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around myself to keep from reaching out to this strange child. If only he stood closer to the fire, so I could see his eyes. They would tell me. Abu Talib was gazing proudly at his nephew.
    â€œHe is special,” I said, and he nodded. His uncle had no idea. None of them did. Their caravan would be moving on before dawn. Whatever I had to say, it had to be at that moment. Boldness was the only way.
    â€œI know about you, far more than you imagine,” I said. I put my hand on his shoulder and pulled him away from his uncle. Abu Talib could have taken serious offense, but he didn’t move. I led Muhammad to a bowl-shaped depression in the ground. It was as far around as a man could stretch out and three hands deep.
    â€œCan you guess who dug that hole? A crazy man. He was living in this cave before I came here. If I hadn’t dragged him away, he would have clawed at the earth until his hands bled. He died one night without recovering his wits.” I wasn’t lying. Toward the end Celestius had forsaken the Bible and became obsessed with digging where his voices told him to. I tried to coax him out of his mad fixation, but he still managed to dig a sizable hole.
    The boy’s eyes widened with curiosity. “Why?”
    â€œHe thought the water of life was down there, and he had to find it.”
    Muhammad pointed to the jugs of water lined up at the mouth of the cave. “You mean them?”
    I shook my head. “No, the villagers haul that up to me. The water of life doesn’t flow out of the ground. It flows from here.” I lightly touched his chest over the breastbone. “You were born in the desert, but it’s a fearful place for me and every holy man. We come here for only one reason, to find the water of life.”
    â€œAnd did you find it?” he asked solemnly.
    â€œNot for many, many years. The old monk who scratched at the earth had lost his mind. He despaired of ever finding it. But tonight my quest may be over.”
    Muhammad listened calmly, as if this all made perfect sense to him. His uncle was now visibly agitated. Unable to keep quiet, he burst in. “My family found it. The well was buried for centuries. But a dream came to my father, Abdul. He saw the very spot where Zamzam lay under the ground. He was our savior, blessed be his name.”
    In an excited voice he unfolded the tale, and even with a mongrel blend of Greek and Arabic, the tongues of traders, I understood. This well they call Zamzam was promised to them by God at the time of their ancestors, and it was to flow as long as time. But God became angry when the people turned to idol worship, and he made the well disappear. Mecca could have been a great city glorifying his name. Instead, God granted it only enough water to survive, and that had to be obtained by hard labor.
    Abu Talib’s father, “the Slave” as he was known, became obsessed with finding Zamzam. Some say he secretly sworean oath to sacrifice one of his sons if the gods showed him where to dig. Others say that he converted back to the one God of their ancestors. Whichever it was, Abdul was given a dream. He saw a spot between two of the largest idols, near to their house of pagan worship, the Kaaba. Everyone in his tribe laughed at him, but the Slave insisted on digging everywhere around that spot. Lo and behold, one day a man thrust his spade into the ground and hit something hard. It was a well cover, and when they removed it, water came forth. Zamzam had been found again, along with the golden hoard and idols that had been stolen from the Kaaba. Abdul returned them, keeping only a portion of the booty for himself.
    Abu Talib stuck out his chest as he finished his tale. “So you see, my people have found the water of life. God showed it to us.”
    â€œGod’s works are mysterious,” I said mildly.
    His eyes narrowed. “You don’t believe me?”
    I had a polite answer on my tongue, but the