Abdallah my camel

I open the curtain and lo - it's already light. It seems like it was only just 4 AM about half an hour ago, when I sat down to do some work because I couldn't sleep. But it's after 8 AM now and the first shy rays of the morning sun are falling onto our dark blue velvet curtain and the yellow-blossoming plant on our window-sill, making the grey backdrop of the houses on the other side of Hutchison Court seem a lot more apealing.
I look around the room - the fire is burning on a low flame, some heavy volumes of medieval Arabic hadith-compilers are hanging out in scattered groups on the floor and the table I sit at is covered in the sources for my dissertation: dozens upon dozens of copies from those volumes, drawn over in various colours and mediums to highlight certain passages, explain others or note references to again other passages - and as my tired eyes calmly scan the pages and look back at the computer screen, I realise that I haven't actually been in this room for the last four hours. None of my short term memory's memories are located in this room, in this town nor even in this country.

I spent the last four hours in Syria, believe it or not. In the desert on a trip to the little town of Bosra, where the monk Bahira lives in a remote cell above the caravan route.
Me and my fellow Qurayshi merchants were hoping to do some trading on the market there and we had a young lad among us, who the noble and influential Khadija had sent with us on his first business trip, because his uncle Abu Taleb, who had adopted him after his father died, was getting old - the strenuous rides on the uncomfortable camels, the desert sun and the sand storms were becoming too big a burden for him. His nephew was about 25 I'd say and his name was Mohammad. Everybody spoke very highly of him and there was many rumours about him, especially since he recently received such generous attention from Lady Khadija: she had offered to pay him twice what she usually pays the rest of us to sell her stuff on the markets in Syria. Although you couldn't find a fault in Mohammad, this priviledged status he enjoyed was reason for prejudice. So he often walked alone, just a few yards away from the rest of the caravan, leading his five old camels that were tied up in a row like everyone else's. He was of strong build and held himself much unlike any of the other Qurayshi lads of his age: so upright and calm was his posture, so straight and determined his look and so kind and gentle his interaction. I eyed him through the arch of my lead camel Abdallah's neck. He couldn't see me because of all the tassles I had tied to Abdallah's hair that were dangling in the early desert sun. Sometimes I couldn't take my gaze off him for whole minutes - there was something mysterious and undeniably attractive about him.

We arrived in Bosra late in the morning and rushed to the Sooq, from where the buzz of the Saturday market could already be heard until far into the desert. We had trouble finding empty stalls in the small and tightly-packed market square and were soon busy getting the loads down from our camels - bags of rice and spices, Qurayshi rugs and daggers, pottery and other goods. And only when I put a heavy bag of woven linens down to take a breath, did I notice Mohammad resting under a tree. Despite his tough physical appearance, the journey seems to have tired him out and my friend Ghalib leaned over his stall-table and whispered to me with a spiteful grin on his face: "Looks like he isn't used to the kind of work he's being paid for, eh?!! Ha!" I could't agree more with him.
Meanwhile Khadija's slave, Maisara, who she'd sent to accompany the young Mohammad, was doing all the work by himself; and just as he had finished unloading the last of their five camels, a man dressed in white rags and holding a grubby wooden staff stepped up to him. I had to blink before I recognised him - it was Bahira, the monk from the hermit cell above the caravan route, who always looked down on us when we passed, but never came to speak to us.
He was speaking to Maisara, pointing at Mohammad lying under the tree and I saw Maisara's eyes open wide with an expression of awe. Using Abdallah as an excuse, I went closer to listen.
"...noone has ever rested under that tree at this time of day except if he was a prophet and the last one who did rest there at this time was Jesus son of Mary. Ah, of course - he must be the prophet thas has been foretold in our scriptures to appear among the people of the Quraish this month..." Bahira said with an hushed voice, but I could see the excitement in his eyes:
"Maisara, listen: Take him back to Mekkah, he isn't safe here or anywhere in Syria. Great things lie ahead of him and he shall be a light to all of us, but if the Jews get their hands on him, they'll see in him what I have seen and they will want to do him harm, for they are of a jealous kind. They know the next prophet is coming at this time and they want him to be another son of Israel. Hurry back home with him and protect him from the Jews!"

The sudden passing of a dark brown mane of beautifully curly hair by my window brings me back to Scotland, to St.Andrews, to Hutchison Court - one of the neighbour's cute children is jumping past on her way to school. My curtains are now fully opened and the sun is streaming in. Reminder calls from my bad conscience begin to infiltrate my thoughts: "you better get back to your dissertation"... I turn off the fire and smile at the "His Master's Voice"-1960s-record player on the floor, which a much awaited postman brought round yesterday - God, I'd missed listening to David Bowie, Telonius Monk Quartet, John Coltrane and most of all: Cat Stevens.
Apart from the appearance of a new prophet in the Hejaaz, the record player was definitely yesterday's highlight.
Let's see what today has in stall for us.
One thing is for certain: I'm going back to Syria.
Right now! Byebye