the road and the fields was a small, off-white building. It was not an impressive sight. It was roughly square, a single ill-proportioned story in height, whitewashed brick on the sides, stuccoed brick in the front. There were three doors, all in a line, too many obviously for such a small structure, with the two flanking doors smaller than the central one, which was itself only tall enough to allow a six-footer to scrape beneath the top of the casing. The doors were painted green, a darker green than the Dr Seuss-like tree that provided a comically small patch of shade.
The only feature of note was a small tower, just twice the height of the building itself and narrow, like a blunt, brick rocket. It leaned just a little to one side.
But my eye was drawn away from the building by the sight of a group of people walking slowly up the road toward us. A dozen people, perhaps, it was hard to be sure, but certainly no more than that number. The men were dressed in what looked like long shirts over loose-fitting pants, all of unadorned cotton. The women wore voluminous black with only their faces and hands showing.
Four of the men carried something, and I could already guess, from the muted crying, from the downcast eyes, from the slumped shoulders, from the way some supported others, that this was a funeral procession.
The body came into view as the mourners neared. It was wrapped in white cotton. A red rope tied the top of the shroud just above the head, a second rope gathered the shroud just beneath the soles of the feet. Two more such ropes were wrapped around the body’s midsection, keeping the shroud in place. It had the unmistakable gravity of sacred ritual.
The body was large and at first I thought it was too large to be that of a child, but then I noticed that some of the men were of large size as well, so perhaps it was a family trait.
As the procession reached us more men came from the small brick building and joined silently in.
“Their mosque,” Messenger said, nodding slightly toward the building.
“It isn’t very impressive,” I said. I suppose I had images from news stories of the huge mosque that protects the Kaaba in Mecca, or even of the overwhelming Hagia Sophia.
We were, of course, invisible and inaudible to the mourners. Had we wished to we could have walked right through them. But death and grief impose limits, even on those with great power. We kept our distance. I finished my pastry, feeling foolish and disrespectful but needing food and having no better plan.
“This is a poor, rural area,” Messenger said. “Farmers and shepherds. Their mosque is humble.”
“Why are we here?” I asked. “This is a very long way from home. Does your duty extend this far?”
“This is the victim, or one of them,” Messenger said. “Our business is with the ones responsible.”
“But how did . . .” I let it drop for two reasons. First, Messenger showed what he wanted to show, when he wanted, and in whatever order he thought necessary for me to understand.
Secondly, there was a new person with the mourners, a person who clearly did not belong since her eyes tracked us as she approached.
She was dressed all in black: loose trousers beneath a flowing robe, with her head covered in a black hijab. Black but not dull or even quite monochrome, because as she drew close I saw that the fabric swirled with woven patterns which, unless my eyes deceived me, moved and changed in subtle and fascinating ways.
Her clothing was unadorned, but she wore rings, and I knew instinctively that they were of Isthil and the Shrieking Face.
“She’s a messenger,” I said.
Messenger’s silence was confirmation.
The procession passed by, the young woman in black joined us. She was quite beautiful, with dark skin, unusually large eyes, and a quirk in her mouth that spoke of humor.
“Messenger,” she said.
“Messenger,” he acknowledged with a nod. “This is my apprentice.”
No names. I was disappointed. I was certain that Messenger had a name, at least had had a name once upon a time, but evidently I would not learn it here and now. Even my name was dropped from the introduction.
I stuck out a hand, an instinctive offer of a handshake, a gesture this new Messenger declined with a wry smile.
“You must be new not to know that a messenger is not to be touched,” she said in accented but easily understood English.
“Sorry,” I apologized.
“Thank you for allowing this intrusion,” Messenger—my messenger—said.
“We serve the balance,” the woman said. Then, “It makes no difference, but he was a good boy. Fifteen years old. Brave. Kind. He burned fiercely for justice.”
Without a word being spoken by either my mentor or his counterpart, we three were half a mile down the road, past a village that was really little more than a cluster of a dozen brick and plaster buildings, none even so grand as the humble mosque. We stood in a dusty field marked with twenty or thirty stones, some cut to rectangles, others obviously just hauled here in their natural rough state.
It was the placement of these stones that told the tale, for they were evenly spaced, six feet from left to right, in approximated rows. It lacked the carefully manicured grass, or the cut flowers, or the chiseled limestone markers and grandiose marble obelisks I recalled from my own sad travels to cemeteries, but cemetery it was.
A hole had been dug, long enough and wide enough for a body, deep enough to discourage whatever wild creatures roamed this strange and unfamiliar landscape.
Now the mourners stood praying in three rows. Men stood in front, closest to the grave. Women behind them. Children in the row farthest away.
A woman’s knees buckled and she released a small, despairing cry. She was held standing by women on either side. It was beyond doubt that here was the mother.
The shrouded body was placed on its side in the hole.
“Facing Mecca,” our new companion explained.
“How did he die?” I asked.
The female messenger nodded and the three of us began to walk away. But as we did the world scrolled backward around us. We walked at what seemed a normal speed, but the dead body leaped from the grave and was once again on a stretcher being carried backward down the road.
Faster and faster the scene moved past us, though there was no sense that we were moving at anything but a leisurely pace.
The funeral procession passed backward by the tiny mosque, down the road, to a village somewhat larger than the one we’d passed through earlier. This village was clustered around a trickle of a stream that barely moistened the rocks and seemed at any moment that it might be drunk up entirely by the parched earth.
We watched silently as the body was placed on a wooden table in one simple home with low ceilings and a scattering of thin mattresses. The walls had once been painted a cheerful turquoise, but earlier colors of paint and bare brick showed through.
Now only men were in the room and in reverse motion they untied the ropes, and
