They waited for the Hoopoe. They chatted and waited. They sat in silence and waited. Salma grew restless. Perhaps they should set out on their own. They could complete the journey without the Hoopoe, figure out a way, instead of this endless waiting. Moni was thinking ahead to all that needed to be done to get back to the city; this wait was a waste of time. Perhaps, she thought, the role of the Hoopoe was over. To restore their bodies was no mean feat, a miracle in itself. Did they still need him now? Iman listened out for the sound of wings; she scanned the sky. She was sure that it was not yet over. If they set out, they would get lost, they would not return. ‘Wait a little longer,’ she urged her friends. ‘Be patient.’

The sun began to set. Even if the Hoopoe were to show up now, it would be too late. They would not be able to make progress in the dark, they would have to wait for day. They were almost asleep, huddled together under the tree, when the Hoopoe came back. He came to them not as guide but as storyteller. The story he told was for the three of them, not only Iman. It was Attar’s fable, The Conference of the Birds. They had known it – read it, heard it, saw the bird illustrations in a book – but then, over time, forgot.