Eons washed over Muhammad, leaving fewer of his things to make him happy. Time built a river of doubt so powerful it broke open the gates of his mind. Visiting the forest promised clarity. Somehow, somewhere, the truth was out there. Deciphering which of his outlandish stories had not actually happened was the easy part, but like the elusive old man, remembering what had happened could no longer be pinned down. One forest walk inspired an idea, he’d return to the mansion only after a few more words with the deadbeat. As hours turned to days, his thoughts deepened.

It is said, “God prepares for His righteous servants what no eye has seen, what no ear has heard, what the heart of man has not conceived. No soul knows what refreshment of the eyes is hidden for them.”

Some of those in Paradise are the húr, the pure, beautiful ones promised to us by God, but what is my mother, my friends? They’re men and women, not both. They’re from Earth, not Paradise. And they’re certainly not machines! But, what are they? Ha. What they are is boring, spineless, ever-present slaves! Now, are they toys– brainless stick-figures? Whenever I confront them, their innocent eyes… cowering, they say exactly what I want to hear, and it never feels real, not like it had on Earth. Arguing with them’s impossible!

It’s like they’re all strange mirrors– human echoes. I’m trapped by the perfection of their reflection. The Blessing’s become a curse. Why is Paradise so perfect? The last novel thing to happen was that argument with the bum, and how long ago was that?

This time I’ve searched everywhere– well beyond the river. Does he avoid me on purpose? Hahaha, why do I even care? I’m tired. Hungry. My clothes are rags. I must look like his much younger, more beautiful brother! I will wash, and pray– restore myself before God.

Muhammad’s legs churned along at a comfortable pace. After passing the same white leaves sprouting from the same red limbs for the fourth time, he pivoted down an endless hill, hands blurring through the forest like a water cannon flattening a path through a packed street of protesters.

The martyr could not escape the forests of Paradise. Falling to the ground, he tumbled into a tree trunk. Above, a huge canopy of fat leaves stirred with life. Small animals abandoned their crimson fruit, skittering along a maze of branches to escape his gaze. This was the tree that had housed the bum by the beach, yet the beach was not to be seen. Eyes closed, Muhammad leaned against the dank trunk, and aimlessly spoke aloud.

“It’s fitting I’ve come to rest upon your tree. Your forest will not let me leave! I beg you, return me to Paradise.” The timid audience of creatures above rustled in their perches.

“Please, make my people entertaining again. How can I love those without a backbone? They’re sada sawt, less than human. Haha, I even call them ‘Sada’ for short– even to their faces! Ahhh, they’ll never get it; it’s like they’re not real, just echoes.

“I can’t endure another day with another fool, but I don’t want to be alone; although, I prefer it. Maybe I’m better off lost in these woods. In fact, the only person I’ve wanted to see in a long time is you, and I hate you.”

“It is good to be wanted, even when hated,” said a voice. The old hand fell upon the tattered shoulder of a boy becoming a man.

Standing effortlessly with a childish grin, the King faced the frayed robe and unkempt hair, asking, “Who are you, one of the húr?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

The wise man smiled, and spoke the word.

“You.”

Muhammad was set aback, asking, “Me? How can that be?”

“I am the part you want to forget but cannot, a different kind of echo from a different kind of place.”

The stressed voice stripped hollow and bare, saying, “Sada, again.”

“Yes. But my sound is very special– the knowledge of your true nature.”

“You mean, I’m an old bum?”

“Hahaha, you might look like one, but it’s not about how you appear to me or any of us. When you find your real future, you’ll know your true nature.”

“And you’re going to tell me.”

“You want to be with others!” A toothy grin widened into a joyful smile.

“To be with others? I’m sorry, I want to understand, but you make no sense,” groaned Muhammad, rubbing his face as if he might push straight through his head.

“You must come to terms with the very concept of Paradise, and this is not it– never was.” The vagabond made eye contact.

“How can you say that?”

“You have a bedroom, with a bed. But since you stepped foot in that room, have you ever slept in it, dreamed of saving the helpless from godless bullies?”

The jihadi stared off and wandered away. The forest stretched for miles with birds and trees so simple they looked hand drawn.

“No, but why would I? This is Paradise. Who sleeps in Paradise? And what does one dream about when one’s living the dream?”

“Exactly. You have not slept because you are asleep. This is your universe. Every woman, every morsel of food… every tree and ocean wave is but your dream. How else do you explain the variations of your mother’s face? You are alone, but you do not want to be. I am the part of you that remembers the outside.” As the morning glow shapes the infinite sea, the wise face warmed.

“Outside?” Muhammad’s nose crinkled.

“The place where the others are. You are inside yourself. God’s Home is outside– the shared space; the true Paradise you seek.”

The martyr stared at the old man, asking, “True Paradise? But I did what I was told, and this is my reward.”

