he wanted, and conversed with him in hushed whispers. My eyes settled on a series of lights set into niches in the wall, glass lanterns that held in burning oil like entrapped, twinkling stars. The image rudely reminded of my dream. The lanterns gleamed at me, the illumination seemingly trying to mock the darkness I felt inside.

I wasn't sure exactly why, but I felt that turning the elderly man down would hurt him. He'd clearly come all this way just for me, and so far I had been both a rude host and a sullen companion. Shame burned my cheeks. If only there was a way to make it up to him.

I was curious, I had to admit. What exactly was it that was so beloved to Allah? Did it even exist in the dunya? And if I found it, why would it affect my life?

A flicker of movement caught my attention. I saw a crowd of men huddled around a wooden target piece, hanging on the far wall and cracked and stained from many summers of use. Two men were there, exchanging friendly taunts as they attempted to outdo the other. One of them pulled back one meaty arm as the surrounding mob fell into hushed silence. With a yell, he let free an axe, the rust stained blade spinning through the air.

A splintering crunch followed.

Dead centre.

I smiled as Musa returned. "All done?" I asked.

"Yes," he said hurriedly. "I have what I need from here."

I frowned, puzzled at his sudden secrecy. Still. It wasn't any of my concern. I still wanted to set things right between us. "What if I were to travel with you until the next village," I offered hopefully, "and then set you up with some supplies there and come back home."

Musa fixed me with a wary gaze. "I appreciate it," he said, slowly thinking over his words. "But it isn't enough. You're limiting yourself, and I want you to learn how to rise above yourself." I sighed as he spoke. I'd heard this particular dars before, not from Musa himself, who never usually repeated himself, but from his Sheikh. "You're still young, and need a guiding hand. I'm offering it to you, not because of our shared history, but because you're my brother in the deen."

"Why me?" I said. My eyes had already started to drift. I idly wondered at what angle and speed I would have to throw the axe to hit the target.

"No particular reason. I just think you have potential. We all have to decide whether we submit or whether we don't. There is no halfway."

My eyes came back to him and I realised, with a flush of guilt, that he'd finished what he had had to say. A flicker of pain crossed his features, deflating my heart. My lack of attention had offended him, so used to he must be to having murids seek him out for advice.

"Let's go," he said, and I knew that now was not a good time for me to mend things. I'd only made it all worse.

We went ahead in silence, letting the conversations of others be our only companions. I chewed my lower lip, wondering if I should say something. Somehow I felt that keeping my mouth closed was my best option. We stopped at another shop, this time with various carved ornaments hanging from the door. Sparkling chains of gold and silver swayed back and forth, tinkling as the breeze pushed against them. I reached up a hand, and curled my fingers round the metal, silencing them instantly. Why had Musa come to a place like this?

"Here, hold this," he said, and pushed his money pouch into my hands.

For an instant I felt the leathery weight in my palms. Then, a blur of movement pushed past me, making me blink. Then I felt the weight lift; all this happening in one swift movement, leaving my mouth agape as I realised what had just happened. I sprang forth immediately, spotting instantly the street urchin that had so casually robbed me. I heard Musa's shouted protests, but ignored them, either not understanding them or shutting them out from my mind. All I cared about was getting my hands on the boy. As hot blood rushed to my head, I set off in pursuit.

Sights, sounds and smells assaulted my senses as I ran; the brightly coloured decorations draped from the stalls, the songs of the minstrels, the cries of the shopkeepers, the scent of roasted meat sizzling on a spit. I darted in and out of the people, my lungs screaming in pain from the effort, my head swimming. I pushed through the crowd, and felt myself pummeled, shoulders and arms ramming into me, jolting me this way and that like a feather buffeted by the wind. On I ran, my sandals slapping against the damp, cobbled streets; past the silk souk, crowded with women, through the Yahudi Quarter, ignoring their wide-eyed stares, past the sweetmeat souk, the heady scents there watering my parched mouth, but unable to soothe my burning throat.

