500: An Anthology of Short Stories

On the last day of Tashreeq’s life, the skies above the kingdom of Akila were steely-grey, seeming to loom low, menacingly over the entire realm. The old beggar was sitting in his usual spot, just outside Husnain Mosque with the distinctive rust-coloured dome. The blue-green waves lapped playfully at the stone steps leading up to the mosque.

Off on the right, in the far distance, stood a sole, golden-hued minaret, its ancient brickwork cracked in various places by the burden of time. The minaret was gradually, inexorably, imperceptibly sinking into the white Sands of Tariqa.

The dervish was performing his Dance of Devotion, adrift in the swirling ecstasy of the rings of reverence, left palm up towards the heavens, right palm down to connect himself to the earth. Tashreeq smiled, filled with joy to see that the line of dancers had not been broken.

“Legend has it that when Death comes for one, one will see the Minaret of Tariqa empty of the dancing dervish,” Tashreeq whispered to Hur, his calico cat. “Did you know that, Beautiful One?” the leathery-faced, skinny mendicant asked Hur. In reply, the cat purred deeply before rubbing his head fondly all over the old man’s face, making him grin happily.

The doors of the mosque were flung wide open, allowing Tashreeq to gaze longingly upon the opulent, wondrous interior. Tall marble pillars soared up, up, up to a ceiling so high it seemed like a second sky underneath the true sky. Each pillar was adorned with calligraphied lines from the Soul Scripture circling round the columns in mystical loops.

“I’m sure that green and blue carpet must be as soft as moss,” Tashreeq mused, stroking Hur’s fur absent-mindedly. The beggar was never allowed to enter the mosque; he was an Unclean. It was then that Tashreeq noticed a small girl approaching him from the ocean steps. As if of its own volition, his head turned once again to look at the Minaret of Tariq. The dervish was gone.Tashreeq’s aged face paled in shock.

“This is the part I most dislike,” Du’a revealed to her invisible companion, Veham. The ifrit waited to hear her confession, having already surmised what it would be.

“Answering the prayer of one of these supplicants, but not in the way he or she expects,” the young girl explained, shaking her head from side to side in annoyance.

“Du’a, there’s nothing you can do about it, for it is your duty.”

“Yes,” Du’a sighed deeply, “I know.”

Upon spying Tashreeq the beggar cradling his beloved Hur, her heart burst anew as it always did whenever she was sent on this particular mission.

“Focus on the comfort you bring them, not on what you end,” Veham advised quietly.

“Father,” Du’a addressed a mystified Tashreeq, “I’ve come to take you into the mosque. Take my hand and follow,” Du’a said, knowing the beggar could not resist her command.

Hur meowed in bliss as both he and Tashreeq finally stepped inside the white mosque.