"I AM THE MASTER'S!"
The arrival of Simonds, with the spare window-pane, and of
Brodeur--one of the boldest flyers out of Saloniki in the last months
of the war--broke in upon the Master's reveries. Only a few minutes
were required to mend the window. During this time, the Master
explained some unusual features of control to the Frenchman, then let
him take charge of _Nissr_.
"She's wonderful," said he, as Brodeur settled himself at the wheel.
"With her almost unlimited power, her impeccable controls and her
automatic stabilizers, I hardly see what could happen to her."
"Fire, of course, _m'sieur_," the ace replied, "always has to be
guarded against."
"Hardly on an all-metal liner. Now, here you see--and here--"
He finished his explanations, and, satisfied that all was safe, passed
into his own cabin. Rrisa, he found, had already unpacked his kit, and
had arranged it to perfection. Even a copper bowl of khat, the "flower
of paradise," was awaiting him.
The Master sat down, chewed a few leaves and indulged in a little
time of what the Arabs call _kayf_, or complete relaxation and inner
contemplation--a restful trick he had learned many years ago on the
coast of Yemen. The ticking of the aluminum-cased chronometer, now
marking a little past 2 a.m., soothed him, as did the droning hum of
the propellers, the piping whistle of the ship-made hurricane round
the fuselage, the cradling swing and rock of the air-liner hurling
herself almost due east.
After some quarter-hour of absolute rest, he rang for his Arab
orderly. Rrisa appeared at once. Already he had got himself into his
military uniform, the one he had worn at Gallipoli when the Master had
saved his life. As he stood there in the doorway, he swung his left
foot out and back, with clicking heels, and made a smart salute.
"What does _M'almé_ desire?" asked he, in Arabic.
"I desire to know thy opinion of all this, Rrisa. Tell me, did thy
great prophet, M'hámed, ever ride in such state through the air? Was
Al Burak, his magic horse, on which he traveled to the paradise of the
houris, more swift or mighty than this steed of mine?"
The Master speaking Arabic, weighted every word with its full meaning.
"Tell me, Rrisa, what of all this?"
"Your steed is very swift and very mighty. Your flying ship is very
great," the Arab admitted. "But Allah and his Prophet are greater!
_Allahu akbar!_" (Allah is greatest!)
"Of course. But tell thou me, Rrisa, if I were to appear at Mecca in
my _Nissr Arrib ela Sema_--my Eagle of the Sky--would not thy people
give me great honors?"
"My head is at your feet, _M'almé_, and I am yours to do with as
you will, even to the death, but I implore you, by the beard of the
Prophet, do not do this thing!"
"And why not, Rrisa?"
"You and I, Master, are _akhawat_.[1] Therefore I can speak true
words. You must not go to Mecca. No man of the _Nasara_ may go
there--and live."
[Footnote 1: _Akhawat_ signifies in Arabic the tie of sworn
brotherhood between an Arab and one of different blood.]
"Thou meanest that if we go to Mecca and they capture us, they will
kill us all?"
"Yea, Master. And I too shall die, for being with you, though I count
that as less than nothing."
The Master kept a moment's silence, pondering; while, without, the
voices of empty heaven whistled by, from strut and wire, brace
and stay. The wild mystery of that outer night, excluded by the
close-drawn curtains, contrasted strongly with the light and the warm
comfort of the cabin with its snug berth, its aluminum furniture, its
shining walls where were affixed charts and maps, rules, photographs.
Under the clear, white light, Rrisa anxiously studied his master's
face. Great anxiety had begun to make itself manifest in the Arab's
voice and in his eyes. Another troubled look came, too, as he glanced
at the chronometer.
It struck, sharply. The Arab, contrary to all his habits and training,
spoke first, without being spoken to.
"Master," said he, timorously, "excuse the speech I offer without
waiting. But I must ask. This is my hour of night prayer, and I must
bow to Mecca. Whither, from here, lieth The City?"
The Master raised a hand, glanced at a compass set like a wrist-watch,
peered a moment at one of the charts, and then nodded toward the door
that led into the pilot-house.
Without delay, Rrisa faced that door and prostrated himself. The
ancient cry: "_La Illaha illa Allah! M'hámed rasul Allah!_" was
raised there in the cabin of the rushing Eagle of the Sky--surely the
strangest place where Moslem prayer was ever offered since first the
Prophet's green banner unfurled itself upon the desert air of Araby.
Devoutly Rrisa prayed, then with a "_Bismillah_!" (In the name of
Allah!) arose and faced his master. The latter, wise in Eastern ways,
remained gravely unsmiling. Never in all his dealings with the son
of the East had he by word or look offended against Islam. There was,
however, iron determination in his eyes as he demanded:
"Is it indeed true that in Mecca stands a building called the Ka'aba,
also called _Bayt Ullah_, or Allah's House?"