Faster I ran, straining the muscles in my aching legs, catching glimpses of the boy's dark-haired head bobbing up and down in the crowd. My own momentum was pushing me along at a dizzying speed, shops and people spinning wildly in my vision as the wind tugged at my hair and cloak.

And then he was gone, swallowed by the throng. I stood, downcast, a vein in my temple thumping as I tried to to regain my breath. Frustration irritated my heart as I scanned every passer-by frantically. A myriad faces darted past, the cheerful smirks from the children, the women weaving in and out, their large, long lashed eyes twinkling out from beneath their scarves, and the scowling traders, honey pouring from their tongues as they tried to coax people to buy their wares, pausing only to scratch their large bellies and occasionally belch. I felt myself frown. I'd lost him.

How could he have gotten away so easily? He was but a child! My eyes darted one way and the other. More people passed by, some pausing to give me a somewhat contemptuous look, no doubt due to my flustered appearance, but most not willing to let their eyes come to rest upon me. A boy passed. A man. A woman. A pretty maiden. Another boy.

There.

I grinned, seeing the urchin try to hide behind a passing fruit cart, crouching as his fearful eyes scanned for my presence.

One step forward, a quick tensing of muscles, and then I leapt. I landed briefly on the cart, the fruit turning to splintering mush under my feet, then leapt again wildly, arms flapping and heart soaring. The salty taste of victory stung my tongue, but I didn't care as I came crashing down upon the boy, the two of us rolling in the dust in a heap.

The cart itself went spinning from my motion, steel axles squealing in protest as it swung in a wide, lazy arc, spilling fruit and scattering people.

In amongst the confusion, I grabbed the boy's tunic and pushed him roughly to the ground. He hissed as his elbows scraped against the dust and stones. I stood, wiping my brow as I tried to still my hammering heart. I looked down. My shadow fell across his fearful face and my fingers curled automatically into a fist.

This is what my dream must have meant. It wasn't about me. It was about people like this. People who followed their desires without caring about how it affected others. It couldn't possibly be about someone as harmless as me. Righteous anger flooded my veins. I stepped forward, and prepared myself to deliver the punishment that this thief so richly deserved.

To be continued...

NOTES: Some of the concepts in this chapter (especially in the dream section) were culled from the Darqawi Letters, and from scholars such as Hasan al Basri and Abu Hasan As Shadhili. They, in turn, took their ideas from the Qur'an and Sunnah. It's advised that those who want to explore them further should go to the sources, studying them preferably with a teacher. The quote from 'one of the wise ones' is from the Hikam by Ibn Attallah.

Now go read Anak Alam's blog. ;)

To celebrate the revamped site, I'm going to start a feature length story that I won't stop until either
a) it ends
b) I get sick of it
c) you get sick of it (all four of you that read my blog)

There's going to be a heavy aspect of tassawuf to this tale, so if you think that that aspect of Islam is the most evil thing since Pharoah, then please keep your comments to yourself and just don't read it. Those not familiar with tassawuf may find certain aspects and terminology strange - you can find the answers through the links on my blog, though you may have to dig deep.

Names and places (bar the obvious, like the Haramain and actual historical people) are fictional because I'm too lazy to research the info needed for an actual historical story. Too lazy to proofread, too (shameful, I know)...

It's just a work in progress, and if I like it a lot, and it gets a good response, I'll go back and polish it up, insha'Allah.

Enjoy! (Can't think of a title yet)

Chapter One


I would never forget that summer night, laden with the kind of oppresive heat that coated every movement with lethargy, when he came back to me and, as was his wont, turned my life upside down. That morning I had sat, arms folded around my drawn knees and my back resting against the thick wood of my hut, watching as the crimson dawn blossomed, chasing away the last hints of the night. Summer's breath had yet to touch this day, and the biting chill made me draw my cloak around my shoulders just a little bit tighter. Flecks of grit, riding upon the wave of a gentle breeze, brushed against my skin, and in the distance the rhythmic sound of an axe cracking into wood mixed with the soft chant of the Qur'an reciters from the city below. I knew the Jinns would melt into the shadows now as the Angels gathered, listening.

