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could have watched over everything.”
    I remarked that I’d never seen a boy on caravan. They were dangerous affairs, weren’t they?
    He sighed. “Just so. My tribe has suffered from death in faraway countries. Our caravans have been cursed. Especially one time.” He was leading to a tale, but suddenly he stopped and looked away.
    Half an hour later his man returned, apparently alone. But as he got closer, I saw the outline of a small boy walking behind him. The two approached, and with beating heart I looked at the boy’s face. He barely glanced my way, bowing to his father.
    â€œAbu Talib, I am here to serve you,” the boy said gravely. He looked to be about twelve, short and compact. In the dim glow cast by the cooking fire I couldn’t see his eyes. Only when he was told to greet his host did he turn to me, and then his eyes were cast down to the ground.
    â€œYour father says you are called Muhammad.”
    It was a simple statement, but the boy hesitated before nodding his head.
    â€œWho are your people?” I asked. Before he could answer, his father interfered. He jumped to his feet and pulled him close. “To you our people are nothing, so why question a boy?”
    I looked surprised. “You act as if I might hurt your son. What is it?”
    â€œHe’s precious to me. His mother died when he was just barely walking.”
    That wasn’t the whole story. These Arabs can take any number of wives, according to their custom. I had a burning need to know about this boy, and so I asked God what to say before he was snatched away. There was only a moment left; the head man wasn’t anxious to stay. Suddenly I saw the truth.
    â€œHe isn’t your son,” I said flatly “You’ve been lying. Why?” My voice was clear and strong. “I am asking you as a holy man. God has told me something important, but first I must know the truth.”
    The head man grew nervous. A strange thing about the Arabs is that they respect the name of God, despite all their idols. It’s not something they freely talk about, but I’ve been told that they know there is only one God. There was a time when their worship was pure. They even look to Abraham as their father. But over time they fell into idolatry.
    â€œI need the truth,” I repeated. “Who are you, Abu Talib?”
    â€œI am his uncle and head of the clan,” Abu Talib admitted with reluctance. “My lie wasn’t a sin. I am the boy’s protector.”
    â€œSo he’s an orphan?”
    Abu Talib nodded, and the boy drew closer to him, folding his small body into his uncle’s robe. I knelt down. “Muhammad, a caravan is a dangerous venture, but you’re safe here. Will you speak with me? I implore you. Your fate is important. Or do you know that already?”
    I put my forehead to the ground, as if addressing a superior. That would frighten an ordinary boy or make him burst out laughing, but Muhammad straightened up.
    â€œWhat I know is my concern, not yours,” he said.
    â€œNo, boy,” his uncle said sharply, then turned to me. “Forgive him. His father, Abdullah, was proud.”
    â€œMy concerns are God’s, and he takes no offense. Yet I still need to speak to you.” I kept my words and my eyes fixed on the boy.
    He pondered for a moment.
    â€œAre you asking your gods to decide for you?” I asked.
    I named Al-Uzza, one of their female idols—a bitch goddess they pray to for fertility—whose name I had once overheard.
    The boy scowled.
    â€œShe isn’t your favorite? She’s beautiful and has large breasts,” I pointed out.
    â€œMocking me will only make me run away,” he replied. “I won’t touch any idols or perform their rites. “
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œIf you’re a holy man, you already know. There is no God but God.”
    My heart jumped in my chest, and I had to hold my arms tight