Stepping to the plinth, I saw that the face of the thing was uniformly flat, and inscribed with a bewildering array of lines both straight and curved which had been etched into the stone. "Heaven's light strikes the marker;" Mahmoud touched the bronze spike, "the shadow falls upon the line," he indicated one of the series of lines, "and as the sun moves the shadow moves, dividing out the hours of the day. By this the muezzin knows when it is time to mount the minaret and make the call to prayer."
"A sun dial," I murmured. I had heard of them, but I had never seen one-not even in Constantinople. The Christian monks in sunny climes could make good use of such a device to reckon the times of prayer, regularly spacing them throughout the day, summer or winter. But then, I reflected, I was no longer a monk and held no interest in the problems of abbey governance and the daily round.
"Come, I will take you into the prayer hall now."
"Is it permitted?" I was still finding the intricate assortment of prohibitions and allowances entirely baffling; it was impossible to guess what might be permitted or denied.
"Certainly," Mahmoud assured me. "All men are welcome in the house of prayer, Muslim and Christian alike. The same God hears our prayers, does he not?"
Mahmoud led me back to the basin where we washed our hands and feet, then proceeded to the hall where we were met by more white-turbaned guards, who regarded us closely, but made no move to hinder us in any way. We lay our sandals alongside those of many others on grass mats provided for the purpose at the doorway. The entrance to the hall was closed, not by a wooden door, but by a heavy green cloth with an Arabic word sewn in yellow.
Mahmoud took hold of the edge of the cloth and drew it back, beckoning me to enter. I stooped under the cloth and found myself in a cavernous dark space, the darkness pierced by shafts of blue light from small round windholes high in the upper reaches of the hall.
The air was still and cool, and I could hear the murmur of voices like the insect drone in an orchard. Owing to the brightness of the sun outside, it was some moments before my eyes adjusted and I could see properly, but the impression of a grove only deepened; before me marched row upon row of slender pillars, like gently tapering trees, their boles illumined by moonlight.
I took a few hesitant steps and felt as if I were walking on cushions; looking down, I saw that the great expanse of floor was spread with carpets-thousands of them-from one wall to the other, thick like moss grown deep on a forest floor.
Soon I was able to make out the forms of people kneeling or standing here and there. A low wooden beam, like a ship's rail, provided a boundary to the right and left. "Go in, go in," urged Mahmoud softly. "Only women must stay behind the rail."
Indeed, there were, I noticed, a few women kneeling in the area provided for them; they wore their shawls over their heads and knelt low so as to disappear. Mahmoud and I passed deeper into the hall, and proceeded towards the place where, in a Christian church, the altar would have been. Here there was no altar, however, nor any other sort of furniture; the only feature to distinguish the place from the rest of the hall was an empty niche, the qiblah, Mahmoud told me. "Kneeling thus," he indicated the niche, "we set our faces towards Makka, the holy city."
"What is the significance of this city?" I asked.
"From the beginning of time it is a holy place-the place of the Ka'aba, the House of God built by the Prophet Ibrahim," replied my teacher. "For the Faithful, Makka is the centre of the world. It is also the birthplace of the Blessed Prophet, peace be upon him, and the place where he was called and consecrated to his work. It is the destination of the Hajj."
I had never heard this word before, and asked what it was. Mahmoud thought for some moments before answering. "The Hajj is a journey," he said. "But unlike other journeys a man may make, it is both physical and spiritual at the same time, a journey of the body for the good of the soul."
"A pilgrimage," I suggested.
"Perhaps," he allowed ambiguously. "For the Faithful, it is this way: when a man comes to his maturity, he begins to prepare himself for the Hajj. Depending on the man, and where he lives, this preparation may take many years. But one day he orders his affairs and sets out on his way to Makka. When he arrives, he will perform the sacred rituals of our faith: he will perform the Greater Hajj and the Lesser Hajj; he will drink water from the Well of Zamzam, and make sacrifices on the plain of Min; he will make progression seven times around the Ka'aba and go inside to kiss the sacred Black Stone. These things, and others, he will do, as all the Faithful must do, if they are to stand ready before God on the Day of Judgement.
"So," concluded Mahmoud, "when we pray, we face Makka out of respect for this holy place, and to remind ourselves of the journey we must all one day make."
