Ok…here's chapter 1 of a possible new story. I've pretty much got the plot worked out in my head, so there shouldn't be too many delays in updating this, insha'Allah. I still don't think it's the best I can do, and Allah knows the truth of that, and I know the ideas are a little simplistic, but let me know which story you prefer…

I've 'modernised' the dialogue a little. The country and people are purely fictional, but I was thinking 'Muslim Spain' while writing this. Musa – and all the insights from the other story – will be in this one, but will come in a little later.

A quick disclaimer: a lot of the concepts in the story are from what I have understood from my teacher. However, this does not mean that my understanding is neccesarily correct: one should always seek out a qualified scholar in order to understand the deen correctly.

Let me know what you think…

The Winding Ascent


Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Rahim

As I sit in the cold, a thin cloak wrapped around my shoulders, I watch the flickering candlelight dance on the waxy scroll before me. The parchment crackles as I rest my hand upon it, the nib of my quill glistening in the faint light.

Some may wonder why I wish to preserve these words in ink; others will no doubt wonder if what they are about to read rings with any semblance of the truth. All, perhaps, will ponder as to whether I experienced everything I said I experienced, or whether my words are embellished with delicate brushstrokes of the finest varnish.

None of that, I beg to propose, is in the slightest bit important. It matters not whether these people, places and misadventures actually ever existed. It matters not whether I witnessed it all, or whether I pieced it al together from hearsay. What matters is the light reflected therein, what matters is that a once blazing fire of love has almost become extinguished, and it is hoped that these words will be the flint that sparks in people's hearts once more. No more wondering, no more discussing, no more words - instead reach out, stand up, and grasp for the fruit of that experience for your own selves, insha'Allah. The tree still stands.

For me, too, it is a reminder, a signpost on the way, a standard often forgotten in the illusion of life.

But I digress. Time is short.

A breeze slips under my door, scattering dust and playing havoc with the tiny flame. It scatters, licking the air as it gasps, then clings to what it knows instinctively is real, becoming whole once more, finding peace and serenity.

Think of the flame as your own life…

Errors are from my nafs; rare kernels of truth are from Allah. These words are not to be taken as a guide for life. The summit is high, the path is treacherous, enemies looming on all sides – yet there are those who make camp on the lowest slope of the mountain saying to themselves: 'This is all there is. There is nothing more to see.' It is to them that these words are addressed. Not a guide for life, no, but an oft-forgotten signpost, one that says in big, bold letters: Look up!

In another time and another place, the Believers resided in the land of Zaytun, so called because of its rich produce of olives. The calm centre in the eye of the storm, they found themselves encircled by their enemies, ever encroaching in on their land. In the centre of the centre stands the city of Castleton, named simply for the immense fortress palace of the Caliph, Mazin ibn Abdul Karim…

Chapter 1

The sun split the murk of dawn, a spider' s web of crimson fractures spreading through the darkness. Smeared light crept up the rough walls of the palace, glinting off the pools and fountains, and bouncing off the rows of polished marble arches that led deep into the fortress, making them shine with an almost incandescent glow.

Like a forest animal waking after a winter’s long sleep, something had stirred amongst the people of Castleton in response to the news of the immanent visit of an emissary from the People of the Book residing in the Outlands. Eager whispers leapt from tongue to tongue, people gained an extra spring to their steps, and the warm glow of hope rose like the morning sun. A change, it was said, was as good as a night’s rest and the people were ready for it.

After years of insecurity and doubt, after decades of being smothered under the damp cloak of fear, the door of peace had opened a crack, mercy spilling in like light. Or so they hoped. Why else would an emissary come? Now their crops and livelihoods would be safe. Now trade routes would be opened, and the clink of gold and silver would ring out once more.

