While the details of the real New York City eroded to dust, tales heralded by the masses about King Muhammad’s grand deed marinated into outlandish clichés. In one version of history, the holy warrior whisked an old woman off to safety by braving an airplane full of rock-throwing Americans. In another, through that cockpit door he flew, sending both planes into both towers– one by hand, the other by remote. But his favorite had always been the moment he’d faced that stupid, ugly, American jock, killing him with a single punch to the face; that was until the story’s eternal shined was obscured by that old vagrant’s shadow, having started a war with nothing more than its presence.

Standing one evening from his leather deckchair, the smooth-shaven face murmured, “That bum! I will deal with that damn beggar the way I dealt with the infidel on our glorious day of victory!”

His delicate glass of white wine slammed onto the red marble, wobbled, and crashed into the stone pool deck.

A voice confirmed, “You beat him like a chelb!”

Another echoed, “Not just any dog, but the mangiest of dogs!” A jet-engine roar of approval rippled from the countless admirers.

Pointing to the mountains, he commanded, “You. Get out of here!”

The beggar’s feet churned the sand in a blinding retreat. Days later, the Royal returned with the same reprimand, only for the leathery soles to set a slow path into the foliage. Repetition was required upon the next encounter. The bum’s increasing defiance renewed a tremor in Muhammad’s lip.

The King kicked sand, swung sticks, threw rocks. Eventually, civility failed. He buckled bones, tore apart limbs, even split open the old skull. No level of violence, no method of murder proved useful. Each sunrise again produced the beggar and his shadow, passively waiting beneath his tree.

“What do you want?” Muhammad demanded, finally.

“To talk.” The scraggly beard bowed.

“If we talk– if you say all that you have to say– will you finally leave me alone?”

“If that is your wish.”

“It is.”

The weathered eyes sat still, Muhammad’s voice finally breaking the silence.

“Old man, you must be a spirit of the afterlife– you are not family, and I have never seen your face outside of Paradise. So, húr, what do you wish to talk about?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Look around,” a calloused palm gestured in a wide arc towards the beach and sky, “and ask yourself, is there not more than this? Muhammad, what do you really want?”

“Ha! Tell me, abu reiha, you have pestered me all this time only to ask if God has provided me with what I want? Please, confess that Paradise endures your stench for more than this one, stupid question.”

“Consider that you might be missing something.” Saturated with the acrid scent of a doused tire fire, the knobby hand gently swayed the young shoulder.

“Missing something? This is Paradise! Nothing’s missing; in fact, there’s one too many of us here.” With repeated jabs to the chest, a billy-club finger battered the brown robe. “You– who insults the Creator with this question– you should not be here! God has created Paradise for His faithful. More? More’s impossible!

“I have answered your question, now go!”

A finger shot to the forest, and the old man wandered off. Entering his favorite room full of games, artwork, and women yearning for attention, the young man screamed and paced in distorted circles, knocking over a table and vase. With his face flushed red, he emptied the harem, slammed the door shut behind them, and threw a chess board against the wall. Amidst a pile of broken ceramic shards, white tulips and water spread across the floor.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. Sure, I may have hesitated at that door, but only for a second. When that giant American rose from his seat in his ugly tan t-shirt, I stepped forward, met him on the battlefield, and slashed his throat! Just as I was the hero then, God-willing, I will be again. So, if this beggar is God’s test, I will prove my faith, suffer to cleanse this impurity from Paradise, and ignore that wretch!

The beggar never returned to the beach, and was mostly forgotten– every detail down to the color of the vagabond’s eyes lost to memory. Without the specter under his tall tree, the only test left was maintaining pleasure’s fickle presence.

When a particular food or woman failed to spark an interest, a new one emerged like magic. Countless renovations completely reconfigured the entire mansion. Even the cricket wicket was replaced by an American football field. The beaches, the mountains, even the colors of the ocean and sky were tweaked so often their original hues had become a psychedelic dreamscape. Although aware of these alterations, how or why they came and went remained a mystery Muhammad had no desire to solve. Instead, it was the old man’s corrosive question haunting him.

This good-for-nothing, dirty creature… the húr are a crafty bunch, and this one will explain his impertinence! Surely those old bones are not dead but asleep… somewhere, no doubt under those big red berries! But that tree, where has it gone?