My heart still throbbed with the nur from the morning prayer, but it was fading fast, like the dying, glowing embers of a fire that had burned itself out. It was enough, though, for me to sit there, as was my daily habit, and reflect. At that moment in time, I felt secure, a sense of unity that made me aware of how tightly-knit my own life was into my surroundings. Here, life was not a jumbled mess of random events. Here, I could sense the comforting presence of Allah, Lord of the Worlds, as He pushed the breeze and made the grass flutter, as He pulled the sun up from its slumber, as He permitted my heart to beat, one thump at a time. I lay my head back, feeling the cold touch of the wood against my hair, and closed my eyes, sighing.

For a long while I stayed exactly like that, until the heat of the morning sun stroked my face, its golden light seeping in through my closed eyelids. Voices floated up from the city below, drowning out the tinkling melody of birdsong. I opened my eyes, realising that it was time to go. Another day awaited.


*

My hut lay perched upon a hill overlooking the city, another token that the townsfolk took as a sign of my eccentricity. My solitary existence puzzled most of them and, at worst, frightened others. It wasn't right, they said. There's something wrong with that one, they said. Truth be told, I much preferred it this way. The hustle, bustle and noise of living with such a large throng of people grated on my soul and exhausted my heart. Here, im my small wooden hurt, I was the king of all that I surveyed, answering to none but Allah, and depending on none but Him either.

The day passed just like any other. As the sun continued to rise, I made my way around to the back of my dwelling, where a pair of my brown cows stood waiting. Perching myself upon a wobbly stool, I kicked a dented tin bucket under one of the animals and began milking away with easy familiarity. The cow eyed me with mild disinterest as she chewed on some straw, her glassy eyes like deep brown eggs. Sometimes I thought she would give me a look of bemused disgust, but I waved the thought away as a trick of my mind. It wouldn't do that people would think I was mad, too. Or did they think that already?

Next I went to the water pump, pushing down on the lever as it groaned in protest before releasing its goods. As I let go, flecks of brown rust stuck to my hand, a sign of how old my equiptment actually was. Then it was time to chop the wood, the blade of the axe glinting in the sunlight as it crunched into the logs. It was from this that I made my livelihood - selling firewood to the denizens of the city, though Allah knows that it was a very difficult task to do so at the height of summer.

I then made my way down the dusty, winding path that led into town; the grass that hemmed it in eventually melting into dwellings and shops, the smell of freshly baked bread hanging in the air, the sound of vegetables being chopped and pots banging ringing out from within the houses. People passed by offering their salaams, and I replied with a smile, letting the cacaphony of voices wash over me; the shouts and the whispers, the laughs and the murmurs, catching the gossip that fell freely from tongues here. So-and-so did this, so-and-so did that. I closed my heart to the words, though I couldn't help but hear that the rumours of war had now grown stronger. The Romans were massing at our borders and it may soon be the time for all able bodied men to go out and defend Dar al Islam. Ice trickled in my heart, but I tried to steel myself against it. My nafs whispered its usual concerns, how this was so unfair, how this would disrupt my carefully settled lifestyle. I grit my teeth, and pushed the thoughts away.

*

Evening came and went, and after the nightfall prayer, I made my usual detour into the woods at the far side of the hill. Eager anticipation bubbled in my heart as I ducked under thick, leafy branches, the fresh scent of which seemed to uplift my soul even higher. I passed the gnarled remains of a giant oak tree, pushed through the thick undergrowth, staining my thowb with sap and thorns, then rounded the final corner until I came to a stream, bubbling over the mismatched boulders, the reflection of cold starlight swimming in its green waters.

