Ahhhh,
the opiate of the masses and how it can be twisted so…
The
Voice of the Prophet
by
John Bushore
The cave opening appeared to be
nothing more than a burrow but Mustafa desperately crawled in to hide from Abdul
bin Omar’s soldiers, pushing his bundle of belongings before him. Squirming several feet into the tunnel, he
suddenly emerged into a room-sized cavern.
He sat in the gloom, waiting until the soldiers had enough time to leave
the area.
As his eyes adjusted, his heart
leaped like a young goat. Someone was
sitting across from him. He expected to
be attacked at any moment, yet nothing happened. Then he realized why. The
cave’s other occupant was a skeleton, clothed in rags.
Mustafa crept closer and felt in
his bag for his cigarettes and Bic lighter.
He flicked the lighter into flame and saw he shared the cave with an
ancient warrior, for a deadly looking scimitar and a round shield lay by the
skeleton’s side. Whispering a quick
prayer, he picked up the sword. It
appeared to be extremely old, with a dried and yellowed bone hilt. The wooden shield also looked ancient.
Ah, he had made a great
find! Antiquities could be sold to
foreigners for great sums - if one was careful not to let the authorities find
out.
He lifted the shield, and saw a
small packet beneath it. Picking up the
brittle material, which seemed to be parchment, perhaps goatskin, he felt a
lump in the center and, holding his breath with anticipation, he carefully
unfolded the package.
It was a ring, as he had
guessed, but not the dazzling jewel he had hoped for; just a plain metal band
with a raised flat surface where a design had been etched, a looping spiral
crossed by two horizontal lines.
Oh well, it was old and probably
had some value. He slipped it on the
smallest finger of his right hand. Then
he noticed ornate writing on the parchment.
It resembled Arabic, but it had been written in an old style and he
couldn’t make it out. He folded the
document and slipped it into his bag.
He waited in the cave until he
felt safe, then crawled out. The
soldiers were nowhere about.
Having attended the funeral of his
father, Mustafa had been hiking back to the religious school he had been
attending for two years, but now he decided to detour to the city of Ar
Rutbah. He had heard foreign traders
could be found there and he wanted to sell his treasures before he could be
robbed. He wrapped the scimitar and
shield in his spare robe, hoping no one would suspect such an obviously poor
man of carrying valuables.
But as soon as he reached the
road to Ar Rutbah, a truckload of soldiers appeared. He saw nowhere to hide.
Since he was still in Sheik Abdul’s territory, Mustafa feared the worst.
The truck slid to a halt and a
man leaned out of the passenger-side window.
“What do we have here?” he cried
with a laugh. “I believe Allah has sent
a poor pilgrim for us to help on his way.
How may we serve you, honored traveler?”
The driver and the four
rifle-carrying men in the bed of the pick up truck joined in the laughter.
“Look, Farouk, he carries a
bundle,” said one of the men. “Perhaps
he has a present for us.”
“So he has,” the man named
Farouk said, opening the door and stepping over to Mustafa.
“What have you brought us in the
package, stranger?”
“It is nothing,” Mustafa
pleaded. “I am just a poor religious
student. Please leave me alone to go my
way in peace.”
Farouk raised his arm and swung
his open hand toward Mustafa, who winced and closed his eyes. But instead of striking him, the hand
clasped his shoulder firmly. He opened
his eyes and peeked, to see the other man smiling broadly.
“As Allah wishes, my
friend. We will not trouble a man of
the faith such as you. May Allah smile
down on you.”
“It is the will of Allah,”
echoed the men in the truck.
Mustafa watched in amazement as
they sped off. Allah must indeed be
smiling on him; he had expected to be robbed and perhaps killed. He uncapped the two-liter plastic soft drink
bottle he used to carry water and let some of the tepid liquid slide down his
dry throat.
Then he trudged up the
road. A bit later, he heard a vehicle
behind him. Since there was again
nowhere to hide, he moved to the side of the road and waited as a battered
Citroen came over a rise.
