The Scholar


It was a desert place. Rocky, barren, inaccessible. Almost invisible, inconceivable as a place of human habitation. Not enough water to feed a blade of grass, let alone a full-grown tree. A dwelling place for vulture and jackal, seeking the flesh of those desperate enough to find themselves there.

Barren rocks and hills dotted the landscape, gaps and crevices like broken, jagged teeth fracturing the monotonous, sandy surfaces. Out of one, came a man.

The Scholar was about middle height, slender but strongly built. In the prime of his manhood, he looked confident and a bit fierce. His eyes seemed to shine and sparkle in an unpredictable way, attractive but disturbing at once. He climbed down to the road.

Before the Scholar lay the great city of Mecca. A marvellous tapestry, a stunningly beautiful magic carpet, teeming with color, life and motion. Browns, reds, yellows mixed with the verdant greens of lush gardens watered by innumerable fountains and pools, the great man-made oasis of Arabia. The Bedouin dream of Paradise.

"So pretty," thought the Scholar, "were it not for people in it!" He travelled down the road, entering the city.

"Hey Professor, what are you up to?"

He was a young street tough, from a competing clan. The Scholar walked past him, ignoring the question. He had to do that. Mustn't encourage the ignorant.

"What would you do if you were a slave, Professor? Cut your own throat? Maybe we'd do it for you."

The Scholar looked back at him, hard. He wasn't often threatened. The Banu Hashim protected their own, and he had done nothing to discredit them. This young man might have to be taught a lesson or two. He walked on.

The street gangs seemed quiet today. It was a relief not to hear the screams of women, of the elderly, as they tried to defend themselves against these thugs. The Scholar had been an orphan himself, had been shuffled as a child from family to family, but he had always been protected sufficiently to ward off hunger and destitution. He knew that many were not so fortunate. He had travelled widely, spoken to strangers from many lands, learned many languages. The world was cruel, cruel because of the deeds of men.

He reached his place of business. A large, well-kept structure in a busy street, its rooms well swept, packed full of papyrus scribbled thick with accounts, well stocked with silver and even gold. His was a prosperous establishment. To some extent, to his credit.

"Ah, Goodman," his partner greeted him. "You have an instinct for when we need you! Two great caravans packed full of spices and silk, just arrived in Mecca this morning. We need someone to manage the stalls. Our younger workers have the brains of slaves and can't manage a bargain or a deal."

"It would be my pleasure," said the Scholar. He was in need of funds for The Cause. Allah had blessed him, as always. "But," he added deferentially, "I may wish assistance from some of my associates. They are honest, and hard workers. There will be no difficulties?"

"Well, Goodman, you're certainly entitled to choose your own staff. I can't say I agree with all your ideas, or those of your 'associates'. But they're certainly no worse than most young men these days. A damn sight better, I'd say."

"We will, of course, insist on fair dealing with customers. Weights and measures must be standard, and well understood by all. No misrepresentation or padding of merchandise. No harrassment of the old or ill to buy what they neither want nor need. I realize this may seem to cost money, but honest dealing means steady customers. We will insist on this. This will be acceptable?"

"Alright Goodman. You've always done your job. That's all that matters."

The Scholar retired to his office. He would need to plan. Always, he had to plan. How to bring in funds, how to manage The Cause, how to train the Faithful. So, he prayed for guidance. Every day, five times a day he prayed for guidance. He had learned to pray from the Jews of Arabia, who were many. He admired their discipline. And their God had protected them, kept them strong, against the greatest empires on earth! This was the learning he sought to infuse into his culture.

There was a commotion in the street. The Scholar passed outside. Rival gangs, as usual, fighting over territory. And Allah save any who came between them! Half a dozen street toughs were systematically beating two older men from a small shop down the street. They screamed demands for gold and silver, while rhythmically and gleefully striking them with their huge fists. Blood and teeth splattered the bright, narrow street like a sun shower. Girls and women gathered about, giggling at the sport, clapping rhythmically to the blows of the fists, their rings and bracelets jingling in time, giving the whole an air of a great, orgiastic, religious festival! Which, it seemed more and more to be, as they sensuously stroked their talismans and amulets, rubbing them against their arms and thighs. The Scholar spoke:

"In the name of Allah the All-Merciful, the All-Knowing, I demand you cease and desist!" his voice carried and echoed through the narrow streets of the city. It was a trick he had learned to out-sell his competitors, in the Bazaars. "You are debauched with lust, violence, greed and wine! You are an offence in the eyes of your Lord, you must cease, or face eternal punishment!"

The members of the gang, a bit the worse for wine, looked startled by his effrontery. They stopped beating the men. Then they focused their attention on the Scholar. One of them, who he recognized from earlier in the day, spoke.

"Well, Professor! I'm not sure we're really in the mood for a lecture, today, thankyou. But, I think we could always use some more exercise!"

The gang began to close on the Scholar. He made no move, he showed no fear. A look of quiet determination played over his face. Almost of serenity.

"Leave him be!" His partner's scimitar flashed in the air. Two of his men flanked him, their swords and teeth glistening in the sun. From both ends of the street, now, could be seen men running, powerful men, well armed, many with words and symbols in Hebrew and Aramaic on their tunics, People of the Book, Followers of the Lord, the Faithful, People of The Cause. The Way. The simple, and better way. The crowd passed like dew on desert sands.

"Well, Goodman, all I can say is, it's a good thing I was here, this time. You're a dreamer. You think too much. And you talk, much too much! Sometimes. Your friends were a bit late, weren't they? If you keep up like this, what's to become of you?"

"We shall see," the Scholar said, quietly.



© Copyright Jerome Raymond Kraus (2007)