Abyss (Songs of Megiddo)

by Klieve, Daniel

  “It must have struck you at one time or another as strange – as it has with me; many times – the divide between our peoples. We are the same more than we are different, after all. You and I...a Jew and a Muslim: we are both men of The Book. Earlier yet, and still; us and ours are people of sand and suffering.”

  “Sand and suffering. Truer words were never spoken...” Dio mumbled a quiet affirmative.

  “I think on what we share all too often. We are divided – only; it seems to me – by competing claims to the legitimate representation of Allah’s intended path for his creations. And yet, The Book...These Books...are written by men. Therefore, must all wisdom to be found there not be measured against the fallibility of the authors? Authors who were Prophets, yes – peace be unto them – but men nonetheless: with all the folly and weakness that this state of being is known to confer.”

  “I remember...not so long ago...I said almost the exact same thing to someone.” Salman nodded. Under his breath, drifting – ever so slightly – away, Dio murmured: “She had purple eyes, that glowed.” Salman hadn’t appeared to hear his final words.

  “It is far from a difficult insight to arrive at. And yet...few do.” He sighed, shaking his head before continuing on: “When approached in such a way as this...all that is written – or so it seems to me – blurs into relativity and approximation. All that which we hold as inviolable, I cannot help but feel, becomes a mere matter of perspective. These thoughts, some might say – and the words spoken in defence of them – are a great blasphemy. But I have thought them a million times and more...and spoken them out loud less times but still many...and yet: here I stand. Still I prosper.”

  “My father used to say that God was a great philosopher and a poet, but also a bit of a drunk.” Dio smiled, letting the memory wash over him. “He had good ideas, my father would say – great ideas – but they always came out slurred and absurd. The people that saw what he was trying to say took his words, and wrote them down. But making sense of a drunkard is an act of translation; and much of the original meaning was lost or distorted in the final publication.” Salman snorted with amusement.

  “This is the heart of it, my friend. The glory of the true Word of Allah cannot be captured, let alone conveyed, by man. How could it be? To imagine that any one man...any faint and fallible Human voice...is capable of this, should be considered a most profound heresy; a true, narcissistic idolatry, of men dedicated to the worship of stories told by other men. And yet, this is beyond the reasoning of the most of the faithful. Though, in truth, they cannot be blamed. Theirs is to follow the path laid out by those who trod it before them. But those who first cut the path from dirt and rock? Certainly one might observe that they may have lacked a certain...foresight, as to how their words might be taken up.”

  “But...you’re a Muslim.” Dio observed in the form of a barely audible croak, referring – opaquely, he hoped – to the Islamic belief that the Quran constituted the absolute, literal, and unabridged transcription of God’s message to mankind.

  “I am, yes.” Sal smirked, meeting Dio’s eyes. There was something playful, there. “Do you believe that the Jews and Christians hold a patent on free thought, my friend? On personal reinterpretation of the parameters of one’s faith? The true spirit of Islam: too often ignored, I fear...is a fundamentally humble and universally accessible simplicity of premise: submission...which allows us access to a conduit of transcendence through which a personal relationship with Allah can be wrought. We have no Church; we have no Temple. Our sacred places are sites of learning. The greatest ever seen; or so they once were. Narrowness of mind laid us low indeed; but narrowness of mind is too Human a trait and too broad in manifestation to be more or less a characteristic of one or another Human group. We all suffer from it...whether from unseen veins deep within ourselves, or from our concessions to those around us who fail to consider those entities and objects with which they share their existence from perspectives other than their own...”

  Dio allowed his eyes to flicker shut as Salman continued to disgorge the contents of his mind. There was a poetic cadence to his words. Words which, Dio knew, were meant to protect him from silence. Words that the Israeli appreciated more than he knew how to express.

