“And He it is who sendeth forth the winds as the heralds of His compassion, until they bring up the laden clouds, which We drive along to some dead land and send down water thereon, by which We cause an upgrowth of all kinds of fruit.—Thus will We bring forth the dead. Haply ye will reflect.”

Stephanos of Nicea, had traveled far. He and his retinue now stood before Caliph al-Muqtadir, their gifts received, hopefully to later be courteously appraised. The Caliph was arrayed in clothes embroidered in gold, seated on an ebony throne. To the right of the throne hung nine collars of gems, and to the left were the like, all of famous jewels. Before the Caliph stood five of his sons, three to the right and two to the left. There were other ambassadors, and one did not worry the Caliph.

The chamberlains guided them through the treasure rooms where their gifts were to be safeguarded. The message was clear, that the Caliph wanted for nothing, and entertained many embassies. His treasure chests were deep and full.

The pages guided them through the parks where they saw all manner of beasts. The message was clear, that the Caliph had lands so vast that his huntsmen acquired animals for his menagerie that were wholly unknown to one another. Elephants from distant India strolled in caparisons of peacock-silk brocade. His reach was long.

The eunuchs guided them to the Room of the Tree. They stood around a great circular tank filled with clear water. The tree had eighteen branches, every branch having numerous twigs, on which sat all sorts of gold and silver birds, both large and small. Most of the branches of this tree were of silver, but some were of gold, and they spread into the air carrying leaves of different colors. The leaves of the Tree moved as the wind blew, while the birds piped and sang.

The Keeper of the Tree was a small black man with large feet and beguiling black eyes. He was said to have brought the secrets of Trees from the black lands beyond Egypt, beyond Mero, from where the mountains reached to the Moon. The Tree Keeper regarded Stephanos with eyes that asked. The cup the Tree Keeper later brought to Stephanos’ chamber was ever full, ever sweet…

Stephanos of Nicea remembered the Tree as if it were yesterday, which did bring a sorrow that no wind rustling the branches of a tree could put to rest—for Stephanos of Nicea had only yesterdays…

…We Mother Tree, so much better. Come with me unchosen boy, come nurse We Tree…

…The dervishes whirled above him leaping overhead, leaping to and fro until they turned into great vultures and took flight to the north, to the reeds, to the place where the world breathes.

The dry breath of the Dead Lands blew, caressing Their skin. The wind that blew fear into the minds of the dead-eaters breathed life into the mind of the life-drinkers.

As We walked across the dry sands beneath the Retrievers, who beat their willing wings, We recalled Mother Tree, recalled We.

Seeing answers all.

We walked the sands under their beating wings until the Retrievers swooped down on the water-soaked land.

We remembered eyes were once for crying, now for seeing. We read the words of seeking from the book of The Seeker.

Finally, the sands no longer strained through the toes, We no longer wonders where We goes…

Ibrahm felt as if he were punched in the belly and slapped in the face all at once. It was so strange to awaken already on one’s feet in mid step.

He looked backward, wondering where he had been. There lay sand, wind and waste; barely a shadow of a memory.

He looked forward, wondering where he was bound, and saw the great winged vultures setting down among the weeping dwarf trees and reeds ahead.

‘I must see where they come to rest.’

His vision felt crooked somehow, lopsided to the world. He felt suspiciously as if he did not see as broadly as he once had. Deep though his sight sank, into the workings of the world. He was still naked, still light of foot, still a boy. So he bounded off into the reeds knowing that he sought something for Master. There had been an errand for Master that he simply must undertake.

The reeds gave before him, the ground gaining in moistness with every bound of his eager feet. Part the reeds he did as he searched for a sight to match the sounds of the beating wings. At last he broke through the parting clumps of reeds, reeds that he had once long ago parted to spy on some other sight; some sight only seen in the morning of a world.

Today he spied on the world.

Ibrahm had forgotten what it was he had been tasked to do for Master. Surely it was a thing to be gathered, a thing to do with his seeking and pondering and writing, the things Master did when he was cloistered away from his duties—Master had duties, whatever where his duties…

He spread his hands to part the reeds and stepped through, looking upon the backs of the two broad-winged Retrievers, who cowered before their own master, lowering their heads like emissaries before a Caliph. Their tiny Caliph sat in the doorway of his miniature palace upon his ivory throne. In his infant hand he held his scepter, a quill plucked from the great white swan who served as his advisor, standing sagely by as the vultures left their offerings before his feet, offerings of flesh.