There she sat, under a overhanging branch pregnant with round, red fruits, her green eyes watching me with amusement. "And for a moment," she said softly, "I thought you were going to desert me."

Smiling, I sat beside her, finding it strange when she looked away shyly. "I wouldn't do that," I replied. "I've never done so before and you know that."

Reaching up, I pulled at one of the fruits. It wouldn't give, so I tugged a little harder, sending the leaves raining down upon the two of us, before it broke free with a snap. "Here," I said, holding out my hand.

She took it gingerly, her eyes flashing from under her scarf. "Thank you. You show me such kindness."

"Only to make you happy," I replied. Our eyes briefly met, the hint of a connection forging between our hearts, before she looked away again.

She laughed, as though finding my words - or my actions - too ridiculous to accept, but a smile came to my face anyway. Here, I felt a different sense of completeness, a different texture in the nur. This, then, had to be right, and I was due it. Solitude I may prefer in general, but it ate at my heart, leaving a void that only she filled. I knew, so long as I kept to a code of decency, that all would be well with this affair.

Looking away, she knitted her fingers around her knees. "Zayd," she said.

"Habiba?" I replied, and the ghost of a faint smile touched her lips, then vanished so quickly that I had to wonder whether I had imagined it.

She was silent for a heartbeat, pensive. The seething sound of crickets chirping seemed to have amplified in the last moment, and I was suddenly aware of the waves of heat that still baked the land, despite the absence of the sun. The scent of her perfume floated towards me, tickling my senses, making my heart beat faster.

"My father wishes me to marry." She cocked her head to one side, picked up a twig, then idly pushed some pebbles with it in the dirt. "Perhaps it's time to bring this out in the open."

"I don't see why we can't." The lie came quickly to my tongue. I tried to defuse the conversation quickly. "If we can just overcome the scandal and the shame, I'm sure all would be well."

She didn't catch it. "Yes," she said sadly. "Don't you want to?"

I looked away. Why had she brought this up now? Why had she burst my carefully constructed bubble? "Of course," I said, and this time I meant it. "You were guided to me and I was guided to you." I almost told her that she completed me, but realised that it would sound foolish on my lips. "We're happy. It will happen, insha'Allah, you'll see." I waited an instant, watching her."Let's not talk of this now. The night is young. There's plenty other things I'd rather share with you."

"Yes," she assented again, smiling. "You're right."

And we talked into the night, sharing hopes, fears, and dreams, the stars our only companions, our twinned laughter catching on the wind and flying into the air.

*

My eyes were heavy as I made my way back home. Glancing up at the sky, I knew it would be dawn soon. Thankfully, this was the night preceeding Jumu'ah and I needed not to trade in the morning. Pulling back the bolts to my door, I entered my hut, the stuffy warmth wrapping around me like a tight cloak. Quickly I lit one of the oil lamps, watching the flame flicker, then catch, slowly spreading light around my small dwelling.

It didn't surprise me in the least to see sidi Musa sitting at my table, green turban perched upon his head, eyes twinkling, and a frost of grey hair coating his beard. "Assalaam alaikum."

"Wa alaikum as salaam," I replied settling into a chair opposite him. I didn't even bother to ask how he'd gotten into my house. Sidi Musa was a muqaddam of one of the Sheikhs of the path. I forgot, at that instant, exactly which tariqa he belonged to. "How are you?"

"Alhamdulilah," he said, smiling. "Late night walk?"

I pursed my lips. "You could say that, yes."

"Ah," he said, a knowing glint in his eye. "So good to see you again, my friend. You don't ever write, you know."

"I know." A warm smile spread across my face. "I'm sorry."

He leaned back, making the chair creak. "And staying cooped up in this little hut." He glanced around and sniffed disapprovingly before letting his eyes rest on my face. "It's not good for you."