They didn't have to wait long. The low drone of a horn piercing the mid-morning air told them that their expected visitor had arrived. Those in the palace rushed into their long-rehearsed positions, grins wide and faces flushed. The Caliph's guards marched to the gate and then, with a flick of a wrist from the commanding officer, the steel bolts snapped apart with metallic thuds, the wizened wood of gates creaking slowly open, flooding the forecourt with golden light.

From a curved balcony high above the palace courtyard the Caliph Mazin watched the newcomers approach, courtiers rushing around him, the rhythmic murmur of their excited voices in the air. A wave of noise – chattering voices, shouts, sighs, barked orders – hung on the breeze, then washed over him, as though the heavens themselves buzzed with anticipation.

"There's less than I thought," Mazin said through pursed lips. "I mean the entourage is quite small."

Umair, his Vizier, looked on, a hand over his eyes. "The people are smitten, though. Look how they welcome them. I've never seen so many garlands…or such joy. At least not since you ascended to the Caliphate, Commander of the Faithful."

Mazin's lip twitched. High above from his vantage point, the people of Castleton seemed like ants crawling over the land. He had to admit, though, that were going about their work with a renewed sense of purpose. As though, he mused, they'd found a well of hope after their previous one had run disappointingly dry. His people…

"Sad that they greet such a one with such enthusiasm." The Caliph leaned forward, gripping the smooth handrail in front of him, the polished wood cold under his touch. He glanced at his advisor. "Don't you think?"

Taking in a deep breath Umair stood to attention, a light breeze cutting through the few strands of hair that peeked out from under his turban. "You have to forgive them," he said. "Our people only admire the Outlanders for their wealth, nothing more, nothing less." He paused as the rhythmic tapping of horseshoes grew closer. "Had our own fortunes been so blessed they would not be so welcoming, I assure you."

So. Even his own Vizier clung to the same belief his people did – that the Believers fall from grace was wholly the fault of the Caliph's.

Mazin's sharp eyes looked on. The assembled throng peeled apart like skin from a fruit as they gave the Outlanders free passage. The emissary, surrounded by a small, heavily armed phalanx, came to a halt, churning dust as their horses shook their heads.

Seeing the soldiers made Mazin glance to his right, where his own Honour Guard stood, silent and with eyes narrowed, his long beard freshly oiled. Mazin almost cocked an eyebrow. It wasn't like AbdurRahman ibn Hamza to dress up for an occasion.

The Caliph was snapped out of his musings by the sound of his Vizier's voice once more. "In fact," Umair was saying, "I'm sure a fruitful result from today's meeting – say, regarding trade routes and whatnot – may win you back the heart of Castleton."

Inwardly, the Caliph winced. "What you are trying to say," he opined, "is that the oil that runs the state machine needs to be replenished, are you not?"

Umair smiled a crooked smile. "Something like that."

Mazin felt the muscles in his jaw stiffen. Whatever happened to the Golden Age? Did it even exist? "It didn't used to be like this."

"Times change, and we change, too, unless we wish to be swept away." The Vizier breathed heavily, a drop of acid in his voice. "It is but by the Grace of Allah that we've survived this long."

This was, Mazin mused, a day for surprises. Not only had his Honour Guard decided to respect his foes by taking care over his appearance, but his Vizier was now having an uncharacteristic flirtation with religion.

"What is it?" Umair asked, noticing the Caliph's expression.

"I think," Mazin replied, the whisper of boots crunching on gravel greeting his ears, "that I'm going mad. Come," he gestured to his Guard and courtiers, "it's time to greet our guests."

*

"One!" Abdullah bounced down the first step, the soft carpet springing under his feet. "Two!" He hopped to the second, a grin spreading over his face. "Three!" Snapping his head up he spotted the small slit of window, a shaft of twinkling light bursting through, then pooling onto the floor below. A gleeful thrill of anticipation thrummed through his heart. The coast was clear – everyone else was otherwise occupied with the visitors.

Abdullah spun on his heels, and snatched at his companion's sleeve. "Come, Ali!" he chirped in a cheerful tone, tugging at his reluctant friend. "We can see the soldiers from here. Those foreigners are said to be fierce warriors, and we don't want to miss taking a peek."

