Chapter Four the Whisper of the Sand and the Prophecy of the Stars

I was in my old tent erected at the edge of a high dune of countless sands, when I heard a voice in the wind calling me by a name I had not heard in a long time: "O Nimran, wake up, for death comes in the palaces of Sheba" I thought at first glance that my imagination had clouded me as I always carried in my chest strange visions in which the sounds of yesterday and the secrets of the future are mixed But when I raised my gaze to the sky, I found the stars studded at night as if they were inscriptions carved on an old stone slab, whispering to me a conversation that does not It is said only to those who are silent about the noise of cities.

At that moment, I realized that Al-Haddad had surrendered his soul, and that Sheba would turn his page to start a new page I still remember a little child, in his braids of hair necklaces, knocking on the door of my tent to ask me what the wind has in store for this world He was a boy who was on fire, curious, reading my handwritings as if it were a map that wanted to reveal to him all the secret of her day, I saw in his eyes a sparkle like a solar light burning in the darkness of the heart, and I knew that he would one day become a majestic king, but I could not imagine that destinies It will make him leave before the dawn of his daughter's rule on a throne that some tribal elders still do not believe is serious about a woman.

On the night of his death, I heard the sand answer him in tears as their grains broke on the foot of the dune as if they foreshadowed a great crack coming to the kingdom of Sheba. I then evoked the images of the old days. A boy sitting in front of me writing down my simple wisdom on wooden planks, asking me about the secrets of the stars, and whether one man can gather tribes under one banner. And here he is, that child has become and has become a past. We have mercy on him, leaving behind his most precious treasure, Bilqis, of which I do not know personally, but I I hear about it in the cheers of the wind and the call of sand.

At dawn the next day of that vision, I went out walking with my old camel to the outskirts of a deep valley, and I looked around me to see a trace of the effects of departure, but you find in the desert only echoes and secrets hanging from the cilia of palms Suddenly, the dune sands spoke again, but in a pet voice: "O Nimran, the daughter of Haddad sits today on the throne, and that around her is a cunning adviser, and elders who are only inhabited by doubt or greed, so be sure of your judgment on them, and tell the truth written by the wind. on the slopes of the mountains."

I knew that "sand speaks" is not just a poetic metaphor, but a wisdom felt by those who were cut off from human paths and resorted to silence, so I realized that Bilqis is an extension of an ancient spirit burning in the veins of mourning, and that those who are wrapped in the shadows of conspiracies around it do not know that the stars may forgive the stumble if they are correct, but the desert does not forgive those who wanted to betray the light of the sun.

For the next three days, I sat in the open, staring at the sky, waiting for another sign. I saw a comet passing on the horizon as if it were a signature of fate, announcing that a new era would begin. But fraught with thorns and exams. I became more certain that I should leave my solitude, even for a short time, in order to see what was going on in Sheba from the heart of the scene, not from its edges. Since I recited the verses of wisdom in front of the child mourner, I have not taken a step within the walls of his palace. Towards the capital, without telling anyone my plans, the desert when you accompany you, you alone and the kings of destiny.

The closer I get to the caravan routes, the more surprised the travelers are to see a thick-bearded sheikh carrying with him only a tired camel and some empty jars One of the merchants asked me what I meant, and I told him "I turn with the wind where it wants", and he shook his head and went on laughing in his secret, but he did not know that I was fully aware that my destination was nothing but the Sheba Palace, which I heard the nights groaning under the weight of disputes in which one of the caravans revolved. She told me about a man they call "Khazabala", who sleeps little, looks in the eyes of men, as if he knows the secrets of their souls, and others warned me of a sheikh named Hamdan, who awakens in the hearts of people doubts that may make them doubt the legitimacy of the daughter of Haddad on the throne.

What scared me the most was not the suspicion of women, but the power of greed disguised by religion and customs, an ancient scourge that gnawed thrones that are innumerable throughout history I remembered a day when little mourning spoke to me about it when we were on the verge of a dune, and he asked me, "My teacher, can someone twist the words of the gods to justify his greed?" I replied with a laugh, "Whoever does not find an argument in his soul, looks for it in sacred texts or legends, to establish his earthquake throne" I knew then that the mourning would be distinguished from others, because despite his young age, he understood that the truth does not hide in false words, even if it claims holiness.

And when I came to the walls of Sheba, I found it silent as if it were a tree afraid to be moved by the wind Some say that the silence of cities is noisier than the outburst of tribes, because it hides the most dangerous thoughts in the darkness of quiet houses crossed towards high gates where guards stand carrying the banners of the sun, no one knew me and when the head of the guard asked me about my name, I said "Nimran" opened his eyes in surprise and gave way to me and when one of the soldiers asked the head of  the guard "who is Nimran who made him pass",  and he responded to him "Nimran the sage of the desert who taught mourning in his youth" The soldiers were astonished, as if he did not know if it was correct to believe me or accuse me of madness, but after a few moments of hesitation, he believed, perhaps because he felt that behind my features were stupid times.