Hoping desperately for a ride,
since his water supply was meager and Ar Rutbah was still many miles away, he held
up his hand and called to the driver, whose window was open.
“Stop,” he pleaded.
Fortunately, the driver heeded
the cry and brought the car to a halt next to Mustafa. People packed every bit of the car, with
luggage piled high atop. His hopes dwindled;
not one person more could squeeze in.
But he decided to try anyway.
“Greetings in the name of
Allah,” he said. “I journey to Ar
Rutbah. I beg you, kind sir, allow me
to ride with you.”
“As Allah wishes,” the man
smiled. “Children, move over and make
room for the holy man.”
It surprised Mustafa to be taken
for a sanctified man, though he was not about to argue if it meant he would
ride. Somehow they managed to squeeze
him in and he was soon in Ar Rutbah.
He asked discreetly around the
market until he was directed to a building.
He knocked and waited until a small hatch opened. A pair of blue eyes looked out at him.
“Yes?”
“I understand you deal in . . .
er, items that might not be new. I have
something that might interest you.”
The eyes darted both ways along
the street. “You are alone?”
“Yes.”
“You have the item with you?”
“Yes.”
The door opened and he stepped
inside. The man standing in the small
foyer was dressed in Arabic clothing, but he was obviously European. His eyes dropped to the bundle and then rose
to Mustafa’s face.
“Where are you from?” he
asked. Not English, Mustafa guessed
from the man’s accent. Perhaps Belgian.
“An Najaf.”
“Who sent you to me?”
“I asked around. Discreetly, I assure you. As I said, I have something to sell. Something very old.”
“I do not deal in such
things. It is against the law.”
Mustafa’s heart sank.
“But you may come in and show
me,” the infidel continued with a wink.
“I might know someone who would be interested.”
The man led him to a
Western-style dining room and pointed to the table. Mustafa set his package there and unwrapped the sword and shield.
“Where did you find these?” the
westerner asked as he examined the items.
“In a small cave. Two days walk south of here.”
“I will give you four thousand
Darzas.”
Mustafa nearly gasped in
surprise. He had not expected half that
much. But he knew better than to accept
the first offer. “You must give me at
least six thousand for such treasures,” he said.
The dealer looked startled, then
smiled. “As you wish.” he agreed. Mustafa cursed himself for not asking for
more.
Then he remembered the
ring. But it was plain; perhaps the
parchment would be worth more. He had
heard that ancient documents were valuable. Taking the empty packet out, he handed it to the man.
“And how much would you give for
this?”
The man carefully spread it out
and made a hissing noise. He turned on
a lamp and studied the writing.
“This is amazing,” he said.
“You can read it?”
“Of course. I have studied these things. It speaks of a ring. It says all men must obey him who wears the
ring, as the voice of Allah. Was there
a ring with this?”
Mustafa tried to put his right
hand behind him, then realized he had given himself away by the action.
The European smiled. “This
document and the ring together are priceless.
I can make you wealthy beyond your dreams, my friend. Name your price.”
“You may not have them. Just give me the money for the sword and
shield.” Mustafa knew he would be a
fool to give up the ring. Why should he
let the infidel make a profit when he could have it all?
“As you wish.” The dealer unlocked a small drawer in a
nearby desk while Mustafa worried that the infidel would pull out a gun. But the man peeled bills from a stack and
counted out six thousand Darzas.
Mustafa folded the money,
quickly tucked it away and backed out of the house, not trusting the
European. He did not relax until he was
outside, walking away.
He was rich! Gleefully, he entered a restaurant and
ordered a large meal. When he was
sated, he checked into a boarding house and slept for a day in a bed soft as
clouds. Then he ate again, bought new robes
in the market and went to a steam bath.
As he luxuriated in the moist,
cleansing heat, he pondered his good fortune.
His luck had taken a dramatic change since he had found the items in the
cave. No, not the other things, just
the ring. Every man he met since
putting it on had done everything Mustafa asked. Apparently it really held the power spelled out in the ancient
script. What had the infidel dealer
said? All men must obey the wearer of
the ring, as the voice of Allah. That
was clear enough. But was it really
true?