Ali, a mournful expression hanging from his face, held up a basket that he had tucked in the crook of one arm. "We have to deliver this to the kitchens, remember?" he moaned, his eyes flitting from left to right as though watching for spies. "We're certain to be punished if we're late. And you just know that they'll notice our tardiness of all people."

A light laugh floated from Abdullah's lips. "No, they won't!" He glanced at his friend, winking. "Insha'Allah, they won't!" Pulling Ali to the window, he crouched at the sill, licking his lips. "They'll be too busy anyway."

Ali pressed his back against the wall, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back. "I know we're going to get into trouble, I just know it." He flicked at the loose, stiff strands of wicker that had escaped from the basket's intricately weaved form. "We're going to regret this."

"No, we won't," Abdullah protested. He wasn't going to let anyone dampen his spirits this day. Ever since he'd heard of the visit, he'd rushed every day to the Shaykh of the Library – apparently skilled in the knowledge of the passing of time – to ask how soon he had left. The Shaykh, enthusiastic at first for the attention, then slowly growing more and more irritated, had obliged.

Excitement made Abdullah almost jump as he gazed eagerly through the window. Only a glimpse, he knew, would satisfy him. Besides…people like him and Ali were not meant to be seen on days such as this.

"Look!" he gasped.

"We shouldn't," Ali countered, then, with a twist of melodrama in his voice, he added: "This way leads trouble."

"Ssssh!"

"We should go."

"Come, just one look!"

"Did I mention that we'd regret this?"

Finally, anger sparked in Abdullah's eyes. "You'll regret missing this!" he hissed. With a quick glance and a sigh, he softened his tone. "It'll only be for a few minutes. We can run to the kitchens, don't worry."

"I'd rather walk," Ali replied, his voice sour. Despite his protests, he lifted himself up to peer through the thin opening.

They were at the lowest level of the palace, the forecourt spread open before them, a veritable feast of breathtaking splendour. Bright flowers of a myriad shade swayed in the breeze, an explosion of colour blanketing the ground. Fountains, shaded by tall, thick trees, gushed into the air, shafts of sunlight spearing the water in a sparkling haze.

Abdullah, biting his bottom lip in awe, watched with wide-eyed admiration as the foreign soldiers stood to attention, their armour tinkling from their ever-so-slight movements. "Look at that," he gasped. "Look at the way the people respect them, admire them." His hand closed into a fist. "What a feeling that must be…"

Ali cocked an eyebrow. "Well, be sure to tell me all about it," he said, the barb in his voice spiking his words. "Kitchen boys aren't the most beloved of people, in case you've forgotten. Especially not orphaned kitchen boys."

Resting his chin on folded arms, Abdullah ignored the jibe. "But perhaps we could join the army one day-"

"- what? With the People of the Book?"

"No, no!" Abdullah grinned, working a lone pebble between two fingers. "With the Muslims, of course. But still…" His eyes were drawn to the thin swords hanging at each soldier's waist, the sun catching the curve of the blades like liquid fire. "Beautiful…"

Ali, his attention now rapt, gazed at one of the trees jealously hanging over a pool. He watched as a solitary leaf broke off a branch, spinning slowly down, until it came to rest on a bed of curved cherry blossoms, tinted pink and gently bobbing up and down on the surface of the water. Small birds glided overhead, landing on trembling branches, darting their heads this way and that, then flying off in a blurred flutter of wings. "Yes…" he said softly. "It is beautiful, isn't it?"

Abdullah grinned, happiness blossoming in his heart. At last, his friend was throwing himself into the spirit of things. Abdullah's narrowed eyes focused in on the swinging swords once more. "Look at the curve on that…"

The heady perfumed scent of the flowers floated through the air, making their noses twitch involuntary. Ali, transfixed by a lone petal twisting this way and that in the churning emerald froth of water, could only say: "So well-designed…"

Smacking his hand against the sill, a puff of dust erupting as a result, Abdullah chimed in happily: "Exactly! Now how can you possibly say that being a soldier isn't the finest of all pursuits?"

