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...