The Sky Worshipers

by F. M. Deemyad

  The Hakeem, who realized he had stood in awe of the queen’s beauty longer than was deemed appropriate, gave a slight cough. He forced himself back to his professional demeanor and asked, “Can I be of help, Your Grace, regarding anything that might be ailing you?”

  “Where do you run when you are thine own enemy?” the queen asked.

  “Why would my lady think that she is her own foe?”

  “I have asked about you. Your late father, also a great physician, disagreed with what Tamerlane did, and I do know you share his views. Your father’s life was spared by Tamerlane because he never expressed his views in a way to arouse public anger against the monarchy. Therefore, I know that I can speak with you openly. I feel doomed because my name is mired in the blood that was shed by others. Is there no solace for one who has unwittingly joined hands with those who have transgressed?” She then showed the manuscript to the Hakeem and explained its content.

  “This is no fault of yours,” the physician said.

  “I was raised in a household of wealth and privilege, and I have married into royalty. My father was a very rich man, and my husband rules an empire. But reading this . . . reading what these women wrote has allowed me to feel what it is like to be hungry and to live in fear. I can now sense the horror of losing loved ones in war. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t do anything about it.”

  She pointed with her delicate fingers to a tree in the distance that was visible from the window. “One-fifth of the world’s population was cut down by Tamerlane alone, pruned as if they were limbs of trees. This murderous campaign started with the Mongols, and then my father-in-law.” She paused, “We,” she looked down at her hands, “I have seen the suffering of the people. I know that the wealth we possess, the power that our family has gained and my children will one day inherit, stems from a great amount of injustice. I have become the unfortunate inheritor of this bloody legacy which must end. People need to heal; their dignity must be restored, their lives mended, their places of worship repaired.”

  “These all seem like noble undertakings,” the Hakeem said, sympathetically.

  “People think that I have gone mad, but the truth is that days and weeks of contemplation have opened my eyes. I have cried day and night, and as the tears were shed, my soul revived. I have a new sense of purpose; my determination is strong. My vision was blurred but now is cleared. I shall restore what lies in ruin, and I shall bring hope back to the hearts of the people. Mongols will be remembered well when I am done with what I undertake to do. As God is my witness, I will reach out to the despondent, to the afflicted.”

  The Hakeem left the room deep in thought. When the king approached him and asked about the condition of his wife, he replied that she is of sound mind and suffers no physical ailment.

  Shahrokh did not seem satisfied with that answer, and the question lingered upon his face. The king appeared to be an intelligent monarch but unsure of himself and uncertain about the correctness of his decisions. He was a rather thin man with handsome features who did not look much older than Lady Goharshad. He paced back and forth nervously as if contemplating a subject of great importance.

  “Speak plainly. Is my wife suffering from the illness of the mind?” The king asked, looking seriously at the physician. “Let me be forthright with you. The mentally ill are shunned by society, and their continued presence in a royal court would be difficult to justify.”

  “Sir, she is wiser than any man that I know,” the Hakeem replied in a sly reference to the king.

  “Why is it then that she keeps crying day and night over this manuscript we found in the ruins of Karakorum?”

  “It is not the manuscript itself, sir, it is the atrocities that were recorded in it. Atrocities committed by generations of Mongols that unfortunately, your father with all due respect, condoned and continued. She feels the burden of guilt on her shoulders and feels as if her name and that of her progeny has been mired in blood because of what they had done.” The Hakeem realized too late that his remarks were completely out of line and apologized hurriedly for being too upfront.

  “My father . . . was a world conqueror. Be careful not to disrespect him,” Shahrokh replied looking irate.

  “My intention is not to disrespect anyone but to simply state the facts about your wife’s health. My lady, the queen, has a benevolent soul and a compassionate heart.”

  “Under any other circumstances, I could have had you beheaded. But desperate as I am to save my wife, I am bearing this,” the king said.

  The Hakeem repeated his apology.

  “My ancestors were warriors. They were conquerors in wars that they engaged in and naturally people died. That is no concern of hers. But it seems as if she has taken it upon herself to set things right, for she believes that she is responsible for their deeds,” the king said more calmly but with concern visible in his countenance.

  “Why?” the Hakeem asked.

  “Because she is married to me, and I have inherited the legacy of the Mongols for better or for worse,” he replied. “For days she spoke to no one, abstained from eating throughout the day, breaking her fast on a meager meal at night. She spends her nights crying, holding prayer vigils.”

  “There is another side to this coin,” the Hakeem replied. “What may seem to others as ailment could be an indication of the transformation taking place within her soul.”

  “I do not understand, sir,” the king said. “All I know is that my wife has lost interest in life, and takes no pleasure in anything that my vast kingdom has to offer.”

  “Well, she may soon find a different source of fulfillment, one that will give her a strong sense of purpose.”

  Shahrokh, who appeared unconvinced, politely thanked the Hakeem for his services and rewarded him graciously. However, the shadow of concern upon his face did not disappear.