Blinking, his brow creased in confusion, Ali glanced up at his friend. "What?"

Abdullah held up a hand. "Imagine…adored, respected…" His voice was hushed as his eyes glowed. "No one telling us what to do, no one pushing us around, trampling us underfoot."

"I think you'll find," Ali said, his eyes narrowed as he drew himself upright, "that soldiers do have people telling them what to do."

"Not like that," Abdullah replied, shaking his head. "Their orders are noble, just. Much better than 'deliver the flour to the kitchens.'"

"Speaking of which," Ali said, walking off, "we're going to be late."

Abdullah sighed, his heart deflating. As much as he loved his friend, Abdullah couldn't quite understand why he was so adamant to tolerate the vice that Fate had put them in. Surely, he mused, there was more to life than this. More excitement, more riches, more glory. Who would want to work in the palace kitchens for the rest of their lives?

Not me, he vowed inwardly as he ran one hand through his hair. I'm going to be somebody.

Watching Ali scuttle off down the corridor, Abdullah took one last lingering glance at the soldiers, then sprinted off to catch up to his friend. He spun on his heels as he reached Ali, walking backward for a moment. "We won't be late," he said, grinning once more. "I know a short-cut."

Ali's eyes flickered. "What do you-"

Abdullah grabbed his sleeve once again. "Come on!"

The two young boys, their sandals slapping against the floor, ran down the twisting, turning passageways, ducking under arches and dodging the people, angry curses ringing out in their wake.

Abdullah, his chest heaving and his brow glistening with sweat, came to a sudden stop in front of a pair of double doors. Noticing Ali's quizzical expression, he lifted a finger to his lips. "Ssshhh!"

Placing his hand flat on the polished surface, Abdullah gingerly pushed open the door, then slipped inside, Ali in tow. Darkness swallowed them. Abdullah sniffed, a musty sense of warmth enwrapping the two friends, making them twitch. Their footsteps light as they crept in, they heard the door close behind them with a soft click.

"Where are we?" Ali whispered, his breathing harsh.

"Library," Abdullah said, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. "It's been closed for today." The faint outline of another doorway came to his eyes. Beckoning to his friend, Abdullah sprinted across to it, then pressed his back against the wall.

From the corner of his eye he saw Ali follow suit and, when his friend had reached him, Abdullah craned his neck, peering into the next room.

Nothing.

The curved shape of a small table formed in his eyes, standing still a little way ahead of him. With another gesture to Ali, he ghosted over to it in a silent sprint, then crouched, using it as cover. His narrowed eyes peered in deeper. Still nothing.

The friends, their ragged breathing echoing a little too loud, then padded across the lush carpet. Ali brushed against another table, making it wobble, its legs uneven. "Look," he whispered.

Abdullah nodded, spotting yet another doorway, this time framed with light, an almost eerie glow seeping in from the cracks. Somewhere in the deepest recess of his mind, the young man began to wonder whether this was such a good idea after all. Doubt's icy touch nipped at his heart, the steady thud of his heart a roar in his ears. Somewhere nearby something ticked, faint and steady.

With a sudden flash the entire room was engulfed in golden light. Abdullah froze, Ali stiffening instantly beside him. His mouth dried instantly, his heart hammering now in his chest.

It took them but a moment to realise that the door they'd been concentrating so intently on was now open, a silhouette of a large man now standing in the opening.

The man started. "What are you-?"

"Run!" Abdullah grabbed his friend once more, colliding into the newcomer shoulder-first. The man, gasping as the breath left him, toppled to one side. His shoulder stinging, Abdullah ran into the next room, the lamplight burning into his vision, bringing tears to his eyes. He spotted another opening and, with a flourish of his arm, he overturned a nearby table, sending scrolls and parchments flying into the air.

