It took a few moments for Majid’s eyes to adjust to the dimness. The tent was small and low, with ragged carpets covering the ground and cushions spread around a table that stood at the height of his knees.
The confessor was older even than Majid. Her features had been weathered by the sun until the skin of her face was like creased leather. Her startling eyes were half-brown and half-green. She lit a stick of incense as Majid approached, motioning for him to seat himself.
Majid placed a silver coin on the table as he settled himself and then cleared his throat.
“I’m troubled by fear,” Majid said.
“There are many types of fear,” said the confessor. “Many sources. What is yours?”
“I was never afraid before, but now I sleep with a dagger under my pillow. I have guards follow me wherever I go. At night forty men guard my tent, and I still think it isn’t enough.”
“Is there one you trust?” the confessor asked.
Majid hesitated. “The one man I can perhaps trust, my son, has left on pilgrimage and still has not returned.”
“What is the greatest of the fears?” the confessor asked, drawing out each word as she spoke.
“I fear the repercussions of what I did as a younger man,” Majid said. "I have killed many."
“The sins of the past can follow us,” said the confessor. “Yet much time has passed. Why do you fear what happened many years ago?”
“That is what I do not understand,” Majid said.
The confessor was silent for a moment. “You are struggling with a guilty conscience. It isn’t this world you fear. Those you fear are all dead. The world you fear is the next.”
“Perhaps… Perhaps you’re right,” Majid said. “There are commandments I have broken. I haven’t always followed hajjariah, the way.”
“The best remedy for a guilty conscience is confession.”
“I have confessed. Yet the feeling remains.”
“Confess to me now,” the confessor said.
Majid barked a laugh. “How much time do you have? We would be here for an eternity.”
“What is it that troubles you the most?”
Majid wiped his hands over his face. “There is one memory that haunts my dreams.”
“Tell it to me.”
It was a long time before Majid spoke, and as he did, he looked into the distance. “I took a small camp. They were lahsar, those without a tarn. I rode in with my son at my side. We killed their men as usual, but I was angry that day, for one of my wives had promised me a son but given me a daughter.”
“A worthy reason for ill-temper,” the confessor said.
“There was a lack of spoils – they were so poor – which enraged me further. After we killed their fighting men we rounded up the children, lining them up on their knees in the sand. This is the usual way we judge our captives — which we will sell to slavery and which we will keep for ourselves. We made them watch as we burned the bodies of their parents and everything from their camp that we would not take with us. But I was not well that day, and rather than taking slaves, I ordered their heads cut off, even the little ones. The babes were simply too small, even for this, so I ordered my men to throw them straight onto the fire.”
“So you killed them all?”
“One escaped: a young boy. It was hot, and I wanted to take my men back to the oasis. I still remember the way he looked at me. His eyes were cold and dark, even though he was so young. I thought he would never survive alone in the desert, with no food or water, so I let him go. I have cursed myself ever since.”
“Ah,” the confessor said, “I see.”
“This is what troubles me. I dream that he somehow survived the thirst and heat of the desert, and that one day he will seek his revenge. In my dreams he makes it past my guards and into my tent. I am troubled that he will seek me in the afterlife.”
“I can help you,” the confessor said, “but I will need to pray for the solution. Come back in three days.”
“If you can help me,” said Majid, “I will shower you with gold.”
“Your gratitude will be enough, Kalif,” the confessor said. “My devotee will show you out.”
~
The black-clad devotee came back into the tent after the Kalif had left.
“What are your thoughts?” the confessor said. “You were there.”
“I am not sure,” the man in black said; his voice was troubled.
“Do you still seek his death?” the confessor asked.
The devotee didn’t answer for a moment, placing a pouch that clinked onto the table, which the confessor quickly swept up.
“He seems repentant,” the man in black said. “Yet he takes pride in the wealth his evil deeds have brought him. I have no wish to become like him; that is not the way. I can remember that day like it was yesterday. But would his death set me free?”
~
“Three days have passed, confessor,” Majid said. “My dreams are as troubled as they always were. I am even seeing that boy when I’m awake. I’ve doubled the number of guards around my tent, yet I still live in fear.”
“I have prayed, Kalif,” the confessor said, “and I have received an answer.”