It soon became clear to me that the city was groaning from a vacuum left behind by the death of the mourner, and that Bilqis was trying with the impact of his blood to heal the rift I saw the faces of the public between anxiety and anticipation, and I heard many whispers revolving around the conspiracies brewed in the minds of some sheikhs No one here is ignorant of the stories of the temple, where the queen carried her torch ably, and no one denies that Khazabala holds many threads that even the commanders of the guards themselves do not see.

That evening, I stood on a small hill near the palace wall, contemplating the sky of Sheba when the sun was coming down. I remember how, decades ago, Haddad trembled at the sight of the sunset and said that there was a sign in it that frightened the weak hearts. Then I recalled in my heart his old prayer when he was a child calling out to the sun, which we considered then our greatest idol: "O sun of the ancestors, give me the strength to enable me to take the reins of this kingdom." He is gone, leaving the reins to his daughter, who he feels is now living a battle between established norms and new wings that want to fly towards a horizon that sees no end.

I thought of entering the palace in the morning and asking to meet Bilqis, and remind her of an old lesson that I taught to Haddad one day: "The sun rises only for those who wait for it at the top of the dune, not at its foot" and I know that, in these difficult days, she needs a voice inspired by the desert, that distances itself from political maneuvers, and sheds light on her that she does not see in the corridors of palaces. In the souls of true kings.

I was overwhelmed by a wave of sadness when I remembered the day I was mixing my words with the laughter of the little mourner, as he inquired about ancient kings whose names were mentioned in obliterated inscriptions, and then I pondered the condition of his daughter today as she faced forces covering up with Sharia and heritage, I realized that she would not withstand unless she had a lofty will, deriving its fuel from the spirit of the mourning himself, and this will, if any, will not be extinguished unless the conspiracies succeed in questioning it.

As for me, Nimran, perhaps in my long isolation I have lost the skill of communicating with the people of Hatra, but I have not lost the insight that the stars give to those who sit in silence, those stars that whispered to me about his death, and those sands that told me about conspiracies woven under a golden dome here in Sheba, make me reassured that the story is not yet over with the departure of a great king. The tree planted by the blacksmith is now growing a new branch, which may green and flourish, and may wither and decay if we leave it alone in Blown by the wind.

As I spread out my cloak woven from camel hair, leaning on my worn stick, the words of the little mourning echoed in my ears, and they wrote in the heart of my memory, "My teacher, when he saw me weak one day, he reminded me of the desert, and that in its stillness there is an invincible force." You show yourself for what you are if you are strong, your strength increases and if you are weak, your spirit collapses" This lesson may benefit his daughter now so that if she understands it she can turn Sheba towards a future that is not mapped in the dark.

With these thoughts, the night fell over the capital, and there was nothing left on the horizon except the palace lights vibrating like blush torches, and distant voices from soldiers taking turns guarding I lay on the sand outside the walls, and buried my face for a moment in my cloak to hide a tear that fell on the memory of the mourning I said in secret that if he had lived until he saw how some of his men set up his daughter as hostility, he would have fought himself to preserve a tree he planted with his own hands, but death is a year that does not change, and it remains for the living to complete the path, each as much as he can in In the morning, I will step towards that palace, may I raise my voice reminding that the one who knows the secrets of the stars does not fear the darkness of conspiracies and before I fell asleep, I saw again that star who had raised the news of the death of the mourner, shining over me as if it were an eye that never sleeps, and saying, "Go on, Nimran... The story of mourning is not over... She is writing herself tonight by moonlight."

The next morning, when the sun of Sheba was slowly climbing the horizon, I proceeded cautiously towards the palace gate, and guards who did not know me received me, and if they feared the dignity of my body, I crossed the inner courtyard following one of the servants, until I found myself in a spacious stone courtyard, dotted with ornate columns, and hanging from its ceiling golden banners illuminated by the sun's rays there, I glimpsed Queen Bilqis sitting on a majestic platform, and behind her was the Grand Advisor Khazabala, who as soon as his eyes fell on me, his face widened in astonishment and fell from his hand. A staircase hesitated for a moment, then knelt down a short bow closer to reverence and said in a tone of astonishment, "O my first teacher, O wise man of the desert... Is this a vision or an awakening?".

I saw the queen's confusion in her eyes when she turned to Khazabala, silently alluding to him, as if to ask him, "Who is this hermit? Is he really so revered by my greatest advisor?" He got up and took a step to the podium to explain that I was Nimran, the teacher whose childhood soaked the sciences of stars and sand, and that he had in my heart an unparalleled reverence I felt the eyes of Bilqis, the daughter of Haddad, shine with some respect and astonishment.

As soon as I approached, I heard her address to me, "O sage of the desert, I heard stories about you from my father in my childhood, but I never realized that you were still alive," and I smiled a light smile carried by the wind towards the roof of the palace, and I answered in a quiet voice, as if I were talking to myself before I spoke to her.

O daughter of Haddad, life in the crowds of cities is measured by the number of footsteps and words, but in the desert it is akin to a long breath in which the vision extends from eternity to eternity. I have withdrawn from the world of palaces deliberately, not to escape people, but in search of man in what others see as solitude. I saw a silent encounter with countless sands, each grain of which bears the memory of those who were before us, and whispers about those who will come after us.

