Duniya
A
man
was
walking
through
the
marketplace
one
afternoon
when,
just
as
the
muezzin
began
the
call
to
prayer,
his
eye
fell
on
a
woman's
back.
She
was
strangely
attractive,
though
dressed
in
fulsome
black,
a
veil
over
head
and
face,
and
she
now
turned
to
him
as
if
somehow
conscious
of
his
over-lingering
regard,
and
gave
him
a
slight
but
meaningful
nod
before
she
rounded
the
corner
into
the
lane
of
silk
sellers.
As
if
struck
by
a
bolt
from
heaven,
the
man
was
at
once
drawn,
his
heart
a
prisoner
of
that
look,
forever.
In
vain
he
struggled
with
his
heart,
offering
it
one
sound
reason
after
another
to
go
his
way—wasn't
it
time
to
pray?—but
it
was
finished:
there
was
nothing
but
to
follow.
He
hastened
after
her,
turning
into
the
market
of
silks,
breathing
from
the
exertion
of
catching
up
with
the
woman,
who
had
unexpectedly
outpaced
him
and
even
now
lingered
for
an
instant
at
the
far
end
of
the
market,
many
shops
ahead.
She
turned
toward
him,
and
he
thought
he
could
see
a
flash
of
a
mischievious
smile
from
beneath
the
black
muslin
of
her
veil,
as
she—was
it
his
imagination?—beckoned
to
him
again.
The
poor
man
was
beside
himself.
Who
was
she?
The
daughter
of
a
wealthy
family?
What
did
she
want?
He
requickened
his
steps
and
turned
into
the
lane
where
she
had
disappeared.
And
so
she
led
him,
always
beyond
reach,
always
tantalizingly
ahead,
now
through
the
weapons
market,
now
the
oil
merchants',
now
the
leather
sellers';
farther
and
farther
from
where
they
began.
The
feeling
within
him
grew
rather
than
decreased.
Was
she
mad?
On
and
on
she
led,
to
the
very
edge
of
town.
The
sun
declined
and
set,
and
there
she
was,
before
him
as
ever.
Now
they
were
come,
of
all
places,
to
the
City
of
Tombs.
Had
he
been
in
his
normal
senses,
he
would
have
been
afraid,
but
indeed,
he
now
reflected,
stranger
places
than
this
had
seen
a
lovers'
tryst.
There
were
scarcely
twenty
cubits
between
them
when
he
saw
her
look
back,
and,
giving
a
little
start,
she
skipped
down
the
steps
and
through
the
great
bronze
door
of
what
seemed
to
be
a
very
old
sepulcher.
A
soberer
moment
might
have
seen
the
man
pause,
but
in
his
present
state,
there
was
no
turning
back,
and
he
went
down
the
steps
and
slid
in
after
her.
Inside,
as
his
eyes
saw
after
a
moment,
there
were
two
flights
of
steps
that
led
down
to
a
second
door,
from
whence
a
light
shone,
and
which
he
equally
passed
through.
He
found
himself
in
a
large
room,
somehow
unsuspected
by
the
outside
world,
lit
with
candles
upon
its
walls.
There
sat
the
woman,
opposite
the
door
on
a
pallet
of
rich
stuff
in
her
full
black
dress,
still
veiled,
reclining
on
a
pillow
against
the
far
wall.
To
the
right
of
the
pallet,
the
man
noticed
a
well
set
in
the
floor.
“Lock
the
door
behind
you,”
she
said
in
a
low,
husky
voice
that
was
almost
a
whisper,
“and
bring
the
key.”
He
did
as
he
was
told.
She
gestured
carelessly
at
the
well.
“Throw
it
in.”
A
ray
of
sense
seemed
to
penetrate
for
a
moment
the
clouds
over
his
understanding,
and
a
bystander,
had
there
been
one,
might
have
detected
the
slightest
of
pauses.
“Go
on,”
she
said
laughingly,
“You
didn't
hesitate
to
miss
the
prayer
as
you
followed
me
here,
did
you?”
He
said
nothing.
“The
time
for
sunset
prayer
has
almost
finished
as
well,”
she
said
with
gentle
mockery.
“Why
worry?
Go
on,
throw
it
in.
You
want
to
please
me,
don't
you?”
He
extended
his
hand
over
the
mouth
of
the
well,
and
watched
as
he
let
the
key
drop.
An
uncanny
feeling
rose
from
the
pit
of
his
stomach
as
moments
passed
but
no
sound
came.
He
felt
wonder,
then
horror,
then
comprehension.
“It
is
time
to
see
me,”
she
said,
and
she
lifted
her
veil
to
reveal
not
the
face
of
a
fresh
young
girl,
but
of
a
hideous
old
crone,
all
darkness
and
vice,
not
a
particle
of
light
anywhere
in
its
eldritch
lines.
“See
me
well,”
she
said.
“My
name
is
Dunya,
This
World.
I
am
your
beloved.
You
spent
your
time
running
after
me,
and
now
you
have
caught
up
with
me.
In
your
grave.
Welcome,
welcome.”
At
this
she
laughed
and
laughed,
until
she
shook
herself
into
a
small
mound
of
fine
dust,
whose
fitful
shadows,
as
the
candles
went
out,
returned
to
the
darkness
one
by
one.
by
Nuh
HaMim
Keller