I got out the powdered moonbeams and the calligraphy brush, and drew a large circle in the center - just a single line - and a smaller one to the side. Then I linked them with a line of goats' blood, selected a single orange blossom and placed it in my pocket, and put away the materials. I drew a deep breath and stepped into the small circle.In a language spoken by no nation, I called for the one I sought. I tossed the bloom into the center of the other circle, and prepared to wait. Exactly thirteen minutes later (the idea being that amateurs have usually given up and erased the circle by then, or so I'd been told), he came, noiselessly.He stood perhaps seven feet tall, perhaps more. His face was unyielding and his eyes bore into me. His skin was the red of blood. He bore no hair save on his face, but his ears stuck up like a cat's, or like a pitchfork. His muscles rippled with strength, yet he moved not as if by force but simply as one who is totally confident those things will give. By that time he wouldn’t even be able to get down the stairs by himself, so I allowed it. I wondered if he would be able to locate Mecca from inside this box, but he resolutely picked an angle slightly askew to the wall and then gingerly took a water bottle to wash himself.“If you clean your nose, I’ll shove this up it,” I warned, waving the Picana at him.“No, no...”I watched him pray. I didn’t understand a word of it, because it’s not even modern Arabic and I don’t understand half of that. Like Catholic prayers, they’re convoluted, stale sentences. I don’t know if they speak of peace, or compassion, or if they contain a request for guidance, but if they do then the meaning has long since been lost on those who speak them.Seeing him there, on his knees, reminded me of Sinterklaas. That’s a Dutch celebration, involving a bishop. I’ll have told you about that at one point. In fact, I once played Sinterklaas. That was a day to remember! Kate loves telling that story. I told her to write.
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