Mirage

Setting: Najd, Arabian Peninsula, 17th century.

Salim walked on with his head lowered, measuring each step as the sun slipped toward the edge of the sky and the heat of the day refused to loosen its grip. He was barely into his twenties, of average height and build, the sort of young man who would pass without notice among others like him. His face was narrow and darkened by sun and dust. The skin lay tight across his cheekbones, and his mouth held a line he had learned not to break. A short beard traced his jaw unevenly, thinner along the cheeks, heavier at the chin, left untended for days. His eyes sat deep beneath his brow and looked dull with thirst, the whites reddened, the lids heavy. Dust clung to his lashes and settled into the creases at the corners of his eyes and along his jaw. His white robe hung loose against him, stiff with dried sweat, and his sandals had softened and split from days of walking. He moved on foot, alone now, as the desert opened endlessly ahead of him.

A small pouch was bound close beneath his robe, tied so tightly that the cord had rubbed his skin raw. His hand returned to it without thought, fingers closing around its weight as if to remind himself that something still depended on him. When his steps faltered, his hand went there. When his mind drifted, it went there again. Whatever strength remained gathered itself around that pouch.

His mouth had dried beyond comfort, until thirst became a constant presence rather than a sensation. Guilt pressed in where hope had once been. Others had fallen behind him. Others had not risen again. He carried their absence with him, and he did not argue with it.

Then he saw it.

Low on the horizon, a line of palms broke the emptiness. Their dark forms stood against the fading light and marked a stretch of green where the land had been bare. He stopped, then fell to his knees as the sand shifted beneath him. For a long moment he could do nothing but stare. Men spoke of such sights in the desert, of water shown to the desperate, of mercy offered and withdrawn, of the land playing with the minds of those who walked too long beneath the sun. He had heard the stories. He did not know whether this was one of them.

He tried to rise, but his body no longer answered him. His hands sank into the sand, and his strength slipped away. Darkness crept in at the edges of his sight. At first, he thought night was finally falling and that the heat would break at last, but the light thinned too quickly for that. The palms blurred. The horizon dissolved.

His hand closed once more around the pouch.

Then the world went out.

* * *

Salim opened his eyes and found himself standing inside a small room, no more than twelve by fifteen feet, with woven mats laid in rows across the floor.

He looked around, unable to place the moment. How did I get here?

A pale mud brick wall stood only a few steps away. He stretched out his hand to touch it, and his fingers ran across the lime coating, feeling every bump. His shoulders drew back almost instinctively, and his hand lowered to his side. At the far end of the room, he noticed a low reading stand placed close to the wall, with a cushion laid on the floor behind it. He looked at the mats and knew, without understanding how, where he would be expected to sit.

As he took a seat, the recognition settled. This was the room where he had been taught as a child. His gaze returned to the stand. Shaykh Ibrahim used to sit there. It was a long time ago, but he still remembered. Without even noticing, his eyes wandered off to the small entrance to the side.

As though he had been waiting for Salim to be ready, a gaunt old man with a white beard that reached his chest entered the room. He moved to the front and lowered himself onto the cushion behind the reading stand, never lifting his eyes to acknowledge the younger man. Salim watched him with his mouth open in wonder. He knew this figure well: a nose bent slightly to one side, narrow shoulders beneath the light, off-white robe reaching down to just above his feet, and long sinewy hands. He wore a plain cloth wrapped around his head, and leather sandals worn thin with use. Salim kept his gaze forward until the old man lifted his head. Their eyes met, and Salim felt the moment hold.

“Salim,” the old man said. “Are you well?”

Salim stood silent.

“Salim,” the old man said again. “Do you feel yourself?”

Salim finally mustered the strength to respond. “Am I dead?”

“Is this what you think death is?” the old man asked.

“I… I don’t know.” Salim drew a breath. “It is not what the Qur’an teaches.”

“Why do you ask it, then?”

Salim closed his eyes briefly. “I remember the desert. I was alone. I thought I would die there. Is this a dream?”

“Have you ever dreamed,” the old man said, “and known you were dreaming, and yet remained?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then tell me, where are you now?”

Salim looked around. “This is my school.” He swallowed. “Are you truly Shaykh Ibrahim?”

The old man’s head tilted slightly. “If you were to see Shaykh Ibrahim again, would you expect it to be anywhere else?”

Salim’s brow tightened. “Then this is only in my mind?”

“Does it matter,” the old man said, “where a lesson takes place?”

Salim shook his head slowly. “I don’t understand.”

“Are you in pain?”

“No, Shaykh.”

“What is the last thing you remember?”

“Well…” Salim’s voice steadied as memory gathered. “I was thirsty. I was very thirsty. I had been walking for two days. I thought I saw an oasis. I did not know if it was real or a mirage. I hoped it was real. I hoped it was the place I was meant to reach.”

