Saturday, March 13, 2004

I'm a little partial to the heroic, noble dialogue of 19th century literature, so I've tried to apply it to one of my characters in this story.

The people engaged in murabata were actual figures from medieval Islam, though I doubt my portrayal of one would match up to the reality.

The Rememberer finally gets a name in this one ;).

The Rememberer and the Mujahid

The Rememberer watched the flickering flames dance in front of him, the waves of blue and yellow licking the air and making it shimmer. Leaves burned from within the campfire as he gazed into it, noticing one that curled slowly like a child shifting in her sleep. The leaf turned black, molten orange fissures tearing through its skin, then withered away into red-hot ash. Dimly he was aware of the warmth of the blaze softly caressing his skin, but inside he felt drained, empty, as though his soul had been torn from him like cotton wool dragged from a thorny branch. He wasn't quite sure why he felt this way, though. He closed his eyes and saw a blood red imprint of the fire flutter under his eyelids.

They had come out, the three of them, to the forest at the edges of the city this night to relax and soothe their mind of worries. In the distance, the flickering lights of the city danced in the dark. Ahead of them, a mountain rose like a stern, silent sentinel, from the side of which a waterfall tumbled down into a river. He listened to the hum and buzz of the river, the steady roar of the waterfall droning on in the distance, like the march of a thousand drummers. The water sloshed lazily closer to shore, the pungent scent of the river floating over towards them. Crickets chirped, a rhythmic chorus of sighs pulsing like the beat of a heart. Glowing insects glided erratically around his face, considered him for a moment, then flew away, searching for something more interesting to feed on.

Moonlight pooled around the form of a nearby man, and the Rememberer saw his friend Ismael approach, his arms laded with fruits, his round face red with exertion.

"Eat," Ismael said, motioning to the pile of sweet smelling fruits. "Abdullah ibn Abdullah Abu Abdullah." He chuckled. "That's a lot of Abdullah's in your family, you know."

The Remember smiled, picked up an apple, pondered over it for an instant, then took a bite, the sharp juices rolling around his mouth. "Well, we're all slaves of Allah anyway, aren't we?"

"Indeed, this is so, ikhwan," another voice said. "And, at the same time, it is not so."

They both turned to the sound of the new voice. Clad in black and framed by the moonlight, the tall, thin man knelt beside them, his armour clinking softly with every motion. Sparkling eyes shone out from under his hood, and his posture and movements were graceful, confident and relaxed. Serenity rolled out from him in waves, and it was hard for the others not to be affected by it. It was something Abdullah couldn't describe, but he was always struck with awe when in this man's presence. This was Zain, a Mujahid engaged in murabata - volunteer fighters that kept lonely vigils at the borders of Dar al Islam, waging war against enemies within their souls and enemies from outside, spending time immersed in dhikr, study and honing their craft with swords and bows. He had been assigned to them to protect them this far from the city.

Zain took in a deep breath. "Such beauty," he said, his eyes tracing their surroundings, before coming to rest on the two of them. "You should treasure these memories. You cannot know the power of Allah cloistered in your little houses, such as you live now. Here...out here...this is where hearts connect with nature; this is where the trees, the birds, the tiniest of insects remember their Lord. And this is something your ruh will recognise. We all breathe together, in ibadah. It's our own arrogance that makes us believe that only we are the slaves of Allah."

The warrior's words sank deep, and Abdullah looked around, a new appreciation for his environment growing in his heart. In the distance, through the lines of twisted, moss covered trees, he could still make out the faint outlines of the waterfall, the moon’s glistening light glossing over the foam with a silvery hue. The light couldn’t quite catch the river itself, though, and it ebbed and flowed in a black, syrupy mass. He let his eyes return to the waterfall, seeing the spray sparkle; incandescent droplets that flickered, then died. "Well, it certainly is beautiful," he murmured.

Suddenly, Zain's face grew pensive and his voice dropped. "And yet there are shadows gathering."

As if on cue, a piercing scream tore through the air, making Ismael and Abdullah jump. They scrambled to their feet in panic, lunging clumsily for the curved daggers that hung from their belts. Zain rose slowly, blinking as he cocked his head from one side to the other.

"Where did that...?" Ismael began, breathing heavily.

Zain snapped his fingers and motioned to the north. "This way," he said. "Make haste, ikhwan."

How exactly the Mujahid had pinpointed the source of the noise, Abdullah couldn't quite tell. He followed, his heart thumping, as Zain sprang off, drawing his sword with a metallic sigh, the light catching off the polished steel in a flash. They ploughed through the forest, the leaves and branches scratching at their faces, the scent of dew overpowering. Still they followed, this time ducking the branches and feeling the grass, then the crumbling soil, crunch under their boots. Sometimes a stem, sticky with sap, would become caught in Abdullah's tunic, stretch, bend, then snap backwards, caressing him harshly and reddening his skin. Finally they emerged into a clearing, the sky like a canopy above their heads, pierced with the twinkle of a million stars.

It only a took a moment to digest the sight in front of them. A Muslim cowered on the ground, trickles of blood on his face as another man, clearly one of the People of the Book judging from his attire, towered over him, a blade ready to strike the killing blow. Swiftly, in one liquid smooth motion, Zain reached back, pulled out his short bow, locked in an arrow, aimed and released. The spinning metal tip tore through the air, then struck the raised sword in a shower of sparks.

In an instant, Ismael and Abdullah were upon the Dhimmi, their fists flying, their lips uttering curses. The other Muslim shuffled away on his knees, gasping. "Save me, brothers!" he choked. "This madman wants to kill me!"

Ismael's face curled in anger as he raised his dagger. "I'll teach you," he spat. "How dare you attack one of my brothers like this?"

"Hold." Zain's voice rang out and, despite its quiet tone, the underlying hint of command making them all pause.

"Why?" Ismael said. "We all saw what was going to happen!"

"Hold, I say," the Mujahid said, walking forwards, the twigs and dried leaves snapping under his boots. He motioned at the Dhimmi with his sword. "What say you?"

The Dhimmi looked at the four of them, fear in his widened eyes, as he gulped down in panic. His blade lay forgotten beside him. "This...this man...he came into my land...not far from here...demanding he take my livestock." He paused to catch his breath. "He said that there was nothing I could do to stop him. Everyday he came...pestering, bullying...I just...I just got sick of it."

"Lies," Ismael said, sniffing. "Likely you wanted his property and wanted to kill him to possess it."

Zain fixed Ismael with a hard stare and he fell into silence. "This is not the speech of a Believer." He turned to the other Muslim. "Akhi, swear by Allah that the Dhimmi is lying, and we will support you, both in this world and the next."

Silence greeted him.

"Akhi?"

A muscle twitched in the Muslim's cheek as his forehead creased in a frown. "It is as he said."

A gasp escaped from Ismael's lips, but Zain simply lowered his sword, his face unmoved. "We will not support injustice over justice, no matter who is the perpetrator. 'Help your brother when he is oppressed and is oppressing'...this is a matter for the Qadi's. I will escort you both back to the city. Prepare yourselves."

With that, he walked away, his lips moving with silent words, his head bowed. Abdullah watched him go, still not able to digest exactly what had happened here. "Where are you going?" he asked.

The Mujahid paused, then looked up, regret in his eyes. "To pray salat-al-tawba."

Confusion whirled in Abdullah's mind. "But...why?"

"Because," Zain replied slowly. "Just like with the two of you, the thought entered my heart that I should just slay the Dhimmi for daring to strike a Muslim, regardless of the true nature of the situation." He turned away. "It was an unjust thought."

And before the Rememberer could say anything else, the Mujahid had gone, swallowed by the shadows.