I shrugged. "You should have written to say you were coming." A twinge of regret bit at my heart. "I could have prepared." I spread out my arms in gesture of helplessness. "Now I have nothing to offer you."

He ignored my words. "It must be lonely, my boy," he said. "No one to talk to, to share things with." He leaned forward, his eyes widening. I shrank back instinctively. "I'd go mad."

"I cope," I said quickly. "How are things back home?"

"Good, good," he said. "The murids recite their wirds faithfully. My grandchildren keep me busy and drive my daughter insane." Genuine warmth flooded his voice. "Alhamdulilah, I don't have much to complain about." He paused, fixing me with a stare. At that instant, I got the awful sensation that he was going to strike me. He did worse. "There's no baraka in what you're doing, you know."

It was like a hammer to a block of ice. "She's kind and she makes me happy. We make each other happy."

"And it makes Allah happy?"

I had no answer to that. All I knew was that she fulfilled a part of me that would remain horrifically empty otherwise.

Musa continued. "Ah, emotional zina." I had long ago given up trying to wonder how he knew what I was thinking. I vaguely remembered a dars by his Sheikh in which it was mentioned the more a ruh is purified, the more transparent it becomes and it gains the ability to read thoughts. I squirmed uncomfortably in my chair as he opened his mouth to speak again. "That's almost as bad as the real thing. Besides, there's more to marriage than either of those aspects."

"She wishes to marry me and I wish to marry her."

His eyes flashed. "No," he said. "Neither of you wish that. Not truly. It's an alliance of convenience, shall we say. Let's take this path because no other one is available."

"It's difficult for me to marry," I protested, "being the son of slaves. You know that." I watched as he nodded. "I've contented myself with being alone."

"Ah, have you, my boy, have you really?" he pressed on. "If you were content you wouldn't need to do this. If you were content, you would abstain, and Allah would bring you closer to Him and you would be satisfied. If there's no baraka in the method, then there'd be no baraka should the two of you ever wed. She betrays Allah by conversing with you now, she'd betray you after any union."

Had anyone else talked to me in this manner, the fury would have been coursing through my veins already. But I had too much respect for sidi Musa. That, and the calm demeanour and soft tone to his voice, gave him an aura of serenity that was hypnotising. Despite that, I tried to push my case. "She isn't like that. She's good."

"Sometimes the devil takes the form of an angel."

"So she's my devil?"

"Maybe you are hers."

Again, I was at a loss for words, frustration and the uneasy stain of unrighteousness coiling around my heart. It was at that point, in a heartbeat where time seemed to freeze, that I realised how much I had deluded myself. The warm feelings from earlier in the night vanished instantly, replaced by a stab of black ice.

"We're not here to follow our own desires," Musa said softly, reading into my musings again. "That's not why we were created."

I whispered a prayer and felt a flicker of nur vibrate in my heart. It was weak, limp. Again, somehow Musa caught it. "You don't nurture it that's why, my boy," he said sadly. "It's ripped from you and buried far away." His words seemed faint. But why, I pondered, did I feel so happy with her? "Because your nafs is satisfied. But your ruh is dying."

"Stop doing that!"

He chuckled, and so infectious was the sound that I laughed along with him. I felt some of my gloom lift.

"It's good to see you smile," he said, the sincerity in his voice thick.

I felt a sudden catch at my heart. "It's good to see you at all!" I replied truthfully. "Subhan'Allah, it's been so long."

"So it has, my boy, so it has." He coughed, looked away as though embarassed or moved, then turned back. "They ask about you back home. Especially you're aunt. That reminds me." He reached down, picking up a travel pack that I hadn't noticed until then. He ruffled through it, his brow creased. "She had a gift for you," he mumbled. "Clothes or some such nonsence. Wanted me to make sure you were eating well. Is that cheese?"

I blinked, caught off by the sudden change of subject, then noticed that he was spying a small, round cheese that I had left on the table in preparation for breakfast. I hoped it hadn't spoiled. "Help yourself," I said with a wave of my hand.

