Chapter 203
Nirma, listening to the conversation from behind the veil of obscurity surrounding her body, felt her heart stop for a brief moment.
Not because she feared being discovered, but because she realized that Abbad ibn Bishr, without realizing it, without technology, and without data from the Temporal Cross-Police, had sensed the very same thing.
The sweet scent of the sleeping gas did not belong to this era. The wind was blowing from the wrong direction because the portal in the courtyard of Anas's house had disrupted Medina's natural airflow, a current that had remained unchanged since the surrounding mountains first rose from the earth. Arya, standing no more than a single step beside her, forced himself to stop breathing.
Not completely, because that would have been impossible for a living human being, but long enough that the sound of his inhalation would not escape through his nostrils, long enough that his chest would not rise and fall in a way detectable by the sharp eyes of Ali ibn Abi Talib, who was renowned for never missing even the smallest detail on the battlefield.
And when the group finally arrived directly before the door of Anas's house, the very same woven bamboo door that Nirma had opened several hours earlier, the door now left half-open in haste, the door beyond which lay the courtyard containing the bottomless portal and the attic holding the metal capsule filled with long strands of hair and the message from the old man, Nirma and Arya instinctively held their breath once again. They thought that Umar ibn al-Khattab would dismount from his camel, that Ali ibn Abi Talib would draw his sword, and that the golden light that was the Messenger of Allah (peace and blessings be upon him) would illuminate every corner of the house, uncovering the temporal traces that should never have existed in the seventh century.
But nothing happened except a silence so profound that Nirma could hear the pounding of her own heart, a heartbeat too fast, too loud, too much like the war drums calling soldiers to their deaths.
From atop his white camel, the golden light did not move. It neither grew brighter nor dimmer. It simply existed, simply remained, simply bestowed mercy in a way that logic could never comprehend, because logic, as a Sufi from a century Nirma had never visited once said, is a veil that covers the eye of the heart, and a veiled heart can never understand that sometimes, nothing happening at all is the greatest miracle of all.
"There is no one here," Zaid ibn Harithah said after a moment, his voice neither disappointed nor relieved, only calm, calm like someone accustomed to searching without always finding.
"Perhaps they truly went to the date groves in the north, or to the marketplace in the south, or somewhere else we do not know, because Allah does not always reveal where His servants choose to walk."
Abbad ibn Bishr stepped forward first with footsteps so quiet that not even the dry sand beneath his feet made a sound. His sword was drawn only a few inches from its sheath, enough to remain prepared, but not enough to provoke.
When he came within a few steps of the entrance, his sharp eyes, like arrows yet to be released, swept across the entire outer perimeter of Anas's house, from the fragile woven walls to the open attic above, from the neglected old well to the date grove behind the house, where the first breeze of dawn stirred the leaves.
Abdullah ibn Rawahah pressed himself against the wall on the opposite side of the doorway, his ear resting against the dried bamboo weave. Within the silence, broken only by the beating of his own heart, he listened for breathing, footsteps, strange sounds, anything that could explain why a house that should have been filled with the warmth of its gracious owner felt so empty, so silent, so much like a mouth that had never spoken because its tongue had been severed by something without a name.
"I can't hear Anas or his family's voices," Abdullah whispered to Abbad. His words escaped as little more than faint vibrations in the air, and Abbad merely responded with a silent nod, his jaw tightening.
"We'll wait for the Messenger's signal before we enter," he replied. Through the small communication device hidden beneath Nirma's veil, a device Arya had given her that could capture sound vibrations from distances impossible for ordinary human ears, Nirma heard every whisper with perfect clarity, far too clearly, as clear as water in the desert that turned out to be nothing more than a mirage. She felt a tightness in her chest caused by something she could not name.
It was neither fear nor relief, but the realization that she was witnessing history from a place where she was never meant to stand, that she was a ghost watching the living from behind a curtain they could never see.
Ali ibn Abi Talib dismounted from his camel with movements so gentle that the sand beneath his feet neither creaked nor protested. It simply accepted the weight of a body carrying invisible tension beyond the perception of ordinary eyes.
The sword he drew was not Zulfiqar, the blade that would one day become famous on the battlefield, but another sword no less sharp, no less heavy, and no less deadly. He positioned himself on the right side of the doorway, the most dangerous position of all, where, should the door suddenly swing open from within, he would either be the first to strike or the first to shield the others, depending on what awaited beyond it.
His expression was solemn, revealing nothing except a cold readiness, while his keen eyes observed every movement around the house, every palm frond swaying without wind, every unnaturally stretching shadow, every crack in the woven walls that might conceal unseen eyes watching in return.
Zubair ibn al-Awwam remained atop his camel, choosing elevation as his ally. From that higher vantage point, he could oversee the entire roof of the house, every narrow path winding through the date groves, and every place where danger might emerge without warning.
His hand gripped his bow, an arrow already nocked against the string, ready to be released within a fraction of a second should even the faintest silhouette appear upon the roof or within an alley untouched by the dim light of dawn.
And within the silence that the Messenger of Allah never broke, the golden light remaining motionless upon the white camel, saying nothing, moving nowhere, simply bestowing mercy in a way beyond understanding, Zubair suddenly straightened his back, not because he had heard anything, but because he had felt something that could not be heard.
A command from that light, not spoken as words, but flowing through the air, through the earth, through the pulse in Zubair's veins that had suddenly fallen into a different rhythm.
Fwhoosh!!
Zubair merely nodded, one short nod that declared he was ready, that he would allow nothing, whether human, jinn, or a being from another age, to escape his sight that night.
Sa'd ibn Abi Waqqas dismounted from his mount with movements that were heavy but unhurried. His broad frame leaned against the wooden pillar supporting the roof of Anas's porch, and from that partially concealed position he observed the courtyard differently from the others. His gaze was fixed not upon the door, the windows, or the roof, but upon the old well in the corner of the courtyard, a well without a bucket, its stone rim cracked by the relentless heat of Medina's long summers, a well from whose depths no sound of water could be heard, even though the rainy season had only recently passed.
To be continued…