Free Children of the Storm by Elizabeth Peters

Abdullah. Designed by David, it was of conventional form—a domed, four-sided structure—but unusually graceful and attractive. Even from a distance Ramses saw that it looked different. His amazement mounted as they drew nearer. A rope slung across the lovely arched entrance held a bizarre variety of what must be offerings—strings of beads and glass, handkerchiefs, a bunch of hair. Under the cupola, next to the low monument over the tomb itself, sat a motionless form, turbaned head bent, hands folded.
    “Good Lord,” Ramses exclaimed. “It’s Hassan. What the devil is he doing?”
    “He is the servant of the sheikh,” Daoud said.
    “What sheikh? Not Abdullah!”
    Hassan got up and came to meet them, ducking his head under the rope with its motley attachments. Ramses observed that the white marble floor was strewn with flowers and palm branches, some fresh and colorful, some withered. Hassan did not appear to be practicing asceticism. He had been smoking a narghile and there were plates of bread and other food around him.
    “What is this, Hassan?” Ramses demanded. “No one loved and admired Abdullah more than I, but he was no holy man.”
    “It is good that you have come, Brother of Demons,” said Hassan, employing Ramses’s Egyptian nickname. His smile was beatific. Ramses wondered if there had been something in the pipe besides tobacco.
    “He is a sheikh, without doubt,” Hassan went on. “Did he not save the life of the Sitt Hakim at the sacrifice of his own? Did he not come to her in a dream, as holy men do, and tell her to build him a proper tomb?”
    Ramses looked at Daoud, who met his critical gaze with an unembarrassed smile. How their large friend had heard of his mother’s dreams of Abdullah he could not imagine; she had not confided even in the immediate family until recently. Her belief in the validity of those dreams was one of her few streaks of superstition; but believe she did. The skepticism of the rest of them did not affect her in the slightest, and Ramses had to admit, if only to himself, that the consistency and vividness of the visions were oddly impressive. One of the household staff must have overheard her talking about them, and passed the word on. Once it reached Daoud, the whole West Bank would know.
    “But a holy man must perform miracles,” he argued.
    “He has done that,” Hassan said. “When that wretched boy, who had sinned against the laws of the Prophet, would have killed again in the very shadow of Sheikh Abdullah’s tomb, did he not destroy the sinner? He performed other miracles for me. My heart was guilty and afraid. As soon as I came here and promised to be his servant I was glad again, and the pains in my body went away, and now you see that others have come to ask for his favor.” He gestured at the sad little offerings. “Already he has stopped the cough that kept Mohammed Ibrahim from drawing breath and cured Ali’s goat. Come, and pray with me. Ask him for his blessing.”
    It wasn’t hashish that brought the light to his eyes. It was religious fervor—and who the hell am I, Ramses thought, to tell him he’s wrong, or deny such a harmless request?
    He knew the prayers. He had known them since childhood. Removing his shoes, he followed the prescribed path round the catafalque. Daoud’s sincere, deep bass voice blended with his. “Peace be on the Apostles, and praise be to God, the Lord of the beings of the entire earth.”
    They started back to Selim’s house, leaving Hassan cross-legged under the cupola. Daoud was enormously pleased with his surprise. “My uncle Abdullah will be happy to be a sheikh,” he remarked. “When next he speaks to the Sitt Hakim he will no doubt tell her so.”
    “I will be sure to let you know if he does,” Ramses said wryly. He couldn’t imagine how his mother was going to react to this news.
    Selim had joined in the prayers but not in the discussion. He strode along in silence. Ramses was not certain how devout he