He found the boy lying in the shadow of a boulder.
His “Who are you?” and “Do you need help?” elicited no response. He knelt. With his fingers more than his eyes he determined that he had found a victim of the desert.
He shuddered as he felt cracked, scabby, sunburned skin. “A child,” he murmured. “And not of El Aquila.”
Little remained of the youth. The sun had baked most of the life out of him, desiccating his spirit as well as his body.
“Come, my son. Rise up. You’re safe now. You’ve come to Al Ghabha.”
The youth did not respond. Al Assad tried to pull him to his feet. The boy neither helped nor hindered him. The imam could do nothing with him. His will to live had departed. His only response was a muttered incoherency which sounded surprisingly like, “I have walked with the Angel of the Lord. I have seen the ramparts of Paradise.” He then lapsed into complete unconsciousness. Al Assad could not rouse him again.
The old man made the long and painful journey back to the monastery, pausing each fifty yards to offer the Lord a prayer that his life be spared till he had carried word of the child’s need to his abbot.
His heart had begun skipping beats again. He knew that it would not be long before Death took him into Her arms.
Al Assad no longer feared the Dark Lady. Indeed, his aches and blindness made him look forward to the pain- ease he would find in Her embrace. But he begged an indulgence, that he be allowed to perform this one final righteous deed.
The Lord had laid a charge upon him, and upon the Shrine, by guiding this victim of the desert to him and Shrine land.
Death heard and stayed Her hand. Perhaps She foresaw richer harvests later.
The abbot did not believe him at first, and castigated him for having abandoned his post. “It’s an el Habib trick. They’re out there stealing water right now.” But al Assad convinced the man. And that left the abbot no happier. “The last thing we need is more mouths.”
“‘Have you bread and your brother naught to eat? Have you water and your brother naught to drink? Then I say this unto you...’”
“Spare me the quotations, Brother Ridyah. He’ll be cared for.” The abbot shook his head. He got little thrills of anticipation when he thought of the Dark Lady claiming al Assad. The old man was one too sincere pain in the neck. “See. They’re bringing him in now.”
The brothers dropped the litter before the abbot, who examined the tormented child. He could not conceal his revulsion. “This is Micah, the son of the salt merchant al Rhami.” He was awed.
“But it’s been a month since the el Habib found their caravan!” one brother protested. “Nobody could survive the desert that long.”
“He spoke of being tended by an angel,” al Assad said. “He spoke of seeing the ramparts of Paradise.”
The abbot frowned at him.
“The old man is right,” one of the brothers said. “He started talking on the way up. About seeing the golden banners on the towers of Paradise. He said that an angel had showed him the wide earth. He says he has been told by the Lord to bring the Chosen back to the Truth.”
A shadow crossed the abbot’s face. That kind of talk distressed him.
“Maybe he did see an angel,” someone suggested.
“Don’t be silly,” the abbot countered.
“He’s alive,” al Assad reminded him. “Against all the odds.”
“He’s been with the bandits.”
“The bandits fled across the Sahel. The el Habib tracked them.”
“Someone else, then.”
“An angel. You don’t believe in angels, Brother?”
“Of course I do,” the abbot replied hastily. “I just don’t think they reveal themselves to salt merchants’ sons. It’s the desert madness talking through him. He’ll forget it when he recovers.” The abbot looked around. He was not pleased. The whole Shrine was gathering over the boy, and in too many faces there was a desire to believe. “Achmed. Bring me Mustaf el Habib. No. Wait. Ridyah, you found the boy. You go to the village.”
“But why?”
A technicality had occurred to the abbot. It looked like the perfect exit from the difficulties the boy was generating.
“We can’t nurse him here. He hasn’t been consecrated. And he would have to be well before we could do that.”
Al Assad glowered at his superior. Then, with anger to banish his aches and weariness, he set off for the village of El Aquila.
The hetman of the el Habib tribe was no more excited than the abbot. “So you found a kid in the desert? What do you want me to do about it? He’s not my problem.”
“The unfortunate are all our problems,” al Assad replied. “The abbot would speak with you of this one.”
The abbot opened with a similar remark in response to a similar statement. He quoted some scripture. Mustaf countered with the quote al Assad had used earlier. The abbot kept his temper with difficulty.
“He’s not consecrated.”