  “...But as a Muslim, yes, we believe that the Prophet Mohammed – May Allah honour him and grant him peace – conveyed the true and complete Word of Allah. To reject this precept is to reject the foundation of Islam, you see: to be another thing entirely from a Muslim. Even so, one must assume the hidden addendum: that, being a man like any other man, Mohammed – peace be unto him – transcribed that Word in a form abridged by the limitations of Human language and the Human mind. I have often wondered, also: what true believer would make the argument that the narrative of Allah’s Will could be transfigured, in all its glory, into the bounded conceptual space connoted by any number of hand-scrawled, two dimensional shapes inked onto paper? The very greatest works of man, after all, are mere shadows and banal imitations of the divine forms of the plane beyond. How could one be so blind as to imagine man’s representation of the doctrine of Heaven would be excepted from this rule? The Word is, yes, The Book. But The Book? The Book is not the Word.”

  Dio thought back to the conversations he and his father had shared during his teenage years; discussing the examples of common-sense social etiquette, hygiene rituals, and rules for healthy living dispersed throughout the Old Testament; invaluable at their time but, in many cases, outmoded in the present; preserved and adhered to dogmatically, to varying degrees and by various sects.

  “In practice if not by design, then: the closest that the Prophets of the Book – peace be unto them – could ever have hoped to come to describing the message of Allah in its authentic and complete form – as it was when handed down to them by Allah and His messengers – is by way of metaphor. Metaphor and prose...poetry and allusion, which hint – but no more than this – at the true form of the Faith that we: those who seek to know Him...begin to discover as we turn our gaze inward, and into the universal truth buried, always, within us.”

  As the words continued to flow from Salman, Dio found himself agreeing, and feeling that he was hearing – from the outside – reasoning to reflect the inner, emotional disquiet he had felt all his life; his response to the seeming dissonance between the Faith of others, and his Faith.

  “The Book, my friend, is why we must have Faith; those ideas, that is, which are alluded through – though often obscured behind – the veil of devotion that the scriptures of the Prophets – peace be unto them – comprise. The greatest fault of our peoples – those people, that is, known foremost for their devotion to the Word as it is written in The Book – is the treatment of the flawed, manmade iteration of Allah’s message as a tool by which we attempt to justify having Faith.” Salman refreshed the supply of ointment coating his fingers, continuing to gently massage Dio’s tortured soles. “This – these words that I place in your hands to do with as you will – are a gift from one good and Faithful man to another.”

  “They’re good words.” Dio nodded restfully.

  “I have struggled, in my life, to envision the Universe as it is, containing – as it does – both myself, and the object of my Faith and devotion. I have struggled to see the way that we are located in relation to one another: Him and I. Faith, I have found, is a lightness; an easement, for the dim and simple-minded...while it is, conversely, a great and terrible burden on the shoulders of those naturally given to questioning, evaluation, and doubt. Ultimately, my friend: no Book...no dogma, or scripture, or scholarly consensus can reveal to you the face of Allah, or the truth of Him, or the truth of His intentions for you in isolation from his intentions for others. You must look within, as I say, and know Him as He exists in that place from whence your Faith derives: That place where love of Allah and love of oneself are one and the same.”

  “To what end?” Dio murmured, mesmerised by the wax and wane of Salman’s soliloquy.

  �
�To that place where all ends intersect.” Salman bowed his head.

  §§§

  Dio had been Wright’s game. He and Yvonne, both. It was a strange feeling, knowing that one’s continued existence relied on the perverse fascination of a card-carrying sociopath. Certainly...Dio was no longer naïve enough to genuinely trust that Wright would leave him be out of respect.

  That he had almost been a part of it haunted him. It was something that he knew he would have to learn to live with: the knowledge that he was, if not responsible for...then complicit in...what was happening. But, as Yvonne had shown him...there were worse things in this world than misery born of guilt.

