the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

people, Mukhlis might find himself and his family tossed out of the
village: him, his wife Aalia and his daughter Nada.
He was thinking about all of this as he approached the waterhole, still
undecided whether or not to stop.
A horse was standing beneath a large fig tree that spread over the
waterhole, a huge inviting canopy of cool shade and shelter. It was
untethered but the blanket on its back showed that it belonged to
someone, probably a fellow traveller stopping to drink the water, refill
his flasks or, perhaps, like Mukhlis, lay down his head and rest. Even so,
Mukhlis was nervous as he approached the waterhole. His horse sensed
the proximity of water and snorted appreciatively, so that he had to rein
her back from trotting up to the well, where he now saw a figure, curled
up asleep. He slept with his head on his pack, his robe wrapped around
him, his hood pulled up and his arms crossed over his chest. Little of his
face was visible, but Mukhlis saw brown, weathered skin, wrinkled and
scarred. He was an old man, in his late seventies or early eighties.
Fascinated, Mukhlis studied the sleeper’s face – the eyes snapped open.
Mukhlis recoiled a little, surprised and frightened. The old man’s eyes
were sharp and watchful. He remained absolutely still and Mukhlis
realized that, although he himself was much younger, the stranger was
not at all intimidated by him.
‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you,’ said Mukhlis, inclining his head, his
voice wavering slightly. The stranger said nothing, just watched as
Mukhlis dismounted, then led his horse to the well and retrieved the
leather bucket so that they could drink. For a moment or so the only
sound was the soft bump of the bucket on the wall of the well as the
water was fetched, then the slurping as the horse drank. Mukhlis drank