Other birds attended the Baby Caliph: gulls milled about beyond the tiny court of beaten reeds as commoners did among men. A pair of terns served as the Baby Caliph’s carpenters, dressing the thatch of his reed and twig palace. A great black ibis stood like a sentinel beside the Baby Caliph blinking in its alien way.

The Caliph was arrayed in a gown of woven reed and wore a shaded crown hat of woven feathers some donated from each of his varied attendants. To the right hung nine necklaces fashioned of human ears. To the left hung an equal number of slave collars adorned with the bearded chin-scalps of dark Bedouin slave drovers.

Then came ravens, three in number. Two of these black birds swooped down before the throne made of a human skull to tear at the meat left by the vultures, who backed away and took up sentinel positions beside the ibis on one side and the swan on the other. The third greater raven came to perch on the bent knee of the seated baby, a baby of Arab appearance with some slight color, and a large round head, but with piercing—indeed all knowing—eyes. The baby looked up with a smile and opened its mouth, and the raven fed it as birds feed their young, from their own stomachs.

The most ominous thing about this entire scene was the absence of song, or caws, or noises of any kind from the assembled court of birds. Ibrahm also felt somewhat like he gazed through a window on the world, not seeing life as he had as a bright youth, but as he once had as a little boy many years ago when he peeked through the slit in that terrible tent and saw that which would scar him forever. The world had become an insular place seen through an off-center window.

The raven flew up to the apex of the tiny reed palace and the eyes of every bird of the assembled dignitaries of the Baby Caliph’s court now regarded Ibrahm with a preternatural clarity. The Baby Caliph looked up into him with normal baby eyes. Then the black dot of the pupil began to expand until no white remained. Within the shivering moment Ibrahm was looking into the eyes of a vast mind of unimaginable depths, a mind that communicated nothing other than that Ibrahm should be at ease—a mind beyond words.

Ibrahm lurched forward to kneel before the baby, and even so towered over it on its puny skull throne. The baby then gave a loving smile and offered its quill scepter. Ibrahm reached out and gripped the quill tenderly between his thumb and writing fingers—a vision of Master Abd al-Latif, reclining on his sleeping mat, reading Sina’s book by lamplight burst upon his consciousness.

‘I must return to Master.’

The Baby Caliph spoke not with words, for they could not yet be formed, but with lips pursed, forming words from air like whispers on the wind, as its great black eyes invited eternity. Somehow these wind words that he could not decipher with his mere ears echoed in his mind as thought, “We gift, Seeker.”

When the Baby Caliph let go of the quill Ibrahm felt himself being dragged, as if by a thousand beating wings, by the hair on his head. His heels dragged through reeds, then eventually across soft sands, and finally to the harsh beaten track.

He slept a dreamless sleep. A beating of wings woke him where he lay on the road.

‘I had some terrible dream. Where am I?’

Ibrahm looked around and saw that he was on the North Road out of Cairo. Within the hazy distance of his tent-slit field of vision he could see the towering walls of Cairo, and the lesser buildings that crowded around the outside, particularly where the canal breaches and minor gates made traffic to the once fertile fields practical. For some reason he had the urge to enter by the Northern Gate, to march down the Central Avenue past the Azhar mosque and the shrine of Husayn.

Before his ill-fated donkey ride he would not have dreamed of coming through the Northern Gate or the Southern Gate, but of avoiding the Sultan’s tolls and sliding in along the canals and then heading for the wikalas [hostels] to seek the ideal lodging. Thus he had long dreamed of being a travelling merchant, though lately under his new Master he had dreamed of being a travelling scholar. Now he dreamed the dreams of a Caliph.

Ibrahm stood and took stock of his situation. He was entirely naked and had not a possession other than the swan quill given him in his dream by the Baby Caliph.

“How does one have a thing that he gathered in a dream? Why, I have nothing! I am poorer, poorer even than the slave I was.”