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.

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