the grey hair

The Grey Hair

Ali and Mohamed were sitting side by side in the upstairs room of Ali’s home. It was Friday and after its prayer this is where they would come to smoke the shisha*1 and chew*2. For as long as Mohamed could remember he and Ali were always close, only blood kept them from claiming brotherhood. They were quite different, Ali always had friends which isn’t so hard to believe, him being a charming fellow with a clever wit and a quick tongue. Mohamed truly was a good person, he was very interesting but the only way to know that was to talk to him, and sadly nobody did. He and Ali were Friends long before people determined this, long before school-life began, long before memory, and they would be friends, Mohamed thought, long afterwards. However the events that would occur later this night would make Mohamed a liar.

It was a small room, heavily furnished with the beautifully intricate carpets and curtains of Arabia. The shisha Sat between them, and from it came a heavy aroma of apple alloyed with smoke. Ali Was flipping the channels on the TV, that was directly across him and near the window, and Mohamed was gazing at the Carpet his eyes distantly following the patterns while his thoughts belonged to something else.

“nothings ever on after the Prime league” Ali said dryly, perhaps for the sake of breaking the silence that loomed them. Mohamed’s trance broke from this and it took him awhile to reply,

“yeah,“ he paused, “flip to Aljazeera*3, see what’s going on in Palestine.” He didn’t look at Ali and Didn’t really think he would do it but it was the only thing he could think to say.

“Why? Why would I do that?” he seemed annoyed by the suggestion. “I’ll tell you what’s going on,” this is how Ali (and most of the people in the village) opened up his complaints about the massacres in Palestine and Iraq, with a slightly hopeless tone mingled in with a Disappointed one, “it’s never going to change, their going to keep killing our children, our women, and the world is going to keep giving us their backs, God never forgive them!” With that he tossed the Remote in disgust and picked up his water bottle to quench his drying throat.

Mohamed, of course did not reply, but he did face Ali with his eye brows raised and bearing a sort of cynical smile. Mohamed Pitied Ali and all the others who spoke like this. It seemed to him that because things were so dire, that because the powers of oppression were so powerful, they decided instead to justify why they couldn’t help. For that was much easier to accomplish. He thought of it this way, because the wall was so high, each of them stood in front of a crease and covered it from the other , and then proceeded to complain to one another how impossible climbing over was.

Silence crept over them again, and even the soft whistle of the spring breeze that droned from the window stilled. Ali Placed the nozzle of the pipe to the tip of his mouth and inhaled. The water in its glass vase gurgled, and it’s rise only helped to reveal just how vast the silence was.

Suddenly the Takbeer*4 sounded, and the beautiful call of prayer seeped through the windows and emerged into the small room. Mohamed sat up quickly, instinctively. He made for the door to his left, carefully stepping over the bottles and bags, and entered the bathroom. He lifted up the toilet seat and spit out his gat*5, using his finger to pry out those more keenly tucked.

“Are you coming back?” Ali asked, he never went at this time, he did what most people did, he Khazened*6 until Magrab*7, and then prayed both prayers jointly. Mohamed pulled the door open and nodded, not being able to speak given that his mouth was filled with water rinsing it as cleanly as he could. He spit. Walking back he asked Ali if wanted anything from the market, Ali checked and seen he had plenty of drink and charcoal and tobacco.

“No I should be ok. Lift me up,” he muttered with an outstretched hand, “I’ve been needing to shit for the longest time, I was just to lazy to get up,” he said chuckling. Ali entered the bathroom and Mohamed went the opposite way out the other door and down the stairs. Though they both did not know it, when Mohamed lifted him up Ali tipped the Shisha slightly and the Charcoal fell. It landed on the carpet and a wisp of smoke slithered into the air.