The two friends ducked, weaved and sped down the new passageway, the air whispering past their ears, their urgent movements rustling the tapestries that hung to the wall. The corridor opened out and they fell into another room, the sweet scent of freshly baked bread mingling in the air here with the sharp tang of roasted meat. Pots clanged against each other, knives chopped against wood.

"At last." Abdullah and Ali looked up to see Mina, mistress of the chambers, gazing down at them with cool azure eyes. She brushed her hands down on her front, then plucked the basket from Ali's grasp. "I thought for a moment you two weren't going to come." She turned, her long skirts swirling, pausing only to add, "Well, chop chop. There's plenty more work to be done, you know."

Abdullah turned to his friend, grinning once more. "I told you," he whispered, leaning in close so he could be heard over the din. "Allah always helps the righteous."

Ali, turning ever-so-slowly to address his companion, managed to put on his most sourest of expressions. "And that," he said, "is us, is it?"

*

For what he supposed was the hundredth time that day Mazin watched the sun perform a theatre of light on the patterned floor of his meeting chamber. Looking up, he followed a trail of ivy, weaving and twining, as it crawled up the walls, spinning dust motes floating lazily through the air.

A low drone drilled at his head, a humming that began to throb even as he tried to concentrate. Mazin's eyes found the emissary – Yahya, his name was, or at least, that's what he'd introduced himself as – and tried to focus once more. SubhanAllah, the man could talk.

Yahya leaned back in his chair, the leather crinkling from the movement, and brought the tips of his fingers together. "And that," he said in his soft, cultured tones, "is our proposition."

Mazin's chair screeched as he pushed away from the table and stood. He began to pace, feeling Yahya's eyes upon him, his boots tapping against the marble floor. "I still don't understand," the Caliph said, waving at the table, "what this is."

Before them there sat a curved, intricately designed ornament, almost like a horn in its shape, its surface polished and slick. "I mean," he went on, "what exactly does it do?"

"It doesn't matter what it does," Yahya explained, "all that matters is the people will want it. My people do. Your people will."

A frown creased the Caliph's face. "But why?"

Yahya's eyes took on a hard glint, as though they'd turned instantly to granite. "We will make them want it."

Mazin stopped short. "How?"

A small smile danced on the emissary's lips. "Leave that to us," he said. "The people will want it. They will help make it – we have vast, vast chambers already where citizens are hard at work in my land – then they will buy it. More work, more trade, more money and," here his eyes almost sparkled, "more prosperity."

Mazin felt something catch at his heart. He glanced at his Vizier, standing one side – his Honour Guard on the other – and didn't like the almost hungry look on Umair's face. "Go on."

"A veritable feast of new guilds will spring up. The criers who will proclaim the wonder of our new wares, the constructers, the traders – all we ask is that, in return, you let us introduce this trade, and that we receive a share of the profits."

Slowly, the Caliph sank into his chair once again. It sounded neat, precise…alluring. Something gnawed at his heart, though, a twist of disquieting doubt. "It does not seem like very…noble…work. I'm not sure my people will take to it."

Another quick smile flashed on and off the emissary's thin face. "We will distract them…tournaments…games for them to watch at the end of an exhausting day. My people loved them." He flicked at a frosted glass sitting in front of him, making it sing.

Mazin tapped his fingers on the table. The wood, gouged and stained with age, rocked slightly under his touch. "Tournaments?"

"Very popular, I assure you," Yahya replied, his eyebrows arching. "Not only that, but the populace become wildly infatuated with the jousters themselves. They literally hang on their words, or even imitate their habits." He raised an eyebrow. "Imagine the influence you could wield."

"Why," the Caliph asked as he idly scratched at his wrist, "would anyone wish to imitate those they know nothing about?"

Yahya gave a slight shrug. "Sometimes it is easier to live through others than to live life itself."