  Chapter Two

  The Transformation

  Lady Goharshad felt a burning lump in her throat when the Hakeem left as if finding an understanding soul allowed her to drop her burdens. Tears rushed to her eyes and flowed down her delicate skin; the pain had been unbearable. Her body weakened by days of fasting, her mind, her soul, her resolve strengthened. Life took on a new meaning, a new urgency.

  Tamerlane, who considered himself the last of the Mongols, had conquered vast territories that his son now ruled. The chance still existed for them to establish a good name for the Mongols. She could reach out to the devastated, revive hope among the destitute, help rebuild what lay in ruin, and in doing so allow her husband’s dynasty to be remembered as a benevolent one. There was no room for negligence, for procrastination and for losing chances and opportunities to do good.

  One day, instead of strolling around the garden, she decided to visit the city, but soon realized that her regal attire attracted too much attention. She went again to the city on another day and wore a black silk chador to obscure her identity. Her strolls took her to neighborhoods of the poor and the sick. She reached out to the pregnant mother who had lost her husband to consumption and had no source of income, and she tended to the needs of an elderly couple with no children to care for them. She spread her wings of kindness over children who had not known compassion throughout their young lives; her basket always filled with treats.

  As days went by, the king became concerned when on certain afternoons he could not find his wife. He worried about her drifting again, and saw these exertions as misguided—another sign of a fall in mental health. He summoned the Hakeem. Judging by his balding and graying hair, fleshy and wrinkled face and bushy eyebrows, one could say that the physician was in his mid-fifties. The king lost no time in expressing his concerns when the Hakeem arrived.

  “I have listened to your advice, but now my wife roams the streets during the day, hiding her identity in order to see what truly goes on in the lives of the people left under our care. This is her w
ay of seeking atonement, I suppose,” the king said.

  “Well sir, the only thing that I can tell you is that many men complain that their wives engage in that which is forbidden religiously,” the Hakeem said in an obvious reference to adultery. So, maybe you should be thankful that she has taken such a path.” The physician then took a sip of the black tea offered to him earlier on a silver tray. His countenance showed his full confidence in his work and in his patient’s health.

  “You don’t understand, sir, she is a queen to an empire so grand that the world has not seen the likes of it. Yet, she acts like a commoner, a charitable patron, but still beneath the dignity of royalty,” the king confided.

  “She is a very intelligent woman. I believe she could be a great advisor to you,” the Hakeem said with a sugar cube in his mouth slurring his speech.

  The conversation with the Hakeem, who appeared not to have a care in the world, left Shahrokh as dejected as before.

  The king decided to address the matter at dinner that night. “Your outings have become a source of concern for me,” he said as his wife sat down to eat.

  “I feel blessed with a great sense of purpose,” Lady Goharshad said. “A physical change is taking place within me. I now have a mission, an incredible desire to improve the lives of the people. And in helping others, I do no harm to us. In fact, I may have saved your life.”

  “What exactly do you mean?” the king asked, alarmed.

  Lady Goharshad moved the tray of food away from her husband before he could reach for it. “Have you hired a new chef?” she asked.

  “Yes, in fact, we have,” her husband replied.

  “This dinner of roasted quail, do not partake of it. The chef is innocent and unaware, so you can let the poor man go, but he has been set up to poison you on this very night. We need a food taster in the castle like your father used to have.”

  “Pray tell me,” Shahrokh asked, frowning, “where did you obtain that information from?”

  “You know how I roam the streets at times to learn the circumstances of the poor and destitute.”

  “And?”

  “I helped a shoemaker that had injured his hand and had been out of work for weeks. He saw the regal bracelet on my hand, bearing the insignia of the Mongols, and confided in me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He begged that I do not disclose his name and spare him for divulging his secret. But a woman in their neighborhood who had intended to poison you, in hopes that the blame would be placed on her former husband, concocted this scheme. The shoemaker learned of the matter when he passed by a window of her house and overheard her confiding in her sister.”

  “Who is the husband?”

  “Your new chef is her former husband. Recently, he left her for a younger woman. She gave him a pouch filled with poison instead of the spice he had requested of her, hoping he would be accused of murder and executed.”

  “We shall see how true that is,” he mumbled in disbelief.

  Shahrokh stared, stunned at his wife for a moment or two, then summoned the chef. The poor soul, trembling head to foot, obviously fearing that he had aroused the king’s wrath, admitted that a new spice was indeed given to him by his former wife to improve the taste of poultry and allow him the opportunity to put his culinary skills on display.

  Shahrokh then dismissed the chef without further comment and summoned the guards to arrest the woman who had plotted the scheme, the real culprit.

  When the chef left the room, Lady Goharshad said, “Retain him, for hence he would be your most trusted man in the Kitchen Tower.”

  The next morning at breakfast, Shahrokh asked his wife what she thought of the new plan he had in mind for the city.