“Paradise is not a reward. It is the way we choose to experience each other. There is only one way Home, and it cannot be accomplished in life– only in death.”

Mouth gaping, Muhammad grumbled, “I don’t understand.”

“It’s not what you did in life that keeps you from returning Home, but what you continue to do in death. When will you listen to God’s voice, and wake from the silence of yourself?”

A sharp gasp, and the hijacker responded, “Wait, did I listen to God? Of course I did. I was told what to do, and I did it!”

“Those were the instructions of men.”

“Those were God’s messengers!” His frantic hands swiped at the humid air.

“When you died, what happened?” The elder slowed his cadence.

“I was in the plane, then I was here.” Muhammad folded his arms tight.

“What about the darkness?”

“Sure, my eyes were closed at first.”

“Before you opened them, what was the taste in your mouth?”

“Ahem! Yes, it was horrible, tasted like fuel, stunk like burning rubber and smoke– the way you smelled when I first met you… haha.”

“And then?” The old eyes pinched.

“And then, I heard the ocean, smelled flowers, felt sand in my mouth, like the two worlds were one.”

“That was the choice.”

“The choice? I didn’t make any choice.”

“You chose to smell the flowers and taste the sand, not the fuel and fire.”

Flicking his finger skyward, the terrorist responded, “I did not. God plucked me from that fiery hell, and placed me in heaven.”

“That smoke. That heat. Those were the last real things you experienced. You want to go Home? Account for what you’ve done to Him.”

Stunned still like a statue, Muhammad said through a crack in his mouth, “What I’ve done to Him? I’ve done nothing to Him! I did everything for Him. I smote His enemies in His great war!”

“You murdered God.”

Nose-to-nose, the King rumbled his words, “Murdered God? I did nothing of the sort! Yes, I killed the infidel, the devil, the Great Satan… the Americans! I did nothing to God!”

With a gentle push to the hijacker’s chest, the pauper sighed, “He is all life, including the Americans.”

Vibrating red with rage, the holy warrior turned to the forest, and commanded, “Khallas! I’ve heard enough! Now go!”

“Muhammad, are another ten thousand lifetimes required? You are alone. Look there. That is your mansion.” The calloused finger wagged at a stone wall peeking through the foliage.

Stumbling forward, Muhammad wept, “I’m Home? Right over that wall, I can take a bath, have some wine?”

The vagabond grabbed the young bicep, pulled him around, and said staring, “It is known that your last human breath was taken in struggle with the enemy. Your name has been counted as a hero by the men who instructed you. But they are not here. They no longer matter. What matters is your neglect of the greatest struggle. Your soul has failed to find the Creator.”

“That’s a lie!” He forced away the bony hand.

“Then where is God?”

“Here!” A deep breath and he pointed. “… over that wall.” The holy warrior slumped. His eyes squeezed shut, tears turning into the guttural moan of a man sanding before the gallows.

How will I find God? Where is my real mother?

A familiar yet nearly forgotten noise sounded. His eyes suddenly dried and opened. New York City stretched into the horizon outside an oval frame– an airplane window reflecting the subtle image of a sharp-featured, middle-aged, American man. Muhammad was not the terrorist he’d been on that day, but somehow, a flight attendant looking through a pair of bifocals at the City. A steady thumping of footfalls from behind marched down the aisle. A hijacker passed on his way to the front of the plane– there was his younger self.

In an instant, Muhammad’s perception shifted. He rubbed elderly hands resting on a purse in his lap. Paper-thin skin warmed from the friction of a mind racing with concern for grandchildren he suddenly knew as his own. Another shift; a breathless young girl. He pressed into a loving father across an armrest, his cologne– the familiar scent of Old Spice– slowing a spiral of hyperventilation.

Through a myriad of blurring angles– each etched from a different traveler’s point of view– he saw his younger self returning from that difficult encounter with the guard near the cockpit door. Finally, the kaleidoscope resolved. He was the Goliath in a black golf-shirt and tan cargo-shorts sitting next to a brightly lit window.

Mere feet from view stood the Earthly version of Muhammad. The swollen eyes. The streaming tears. The jittery body. Until this moment, he had not understood just how young, scared, and vulnerable he’d been. Briefly facing the view of New York, he considered his situation.

I must survive. Without me, there’s no transplant, and no one else in the family’s a match. But, I can’t take them all… unless others follow. Oh Lord, bless those who stand, give them the strength fight in Your name! Bless us and protect us, Lord Almighty, for even if I die, my kidney can still save Grant. I can’t let Mitch grow up without a father!

Wait. Do the hijackers have bombs? That would bring the plane down, and we’re in the middle of… do they… is this a suicide mission? Are they somehow going to turn this plane into a weapon? Lord Almighty, help us! They’re going to kill everyone. We must do something, now!