Mazin sighed, shaking his head. "No…the ulema would never accept it. Nor the more conscientious of the people."

Placing his hands flat on the table, Yahya leaned forward until his knuckles cracked. "We had the same worry with our priests. But…it was child's play in the end. Have them argue endlessly over theology – amazing isn't it, how religious minds are so determined to crush their opponents in verbal battle, don't you think? – and set group against group, sect against sect. Not physically, of course…but just so much that they spend all their energies towards that one aim." He let free a short chuckle. "That's the beauty of it – while they talk about changing the world we – me and you – we will actually do so. Prosperity will be yours, as it was ours, and you will be forever remembered fondly, both, I'm sure, in this world and the next."

"Indeed!" Mazin was surprised to find that it was his Vizier who had spoken.

"So," Yahya said, his voice cheerful, "do we have an accord?"

The Caliph glanced from Umair's smiling visage to AbdurRahman's stoic one. Whispered voices floated in the air outside the room. Somewhere in the castle, someone dropped something, the metallic shimmering echoing for a moment. Mazin closed his eyes with a sigh, a dark shroud falling over his heart.

*

"As-salaam alaikum wa rahmatullah…as salaam alaikum wa rahmatullah."

Abdullah blinked as the prayer came to an end, as though waking from a deep slumber. His mind had been elsewhere – specifically, the battlefield and, more importantly, the admiring glances he would receive as a returning hero.

The excitement of the day had ebbed into a dull throb, still tingling in his heart, but no longer striking him with a bolt of pure awe. The Outlanders would be leaving in the morning, he knew, and that would probably be the last glimpse he would have at the foreign soldiers. Abdullah found that the prospect wasn't as disheartening as he thought it would be.

He leaned back on his hands as the air buzzed with first dhikr, and then conversation. Stifling a yawn, Abdullah glanced through a window set in one wall, a spill of stars streaking across the night sky, sprinkling pinpricks of light onto the prayer mats in the masjid.

Lamps, dented and stained thick with oil, blazed in their niches, stretching the shadows so that they appeared as dark cloaks, black as the night itself. Abdullah gazed around the room, his eyes falling upon a bundle of rags lying in one corner, its thin form softly rising and falling.

Majnun, madman, that's who it was. Of a peculiar notoriety all of his own here in Castleton, Abdullah knew that the madman hardly even left the masjid. Dimly, he wondered how the madman lived – he looked so frail that it was a wonder he wasn't already dead.

As if on cue, the madman's head snapped up, eyes that blazed like fire pinning Abdullah with a hard stare. Cold sweat sprang up on the young man's forehead, and he tore his gaze away, his breathing suddenly rapid.

"What is it?" Ali asked softly by his side.

Abdullah shook his head. "Nothing," he said. His eyes swept the room again, then stopped, an idea unfurling in his heart. "Look." He pointed at a trio of young men sitting to one side, obsidian beards long and emerald turbans tall. "The pious gather."

Ali smiled. "Looking for blessings?"

Grinning, Abdullah stood. "We need them, don't we?"

"Ignorant," one of the pious was saying as the two friends came to sit at their feet. "Jahils."

"Apparently," the second said, "they cavort with women and don't even know how to pray."

"And they call themselves Muslims!" the third added.

All three shook their heads. Abdullah and Ali watched in rapt awe.

"Listen to this," the first said. "I heard one jahil say that Allah had put the desire for women in his heart, so he had no choice but to follow 'His Will.'

"Pathetic," the second one added.

"Disgusting," the third said.

The first one brought his fingers to his temples. "Ah…what a world we live in," he said, melancholy coating his words.

"I know," the second sighed, somewhat theatrically. "You know in Ramadan, they all come to pray tarawih – and they can barely do wudu correctly, never mind the prayer."

"I watch them, too," the third said, "Out of the corners of my eye. When it comes for witr and they go into ruku instead of reciting the Qunut…I have to stop myself from laughing out loud – I know I shouldn't, but…ah! Such jahils!"

