Chapter 202
Nirma fell silent for several seconds that felt like years, long enough for the moon above Medina to drift slightly westward, long enough for the wind to change direction and carry the scent of dried dates from the still-open attic of Anas's house, and long enough for her to refine the six plans she had devised ever since she first heard the word "Dhirar."
"Then we don't have much time," she finally said, her voice now clearer than before, as clear as the water of the Zamzam Well that has never run dry despite the passage of thousands of years.
"I've prepared six scenarios, Arya. But I'll need your help to make them happen."
Arya had not yet managed to respond to Nirma's proposal about the six scenarios that required his assistance, for his fingers had already moved toward the watch on his left wrist.
It was no ordinary watch, but a small device he had assembled himself from scraps of future technology that he had smuggled with him before leaping into the seventh century. As the thin holographic display flickered to life with a pale blue glow visible only to the two of them, the air around them suddenly changed, not becoming colder or warmer, but heavier, denser, more like the atmosphere of a room suddenly filled with a presence that defied all logic.
From the east, no more than fifty paces from where they stood, came a sound that was not far away, the steady rhythm of camel footsteps, the rustling of cloth brushing against the still-cool night breeze, and quiet whispers that could not be translated into words because they were more like vibrations spreading through the ground, through the air, through the pores of their skin that had suddenly begun to sweat even though the temperature had not changed.
Arya knew exactly what those sounds were, yet he refused to draw conclusions on his own.
Not because he was afraid, but because conclusions reached too quickly, as he had learned from countless missions that had nearly claimed his life, were a poison far deadlier than that sweet sleeping gas.
So he simply looked at Nirma without saying a word. Yet from his gaze, from the way one eyebrow lifted by half a centimeter, and from the way his lips tightened as though he were about to whistle but stopped himself, Nirma understood what he was asking in his heart: "Is this sound truly not a dream?" It was a question that did not need to be spoken aloud because the answer had already settled into their bones, into the heartbeat that had suddenly fallen into a different rhythm, into the breath caught halfway in their throats, for exhaling it would mean admitting that all of this was real, and admitting that it was real meant preparing for something they had never prepared themselves to face.
Nirma nodded, a single short, firm nod without the slightest hesitation. Then, from behind the thinning mist, fading as dawn drew closer though not yet close enough to swallow the darkness entirely, figures began to emerge, figures that made Nirma's knees grow weak not out of fear, but because she knew exactly who they were. She had read their names thousands of times in worn-out books hidden within an underground library. She had memorized their lineages as faithfully as she had once memorized the road back to a home she no longer possessed.
Ali ibn Abi Talib wore a black robe that never truly appeared black beneath the moonlight because every fold concealed shadows that moved of their own accord. Zubair ibn al-Awwam carried a sword hanging beside his camel, his hand resting upon its hilt despite the absence of any sign of danger. Sa'd ibn Abi Waqqas stood taller than any manuscript had ever described him. Abbad ibn Bishr's eyes were as sharp as an arrow yet to be released. Zaid ibn Harithah walked beside his camel with strides no slower than its hardened hooves. Abdullah ibn Rawahah murmured something beneath his breath, his lips moving without sound, perhaps a prayer, perhaps poetry, perhaps both at once. Umar ibn al-Khattab carried an authority that filled the space around him like invisible waves that could not be seen, yet could be felt by every living pore of the skin.
And at the head of them all, upon a white camel that was not merely white but radiant with a light that came neither from the moon, nor the stars, nor the sun still hidden beyond the eastern horizon, appeared a figure they could no longer perceive as an ordinary human being. To Nirma and Arya, there was only light, a golden light that did not blind, yet pierced through everything. It reached every contour of the land of Medina, every dried palm frond, every gap in the woven walls of Anas's still-open house, every bottomless portal. That light bestowed mercy, not through words or gestures, but through His very presence. Simply standing near that light, Nirma realized, meant standing near the source of every forgiveness she had never dared to ask for, yet had always needed ever since the moment she leaped into the past without permission.
"The Messenger of Allah (peace and blessings be upon him)," Arya whispered. For the first time since they had begun their investigation that night, his voice truly trembled, trembling like a leaf that knew the storm would soon arrive and that no root was strong enough to withstand it.
Although their bodies remained concealed beneath the veil of obscurity provided by future technology, a layer that bent light and suppressed their body heat until they were no more than mirages in the middle of the vast desert, Nirma and Arya did everything they could to remain completely silent. They knew that in the presence of the Companions walking upon the very same ground, no technology was advanced enough to conceal the trembling of hearts beating far too quickly or the breath trapped in their throats by fear.
From behind the increasingly thinning mist, the five individuals, or rather eight individuals together with their camels cloaked in the glow of a dawn not yet fully born, continued advancing toward the house of Anas ibn an-Nadr, step by step, hoofbeat by hoofbeat. The problem was that they were still dangerously close to the courtyard of the house, far too close for Nirma, who could hear the sand creaking beneath the camels' feet, and far too close for Arya, who could catch the scent of robes still damp with the night's lingering dew.
"Mus'ab and the others would never leave Medina without saying goodbye," Abdullah ibn Rawahah suddenly said, his voice quiet yet unmistakably clear, as clear as water flowing over stones polished smooth by thousands of years.
"It is impossible that the four Companions and Anas, whose house we are heading toward now, would simply leave without informing us, without informing the Messenger of Allah, whose light has never faded no matter how desperately the night wishes to consume it."
Abbad ibn Bishr, walking beside him, nodded, his thick beard swaying with the movement of his head like desert grass bending beneath the wind.
"Or perhaps they were summoned by something, Abbad, something we cannot see but can still feel, like a sweet fragrance that comes from neither dates nor honey, like a wind blowing from the wrong direction during a season when it should only come from the north."
To be continued…