“And if it had been,” the old man said, “what would it have given you?”

“Relief,” Salim said at once. “An end to the pain.”

“How would it have ended it?”

Salim’s eyes closed. “Water. Cold water. I would have drunk until the pain left my body.”

“Can you see it now?”

Salim hesitated. “Yes.”

“Do you feel it on your lips?”

“Yes,” Salim said. “It is cool. It moves across my tongue. It runs down my throat. It reaches places that have been burning. My body eases.”

“Does your heart feel it?”

“Yes.”

“Was that all you wanted from the desert?” the old man asked. “To drink?”

“No.” Salim opened his eyes. “I was sad.”

“Why were you sad?”

“A man died.” Salim’s voice dropped. “We were traveling from the coast toward Diriyah. Brigands attacked us. He gave me a pouch and told me not to let it go. He said he trusted me. Then he turned back to hold them.”

“A pouch?” the old man asked.

Salim’s hand moved at once. He searched his side, then his chest. His breath caught, and his eyes lifted. “It is not here. It was with me in the desert. It carried documents and coin that belonged to Hamad ibn Saqr. I would never have let it go.”

“You had a camel?”

“It was wounded. It died in the storm. I walked alone after that.”

“Were you lonely?”

“Yes.”

“Who was the man?”

“His name was Khalid.” Salim paused. “He was my guide. He found me work when my parents died. He kept me close. He taught me the road. For five years he walked ahead of me.”

“Has his absence weighed on you?”

“Yes.” Salim’s voice broke once, then held. “He was a true friend. He is with Allah now.”

“Can you still see him in your mind?”

Salim’s gaze fixed on the space before him. “He was broad across the shoulders. Strong. Tall. His beard short and strong like camel hair, darker than yours.” He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “Before we left Jeddah, he put a hand on my shoulder. He said he would speak to Hamad ibn Saqr when we arrived.”

“Who is this other man you speak of?” the old man asked.

“Hamad ibn Saqr? He is one of the richest merchants in Diriyah,” Salim said. “It was his caravan. There was always work there. In his service, I could learn the trade properly. I could become a merchant. I would have a future.”

The old man watched him in silence.

“Would you like to have Khalid beside you again?” he asked at last.

“Yes,” Salim said. “I would.”

“Do you feel it in your heart?” Shaykh Ibrahim asked.

“Yes.” Salim’s voice lowered. “I can still feel his honorable hand on my shoulder.”

“What did you feel in that moment?” Shaykh Ibrahim asked.

Salim hesitated. “Pride,” he said at last. “I felt I had done what was asked of me.”

“Can you see it?”

“Yes.”

“Can you see it in your heart?”

Salim closed his eyes. He stood still. “I can see it.”

“Is your heart full?”

“Yes,” Salim said. “It is full.” He opened his eyes. “Thank you, Shaykh.”

Shaykh Ibrahim regarded him in silence.

“Is that all you were missing in the desert?” he asked.

Salim did not answer at once.

“No,” he said finally.

“Is it something about this place?” the old man asked.

“Is that why we are here?” asked Salim.

Shaykh Ibrahim regarded him. “How would I know?” he said. “How would I know why we are here?”

Salim’s eyes moved around the room. “This is the place where I last felt safe,” he said. “My uncle was waiting for me outside, just beyond the door, to tell me that my mother had died. I remember my friend Abdullah standing beside me. He embraced me when my legs were about to give way. That was the last day I came here. After that, my uncle took me with him. He said I had to work. My father had already died. My sisters were married. I was alone in the world.” He paused. “It was my uncle who brought me to Khalid.”

“What did you miss?” the old man asked.

“My mother,” Salim said at once. “After she died, I felt alone.”

“Can you remember her face?”

Salim nodded. “Yes. I see her clearly. She had hazel eyes,” Salim said. “They looked different at different hours of the day. They looked straight at you. Her face was narrow, but gentle. She spoke softly. Even when she was ill, she smiled as if it cost her nothing.”

“Can you see her now?”

“Yes.”

Salim’s voice lowered. “On the last morning, she called me to her. She was already weak. She smiled at me. She kissed me and held me. She kissed my forehead. I remember her eyes more than anything else. They shone golden that morning.”

“What do you see in them?”

“All of it,” Salim said. “Care. Safety. Love. Everything was there. I have never felt so safe again.” He was quiet for a moment. “I feel as though I have been walking in the desert ever since.”

Salim closed his eyes again.

“Can you feel her kiss?”

“Yes.”

“Do you feel it in your heart?”

“Yes,” Salim said. His breath deepened. “I feel it in my whole body. It is like a fire. It moves through me.”

