39
THE RAVEN'S CRY
Yasir Planking wood mill. Kakaheer, northern Pakistan.
The old man ambled out of the trees and walked down the hillside the way any nomad would. His skin was dark and made no effort to hide his years. He carried only a long walking pole, sauntering in the bright sunlight toward the rear of the wood mill. Khalid placed a nervous hand on an automatic rifle which lay against his side, but Waseem Jarrah only smiled.
“Right on time.”
Jarrah walked toward the man and the two embraced.
“Salaam alaikum. Peace be with you,” the old man said.
“Wa alaikum as Salaam And also unto you.”
“It has been a long time, my young friend.”
“Too long,” Jarrah replied. “But nothing is too long in the service of Allah. Come, come inside, where we begin our final act of service together.”