Many decades ago, when I taught your father the secrets of the stars, I discovered that the meaning of existence is lost when we count the days with limited facts and breaths. But in a tent set up by the wind as it pleases, the day may last for eons or pass by as a blink of an eye, because we do not count the ticking of the clocks but follow the pulse of the universe as it gasps with every sunrise and exhales with every sunset There, my queen, a new meaning is born that we are not prisoners of forms and limitations, but children of an idea too big to be locked in a body or Time.

One may wonder how those who have lived all those years in the open can survive, and the truth is that survival itself is not an end but a crypt in the path of knowledge I began to see with different eyes one eye looking at the details of passers-by and their conversations, and another watching the silence of the stars whispering above my head I grew up with that divided gaze, and I knew that annihilation and birth are only niqabs of one essence, and that between the heartbeats hide worlds brighter than the sun itself.

When a person flows in his isolation away from the structure and noise, he interrogates the emptiness around him and answers this emptiness in a language unknown to the public, but those who are accustomed to the sands of the desert understand its letters Life is harsh on those who try to catch it between his palms, but it smiles in the face of those who surrender to it as a journey that goes where it wants, all of which makes life an extension that is not limited by numbers, but framed by tales and whispers.

How can I have died in her heart? In every grain of sand lies a small mirror of my soul, and in every distant star a flash that restores the radiance of hope to me Perhaps, daughter of the sun, you will need to understand this secret to see yourself for what it is, and to transcend the forms that you adhere to today Death does not inevitably come to those whose heart remains alive embracing the truth, and absence is not death if determination moves the soul and memory I am here because my journey with your father has not stopped, and because I see in you a shadow An upcoming sun needs a depth that blooms only in the labyrinths of silence.

 She was looking at me with a look that mixed caution with the desire to explore a deep secret that I carry, and I said to her in a voice that was faint to the point of whispering, "Queen, I have come to spend what the mourning began, and to listen to concerns that may not be revealed to you by Salal Al-Qasr, but rather on the faces of the stars and the secrets of the sand."

Here Khazabala took another step, and returned his head tilted down as if revering my existence, and then addressed the queen, saying, "My sire, since the departure of the Haddad and I have been chasing the threads of secrets day and night, I have found what I have found only in the first teacher, Nimran, who taught your father the meaning of power in the light of the desert." I felt the counselor's deep gratitude, and remembered the look of the disciple who still clings to a word from his teacher to direct his thought.

I was gathering the image I saw in my visions, "O daughter of Haddad, whoever rules Sheba and shepherds its scattered tribes need roots that strike in the ancestral soil, and you possess these roots with your blood, but you also need an artery that feeds your rule from the veins of heaven, from our holy gods who helped king after king for the sake of truth and monotheism. The distant temple of Awam is the old secret house, there you gain blessing and the legitimacy of the king is recognized, and there your ship can put its anchors so that it is not shaken by conspiracies. Plague you."

Bilqis seemed to remember a legend told to her in her childhood about that temple immersed in majestic silence, which the old number says that whoever entered it with a pure heart won the support of the gods and settled his rule, but - at the same time - a place that does not knock on its door except from his queen determination She blinked me with rigid eyes for a moment, as if she was reading my features to see if I was honest and I found her approaching her throne a step closer to her throne and descending from it reverently made the three of us few attendees and the bearers of the golden abaya (the great banner of the sun) from The elite guards look in amazement when she reached me, gently placed her palm on the hem of my distant sand cloak and said, "If you intended to guide me where my sun would become greater, I would go and need a light to ward off storms and establish my footsteps on the path of governance."

Khazabala then got up and signaled to the guards to make room that seemed mixed with enthusiasm and fear, chanting "Temple of Awam... Oh His Majesty! It is home to true blessing, my sire, that you gain from there what makes the throne difficult to the scheming and whims of the tribal elders" and then he looked back at me as I glimpsed in his eyes a strange certainty, the certainty of those who found his way in joy intersected with awe of the greatness of the place we would go.

The silence was long and the sound of the wind coming from the wide windows was almost the only anthem in the palace corners of a reverence I never knew, so that I no longer felt the weight of the long road nor the ignorance of the vast horizons.

As she focused her gaze on the palace gate, she patted Khazabala on the shoulder and said, "Counselor, walk beside your queen and lead her to that temple there calling her, and the spirits flying in the sky of Sheba will witness their rebirth under an unsetting sun."

When I left moments later, I left behind a solemn silence that I felt their heartbeat reach me, carrying the blood of mourning represented by his daughter, and confusing an aspiration towards a future that no one realizes, and awe of the holiness that will come from it. Perhaps, after the temple of Awam is lit with its sun, not a single skeptic will dare to deny the legitimacy of the queen, and the night will not have a foothold in which to spread shadows. As for me, Nimran, I have returned to my silence and the company of the stars, satisfied that I have laid a new seed in the soil of governance, waiting for it to bloom. When Bilqis stands at the gods' doorstep and writes new lines from a long-awaited epic.