I felt foolish standing alone in the dark, talking to myself, so I crept back to my place beneath the tree and wrapped my robe around me and tried to go to sleep. Daylight roused the others a short time later. We broke fast on the remains of the previous night's meal, then saddled the horses and rode on.

The strange events of the previous day had cast me into a pensive humour. I rode beside Faysal, as before, but my mind was far away and preoccupied with all I had seen and heard. Time and again I kept returning to the same words: All flesh is grass. That is what the angel had told me, and Bishop Cadoc had said it, too. I found this curiously comforting: at least my spectral visitors agreed with one another.

The words themselves were from the Holy Scriptures; I had copied out enough psalms to recognize that much at least. And the prophets often likened man and his span of days to the ephemeral grass that blushed green in the dawnlight only to be blasted by the sun's all-consuming fire and blown away on the desert wind.

I thought about this as I rode along, and thought, too, how long it had been since I had contemplated anything of Holy Writ. Once it had been all my life, and now such thoughts were few and exceedingly far between. Melancholy settled over me, and I gave myself to wondering what else I could recall.

My efforts were rewarded at once: All men are like grass, and all their glory is like the flowers of the field. That was from one of the prophets-Isaiah, I think. And then there was one from the Psalms: You, Lord God, sweep away men in the sleep of death; they are like the grass of the morning-though in the morning it springs up new, by evening it is dry and withered.

Once begun, other fragments of scripture surfaced. I found the mental exercise mildly diverting-at least it relieved the monotony of the ride. They wither more quickly than grass-such is the destiny of those who forget the Lord. Sure, I had copied that once or twice, but though I wrung my poor brain for trying, I could in no wise remember the source. The message was clear enough, however; it made me wonder whether I had forgotten the Lord. No, I maintained, God had forgotten me.

Another versicle floated up from the hidden depths of memory: Who are you that fear mortal men, who are but grass, that you forget the Lord, your Maker, who has stretched out the heavens and laid the Earth's foundations?

The question spoke to me with such directness and force that I turned in the saddle to see if Faysal had spoken. But he rode with his head bent beneath the sun, and his eyes were closed; some of the others were dozing in the saddle, too. Clearly, no one paid any attention to me.

Again, the question resounded in my mind, and with an insistence that seemed to require an answer: Who was I to fear mortal men and forget my Maker? Was it fear that led to forgetting? Perhaps, but it seemed more likely that forgetting? Perhaps, but it seemed more likely that forgetting led to fear. Further, the question implied the foolishness of fearing mere mortals when the Maker of Heaven and Earth alone held power over the soul. Obviously, if fear were coinage, then God was the treasurer who demanded payment.

Oh, but it was not fear that so beset me: I was not afraid, I was angry! I had given my all to God, and he had rejected the gift. He had abandoned me, withdrawn his guiding hand and cast me adrift in a world that knew neither mercy nor justice.

As if in response to this observation, another scriptural shred floated to my attention: Do not fret because of evil men, or be envious of those who do wrong; for like the grass they soon wither and die away. That one I knew; it was from Psalms. Thus, I had worked myself around to the same place once more. But what did it mean, this talk of flesh and grass and fear and forgetting-what did any of it mean?

As the blistering sun reached the summit of its upward climb, we stopped to rest. I took a little water and lay down under a thornbush-the last of the trees was far behind us now, and all that gave shade or shelter in the rough, dry hills was a tough low bush with small leathery leaves and short, sharp thorns. I tried to sleep, but the ground was hard and uneven, and my mind kept returning to the questions that had occupied me during the morning.

The implication suggested by the fragments tossed up by my agitated spirit, was that I had allowed my disappointment to turn to bitterness and doubt, which had in turn corroded my faith. Perhaps that was true. But I had every right to be bitter! God had abandoned me, after all. How long was I obliged to remain faithful to a god who no longer cared?

I did my best to put the issue behind me, but the questions gnawed at me through the day. As I could get no peace, I engaged Faysal in discussion. "Which do you think the greater boon," I asked as we rode along, climbing the ragged track up into the hills, "knowing your death, or remaining ignorant of it?"

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."