Muhammad Read Online Free PDF

could talk to.
    â€œI’m not staring at the sun,” I replied.
    â€œGood. The sun is the eye of Nabul,” he said. “You’ll go blind if you gaze into it.”
    Nabul is one of their countless idols in this forsaken place. The stranger was an unbeliever. I got to my feet, so that when I told him to go away, we’d be looking eye to eye. Then I saw something over his shoulder. A cloud had appeared in the sky out of nowhere. In this land where sand dunes roll like an endless sea and rain falls only to moisten the graves of those who hear the Last Trumpet, there was a cloud.
    I pointed with my finger. “Is that your caravan, stranger?” Camels and wagons crawled in the distance.
    â€œI travel ahead of it as a scout. Those are traders from Mecca, and not very rich ones, either,” he replied.
    I barely heard the words. The cloud, which was not large, cast its ragged shadow on the earth. From up above I could see it clearly. What amazed me was this: the cloud was directly over one wagon in the caravan, and as the camelslumbered along the trail, the cloud moved with them, always shading one particular wagon.
    â€œWho rides in that cart?” I asked.
    The black man shrugged. “It could be anyone,” he said. Except the slaves and servants, who were forced to walk. I could see a straggling line of them keeping pace with the camels. I counted. It was a small caravan by the standards of the great ones from Yemen when an engorged ship from the East has unloaded its cargo of silk, iron, perfumes, and spices. I counted no more than two dozen camels and three donkeys.
    â€œYou look pale,” remarked the stranger. The next thing I knew, I felt something cool and damp being pressed against my forehead. I opened my eyes and touched my face with trembling hands.
    â€œMaybe you were gazing into Nabul’s eye after all,” said the man. “You fainted.” He pressed the damp cloth to my forehead again, but I pushed him away.
    â€œI have to see,” I mumbled and staggered to the mouth of the cave. Thank God I had not been unconscious for long. The threadlike procession of the small caravan was still in sight down below. And yes, the cloud was poised directly over one wagon. I watched until they were out of sight. Nothing changed. The face of the sun had been hidden, and God was protecting someone with cool shade. The possibility was staggering. I had to find out who was in that wagon.
    For the rest of the afternoon I paced restlessly trying to think it through. The Devil could be tempting me. I hadn’t seen the stranger walk up my hill, and I hadn’t seen him depart. He could have been Satan’s minion, able to appear and disappear as he was bidden. But the man hadn’t asked me to renounce God, and he didn’t leave me lying in the sun to diewhen I fainted. The Adversary doesn’t do good deeds. Then I realized that this logic was ridiculous. If the Devil had found me, I was lost already. He’d gnaw at my soul like a desert rat by tiny, maddening bites until he got what he wanted.
    In the end I waved to a village boy passing by with three skinny goats and told him to invite the men of the caravan to my cave for supper. He nodded and ran off. The people around here have a superstitious regard for me. I swept the cave and brought out my best provisions. A rare mood had come over me. I whistled while cracking open the best wine jars, soaking the dates in water to plump them up, and throwing out any fig that had been infested with maggots. This was going to be a kind of last supper. Either God’s word was coming true, or my soul was about to be snatched by madness. One way or another, the end had come.
    Folded up under my pallet was an embroidered cloak that signified who I was—not a filthy beggar with matted hair, but a priest. When they sent me into the desert, the Damascene fathers presented it to me. “Never forget who you are,” the