Peace at Low Tide

This short story is set in the early 1990s, when storms of rage ended with the slam of a receiver.

In the distance a sluggish sun crawls out of the ocean. Along the sandy shore, Zaahid has not risen. He has remained motionless, lost in a dream about his pilgrimage to Mecca, where desert winds carry prayers like whispers of eternity. He is convinced he has been summoned by Allah to guide those who wander without faith. Yet beneath this fevered devotion lies a fractured mind—paranoid and plagued by demons of his own making.

He rolls over just in time for low tide to lap against his whiskey-wasted face. He spits out ocean water, then wipes his full lips and dark skin with trembling hands. He’s barely alert but still alive. The red sun glares unbearably into his bloodshot eyes. The day will be very hot.

Stretching his six-foot frame into the dawn, he yawns and stumbles into the ocean. As he rinses the beach from his torso, he wonders how many he will convert today. To him, they are all sinners—cash-hungry and blind to the ways of Allah. His thoughts spiral, tangled in obsession and madness. He frowns at something dark and slimy floating beside him. Flinching in distaste, he inspects it again and recognizes the purple Crown Royal sack. Tossing back his black curls, he cackles at the omen. The ocean is ice-cold.

He retreats from his frigid bath into air heavy with humidity. Unfamiliar to the wages of honest work, he begins combing the beach for money, hoping to add to his winnings from shooting craps. His mind, unmoored from reason, convinces him that destiny lies in scraps and coins. He is soon a few cents from wearing a royal purple crown—a king in lunacy, misguided by delusions.

II

The shoreline grows busy as beachgoers trickle in, claiming spots in the rising heat. Zaahid drains his last drops of whiskey courage. He flings the empty half-pint deep into the ocean and stuffs the Royal sack carelessly into his cut-offs. The sack’s gold cords flap in the breeze like false regalia. A quick gust of wind pushes him toward a couple sunning on the sand. He thrusts out an unsteady, sweaty hand to a stranger—a Jew. Zaahid introduces himself as The Messenger.

The Jew notices Zaahid's unshaven face, then stands to give him a firm handshake. The stench of Zaahid’s breath burns the stranger’s nostrils, but in spite of it he invites Zaahid to join them. The Messenger flops down next to the man’s petite partner—a Catholic Christian. Little Christian stares into Zaahid’s wavering eyes, smiles, and greets him with a meek but friendly hello. She keeps grinning despite the foul odor slapping her in the face.

After a boozy snooze near the couple, Zaahid revives to share his story, including time in jail for theft, which he claims inspired him to write music and sketch. As always he insists Allah commanded him to study the Koran, to live a clean life, and to persuade all sinners to Islam. His words tumble out like broken scripture, half‑truths stitched together by mania. The sun blazes high above the lazy waves.

Something about the two gnaws at him. Maybe it's the hot sun. Maybe the lukewarm booze. No. He's certain they are laughing at him—scoffing at his theories. Paranoia swells, twisting their smiles into sneers.

“Tell me,” he snaps at the woman, voice faltering, “what faith do you follow?”

She answers softly, “I’m Catholic. I trust in the Trinity.” The words strike him like a damnation. Zaahid leaps to his feet, his voice breaks into a scream. “How can you believe Jesus is the son of God? He was only a man! Muhammad was the true prophet—Islam the only pure doctrine!” He whirls on her companion, eyes searing.

"And you…what about you? Are you a Christian too?"

The Jew's reply detonates in Zaahid’s head. Rage consumes him. He seizes the man by the throat, hurling accusations.

"How dare you mock me, leading me to believe you are upright people!"

He shoves the man’s face into a dune. Little Christian shrieks in horror as the madman vanishes into the crowd. The sand is scorching.

Zaahid bolts down the beach—blood pounding in his ears, sweat stinging his eyes. He trudges into the ocean to cool his feet.

"They were just stupid sinners. It's too late for them. They will never see the light!" His voice cracks—half‑prayer, half‑curse. He splashes himself with shaky hands completely dismissing the couple from his thoughts, as if erasing them from existence. A gentle breeze swirls around him, soothing his body, but not his mind. His breathing steadies, but a tempest churns beneath the calm. After a swim, Zaahid decides to walk an hour to his older brother’s house—driven not by reason, but by specters that refuse to let him rest.

III

Dr. Zayd Ahmed opens the door for his brother. Zayd has been married for nine years to a beautiful Norwegian woman. Zaahid likes all women but refuses to accept her Methodist devotion and considers Zayd's conversion to the Methodist sect as a personal offense. Zayd loves his wife and two kids just as much as they love him. They all pray for Zaahid’s heart to soften. Zayd welcomes Zaahid with a sincere hug and invites him inside. Zaahid still reeks of the ocean, sweat and whiskey.

"What's for dinner, Zayd?"

"Dana made some lasagna before she took the kids to her mother's. Have some!" Zayd smiles at his bohemian brother and offers him a seat.

"Does this stuff have any pork in it?"

Zayd reassures his brother that it's oinkless.

"You know I'm striving to be a good Muslim man. I pray every day."

"Good!" Zayd remarks, half-heartedly trusting his brother’s response.

He serves a huge plate of lasagna to Zaahid, then helps himself before sitting across from his brother. They talk and eat until they are interrupted by a noisy draft rushing through an open window, sending waves of relief rippling over Zaahid’s weary face. A cluster of gray clouds blot out the sun. Some cloud puffs are bold and bloated; others are thin, uncertain.