All that day, he tested the
power of the ring. He walked up to
strangers and told them to do things.
Give me your shoes! Follow me
wherever I go! Stop following me! Buy me some food! He even had one man kneel down and bark like a dog and was
instantly obeyed.
Now that he was sure of his
power, what was he to do with it?
Wealth? Possessions? Power?
His teachers had taught him those things were evil. He had been brought up in a religious
family, attended Islamic schools and happily knelt toward Mecca five times a
day. He knew almost without thinking
what he must do. The parchment had said
that his commands would be as the will of Allah. So be it. He would use
his power for the glory of Allah. He
would use his power to ensure that the laws of Islam were followed. Completely.
Buying a used truck, he drove
back to his hometown and formed a cadre of relatives and friends to be the core
of his new jihad, a holy struggle for Allah.
He had no doubt that he would succeed.
In addition to the four ways of fulfilling a jihad: the heart, the
tongue, the hand and the sword, he had a fifth - the ring. His movement grew quickly.
But the ring had some
limitations. He could not command over
a telephone or radio, needing to be within natural earshot of those he wished
to influence. And the infidels who could
not understand his language were not affected.
No matter. Once he had united
the Islamic world, he would deal with them.
For the world was destined to have only one God.
And, as he became gradually
accustomed to being Allah’s anointed, he began to enjoy the privileges of the
holy. He dined on the best food and
ordered his followers to put him up in their finest houses. Businessmen gladly bankrolled his movement
and he had money for everything he wished.
But he was always heavily guarded for he knew that no power was
absolute. He was powerless against
infidels and the deaf. And, once he
began the true jihad against the infidel world, he would not be immune to bombs
or missiles, so he had an impregnable, but luxuriously appointed, bunker prepared
for his use alone. He traveled rarely,
but purchased an armor-plated Rolls Royce motorcar and several plain Rolls
Royces for his armed escort.
He also learned the pleasures of
the flesh. If he saw a girl or woman he
desired, he had her brought to his room where he would enjoy commanding her to
fulfill his every desire. All of the
women meekly obeyed, no matter what his demand, which excited him with his own
power.
His armies moved across the
country and territories were taken. The
leaders of the conquered forces were brought before Mustafa al Uzma, as he was
now called, and he bound their loyalties to him so that his forces swelled with
every victory. Those who had annoyed
him with their resistance or impure Islamic practices, he ordered to kill
themselves. They obeyed, of
course. Less than a year after he
began, he ruled the country with an iron fist.
The jihad became a spiritual and
physical juggernaut. People embraced
Ayatollah
Mustafa’s fundamentalist view of
religion and soon began purging dissidents of their own volition. Women were stoned in the streets for
adultery and improper attire. No man
dared shave his beard. State after
state was conquered or became allied until Islam became united as never
before. Oil reserves were now in his
control and infidel countries curried his favor to gain preferential
treatment. New weapons were acquired
and he was on the verge of becoming a new world power, one to equal any that
had come before.
Then war came. He fought in the name of Islam. The western nations fought in the name of
oil. The infidels were powerful, but
Mustafa had planned well and his forces resisted them and won several major
battles.
Then, as the fighting was at its
height, his soldiers brought him a prize.
They had captured an American reporter.
A female.
Held firmly by two soldiers, the
hussy was dressed in shorts, and her shirt left her arms and neck bare. She glared at him defiantly. Mustafa had never seen a woman with such
flaming red hair, and the wench had the brazen nerve to show it in public.
“She was wearing Arabian
clothing over her western garments to pass as one of us,” one of her captors
said.
Mustafa decided it was time to
teach her a lesson, as he would soon teach all infidels.
“Do you speak Arabic?” Mustafa
asked her.
“Yes. My father was an ambassador to your country when I was a child.”
Good. She would obey him then.
“Put her in my rooms,” he ordered, laughing in anticipation as he
watched her fight and yell as she was dragged away.
