Daggers in the Dark (Book 3 of Hanthalah)

Interlude

          'Abdullah clutched his version of the Qur'an to his chest, suppressing the overwhelming fear that gripped him.

How could one be afraid if Allah is on his side? That was what he used to steel himself.

The cart rumbled to a halt near a wooden building. The roof was of thatch and the construction beyond poor. Yet it was among the only solid structures standing in this city of tents. They lived as Bedouins, but without the entire point of the lifestyle – moving around for a superior spot for grazing or a water source or the advent of winter. They just remained stable in this one spot. Sedentary within tents.

'Abdullah stirred on his cart as Musa twisted his hips to look back at him, smiling widely.

"Welcome to al-Hirah, boy!" he exclaimed, hopping off. "It is time for prayer."

He beckoned him to join him into the wooden building. It was evident to 'Abdullah now that this was a mosque. Sure enough, a man clambered atop the roof moments later and began reciting the call to prayer – the adhan.

'Abdullah winced at his shrill, floundering voice. This was no call to prayer. It was an insult to Allah that his words and the mention of his name be butchered so. 'Abdullah felt a prickle of anger swell inside of him at the thought of the mockery of religion. Religion was all he had. He was forsaken by his father; he lost his mother. He was shown nothing but scorn from the Assadi tribesmen, those semi infidels with flimsy faith. He was ashamed to have associated himself with them. They were the clan of Tulayhah the false prophet, and many of them had aided him in his crusade of filth and lies.

And now, his own sister had abandoned him. She tossed him aside like an unwanted dog at the first whiff of a negligent father. But it made no matter. He could find solace in the words of Allah clutched in his arms. He would thrive under the watchful eye of his creator and the dutiful angels.

He steadied himself, suppressing his anger.

There is no god but you. Glory be to you. Verily, I have been among the wrongdoers.

He repeated the words over and over, shutting his eyelids, feeling his skin prickle with goosebumps. He felt his soul nourish as Allah's forgiveness washed over him. His eyes welled with tears and his stomach clenched with guilt. Allah had bestowed upon him so many blessings, yet he only dwelled on the negative side of life. He could only think of abandonment and hatred. It was not healthy.

He repeated the words again. He broke into sobbing when he admitted he was among the wrongdoers for the third time. He remembered ibn Ayyub, the old man back at the Assadi camp who had been his mentor in all things divine, painting the tale of the Prophet Younes to him in eloquent words.

Younes, peace be upon him, had abandoned his divine purpose – to convert his tribe. He had given in to their jeers and their words of mockery, and at last, he fled on a ship. But when he was tossed overboard, he was swallowed whole by a whale. Ibn Ayyub said it was some sort of massive animal that prowled the depths of the waves, since 'Abdullah had never seen a 'whale'.

In the whale's belly, a sobbing Younes had repeated this prayer for days on end until Allah ordered the whale to belch him out.

There is no god but you. Glory be to you. Verily, I have been among the wrongdoers.

The power of the tale never failed to grip 'Abdullah in crippling awe. He was always watching, always caring. He would never abandon 'Abdullah, as all the rest did. Because He was not like the rest. There is no power nor capability but with Allah. 'Abdullah resolved once more that he would not abandon his creator either. He would stand his ground in the face of tyranny and polytheism. No mockery of religion would be allowed to pass unpunished.

Musa, his newfound friend, was standing a short distance away, expectant. 'Abdullah shook himself from his trance, studying the maze of tents before him, riddled with the odd speck of a building of wood or clay.

This was Kufa. Otherwise known as al-Hirah, as Musa referred to it. 'Abdullah did not know if he wanted to be here, but it was where fate had taken him.

After his father rejected him in the governor's palace, 'Abdullah wandered the streets of Damascus, alone and aimless, before seeking out a mosque to perform evening prayers. He resolved to stay the night in this sanctuary of the most mighty, the most merciful. Allah took him in when no one else would. It was there, during dawn prayers, that he struck conversation with Musa and his brothers. They were Arab merchants of the Banu Sulaym, who had partaken in the conquests of Islam. They remained soldiers in Kufa, they claimed, making a further living as merchants. Soldiers and men of state were forbidden from engaging in trade by the old Khalifa 'Umar, but with the right connections to pull the strings, anything was possible under this 'Uthman.

'Abdullah had no option but to take them up on their offer of sojourning to their home city. Kufa did not hold a candle to Damascus, of course. The latter city was ancient and storied. The former was a hastily erected cluster of tents formed to accommodate men of the sword and spear. In many ways, it remained primarily a base for military operation.

But Musa reassured him it was evolving into much more than that. Not only was it a thriving hub of administration now, it was a beacon of faith and honesty. Musa had spoken so fondly of the people of Kufa that he almost enticed 'Abdullah into making the journey.

Now, however, he was not so sure. Maybe he had made a mistake. Yet, in the midst of the screeching man calling to prayer and the lingering Musa, 'Abdullah pointed out to himself that no mistake could be made by stepping into the house of Allah and paying thanks to him.

So, he clutched his mus'haf tighter and clumsily clambered off the cart.