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Oumar’s death is not the end of the story. He still comes to me in dreams. At times, we net fish beside a great river, other times we build buildings of stone with pools of water and mysterious drawings on the pillars. Other times we ride, he on a big black stallion, and me on a hardy pony, up and down hills rich with green grass. We watch as a bearded man in a white silk robe stitched with scenes of winged beasts and stars talks to a child sitting on a golden throne. They are more than dreams, filled with objects and lands I could never have experienced.
In the past, I had asked a wise Imam about such visions, careful to speak only in vague terms as to not raise alarm.
“Allamah,” I had asked him, “I have read texts from other lands that speak of death and then a rebirth in human for