All that afternoon, while
Mustafa consulted with his generals, he thought about the woman’s red
hair. He would enjoy chastising her for
her godless ways. After he won the war,
all western women would be forced to follow the laws of Islam.
As soon as possible, he retired
to his secure living area, telling the guards posted outside that he was not to
be disturbed. He locked the huge,
counter-weighted door behind him, knowing that the incredibly thick steel
plates would not allow any sound through to the guards outside.
The American female was in the
corner, but she wasn’t cowering. She
had put her back to the wall and the look in her eyes warned him away. He laughed, reminded of a posturing kitten,
and walked over to face her.
“Woman, I have decided to teach
you a lesson. You have come into my
country uninvited, an infidel hiding in the garments of a devout woman. Take off your barbaric clothing and lie down
on the bed so I may show you how a woman should submit to a true man. You will do your best to please me. I command it.”
The woman’s demeanor immediately
softened. “As you command, my master,”
she said.
She looked him coolly in the
eyes as she unbuttoned her shirt and let it drop. Then she reached behind her and removed her black, lace-fringed
bra. Her breasts were full, the soft
skin pale and freckled. He was quickly
becoming aroused as the half-naked woman sat on the edge of the bed and removed
her footwear.
Mustafa removed his head
covering and pulled his robe over his head.
He lost sight of the woman for a moment. When he looked at her again, she was slipping her shorts down to
reveal her indecent underwear.
Unwilling to wait any longer, he ripped off the rest of his clothing and
pushed her back onto the bed. He ripped
her underpants off to reveal that the hair between her legs was red, as he had
fantasized.
She smiled up at him as she lay
on her back, with him astraddle her waist.
He reached down and fondled her breasts. The woman ran a hand slowly up his leg to his groin and took him
firmly into her grasp. She began
stroking him, to his delight. He felt a
slight pinch, but ignored it in his pleasure.
Then he began to lose his arousal and it was difficult to pay attention
to what she was doing.
Suddenly he slumped down on top
of the woman. He had become weak and
could no longer sit up. He floundered
helplessly while she pushed and pulled herself from beneath him. Then her hands grabbed his shoulders and she
rolled him onto his back.
“You’re disgusting,” the infidel
woman said in her near-perfect Arabic.
“And you smell bad. I’ll never
feel clean again, no matter how often I wash.”
“What. . .,” he croaked, “what
have you done to me?”
“Oh, just a little injection of
my organization’s most potent nerve poison.
You’ll be dead in less than two minutes.”
Mustafa was fast becoming
befogged, but he thought he might have a chance.
“I command you,” he slurred, “to
open the door.”
“Oh, yeah, right Mustafa. After all the trouble I took to pose as a
journalist and be brought before you? I
don’t think so. We knew about your
one-man bunker. My boss was pretty
certain you wouldn’t be able to resist bringing me in here. All I have to do is sit tight and live off
the supplies you’ve stockpiled in here while my country’s forces take over
outside. It shouldn’t take long. After all, a headless serpent isn’t much of
a foe.”
“But. . . you must. . . obey
me.”
“Not me, I’m a woman.”
“All. . .must obey.”
“No, not all. You’ve underestimated our intelligence
services. We learned about your ring
from the Dane you sold some stuff to.
He said it was only men who would be affected, not women.”
He gathered his strength for one
last burst of energy. “But. . . women .
. . have. . . obeyed. . . me.”
“Sure, Arab women. Trained from birth to be subservient and, no
doubt, scared to death of the all-powerful Mustafa al Uzma. Under your thumb, just like you wanted me
to be. You won’t be telling people what
to do anymore. We’ll destroy that ring
so it can never be used again.”
One last word. More of a breath, really. “How?”
She held her right hand in front
of his face to reveal a small, plain ring he hadn’t noticed before. He could see a tiny hole in the metal and a
smear of blood on her finger.
“I was sent to keep you from
imposing your one-sided brand of religion on the world.”
She squeezed her fingers
together in an odd way and a tiny needle flashed out.
“Get the point?”