Remembering my manners, I pulled myself out of my chair and walked over to the hearth as I heard Musa mumble 'bismillah' before biting into the food. Shame touched my cheeks as I realised how much in disarray my home was. Every speck of dust, every stain, every mismatched item of crockery stared at me accusingly, telling me that I was in no fit state to recieve any visitors.

Heat was rapidly draining away from the air, so I crouched by the fireplace, brushing away the black and grey ash from previous fires, piled up some fresh logs and ignited the whole bundle with a flint. I made my way to the stove, still in the same room, poured some water into a pot, and added some herbs. Musa's voice was a hum in the background, as he filled me in on all the details and happenings from his hometown. I smiled at his recollections, glad that I had a little bit of company for once. I waited until the water boiled into a froth, steam gushing into my face and coating my skin with moisture. I pulled an earthenware mug from a cupboard, peered in, and grimaced as I noticed the stains nestled at the bottom. I found another, cleaner one and poured the steaming concoction into it. It hissed as it filled the mug, bubbling as it reached the rim. I placed it in front of the elder man as a sudden thought occured to me.

"Is there any other reason for this sudden visit, sidi?" I asked, slipping into the chair once more.

His eyes twinkled in response. "I thought you would never ask, my boy." He grinned. "I'm going on a journey. A long one. I thought you might like to accompany an old man, it being so difficult for me to travel these days."

I found that hard to believe, though I'd caught the humour in his tone anyway. Thoughts whirled around my head. I couldn't just pack up and leave. I had my trade here. I had, I remembered with a sudden lurch of my heart, people here. I hazarded a guess that it was those very same people - or just the one person - that Musa wanted to drag me away from.

"It would be worth your while," he said, a conspiratorial edge to his words. "For this world and the next."

I leaned forwards, interested despite myself. "Meaning?"

"Meaning you need to get out. You let so much slip by living here like this."

Darkness entered my voice. "You know why I live like this." He didn't respond, though I saw the understanding in his eyes. I kept the subject on track. "Where are you going anyway?"

"Wherever Allah takes me," he replied.

"Why?"

"I'm searching for something." A pause, and I gestured for him to continue, feeling myself being drawn further and further into his words. "I wish to find the thing that is most beloved to Allah."

"The Prophet, may Allah bless him and give him peace," I replied quickly.

"No, not who," Musa said. "What."

"And you want me to come?"

"You need to come."

Confusion settled in both my heart and my mind, making me dizzy. His words were cryptic, but I was familiar with that coming from sidi Musa.

He gingerely took a sip from his drink, grimaced, and watched me carefully from above the rim of the mug. A mixture of amusement and hope danced in his eyes. "Get some sleep," he said at last. "Then you can think about it in the morning." He took another sip. "But please do think about it."

To be continued...

I know it's a bit heavy-handed as a metaphor, but it was fun to write.

Darkness Rising

The shadow of the Beast fell across the Earth, a tangible gloom that sucked out all light and life, leaving souls dangling from it, withered and twisted. The Beast surveyed his Kingdom and was satiated, his job complete; the cold, lonely void of its existence now shared by all the Sons of Adam. His skin flickered and winked with a myriad neon lights, an otherwordly glow that bathed all before him with darkness and blotted out the stars from above. Words formed from the lights: 'Sony,' 'Pepsi', 'Nike' - Short. Empty. Meaningless.

Like a coat of dazzling armour, other images, square like the scales of a reptile, bristled on his hide, raining down a swirling cacophony of insanity upon the docile crowd in front of him. Images revealing men, women, children and animals performing nonsensical acts while ghostly, unseen laughter, rigid and drained of emotion, applauded them; images of groups of men chasing a leather sphere around a field, while the onlookers cheered, tears in their eyes; images of people shooting at one another, of explosions, of strange creatures not seen on Earth, of blood being shed, crimson droplets of life spraying into the air as though worthless.

