After pondering the question for a time, he had answered, "Both positions have much to commend them."
"That is no answer-"
"Allow me to finish," he replied. "It seems to me that it is the lot of man to remain ignorant of his demise until the unhappy event overtakes him. Therefore, I am persuaded that Allah has ordained it thus for our benefit."
"Even so," I allowed, "if the choice were yours to make, which would you choose?"
He thought for a moment, then asked, "Is it likely that this should happen to me?"
"I suppose not, but-"
"Then an answer is not required."
"Your evasion of the question suggests you would deem such knowledge a curse, not a boon."
"I did not say that," Faysal objected. "You misconstrue my words."
"You did not say anything," I pointed out. "How could I misconstrue it?"
We talked in this way for a time, eventually losing interest in the pointless exchange. Later, as the men were making camp for the night, I found myself sitting next to Sadiq as he scanned the valley through which we had passed that day. The setting sun flamed the rocks and tinted the shadows violet; away to the south the sky was rose-coloured in the dusk. "There is a storm coming," Sadiq said, observing the southern sky.
"Good-a little rain will be most welcome."
"No rain this time of the year," the amir replied. "Wind."
"A sandstorm then." My heart fell at the thought.
"Yes, a sandstorm. As God wills, it may pass to the east." He turned from his inspection of the sky, and eyed me with the same severe scrutiny. "Faysal tells me you are talking about death."
"True," I conceded, and told him what we had discussed. He seemed interested in the question so I asked him whether he would consider knowledge of his death a boon?
"Of course," he replied without hesitation.
This intrigued me. "Why?" I asked, and confessed that I could see no benefit whatsoever.
"That is where you are wrong. A man armed with such knowledge would be free to accomplish mighty things."
"Free?" I wondered at the use of this word. "Why do you say free? It seems to me that such knowledge is a terrible burden."
"Terrible for some, perhaps," allowed the amir. "For others it would be liberation. If a man had foreknowledge of his death, it would follow that he would also know all the places where death could not claim him. Thus, he would be free from all fear, and could do whatever he pleased." A quickened intensity charged his speech. "Just think! This man would be a hero in battle, braving every danger, fighting with exquisite courage because he knew in his heart he could not be killed."
"What would happen," I pressed, "when this man came at last to the place appointed for his meeting with death?"
"Ah," replied Sadiq, turning his eyes to the valley once more, "when he came to that place he would also have no fear because he would have prepared himself properly for this meeting. Fear arises from uncertainty. Where there is perfect certainty, there is no fear."
As one who had lived with such knowledge, I found this line of reasoning unconvincing. Certainty, in my experience, only made the thing more difficult, not less.
I was still contemplating what Sadiq had said, when he rose abruptly. "Ya'Allah!" he said softly.
Glancing up, I saw that he was gazing down into the valley, his eyes fixed on the place where the trail began its long torturous climb up to the promontory on which we now sat. "What do you see?" I asked, following his gaze.
But Sadiq was already hastening away. From over his shoulder he called, "We are being followed!"
Still staring at the place Sadiq had indicated, I perceived a minute movement along the valley floor: a solitary figure, desert pale, picking its lone way slowly along the trail in the dusk. I strained my eyes to see more, and could, with difficulty, make out the form of a horse ambling behind the figure. Very soon the shadows would steal both from view.
"Get back!" Sadiq ordered, and I edged away from the overlook wondering how Sadiq could have seen the follower. Even after being shown where to look, the lone figure was all but impossible to see. The answer came to me then that the Amir had seen the figure because he knew it was there, was looking for it, and likely had been searching for some time.
Concealing ourselves among the tumbled rocks on either side of the trail, we settled down to wait-and waited long, but the follower did not appear. After a suitable period had elapsed, Sadiq left his hiding place and crept once more to the promontory where he lay on his stomach and gazed down into the valley for a moment before returning to call us from our places.
"Our friend has made camp for the night," he said. "It is a poor thing to travel alone; I think we must persuade him to join the companionship of our fire." The amir chose four of the rafiq to accomplish this task. "Go quietly," he warned, "for we do not wish to inspire unholy fear in our guest."