"I heard something ajeeb," Abdullah said, smiling. The trio turned to him, waiting expectedly. "There was one man…he said that the prohibition of wine was just for the time of the Prophet – upon him be blessings and peace – and now there was no need for it!"

"Ah!" the first pious man replied. "It breaks my heart."

"Mine, too," the second interjected. He patted Abdullah's shoulder. "Just ignore those people, my friend. Stick to your deen."

Abdullah flushed with pleasure, a rose tint rising to his cheeks. Watching the three pious men give him approving looks, the youngster was almost giddy with pleasure. Perhaps, he mused, there would be no need to join the army after all. Perhaps he could get the best of both worlds right here.

"Brothers," the third man said. "I have some news…" He paused, smiling, as all eyes fell upon him. "Shaykh Hasan is coming."

Faces lit with joy at the man's words. "Alhamdulilah!" the first man gasped. "The last time he came, hundreds attended his sermons."

"Such a moving speech it was, too," the second one said, his eyes turned inward as if reminiscing. "The whole chamber was in tears at the end."

"I know someone who stopped listening to minstrels just from that one discourse," the third man said. "At least…for two weeks."

"Ah…" the first man replied. "Well…perhaps he'll do so again after the Shaykh's next visit. We are, after all, all sinners…though, I am clearly the worst."

"What are you saying, akhi?" the third man said, astonished. "I am truly the most disgusting of Allah's creatures. You must pray for this sinner."

"No, no," the second one interjected. "If you knew my sins, you would cast me from your presence in the blink of an eye."

Abdullah, feeling something heavy suddenly press down on his chest, excused himself, the two friends leaving the pious ones to their discussion, stepping out into the night, the cool air pinching their skin. "You go on ahead, Ali," Abdullah said. He flicked at his belt, a small pouch clinking in response. "Mina gave us a small gift," he explained, grinning. "I'll get us some sweetmeats for the night."

Ali nodded, spinning on heels as he ran back up the path towards the palace. Gazing at the large building, Abdullah followed the path of the tall, crimson towers as they speared the night sky, the tiny sliver of a new moon, razor thin and sparkling silver, peeking out from behind.

Glowing fireflies danced around his face, and Abdullah took in a deep breath, the warmth of contentment wrapping itself around his heart. Orphan and kitchen boy, he may be, and with a very slim chance of becoming a soldier, but at least he had a home and, most of all, at least he was a Muslim, guaranteed Jannah, and the best of all nations.

Whistling softly to himself, Abdullah turned into a side street, away from the bustle of the main path where lanterns hung and cast a glow that left no place to hide. Smoke from cooking fires clung to the air here, curling slowly skyward. He grimaced at the sight before. This was not a very well-preserved part of Castleton, but it was the shortest path he had to the souk, and he had to get there before the last few traders shut up shop.

All he could see were broken crates, stained with the sludge of rotted fruit and smelling just as bad, littering either side of the path. His tunic fluttered in the breeze as old scrolls - the monthly ones that detailed all the relevant news of the land -swirled around his feet.

Abdullah's interest in the army now no more than the smouldering ash of an almost dead fire, he reflected back on his encounter with the pious ones. There…there he'd almost tasted a sense of belonging, where he'd been regarded as an equal. Isn't that what Islam was anyway? Equality before the Lord of the Worlds? Allah knew his life was unfair…do this, don't do that, fetch this, deliver that. Abdullah sighed…subhanAllah, why did people regard him as dirt?

Thinking back to how the pious ones had treated him – 'My friend!' that's what they'd said - he again felt his heart surge…but then, as his face crinkled in a frown, he wondered just why he'd felt darkness smudge his heart at the very end of the discussion?

Shaking away his thoughts, Abdullah peeked at the main path in between the narrow, cobbled criss-crossing streets, and – as luck would have it - caught sight of the three pious ones, this time helping an old man who had stumbled in the road.

