the path of his forefathers—the Magian fire-worship. He therefore engaged his father in debate over the religion of idolatry; when sound proof prevailed, the old man had no answer except to shackle him. That has ever been the stock reply of the people of falsehood since they first tampered with the truth: it was Pharaoh’s retort to Moses—“If you take a god other than me…” ⦗Al-Shuʿarāʾ 29⦘; it was the Jahmites’ reply to Imām Ahmad when they laid him beneath the whip; it was the innovators’ reply to Shaykh al-Islām when they consigned him to prison—and here we are in their wake.

Then the visitor announced in the verse “We will surely test you” ⦗Al-Baqarah 155⦘ descended upon him; by honoring that guest he attained the station proclaimed in the ḥadīth, “Salman is one of us—members of the Household.” (1)

He heard that a caravan was preparing to depart, so he stole himself away from his father—without incurring any “cutting”—and mounted the steed of resolve, hoping to reach the goal of felicity. He plunged into the sea of inquiry to seize the pearl of existence, devoting himself to the service of the guides with the humility of a supplicant. When the monks sensed that their rule was nearing its end, they entrusted him with the unmistakable signs heralding the prophethood of our Prophet, saying, “His time has drawn near; beware lest you go astray!”

He travelled on with a company that showed him no kindness; they sold him for a trifling price—only a few dirhams. A Jew of Madinah bought him. The moment he beheld the ḥarra lava-field, the heat of his longing blazed up, yet the master of the house knew nothing of what burned within the new arrival. While he was wrestling with the slow hours of waiting, a herald came bearing news of the Herald’s advent, and Salman was perched atop a palm-tree. Anxiety almost cast him down, had prudence not steadied him—just as in the verse: “She was about to reveal it, had We not strengthened her heart” ⦗Al-Qaṣaṣ 10⦘. He hastened down to welcome the caravan of glad tidings, while the unspoken poetry of his state sang:

O my two friends from Najd, pause with me upon the heights;
for from those distant abodes a fragrant breeze has blown. (2)