"Looks like it's going to be a chilly night," Zaahid announces, as he shovels the last bit of lasagna into his greasy mouth. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand and pushes away from the table with a roaring belch.

"Can I use your phone Zayd? I want to call Jazmin."

Jazmin is Zaahid’s Puerto Rican girlfriend and just one of the many women Zaahid sketches for his Rainbow Collection—portraits of women from every race. She's a seductive R&B singer who performs at the Beach Front Café. Zaahid loves her voice, but feels her provocative style attracts too many leering eyes. He wants her to quit and to sing only for him once he has written and recorded a few songs.

"Hello, this is Jazmin!"

"Hi J., this is Zaahid. How are you?”

"What do you mean how am I? I waited all afternoon for you! What happened to our

lunch date?" Jazmin is tense and clearly upset.

"Oh J., I forgot all about that. I've been in my room all day working on a song," Zaahid lies, smiling at his brother.

"But I trusted you to meet me at the café. We need to discuss something," she stresses.

"You shouldn't place your faith in people. They are bound to let you down. I didn't show

up, so what's the big deal?" he asks, staring out the window into the gloomy sky.

“The big deal is that I'm pregnant!” she shouts into the phone, breaking down in tears. Zaahid gasps in disbelief.

"You're lying Jazmin! You're just trying to make trouble for me!"

He slams the receiver on the hook, ignoring her pitiful sobs. Zaahid then turns to Zayd, desperate to unburden himself.

"This is my punishment for sleeping with a filthy sinner! Allah knows I tried to save her!" Zayd's effort to calm him is futile. Zaahid is already pacing the tile.

"Where's the air in here? I can't breathe! Open another window! No, better yet, give me some Crown money!" Beads of sweat form on Zaahid’s forehead. He grabs Zayd, shouting,

"Did you not hear me? I need a drink!"

"No, you need to watch your temper. Please go to Jazmin—she needs you!" Zayd reasons.

"To hell with Jazmin!" Zaahid yells, driving his fist into his brother’s face.

Zayd's head smashes into the wall and he crumples to the floor. Zaahid rummages through his brother's pockets. He finds some cash, eyes it greedily, and fills his own depleted pockets. He scowls down at his injured brother.

"What a wimp—can't take a punch.

He leaves Zayd bleeding for his family to find. The wind is howling.

IV

Zaahid’s long hike to Beach Liquors relaxes his body, but the brisk wind does nothing to cool his fury. He selects a fifth of Crown Royal whiskey and swaggers to the checkout counter. He looks up, recognizing the face behind the register—it's the Jew.

Zaahid warns him, “If you overcharge me, I’ll know.” So watch yourself!” This is the first fifth Zaahid has managed to buy in years, so he is clueless about the cost.

The merchant nervously pecks at the register keys, hardly taking his eyes off the crazy, arrogant Arab. Zaahid yanks some balled-up bills from his pocket and tosses them on the counter. Change is made but not counted. Zaahid crams the coins into his shorts, sneering at the quivering Jew. Zaahid leaves, marching in the direction of the beach—his big Royal sack tucked under his arm. Still in view of the neon liquor lights, he stops to take a swig, then settles on the ground against a large garbage dumpster. Just beyond, the beach waits. The sky bruises violet—the air crisp, threaded with dread.

Zaahid drinks away the entire evening and half the night. Dark, foreboding clouds frame a full blood moon. He is now wearing his royal purple crown. In his drunken stupor he imagines a reckoning to deliver to the Jew. With bottle in hand he lurches toward the liquor store. He's almost to the door before he notices the fluorescent letters, now dull, and no longer flashing. He bangs on the door bellowing into the wind. Frustrated, he takes the bottle from the Royal bag and launches the near-empty fifth at the window. An explosion of glass shatters the night silence. A shard rips into Zaahid’s forehead and blood splatters into his eyes. Scrambling backward, he fumbles for his Royal sack and tries to wipe away his scarlet veil, dabbing wildly at his gushing forehead. But it isn’t only blood that blinds him—it’s the lies he tells himself. Zaahid ignores the blaring store alarm and zigzags toward the beach. Thunder follows like judgment, rumbling after every step.

V

Zaahid plunges into the ocean, numb to its chill. Icy water washes the blood trails from his face as the sky starts to cry. He staggers through sheets of rain and collapses on wet-packed sand. Pressing the oozing wound with the purple velvet pouch, he moans softly. A deep burgundy stain seeps through the fabric before he slips into darkness. The storm pounds the ground, lightning splits the sky, and wind rocks the waves.

Zaahid lies unconscious, oblivious to the deluge. He envisions false prophets who chant in broken tongues. A rainbow of houris and Malik, the angel of death, surround and taunt him. His hallucinations contort into a hellish nightmare—the storm whips without mercy. He hangs by gold chains from an Al-Zaqqum tree, writhing in agony as devils sever his tongue and mock him when it grows back. His torment endures as he plummets into an enormous, boiling cauldron of blood. Zayd, Dana, Jazmin, the Jew, and Little Christian all smile down on him from the highest heaven. On the horizon, he sees disembodied hands beckoning him to a Meccan mosque. He treads in his bloody brew of torture, panics, goes under—his cries drown beneath the surface. He comes up gasping for air. The cauldron transforms into a giant vat of whiskey. Zaahid stops kicking, surrendering to misery as purple ink engulfs him.

VI

The cold rain has stopped along the ocean shore. High tide has devoured the debris. Nothing remains except a blood-soaked indigo pouch with soggy, gilded cords. No footprints mark the wet sand. The beach is silent, as if listening for him.