After Praying and listening to the Imams usual advice Mohamed made his way back to the house. He kicked at an empty can of mango juice while weaving through the thin pass of the Gat fields. He knew which direction the house was, despite the fact that the gat towered over him and prevented him of seeing anything more then sun and sky. It wasn’t long before Mohamed was in front of the house’s gate. He pushed the door open and kicked away the stone that he had placed their so it wouldn’t lock, and walked up the stairs of the front porch, and pushed the heavy metal door open. While walking up the stairs he noticed a tinge of smoke, not the same as the shisha’s. It was more of an odor then a scent. He ran up the stairs realizing what it was. Reaching the top and seeing flashes of red light beaming from the brim of the door only further ensured what he feared. The Door was not completely shut and so black smoke rolled out from it. Mohamed pulled it open and a sudden gust of heat struck him, burning the hair on his forearms and lashes straight off. He stumbled back, hands covering his face. The intensity of the flames made it hard to see but even when he managed to look out with groping eyes he did not see Ali. Desperation sprang in him and he feared for his friend, without thinking he ran into the room screaming out for Ali. Nothing. Mohamed Could see that the door in the Bathroom was still closed, he ran for it and twisted the knob. It was locked. He pounded in rage, shouting for Ali. No reply. Mohamed ran back a few steps, braced himself and charged towards the door. It did not budge. He turned back, coughing now, and tried again but harder this time. Still it did not budge. Tears began to run down his blackened cheeks, and he no longer shouted Ali’s name but subconsciously began to whisper it to himself over and over again.

****

Ali waited to hear the sound of Mohamed’s feet clamor down the stairs. He didn’t actually need to use the restroom it was a cover up he often used before going to Samira’s house. Samira was his girlfriend--his forbidden girlfriend. He would climb out through the window, go to her house, knowing her father wouldn’t be home--she was the daughter of the Imam. And he would be back before Mohamed returned. If he wasn’t he figured Mohamed would think he was in the bathroom, which would buy him some time. It was the perfect plan.

When Ali was out of the window and down the peach tree that stooped beside it, he jumped a few walls, crossed a few yards, and then was in the garden of the Imams Home. Samira’s window was open, and he could see the white curtains swaying from the winds. On the sill of the window there was a white flower. This was a signal that the coast was clear.

Ali was in and out just as prayer had finished, he quickly adapted with a mental timer when they were nearly caught once by her father. From the outside of the window he kissed Samira goodbye, she was a pretty girl with olive spiced skin and hazel eyes under high brows.

“run you scoundrel,” she said jokingly before leaning to kiss him again. He did. When Ali jumped the first wall an elderly women was there picking radishes from her garden. At the sight of him she began to swear and yell. Throwing the radishes at him. Mohamed ran from her half seriously, taking the long way around for she blocked the other wall. He laughed at her, and wiped down one of the radishes that he had caught and took a bite.

After walking down the dirt path and turning right where his house was he seen a line of people standing before it. What’s more he seen black smoke and fire on top of it. He sprinted towards them, pushed through someone and a bucket of water fell on him wetting his shirt. An older man pulled him out of the way but more then that he gave him no mind for he was busy leading everyone on. Ali realized what they were doing. There was a circulation of buckets from the neighbors house and they were trying to put out the fire. With that Ali wanted to help but he wasn’t sure how or what he could do. He looked at the people and saw that the Imam was there and was lagging for he was old and weak. At first he made to aid him, to take his place and let him rest. However when he saw the heavily bearded man he remembered Mohamed and a horrible thought hit him like a stab in the back.

“Mohamed! Mohamed!,” he yelled while scanning through the faces trying to find him. Nothing. He pushed through and made for those at his porch. He pulled people by the shoulders turning them to face him, and yelled more for him. No reply. Horror blossomed in him and he soon realized where Mohamed must have been. The stairs were clogged with flames, there was no way from there. However he did know of another way to get to the room.