  As the days bled into weeks and the weeks into months, Dio’s wounds healed and he began to venture out into Qabatiya. One day, Salman asked him to walk with his son, Ibrahim, to Ebn Al-Beetar: the nearby boys school. He’d walked silently, that first day, worried that he might be recognised as an Israeli. As it turned out, he had nothing to worry about. Ibrahim – deftly; impressing Dio with his quick wits – had explained him away as his father’s cousin, and that had appeared to be that. Strangers in the street wished him peace and good health, and he soon learned to respond without fear of his accent. He slowly began to realise – as he had always known, on a theoretical level – that people were, by and large, people: far more interested in living their lives and finding what pleasures they could in the world than functioning as cogs in other people’s grandiose, ideological vendettas.

  The walk became a daily ritual, and he often wandered through the local market on the way back to Salman’s house. He became fond of his the brief, regular exchanges he began to have with local merchants and vendors: his Arabic steadily improving as time went by. One day, he was invited to play backgammon with a group of men – all middle aged and older – who frequented the market’s small cafe on Wednesday mornings...smoking their Narghila pipes and enjoying round upon round of playfully barbed political debate. Wednesday mornings became a running commitment...and the highlight of Dio’s schedule. Inevitably, when he returned home afterwards, Salman would tease him about his coffee-and-smoke scented clothes, and mockingly warn him against falling in with ‘unsavoury elements’.

  Every part of his life: every boring chore, and repetitive responsibility; every sedate conversation and playful exchange; every game of backgammon and puff of a Narghila was a pleasure, to him. Not merely because of how long it had been since his life had been simple and quiet...but because, every so often – surrounded by the normal, unthreatening, and placidly reassuring – he was able to forget. Just a detail or two. Just for a moment. This had become, to Dio, the definition of happiness: forgetting.

  Periodically, of course, the wider world stepped in; making forgetting – for a time – impossible. He was vaguely aware of the goings-on of the world beyond Qabatiya; outbreaks of the 96 virus waxed and waned in the larger cities...carving a swathe of gore and madness through the Middle East, Europe, and beyond. The death; the degradation...it was on a scale not seen since the Black Plague. A small community, however – like many other small communities – Qabatiya remained largely insulated from the tribulations. As the world around continued to collapse into chaos...somehow, Qabatiya remained safe. Vital supplies – though supplied increasingly and, eventually: entirely by travelling merchants – still flowed through Qabatiya. It was, in Dio’s estimation, nothing short of a miracle that, until that point, the 96 virus had not accompanied them. Though, of course: he knew that it was probably only a matter of time.

  In the trials being faced in the wider world, there were, clearly, better days and worse days. Dio remembered a week where the entire sky had darkened with smoke and ash as they burned the corpses from the Great Jerusalem Outbreak. He and Salman had prayed together, each and every morning of that week. Both typically managed their self-imposed spiritual obligations in isolation...and were surprised to find that their experience was enriched – despite the differences in their worship – by the other’s presence. As a result, this, too, soon became one of Dio’s rituals.

  §§§

  It was a Thursday – Dio was aware of that much – when Ibrahim, complaining of intense pains in his stomach, was unable to go to school. Dio waited until Sunday to see if the symptoms began to lessen. By then, a number of other people in the community had begun to show signs of infection. Thankfully, Salman and himself were not among them...but Dio suspected, again, that this was only a matter of time.

  §§§

  Dio Ben-Zeev and Salman Nadir sat on the front steps of Salman’s little house, and shared some bread and cheese. Salman had – quietly of course; with eminent subtlety – made an effort to find kosher food for Dio, despite Dio’s constant reminders that, to him, it hardly mattered. The effort was still appreciated. Dio appreciated everything Salman had done for him.

  “Do you drink?” Dio asked without really thinking about it. Salman raised an amused eyebrow.

  “What do you think, my friend?” Dio sighed.

  “I think...that I could really...really use a drink.”

  “Why today and not some other day?” Salman asked. Dio looked away and off into the distance, sighing.

  “Because today...I’m trying to work out how to tell you that I may know what’s wrong with Ibrahim, and with the rest of the people in Qabatiya.”