The room held still.

“Thank you, Shaykh,” Salim said.

He hesitated, then looked up. “Are you a jinn?”

The old man studied him. “What is a jinn?” he asked.

Salim considered this. “If you are one,” he said, “then you are a good one.”

The old man smiled.

Not broadly. Not unkindly. Just enough to be seen.

“Now let go of it all. It is in the hands of Allah, as we all are.”

* * *

The first thing Salim felt was water on his lips. It was barely enough to make him swallow before he slipped away.

He felt movement beneath him and understood that he was being carried. When his eyes opened again, he saw sand passing below and the shadow of a camel stretched across it. His head rolled to one side. The world tipped and the darkness returned.

When he surfaced again, palm trees rose and fell at the edge of his sight. He heard voices nearby, close enough to be real, too distant to be understood. The dark took him again.

The next time he woke, he opened his eyes fully.

A man sat beside him.

At first Salim saw only his outline. The man was tall and thin through the shoulders, with a dark beard that was fuller than Salim’s. Black hair fell back from his face. When he smiled, the curve pulled more strongly to one side of his mouth. The sight of it struck something loose. He remembered.

“Abdullah,” Salim said. His voice barely reached the air. “Is that you?”

Abdullah leaned forward. “Yes, my brother,” he said. “It has been many years. And here we are.”

Salim’s gaze drifted past Abdullah and settled, and he understood that he was lying in a bed. The room was small and bright, with plastered walls and a narrow window set high in the wall. Abdullah sat on a low wooden stool beside the bed. A simple table stood nearby and held a clay cup and a shallow bowl, and a woven mat lay flat on the floor against the wall.

Salim closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “How did I get here?”

“We went out looking for the caravan,” Abdullah said. “The storm had scattered the road. We thought there had been trouble. We found only you.”

“You saved me.”

Abdullah shook his head and smiled. “I found you,” he said. “My men and I were sent out when the caravan did not arrive. Hamad ibn Saqr feared the storm had scattered you. You were the only one we found.”

Salim lay back against the bedding and let the words settle. “I did not know you worked for Hamad ibn Saqr. I am just a caravan worker. They never let us near his house. He knows I lived?”

“He does,” Abdullah said. “And he knows what you carried for him.”

Salim nodded once. His strength felt distant, as though it belonged to another body. He turned his head slightly, and movement at the doorway caught his attention. A young woman stood there for a moment, partly hidden by the frame. Her hair fell long and dark over her shoulders. Her hazel eyes met his, steady and unguarded. Something broke in him, and he felt the same warmth in his chest as he did once before, maybe in a dream, and he knew it somehow had to do with his mother, but he could not quite place the moment. The look held, then broke. She stepped back, and the doorway stood empty again.

Abdullah did not notice. He continued speaking, his voice low. “You will have work here. He said so.”

Before Salim could answer, footsteps crossed the room. An older man entered and stopped near the bed. Abdullah rose at once.

Hamad ibn Saqr was tall and heavyset. His beard fell long from his chin and narrowed to a point, dark and carefully kept. A wrapped headcloth sat firmly on his head. His robe was of fine cloth and fell straight from his shoulders to his ankles. Gold rings rested on his fingers, each set with a dark stone. In his right hand he held a string of prayer beads. He moved them slowly as he looked at Salim.

“You lived,” he said.

“Yes,” Salim said.

“You kept what was given to you.”

“I did.”

Hamad ibn Saqr nodded once. “That pouch mattered more than the animals. More than the goods. What of Khalid?”

“He died,” Salim said.

Hamad lowered his eyes. He stood still for a moment. “That is a hard thing. He was an honorable man. If he trusted you, it was for a reason. You will work for me now,” Hamad said. “When you are able, Abdullah will show you what is required. You will be paid. You will have a place.”

“Thank you,” Salim said.

Hamad inclined his head. “Rest,” he said. Then he turned and left.

Abdullah sat back down. Salim let out a breath he had not known he was holding.

“Thank you,” Salim said. “For finding me.”

Abdullah smiled. “You would have done the same.”

They sat without speaking.

After a while, Salim said, “Who was the girl?”

“The girl?” Abdullah asked.

“The one at the door. She was beautiful. She had long, dark hair and golden eyes.”

Abdullah glanced at the door. “Oh, that would have been Fatimah. She is Hamad ibn Saqr’s youngest daughter. Be careful with that.”

“Yes,” Salim said.

He lay back and closed his eyes. He could feel the warmth in his chest spread across his whole body and a corner of his lips curved into a smile. Fatimah. He thought about how beautiful that name would be on his lips, if he could only bring himself to say it. It felt like something he had felt in a dream once, but he could not be sure.