Up the tree and through the window Ali went. It seemed to have taken him a lifetime. When he was at the door he could hear the ominous sound of snapping wood. He placed his hand flat on the door and burned his palm. The knob was hotter, it was metal. He yelled for Mohamed, but heard nothing. He wasn’t sure what it meant. He wanted desperately to open the door and yet he hesitated. While he looked at the barrier, thoughts of Mohamed Burning bled in his head. His lips began to quiver, eyes swelling in tears. He no longer screamed for his friend but was instead chokingly whispering it to himself over and over again.

Years later Ali couldn’t remember deciding to open the door, he was never able to recall what had empowered him to do so but he did. He pushed it open. At that moment everything slowed as though time had held its breath. The only apparent flames were cascading on the walls, and there in the center of the room Stood Mohamed seemingly unharmed. Ali ran through the surreal room to him, pulled him by the arm yelling,

“C’mon we can get out through the window but only if we hurry.” Mohamed stood still, his arm did not move, he was as stiff as a statue. Ali was confused but there was no time to think. He wrapped his arms around Mohamed’s waste and pulled with all the might he could muster, to no avail. Ali looked to face his friend only to find that his face was not there, instead a dark void of blackness where it was supposed to be. Ali was terribly confused and was even more afraid. He flinched around unsure of what to do. Knowing his friend couldn’t be helped and yet not ready to leave him.

The fire slowly oozed down from the wall, its whipping flames groping for the ceiling as they reluctantly and sinuously made their way to the floor. Soon enough the factions of flames conjoined and formed a large fiery puddle and then began to rise up like a geyser in slow motion. After rising to about six feet it began to take form. Ali stood and watched the phenomenon with disbelieving eyes. It morphed into a basic form of a man but with no eyes or any detail. It stood there, a red shadow of a man.

Finally it walked towards Mohamed, not noticing Ali there, and delicately took him by his hand. Mohamed followed. He walked alongside the figure with his head down and shoulders tensed, he followed mindlessly. It took Ali a moment but then he mumbled beneath his breath, “where are you taking him?” It wasn’t an actual question but the figure stopped as if noticing Ali for the first time. It turned its head and it was a long time before anything happened. The figure turned at last and let Mohamed’s hand go but ushered him to continue forward. He answered Ali,

“TO HIS GRAVE,” though it’s voice sounded like it was calm and reserved It came out ringing, Ali thought he was having a heart attack., “AND WHEN YOUR TIME COMES THAT IS WHERE I WILL BE TAKING YOU,” that is when Ali realized what the figure was. That was when he said,

“You are the Angel of Death,” it was said in a way where it might have been a question.

“ISRAEL,” it confirmed. Then it turned to follow Mohamed who was now gone from the room and in some place else. A trail of fire followed Israel as it veered from sight. Ali wasn’t sure what to do, everything seemed so unreal. As the Angel began to slowly shrink into the darkness where one of the walls were supposed to be, Ali yelled a question that his heart thought of,

“When will my time come?” Israel did not turn and it seemed as though it would not answer Ali but then its voice came in a distant echo,

“WHEN YOU HAVE BREATHED YOU LAST GIVEN BREATH.” though distant it sounded just as angelic as before.

“how will I know?” Ali shouted hoping for an answer. When it didn’t reply Ali again asked but this time said, “will you warn me before so I might be ready?”

Just as Ali finished asking the question Israel Answered, “YES. I WILL COME BACK AND CAUTION YOU BEFORE YOUR TIME COMES. THAT MUCH I CAN DO.” this answer came as a subtle whisper that blew into Ali’s ears, a prophetic omen.

“Thank you, thank you” he yelled. Ali noticed that the Dark void on the wall was beginning to close and the flames were growing angry and the heat intensifying by the moment. Time was breathing again. Ali felt his forearms burn and shouted in anguish. The air he breathed choked him, he flimsily fumbled his way through the wholly black smoke to the bathroom. He used his hands to find the window and when he did he felt a hand reach out and grab him. As the force of the hand pulled him through, he bumped his head on the edge of the window and he fell into a deep darkness.

