Muhammad searched for the old man like a message in a bottle that would soon wash ashore. Once every speck of his forest had been covered twice, he trekked beyond his territory, crossed a great river, and stumbled drenched to a nearby mountain peak.

The old wretch must be out there, somewhere.

The moment the sun reached its summit, he glanced back into his own forest over his shoulder. That brown robe skipped along a mountain ridge.

How did I miss him? The King raced across the torrent, into the deep, and up the foothills, but arrived with no further sign of the beggar. Was I dreaming?

For the first time since the dreaded infidel attacked him seconds before impact, Muhammad struggled. After racing along the ridge, tripping over a small bush, and falling from a great height, his sore body stirred at the bottom of a cliff. A sudden voice spoke.

“Where have you been?” asked the beggar.

Muhammad pried himself from the soil and stood. In the old man’s left eye floated a large golden fleck identical to his grandfather’s, but this was not his grandfather, nor his father.

The sovereign ruler of this land answered, “At the beach with my wives and wealth. You were asked to leave, to never come back. It pleases me you kept your word. But I have a question before I return you to the forest.”

“Then I have an answer.” A grin creased the wrinkled face. After a considerable silence, the bum prodded, “Your question?”

“What did you mean, ‘what more could I want?’” asked the young man.

“Hmm. Are you tired of always being right, of having it all? Muhammad, what’s the point of winning every game? Are you bored yet?”

“Bored? Why would that even matter? There are no demons or pits of fire here. Paradise might be perfect, but that doesn’t mean I am.”

“Just because this isn’t Hell doesn’t make it Paradise.”

“Not Paradise! How can you insult God like that? Look around, I have everything I was promised.”

“Promised? By…?” The words hung.

The King weaved a chaotic path through the trees, hands rocketing, voice piercing, “My religion! My brothers! My God!”

“You mean Islam?”

“Yes, the Great Jihad, the day of my martyrdom– when we brought God’s justice to the Americans. I performed my duty. I am worthy of God’s Blessings,” said the holy warrior, limp arms wrapped together across his chest.

“You confuse the greater with the lesser.”

“What?” Hands shot to hips.

“The greatest struggle is not with the world outside, but inside.”

“No, the only war is with the infidel. We must conquer our cowardice and join the Global Jihad. Jahilyya must be annihilated.”

“My boy, it already has.” The old hand fell upon the scuffed yet shimmering purple coat.

“Boy? I am your King! You would be wise to choose your words carefully!” Muhammad gasped and pulled away.

“Only those alive before the Holy Quran knew jahilyya– a time of darkness that ended with the light of God’s Messenger. The Prophet, peace be upon him, clarified their confusion with the written word. Our struggle is to follow the great example, find God in every action, and recognize the ways of forgiveness, submission, and peace.”

“The infidel will never allow it. We must first cleanse the world!”

“Remember, the sinner sins because God is not yet in his heart. We will not deprive him of the opportunity to prostrate himself before God in prayer.”

The young brow narrowed, voice decrying, “You sound like my father, and my father’s wrong! As the Imam teaches, only the Caliphate will save us. No man can stand against the Great Satan alone!”

Muhammad’s eyes scanned the castaway’s filthy uniform, continuing, “The Imam says, ‘To cleanse ourselves, we must cleanse the world. This is the base, the foundation of our struggle for peace.’ First, we destroy the Great Satan; then, we rebuild the Caliphate, and save the world.”

“Muhammad, how is the Caliphate of any concern here? And, where is God?” The beggar’s serene smile stretched.

“He is here.”

“How do you know?”

Muhammad spun from the lumpy mountain range, his words blowing a choppy sound into the pleasant smell of sandalwood, fresh grapes, and olive oil wafting from the old face.

“God is the creator of Paradise, and I am the King of Paradise! Therefore, I am with the Creator… and I thought Americans were stupid.”

“Are you saying beautiful women, great food, and American football is what He would create for Himself?”

“How would I know? All I know is what I want. I was obedient, performed my duty, and this is what I’ve always dreamed of, what we all dreamed of. God is great! And this is my reward.”

The elder asked, “If you’re so sure this is what you want, then why did you seek me out?”

“Good question.” Muhammad’s heart skipped a beat, a bead of sweat hitting the dirt.

“You still seek the greatest reward.” And again, the old face smiled.

The young voice pitched, “A reward greater than Paradise?”

“Yes, it is what you see in me.”

With a fingertip thrust into the emaciated sternum, the terrorist yelled, “What, a disgusting, infuriating bum?”

“Another.” The wise man’s robe straightened in his bony hands.

Turning away and swiping at the air, Muhammad thundered, “What do you mean, ‘another?’ I have whomever I please– friends, family, all the women and beautiful things I could ever want. I am richer and more beloved than any man!”

From behind a squat tree, the smell of fresh pita drizzled the memory of his mother’s tidy kitchen. Surrounded by the scent, an old woman emerged with a bowed head, and stood just behind the elder’s right shoulder.

“Who’s this?” Muhammad’s eyes rifled between the pair.

“Do you not recognize her?”

“No.”

“I kept her for you.”

“Her?”

“She is the truth, uncorrupted by the mansion; the pure memory of your mother’s face, the last light from her living eyes. She waits with me in the forest for your return.”

“This is not my mother. No! My mother is young and beautiful, perfect like everyone in Paradise. This woman is old and tattered like you. She’s your mother.” The jihadi spun away from the couple.

“It is true… you have forgotten the face of your own mother because you want her to be as perfect as this paradise you believe in.”

“Believe in? I know, this is Paradise!”

Dragging leaves, crunching twigs, and snapping branches sounded from Muhammad’s retreating footfalls. The clear memory of his dying mother’s eyes peeked from behind the old woman’s gaze, tying his stomach in knots.

“And I know the face of my own mother!” bellowed from the King’s hoarse voice.

The pauper’s hushed response, “One day, you’ll come to know that these people are not as they appear. They’re not like the people you knew on Earth. These things are boring, worse then any húr. They’re machines of the mind.”

“Machines, like robots? From where?” Eyes, red with rage, rose.

“From–”

“You’re lying!” raged the holy warrior. “They’re as real as me, or you, or my mother… or that thing that’s your ugly mother. Machines? You’re crazy!”

“They’re slaves, tools. They’re toys.” The words remained as calm as his breath.

“You’re a toy!”

“You’re right, I am a very special toy.”

That same stride that sent him towards that cockpit carried him off.

“A man does not play with toys!”