A novice might have said he had the choice not to reveal his vision, thereby possibly sparing his own life. But Muhmad knew that was a choice that was no choice. He would tell the questioners what he saw, and they would fail to understand it, as questioners often did—but they would act, and in that action would hang the fate of the world. And Muhmad would die, but what of it? He’d seen ninety-six summers, and they all looked alike by now. He was confident enough of his judgment at the Bridge of Shinvar that death itself held no fear. A useless death was another matter—but that would not be the case.
His mind at rest, then, among the pathways of the future, Muhmad sat quietly and considered the brightness of the stars and planets, and the beauty of a desert sunrise.
***
In the morning af