The young man smiled. They were good people…perhaps, it wouldn't be too hard for him to be just as religious as them. Then, surely, no matter how bad the people treated him, he would know that Allah held him in high regard. Puffing his chest out, Abdullah grinned his ever-present grin. What would matter what the jahils thought of him, when Allah would love him for his piety?

Like a liquid-black snake, a hand shot out of the darkness and clutched his wrist. Abdullah reeled in shock, a needle of icy fear spiking his heart. His eyes widened as the madman peeled out of the darkness.

Abdullah's mind raced. What was he doing here? Why had he followed him?

"You," the madman said, his voice surprisingly controlled, "need a Friend."

The youngster struggled against the vice like grip, but achieved nothing more than burning his skin red. "I have one," he gasped. "I have plenty!"

"Deen."

"What?" Abdullah gritted his teeth as his head began to pound, hot tears stinging his eyes.

"Deen," the madman went on, not missing a beat, "isn't that." He pointed at the pious men with his free hand. "Or this." He pointed at Abdullah's heart.

"I don't understand!"

"A means," the madman explained, "not an end. A means, if you were so inclined," and he flicked another glance at the pious ones, "to make yourself feel superior to others, even though you may not realise it."

Scree scattered under Abdullah's feet as he continued to struggle. He glared at the madman. What was this blasphemy?

"Or," the madman breathed, his eyes shining once more, "the deen can be used for what it was meant to be used for – a means to know the very Creator of the Heavens and the Earth."

Abdullah felt his heart slow, felt himself be drawn to the light in the madman's eyes.

"Ah…" the madman whispered, "pity the one who spends his life in worship, but his knowledge of Allah increases not one jot."

Mouth dry, the youngster could only listen in a helpless thrall. His struggle ended. He felt himself drop, as though plunged into an ocean of serenity.

The madman smiled. "Pity the one who sheds tears from a mere sentimental attachment to 'Islam' but never tastes the Love that would shatter his heart and transform both him and those around him. Ah!"

Abdullah watched, his wide eyes blinking, as the madman appeared to stifle a sob. The man's fingers, a bracelet of bone, snapped tighter around Abdullah's wrist. Eyes burning, the air shimmering, the background hum of voices melted into an incomprehensible blur as the madman spoke again

"Listen to me, boy, listen! Time is short. Do you even know what your life is?"

Silence descended between them. Abdullah looked straight into the man's eyes…lit not with insanity, but with…something he couldn't quite place.

"Not for this were you created…" The madman paused, waiting to see if Abdullah was paying attention. Satisfied, he went on, "Not to just give a few rak'at, not to argue subtleties of belief or wonder at other people's wrong actions – this is nothing more than making the deen an extension of your own nafs."

Abdullah's head began to swim, the heat growing under his skin making him feel nauseous. He couldn't comprehend the madman's words, but they seemed to ring in some deep vault in his heart. His brow burned. All he wanted to do was go home. The towers of the palace beckoned invitingly in his mind's eye.

"No…" the madman went on. "Each and every one of us were created to be a reflection of His Names, to be His representative on Earth, to give up ourselves so we're nothing but a tool in His Hands, doing His Will. Ah…what a matter to be created for? What a responsibility…"

Abdullah felt the madman's grip slacken. A part of screamed at him to flee, and he felt the muscles in his legs tense, ready, but another part of him begged him to stay. The wind brushed against him, prickling the cold sweat on his skin. The silence ended.

"How many have died without realising it? How many are hurtling headlong towards their graves without striving for it? How many have a low opinion of their Lord and believe that it's not even possible to realise it, that it's not even worth to try?" His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "You need a Friend. Only a Friend can show you the way."

With that the madman released him, his eyes flashing one last time before he sank back into the shadows. Abdullah stumbled, his wrist throbbing as the blood rushed back in. Gasping for breath, the young man wiped a lock of hair from his eyes, then peered into the darkness.

There was no one there.