Gripping the seat-back, the passenger turned from the rising sun. Muhammad’s love for Mitch, a “nephew” he’d never known existed, inspired a desire to kill this former version of himself. A few rows away the terrorist closed his eyes, and caressed the seat-top.

This moment was known, a fate that had already played out, but felt like it was happening right now. He was somehow the giant American jock he’d spent so many hours claiming to have killed in any number of ways to anyone who would listen. The emotions were so intense, so real, that for the first time since his arrival in Paradise, Muhammad was hardly aware of himself. Instead, he had one motivation: stop the hijacking to save Grant.

Locking eyes with a woman fiddling with her large, white bracelet, he stood, hip pressed against the row in front of him. Her eyes darted to the floor, head twisting away. He bolted; the seat rocked; a child cried. The hijacker’s eyes opened, and the woman looked up. Hands frozen, the bracelet bounced onto the floor.

With the athleticism of an American football player, Muhammad stepped into the aisle, and rolled an ankle on the bracelet. His hand reached for the row in front of the woman, and a dingy toupee ripped clean from an unfortunate head. He fell to one knee. Caught by a black purse strap, the terrorist’s foot violently yanked but could not break free.

“Go!” Muhammad heard himself yell, sprinting like a linebacker, and making contact with the small, wiry youth. The brief exhilaration of tackling the hijacker quickly drowned beneath the pain of total annihilation. As the sensation grew unbearable, his bodily perception changed once more.

Smooth jazz played through powerful headphones. The holy warrior held tight to a vibrating floor-buffer, while a pair of massive wings passed above adjacent buildings. A flash, and he jolted away from a parking ticket he’d just placed under a windshield wiper, deafening jet-engines thundering far too close overhead. Next, he froze, everyone around him pointing in the same direction. A spoonful of onions and a hotdog dropped from either hand onto his food cart. The giant shadow of a commercial airline crossed the street. Muhammad bounced from person to person. Each view was different, but each thought the same: That plane’s going to hit the Towers.

The carousel ended in an executive suite. Instead of horror and panic clouding his mind as they just had, humor and anticipation now fueled effortless ideas. Wood panels on either side of the room framed a wall of plate glass filled with a forest of towering Manhattan skyscrapers; opposite the stunning view, a black door stood ajar next to a pair of leather seats– in-between, a sparkling-chrome coffee table.

Muhammad knew both the office and the businessman he’d become as if this had always been his life– a dream-memory, full of back stories, events, people, and context. He stood behind his desk on the phone, laughing with one friend about another. The car in question had not been towed, but borrowed the night before by a girlfriend.

Standing, he hung up, tapped a pen on his desk, and softy chortled to himself, “What a loser.”

The plastic instrument dropped into a stubby, brown and gold hand-painted vase his daughter Payton had made as a birthday gift. For the first few months it sat on his desk, Payton’s favorite flowers had thrived. Once his secretary was promoted and the plants’ care left to him, a string of wilted white tulips re-purposed the gift for a more practical use. Picking a piece of lint from his slate-gray pinstriped suit, he grabbed the latest memo from his boss, and pondered.

If the new account’s to be approved, this meeting’s going to be rough, but twenty minutes is enough to look over these numbers one more time. Reminds me of the Cid-Tix account; sometimes you gotta give a little to get a lot. Tough decisions all around. But seriously dude, just remember to focus on what’s important. When you see the right move, don’t hesitate.

Thank God Sherri’s got my back. I wish I was better at compliments. Always end up with my foot in my mouth. Sure she’s beautiful, but now that she’s no longer my secretary, I don’t see the problem. I agree with Malcolm, weekly dinners would be fun. Plus, Payton loves her.

Wait, the wife! They’re old friends. She’ll ask Sherri, then, Sherri asks Billie. Yes! Plus with Malcolm and Jordan onboard, it’ll be just like old times. Now, if memory serves, we’ve got those extra tickets for that big opening gala, Kurt Masur’s final season… or is that tonight? Either way, what a treat for our first couples’ date. Everyone will be there. And afterwards, a dessert bucket!

He mumbled to himself, “Now, let’s see if these numbers are hiding anything useful.”

Warm energy swayed his body in time with the intense peaks and muted valleys of the Brahms Requiem in his head. The chocolate mousse and whip-cream bucket they’d dip into across the street at Cafe Fiorello after the performance of the New York Philharmonic at Lincoln Center would taste amazing. With sticky steps towards the huge window, he breathed deep, scanning the page when his periphery seized his full attention. His stomach sank. Just beyond the plate glass, the cockpit of a commercial jet hung suspended in time, a massive object out of place like a Thanksgiving Day parade balloon of a giant turkey floating outside a balcony door of Buckingham Palace.

He gasped, “My…” Glass vaporized. Fire and force ruptured tissue. Space collapsed.