  “I know what’s wrong, Dio.” Salman replied. “I may not want to say it, but I do know.” Dio inhaled sharply, and then, slowly, exhaled.

  “I don’t mean...generally. I mean...I specifically know what the disease is, and who is spreading it. They were the people who I left, when I walked into the desert to atone. The one’s who gave me reason to atone. And I think...I think that I might know where to find them. They will have a cure. If we can find them, I swear to you that I will get that cure for Ibrahim, even if I have to die to do so.” He forced himself to turn and meet Salman’s eyes; his own filled with a guilty plea for understanding. Salman’s expression was unreadable. “We need to take Ibrahim...and as many others as will join us. Then, we need to go to Petra.”

  “Across the Jordan River?” Salman asked with extreme scepticism. Dio nodded. “Into Jordan.” This time it wasn’t a question but a statement: a confirmation. Dio, again, nodded. Salman looked toward the heavens, and, as if attempting to break a kind of fourth wall that lay between himself and the world of the divine, muttered, with a shake of his head: “The boy’s finally lost his overworked, Israeli mind...”

  “I’m right about this, Salman...” Dio assured him.

  “Dio, Jordan closed its’ borders months ago. Inside, the King has declared martial law.”

  “I know.” Dio nodded. “I didn’t say it’d be easy. I said it was what we needed to do.”

  “Why now?” Salman asked quietly. “I mean: why did you tell me this now?” Dio was surprised at the lack of judgement in Salman’s voice. His question was a plea for understanding, and nothing more.

  “Because I can’t...” Dio paused, shaking his head and looking straight ahead, into the distance. He almost smiled. This was the first time he’d seen the symmetry for what it was. In a way, it reassured him. It told him something very important about himself. It told him that, even after everything...he was still – at the very heart of him – a good man. “Because, regardless of what might happen, I can’t just sit here and watch an innocent child die. It’s something that I just can’t do.”

  Dio sighed. He knew that, in some form: in some guise or another...when they arrived at Petra, death would be waiting for him.

  Not that he cared. He was done caring. That was the whole point.

  Act 5

  Fragments

  §

  Bars of golden cusp

  The world’s edge; morning slumbers

  Far away and deep.

  Fragment I – Benjamin Manus

  ~ Ben ~

  30/11/2023

  The air chilled Benjamin Manus to the bone, and he pulled the faded, grey-green hoodie tighter
around himself. Ahead of him, the stubborn rubber soles of Jen’s freshly bought, stiff leather shoes rhythmically clacked along the cobblestone path. It had been a week since they’d arrived in England, and Ben knew that he never wanted to go back.

  London’s sparkling city centre was a vast jungle of glass, cement, and steel: carefully cultivated and allowed to spread and grow...up from, out of, and over the aged brick and coal-soaked iron of the cities’ past. For Ben, post-modernity was inauthentic. He’d hoped for the London he’d grown up reading about: for that great, dystopian metropolis from whence industrialism first issued. The vast monolith that had cast its shadow forward through time, haunting his childhood dreams. The London of Dickens. Of Gaskell. He hadn’t found it. Sure, there were echoes...and he could go to the places that he’d read about...but they weren’t what he had expected them to be.

  Just goes to show: you should never follow your heroes home. Wait...what’s the saying? Fuck it. Who cares?

  Ben noticed Jen slowing her pace. He took it to mean that they were probably quite close to their destination.

  “We’re almost there.” She clarified, turning to face him and gesturing back at the large, archaic-chic function centre that lay directly in their path.

  “I figured.” He acknowledged. Their exchange was an exercise in redundancy. A way of delaying the inevitable.

  “Ben: Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Of course I do. We’re friends. I want to be supportive.” His voice echoed unconvincingly in his ears.

  “‘Supportive’ was convincing me to do this. Paying for my plane ticket? I can kinda chalk that up to you having too much money and too little sense. But...this? This is something totally different.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He innocently insisted. Jen rolled her eyes.