He grinned and black smoke, acidic and noxious, poured forth from his decayed mouth; thick tendrils of liquid blackness that spread into the air, curling around the clouds and turning their sweet water sour, eating into the roots of trees and leaving their leaves stained brown like the teeth of a tobacco chewer. He gazed at his audience; happiness welling in his chest like a spring as he noticed their blank expressions, the grins etched onto their faces, the dull sheen to their eyes. Dead. They were dead, despite their beating hearts, their regular breaths. What amused him was the fact that he'd enthralled even those people that were meant to be saviours - those people with their turbans and beards; their scarves and long dresses. Yes, even those people were laughing along with the others, cheering along with the others, staring blankly at the spilt blood with all the others.

Wait. Something had caught the Beast's eye. A star twinkling out from the throng, a beam of unwavering of light that wasn't laughing, cheering or even staring blankly. He was simply smiling; a genuine, sincere smile that gave his face a coat of faint radiance. He sat cross-legged, his palms pressed together as he rested his bearded chin on the tips of his fingers, his lips moving in whispered breaths.

The Beast spoke, and his voice was a melody of song, the croon of the sensuous teenage girl mixing with the innocent charm of a group of young men, all singing about a love that they'd never experience in their lives, all captivating their listeners. Other voices joined with theirs, the harsh, bitter barks of people wrapped in violence, a mind-numbing rhythmic thump thump thump bouncing along with their words. The Beast said: "Why aren't you following the others?"

The Human looked up, surprise touching his features as though he'd noticed the Beast for the very first time. "O Mankind, worship your Lord who created you and those who went before you in order that you might receive taqwa."

The Beast hissed, his yellow eyes narrowing to glowing slits. A troublemaker. "No," he barked. "This is all there is. This is all you can become. There is no need for anything else."

The human cocked his head to one side, amused. "Verily, I am about to place a Khilafah on Earth."

"Impossible!" the Beast growled. "You're worthless, weak. You could never represent the Lord of the Worlds. You could never represent His Rahma, His Glory - you're not fit for that role. It's a dream, a passing fancy, it could never be a reality. You could never reach such heights."

"We have ennobled the Children of Adam..."

"No!"

"...and then brought him to the lowest of the low."

"Yes!" a satisfied smirk spread across the Beast's face. "I'm glad you see that." He beckoned with his hand, the wires that made up his veins pulsing with crackling blue light. "Come - join the others. I will grant you security. I am all there is - what I offer you will bring you happiness."

"In the Remembrance of Allah do hearts find satisfaction."

"Temporarily!" The Beast gave an exasperated snort. "What I bring lasts a lifetime!"

"...the hereafter is better and more enduring."

The Beast's singsong voice shot up an octave. "Forget about it. You'll never reach it. You don't have the strength to fight yourselves. I just whisper with my voice and you're under my spell. Not one of you has ever become the Khilafah of Allah; not one of you has reached your potential; not one of you has ever defeated yourselves to such an extent that you finally grasped the whole reason of your creation."

"And you have in the Messenger of Allah a perfect example for one who seeks Allah."

"No!" He pointed at the other would-be-saviours. "They all failed. They weren't steadfast. They had no patience. All I did was allure them, and they chased me greedily. They knew only I could fulfil their hopes."

"Had only the people of the cities believed and had taqwa, We would have opened up for them blessings from the heaven and Earth."

"There is only misery and darkness from both" the Beast spat.

"Allah is the light of the Heavens and the Earth..."

As though fuelled by anger, the Beast grew in size, his form filling the horizon. "Look on me and fear. I touch your hearts everyday. I whisper to you - listen to this, it relaxes you, yes, there's nothing wrong. Watch that, yes, you know where the limits are, you know when to stop. Talk to her, yes, maybe you'll marry, it's all legal. I whisper to you and you listen! I make you happy! There is no God!"

"Except Allah" the human said, still smiling.

