“You are observant, son of al Rhami,” he finally replied. “It is true. They were your father’s animals. When news came of what had happened, we saddled our best horses and rode swift and hard upon the trail. A crime so hideous could not go unpunished. Though your father’s people were not of the el Habib, they were of the Chosen. They were saltmen. The laws shielding them are older than the Empire.”
“And there was booty to be had.”
“And there was booty, though your father was not a wealthy man. His entire fortune could scarcely repay the cost we paid in horses and lives.”
Micah smiled. Mustaf had revealed his bargaining strategy. “You avenged my family?”
“Though our pursuit carried beyond the Sahel. We caught them before the very palisades of the heathen traders. Only two passed the infidels’ gates. We were gentlemen. We did not burn their wooden walls. We did not slay the men and enslave the women. We treated with their council of factors, who knew your family of old. We presented our proofs. They took council, then delivered the bandits into our mercy. We were not merciful. They took many days dying, as an example to others who would break laws older than the desert. Perhaps the vultures still pick their bones.”
“For that I must thank you, Mustaf. What of my patrimony?”
“We treated with the factors. Perhaps they cheated us. We were but ignorant devils of the sands. Perhaps not. We bore scimitars still stained with the blood of those who had wronged us.”
“I doubt that they cheated, Mustaf. It’s not their way. And, as you say, they would have been frightened.”
“There is a small amount in gold and silver. And the camels did not interest them.”
“What were your losses?”
“One man. And my son Nassef was wounded. That boy! You should have seen him! He was a lion! My pride knows no bounds. That such a son should have sprung from my loins! A lion of the desert, my Nassef. He will be a mighty warrior. If he outlives youth’s impetuosity. He slew three of them himself.” The chieftain glowed in his pride.
“And horses? You mentioned horses.”
“Three. Three of our best. We rode hard and swift. And there was a messenger, that we sent to find your father’s people, that they might know and make claims. He has not yet returned.”
“He has a long journey. It’s yours, Mustaf. All yours. I ask but a horse and a small amount of coin with which to begin my ministry.”
Mustaf was surprised. “Micah —”
“I am El Murid now. Micah al Rhami is no more. He was a boy who died in the desert. I have returned from the fiery forge as the Disciple.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
El Murid was surprised that there could be any doubt.
“For the sake of the friendship I bore your father, hear me now. Do not pursue this path. It can be naught but a way of tears and sorrow.”
“I must, Mustaf. The Lord himself has commanded me.”
“I should restrain you. I will not. May the ghost of your father forgive me. I will choose a horse.”
“A white horse, if you have one.”
“I have one.”
Next morning El Murid again taught beneath the palms. He spoke with passion, of the scarcely restrained wrath of God losing all patience with his Chosen’s neglect of their duties. The argument of the empty oasis was hard to refute. The fiery summer could not be discounted. Several of his younger listeners remained for a more scholarly question and answer session.
Three days later Nassef whispered from beyond El Murid’s tent flap. “Micah? May I come in?”
“Come. Nassef? El Murid?”
“Sorry. Of course.” The youth settled himself opposite El Murid. “Father and I have had an argument. About you.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. It isn’t a good thing.”
“He ordered me to stay away from you. Meryem too. The other parents are going to do the same. They’re getting angry. You’re calling too many ideas into question. They tolerated you when they thought it was the desert madness talking. But now they’re calling you a heretic.”
El Murid was stunned. “Me? The Disciple? They accuse me of heresy? How can that be?” Had he not been chosen by the Lord?
“You challenge old ways. Their ways. You accuse them. You accuse the priests of Al Ghabha. They are set in their ways. You can’t expect them to say, ‘Yes, we are guilty.’”
He had not foreseen that the Evil One would be so cunning as to deflect his own arguments against him. He had underestimated his Enemy. “Thank you, Nassef. You’re a true friend to warn me. I will remember. Nassef, I hadn’t anticipated this.”
“I thought not.”
“Go, then. Do not give your father cause for a grievance. I will speak to you later.”
Nassef rose and departed, a small, thin smile on his lips.
El Murid prayed for hours. He retreated deep into his young mind. At last the will of the Lord became clear to