  “I am considering further renovations in Samarkand and Herat,” Shahrokh said. “I thought you might like to see the sketches, once they are drafted.”

  “Why not extend such renovations to other cities as well?” the queen asked. “Can you imagine what it would mean to the people if we rebuild and refurbish what was ruined? Think of what that could do for the morale of the inhabitants.”

  “Well, first of all, we need to fortify defenses in each city in the event of outside aggression,” the king said. “Local tribes challenging our governance in neighboring countries are turning into formidable foes, and one always needs to be on guard.”

  “Then, that would be the perfect place to begin. We would also need hospitals, charitable foundations, schools and institutions of higher learning, libraries, and of course beautiful monuments, orchards and gardens, and fountains. You will be remembered as the king who brought life back to the people of Persia and Transoxiana.”

  As buildings were being erected, hospitals, schools and libraries built, and orchards planted, Lady Goharshad decided to visit Samarkand’s old bazaar, wearing her black chador over her gown. The bazaar, once known as the Grand Bazaar of Samarkand and now only referred to as the old bazaar, no longer retained the charm and glory of its original construction. Pieces of the stone pavement could be seen here and there under the dirt-covered floor. The fire pits had been replaced with oil lamps that lit the way, but they were not uniform in shape, placed here and there haphazardly. Shops still displayed their goods of fabric, spices, and jewelry to advantage; however, the presence of thieves threatened the safety of shoppers.

  Lady Goharshad watched as a poor man dragged his tired feet toward the grocers. The shop was a rather large one, and the shopkeeper had placed bins in full view of his customers. Each bin contained a heap of a different kind of vegetable: large white turnips, purple beets, and greens glistened like gems.

  The poor man offered the grocer a black dirham, saying that he hoped to purchase something for dinner. The shop owner looked condescendingly at the meager offering and handed the man some withering potatoes upon which mold was beginning to grow.

  “That’s all?” the man asked. “I have a family to feed.”

  “That’s all your money will buy,” was the ice-cold reply.

  “A black dirham for a bag of rotten potatoes, that is an unheard-of price,” Lady Goharshad who could no longer restrain herself uttered. “What you are offering this poor man is not fit for human consumption, yet you charge the price of the best grocery.”

  “I am the only grocer in these parts and have every right to set the price as I wish. Don’t like it; settle for plain bread.”

  Frustrated over her encounter with the overcharging grocer, Lady Goharshad, who considered such trade nothing less than thievery, returned to the castle. There were numerous pieces of jewelry stored in a large room; most of them war booties plundered by Tamerlane.

  Lady Goharshad cared little for them. She refused to wear a lot of jewelry and did not consider the items plundered as righteously earned. One piece, an heirloom necklace that once belonged to her mother, she did treasure and wore occasionally. Its large emeralds and diamonds set in gold were unique, and it held memories dear to her heart. She reached for the box that contained them. Feeling vexed, she knew the sight of them would soothe her. When she unlocked and opened the rosewood box, however, she noticed they were missing.

  She asked Raana about it, and the young woman said that a butler cleaned it earlier. Lady Goharshad asked that they immediately summon the man.

  “Where is my necklace?” she asked the butler, a man of more than seventy years of age.

  “Khanoom, I beg of you, I replaced it as soon as I finished polishing your necklace. I have worked honestly in this castle most of my life.”

  Lady Goharshad lost control of her temper. Fuming, she said, “I have no tolerance for thievery. Take the man to the dungeon until he confesses.”

  The old man began shaking in distress, and as the guards attempted to carry him to the prison, he lost consciousness. At that very moment, Lady Goharshad recalled that she had hung the necklace with the outfit she
planned on wearing for a formal occasion the following night.

  “Leave him be,” she said, embarrassed at her own temper.

  During dinner that evening, Lady Goharshad sat frowning as her husband excitedly informed her about the progress of the reconstruction crew.

  “What is the matter? I thought you would be pleased with these new developments,” he finally said.

  “I am concerned about the state of the old bazaar which has fallen into decay. People are grateful that a new one will soon be erected, but the old one is still considered by many of the poorer citizens as a marketplace where goods could be purchased at a lower cost. However, vandalism has recently become rampant, and the enclosure has all but turned into a meeting place for gangsters and robbers. Order needs to be established, and the surrounding neighborhoods as well need to be improved for they are quite dilapidated and also subject to break-ins and theft.”

  “And there is another thing,” she added after a pause. “If the lone grocer at the old bazaar owes as much as a single black coin in taxes to the Treasury, I would make sure that that black coin is confiscated from him.”

  Chapter Three

  The Broken Vase

  Lady Goharshad became bolder about visiting poverty-stricken parts of town near the old bazaar. She no longer hesitated before donning a ragged black chador on top of her silky attire. She headed toward the said location, little heeding the fact that it was insecure and infested with criminals and disreputable characters.

  Shahrokh found his wife in a beggar’s chador at the entrance hall of the castle, headed for the streets again.