"I make you happy!"

"In the Remembrance of Allah do hearts find -"

"No!" the Beast snarled. "You can't sustain it. You can't fight. You reach one height, then I drag you back down - and you come willingly!"

"And cause me to reach the righteous."

"You're satisfied with a little flicker of light in your heart. You don't know how to nurture it, how to make it grow. You think you touch a wave of light and you've reached the end. You think that's enough. Then you go back to your old lives as though nothing had changed. You can't do it. No one will help you do it."

"Allah does not change a people until they change what is within their own selves."

"I despise you. I despise you because you never even try to reach the potential you were created for. I despise you because you listen to me so easily."

"O Sons of Adam, did I not tell you not to listen to Shaitan? He is your enemy manifest!"

"Then don't listen to me. Listen to your own soul...your very soul craves the delights that I offer. You obey it without a second thought."

"Have you not seen the one that takes his desire as a god?"

The Beast reached out a clawed hand, blue sparks sizzling from his skin. "Then leave my presence.You cannot escape me."

"And whoever has taqwa, We will make for him a way out and provide for him from where he was not expecting."

"You don't really believe that. If you did, you wouldn't be filled with grief and anxiety; you wouldn't search out my delights in order to forget about the pain in your lives."

"Surely Allah is with those who have taqwa and beautify with excellence."

"I will hate you and afflict your kind till the end of time. And you will come to me, smiling and happy. All of you!"

The Beast's fingers curled around the Human. Still, he didn't flinch, this last truly alive member of his race. "There is none worthy of worship except Allah." He looked up, his face set firm. "You're nothing. You're a little speck in His Creation. I am the Khilafah of Allah and I banish you from my heart and mind with the words...I seek refuge in Allah from shaitan, the accursed."

Screaming, the Beast dropped the Human, and stepped back, his body fading, the sky clearing of his pollution. A few of the others blinked, their gazes broken from his diminishing form.

"I seek refuge in Allah from shaitan, the accursed."

One by one, the images and lights spread across the Beast's skin shattered, the power in those simple words driving his touch away from the Sons of Adam. The singsong voice faded, the smoke dissipated, and slowly, slowly, slowly, the Beast began to dissolve, the chains that tethered the souls of humanity to him snapping one by one.

The Human watched on impassively. "And We saved those who believed in Us and had been people of taqwa." The Beast collapsed in on itself, as though the air was being sucked out of his body, until he withered away into a puff of black smoke. "Whoever obeys Allah and His Messenger and knowingly has taqwa of Allah, they are the victors."

Still smiling, the Human turned away, not pausing to see the confused faces of the others, blinking as the sun dared to peek out from the melting darkness, spreading its warmth and life over the land, comforting the abused plants and bringing joy to the burdened clouds. He paused, a sudden thought springing up in his heart, and turned back. "Help one another with righteousness and taqwa, and don't help one another in wrong-doing and aggression." Another thought came to him, and his lips mouthed the words: "Do you command people to righteousness and forget yourselves?"

The people turned to him as one, puzzled and afraid. "What does it mean? What were we meant to be?"

"Verily, I am about to place a Khilafah on Earth."

"To do what?"

"I have not created jinns and mankind save to worship Me"

"But how?"

"O you who believe! Turn to Allah together with sincerity in order for you to have success."

"What is success?"

"That is the Garden which We give to whoever of Our servants had taqwa."

"And now?"

"Surely for the people of taqwa is a beautiful end."

"But we've slipped so many times."

"Do not despair of the mercy of Allah. He forgives sins over and over."

"You sound so certain. How do you know? We listen to the arguments and they sound so empty.We've been lied to before. We want to experience it. We want to be more than what we are now. How can we know if He's near? Do we ever feel it?"

The Human laughed, spreading his arms wide open in a gesture of welcome. "Surely," he said, partly in answer to their queries. "Surely Allah is with the excellent ones!"