"Yea, Master, that is true," answered the Arab, with strange eyes.
"And is it indeed covered with a wondrous silken and gold cloth, every
year renewed, known as the _kiswah_?"
"Those words are true."
"All Moslems greatly revere the Ka'aba?"
"It is the center of our mighty faith, Master."
"And thou hast seen it with thine own eyes?"
"With my own eyes, Master, for I am a _Hadji_.[1]" Attentively the
Arab was now watching the Master. Slowly he continued: "Prayer, with
face to Mecca, alms-giving, the keeping of the fast of Ramadan, and
the pilgrimage to the Ka'aba, these are our law. Yea, Master, I have
myself seen the Ka'aba, and more than once!"
[Footnote 1: Title among the Arabs and Moslems in general for one
who has performed the pilgrimage to Mecca, a journey which every good
Moslem considers necessary for salvation.]
A certain trouble had now grown manifest in Rrisa's eyes. His lips
moved silently, as if still praying; but no words were audible. The
Master pondered a moment more, then demanded:
"Is it true there is a sacred Black Stone in the walls of the Ka'aba,
precious to all followers of the Prophet, from Africa to China and to
the farthest isles? Revered by all the two hundred and thirty million
of your faith?"
"That is true, _M'almé_. I myself have touched and kissed the Black
Stone."
"Mecca, the Ka'aba, and the Black Stone are forbidden to all
heretics?" relentlessly pursued the Master.
"_Wallah_! Yea, so they are to--all who are not of Islam," Rrisa tried
to soften the answer.
"They tell me," persisted the Master, "the Black Stone is in the
western wall of the Ka'aba, about seven feet from the pavement."
"That is a lie!" flared Rrisa, with indignation. "It is in the
northeast corner, at the very corner, Master. It is between four
feet and five from the ground. That, and no other, is the true place,
Master, the place of _Hajar el Aswad!_" (Black Stone.)
"Ah, yes, yes, the books lie," agreed the Master. "And they say, too,
that certain of the Feringi have indeed touched and even kissed the
Black Stone, and still lived."
Rrisa's face clouded. It burned coppery, with a flush of hot blood
under that dark skin. By the clear white light in the cabin, the
Master closely observed him. Idly he broke off a leaf of the khat, and
nibbled at it.
"Is that the truth?" he inquired, pitilessly.
"I must speak truth to you, Master," confessed the Arab, with bitter
shame. "Two of the Feringi--_Nasara_ men like yourself--have indeed
touched and kissed it. Two that we know of. _Shaytan el Kabir_ (the
Great Satan) may have permitted others to do that, but we know of only
two who have done it--and lived."
"Thou meanest one named Burckhardt, and Sir Richard Burton?"
The Arab shuddered at sound of those names, and silently nodded. Then
he burst out:
"Those were their names, _M'almé!_ Those two, disguised as _Hujjaj_,
defiled the Black Stone, which was given by Allah to the first Arabs;
and they both escaped. But many others who have tried--"
"Have died at the hands of thy people?"
"_Bismillah_! Yea!" A flash of pride irradiated the dark face
of Rrisa. His figure drew itself erect. Beneath the veneer of
civilization with which life among the Feringi had overlaid him, the
Master sensed the wild, fierce, free soul of the desert man, to whom
the death of the unbelieving dog is sweet.
"It is well," nodded the Master. Then, suddenly he stood up, faced the
Arab, and bent on him a sternly penetrant look.
"Rrisa," said he, impressively, his voice slow, grave, sonorous, "only
for me thy bones would today be moldering in the trenches at Gallipoli
or maybe rotting in a Turkish grave. The life that is in thee belongs
to me! That is thy ancient law. Is it not true?"
"It is true, Master. _Nahnu malihin._" (We have eaten salt together.)
"And the salt is still in thy stomach?[1]"
[Footnote 1: Some Arab tribes hold that the salt binds protection for
only twenty-four hours and at the end of that time must be renewed,
otherwise it is "not in their stomachs."]
"Aye, Master. You are still _dakhil_ (protected) to me."
"Thou art mine to do with as I will?"
"I am the Master's!"
"Treason to me, Rrisa, is treason to thy holy laws. Surely, such
treason would plunge thy soul far into the depths of Eblis. When thy
time cometh to walk across the burning pit, on the bridge as fine and
sharp as the edge of a simitar, if it be laden with treachery to one
who hath saved thy life and whose salt thou hast eaten, surely it
shall not pass over, but shall fall. Far into the deeps of Jehannum it
shall fall, where the Prophet says: 'Stones and men shall be the fuel
of the everlasting flame!'"
"I am the Master's," repeated Rrisa, with trembling mouth. He raised
his hand to forehead, lips, and heart. "My head is at the Master's
feet!"
"Forget that not, thou!" cried the Master, dominantly. "_Ru'c'h
halla!_" (Go!)