When Ali Awoke he found he was in a room that was in his uncle’s house. His mother sat beside him pressing a wet rag over his head. He looked at her and could see her eyes were red from crying, she was dressed in black. Everything that happened earlier rushed back like a river that has its dam removed.

He sat up quickly and when he did he felt a throbbing pain in his head and nearly passed out again. “Relax, relax,” his mother pleaded, “your far to sick to get up yet. Lay down and sleep.”

“Where’s Mohamed?” He asked unsure if he had been dreaming it all.

At this his mother closed her eyes and put her hands over her mouth, she shook her head not answering the question. Ali laid back down gazing at the ceiling, it was real Mohamed was indeed gone. Ali, however, did not genuinely believe it until three days later when he was finally healthy enough to get out of bed. It was felling night and everyone was in their homes when he went to the cemetery and seen the grave of his best friend etched plainly in stone. Only then did he believe.

*****

In a large room bearing many people and loud music, Ali sits. One side of his mouth filled with gat and a shisha beside him. It has been thirty years since the night that changed him forever and still no sign of Israel came. Oddly enough though Ali wasn’t content, everyday he awoke eerily half excepting him to return. Ali never told anyone about that night or his agreement with the angel of death, he didn’t see a reason to. He sat today in his sons‘, Mohamed, wedding. Fiddling with his beard and trying to seem as happy as he had ever been. His watch began to beep, he looked at it with ruffled eye brows and got up and headed for the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” asked Saleh, father of the bride.

“Prayer.” Ali answered quite frankly. Saleh gave him a sort of confused look. He seemed disappointed by this and stated while leaving,

“Your leaving your guests during your sons’ wedding.” Ali heard him but he did not reply. Saleh did not wait for him to either. When Ali opened the door he seen that It was raining, and so he tucked his coat around him and walked into the grey world. Before going to the Mosque Ali went to the Cemetery as he did everyday, to stop and pay respects to Mohamed. When he reached the grave he stood and spoke to no one.

“Mohamed’s getting married today, yup he’s all grown.” Ali managed to smile. “reminds me a lot of you, smart kid and he’s really got his head straight.” The gruffness in his tone threatened to break. He said good bye and left for the Mosque.

When Ali entered it he saw that there was a tall figure standing at the far corner looking straight at him. Ali did not question him, he did not have the right to. He headed to the front and flipped the switches of the microphone and cleared his throat preparing to kaber*8. He gave takbeer, prayed it’s sinna*9 and sat. after awhile he noticed he had not heard anything of the strange man and curiously turned to see if he was still there. He was. In fact he was less then a foot away from Ali. Ali gasped and he made to move but couldn’t. The stranger placed two fingers on the left of Ali’s chest. Ali felt his left arm begin to hurt.

“Israel?” he spat astonished. He had a feeling of fear and betrayal.

“IT IS I.” the angel replied. Everything in the room vanished, there was no ground beneath, they were floating amidst a vast abyss of nothingness. “YOUR TIME HAS COME, FOLLOW ME.”

Ali felt his Body start and then move, abiding to its commands. He looked at him and asked confused and afraid of where he was being led to, “but you were supposed to warn me, your said you would?” If Ali had dared he would have been angry then.

“AND I HAVE” It replied bluntly. Ali walked not able to respond. He was trying to remember when he did, but he couldn’t. so he asked,

“was it in a dream? I seldom remember my dreams.”

“ I HAVE COME TO YOU MANY TIMES AND IN MANY FORMS” Israel did not look at him nor did he slow.

“When?” Ali’s eyes were wide now, numbness overwhelming him.

“I HAVE COME IN THE FORM OF TIME. I HAVE COME AS A SON TO YOU AND THEN REMINDED YOU WITH YOUR SONS MARRIAGE. I HAVE COME TO YOU EVEN AS A GREY HAIR. DID YOU NOT NOTE THESE? SO COME NOW YOUR TIME IS DONE.”