It was the dead of night, and not a soul was awake, save for the mullah walking through the narrow village streets. His worn-out leather sandals lightly grazed the dusty floor, either side of which there were flowing gutters that hugged the mud bricked walls of the huddled houses. The moon was shining brightly and it made the henna in his beard glint, like a fire in the darkness. He was chanting in a whisper as he put his hand into the small tattered sack he was carrying. He carefully pulled his slightly bleeding hand out revealing long, pointy porcupine quills.

He quickly chucked a few of them at the roof of the house to his right, and then to the one on his left. Each of them landed with a series of soft hollow clinks. He continued to do this with every house he passed by until he reached the masjid at the end of the village. He raised the last of the quills in his now bloody hand and chucked them as hard as he could towards the roof. The quills landed on the dome and slid down slowly until they rested on the edges.

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The mullah smiled as he wiped the bloody hand on his hennaed beard, that looked like a blazing fire now in the early dawn light.

There was a menacing grin on his face as he entered the masjid. There were a few people already inside, softly praying to themselves in the front row and had not noticed his presence. These were the most pious the village had to offer, a number that had been dwindling with every passing year.

The mullah pulled out a sharp knife and slowly made his way to the muezzin.

It was time to sound the call to prayer.