A Poet of the Invisible World

by Michael Golding

  When he reached the bank, Vishpar paused for a moment. Then he opened his robe and laid it on the grass; he removed his tunic and placed it beside the robe; he undid the drawstring of his trousers and stepped out of them; then, with liquid grace, he dove into the water.

  That brief moment when Vishpar soared naked through the air was like a lifetime to Nouri. The curve of his buttocks—the splendor of his phallus floating free from the thick crop of bright golden hair—and those wondrous arms, which formed a tanned parabola over his head. When he reached the water, he disappeared for a moment and Nouri inched forward so he could see him reemerge. But he was so mesmerized by the sight of him slicing through the current that he did not see how far he’d crawled out on the branch. Only when Vishpar climbed out of the water and lay down languidly on the grass did he feel it begin to give way. Then his weight shifted, the branch snapped, and Nouri came tumbling to the ground.

  It was not the first time that Nouri had fallen from the sky. And though Vishpar was more surprised than alarmed to find his young friend sprawled like a starfish at his side, it was clear from the look in his eyes that he was not thinking about God.

  Seven

  In the weeks that followed the incident at the river, there was an unspoken tension between Nouri and Vishpar. Nouri wished that he could explain what he felt in his friend’s presence, how it shook him to his roots, but he could not find the words. He realized that neither Sheikh Bailiri nor Habbib had ever spoken about physical love. The closest he’d come to hearing anything on the subject had been when he was at the market with Salim Rasa and a merchant had called out to the dervish:

  “What’s the use of all your self-denial? For the sake of Allah, don’t you desire a wife?”

  Salim Rasa had remained silent a moment. Then he’d turned to the merchant and said, “A wife is fit for a man. The stage of man I have not yet reached. Why then should I desire a wife?”

  Despite the fact that there were no women at the lodge, Nouri had seen many over the years. The girls who sold eggs and cheese at the market. The women who carried loaves of fresh naan and sleeping children in their arms. They fascinated Nouri: their hair thick and glossy, their hands quick and expressive, their eyes, above their tightly clasped veils, flashing with thoughts he could not decipher. Some were fragile, like pale-breasted birds. Some were dark and robust. Yet none made him feel the strange hunger that Vishpar made him feel. And he knew—from the way he’d stared at Vishpar’s naked body when Nouri had fallen from the tree—that Vishpar knew how he felt.

  The tension between them remained hidden beneath the surface. Yet they spent less time by the fountain talking and they tried to avoid each other’s gaze. So Nouri was surprised, one night after the evening meal, when Vishpar leaned in close to him.

  “Meet me at the gate after the evening prayer,” he whispered. “And be sure to dress warmly.”

  Nouri could not imagine what his friend had in mind. But when the last movements of the evening prayer had been completed, he went to his cell, threw on his warm woolen cloak, and went to find out.

  Vishpar was waiting at the gate when he arrived. He nodded to Nouri. Then, without saying a word, he led him off into the darkness. It was a brisk night and Nouri could see his breath spiral up as they made their way along. At first he thought they were heading to the river, but when they were almost there, Vishpar took a path that Nouri didn’t know. It led to a clearing, at the center of which lay the remains of a small structure: a stone floor, scattered with leaves, surrounded by four crumbling walls. A portion of the roof was intact, but for the most part the space lay open to the sky. And Nouri could see that the room—which seemed to hover before them in the moonlight—was a perfect square.

  They paused for a moment. Then Vishpar said, “Come!” Then they started across the clearing toward the room.

  As Nouri followed after him, his heart began to race. Was something wonderful about to happen? Something terrible? He could hardly bear the suspense.

  When they reached the structure, they climbed over the wall. The night wrapped around them. Then Vishpar raised his head to the sky.

  “Shooting stars,” he said. He lowered himself to the stones and lay back, and Nouri lay down beside him. “They’re at their peak. And this is the best place to watch them.”

  No sooner had Vishpar spoken than Nouri looked up to see a streak of light etch the darkness. He felt as if his body had been turned inside out and his heart was exposed to the night air. He closed his eyes. He felt his breath rise and fall. He felt Vishpar beside him. Then he opened his eyes and gazed at the millions of stars that were scattered across the sky. He waited for another one to go blazing by. He waited for Vishpar to speak. And finally, like a knife piercing the darkness, he did.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “About what?”

  “The feelings you’re having.” He was silent a moment, and Nouri’s supersensitive ears heard the click of each cricket and the rustle of each leaf. “When I see Khaterah? The girl who sells kefir at the market? I feel like I’m going to burst through my clothes!” He paused again. Then he turned to Nouri. “There’s nothing wrong with it.” He shrugged. “It’s how we were made.”

  Nouri took a deep breath. “But I don’t feel that way around girls. I feel that way around you.”

  A star shot across the sky. Then another. Then Vishpar spoke.

  “Sheikh Bailiri insists that Allah’s manifestations are infinite.” He paused as another star streaked the sky. “The Sufi recognizes the earthly for what it is, and tries to maintain his remembrance of God.”

  “And it doesn’t make you uncomfortable? That I feel that way?”

  “Not really,” said Vishpar. “Besides, in a few years you’ll be hiding the tent in your tunic from some dark-eyed girl. It’s just a phase. Just a circulation of the blood.”

  Nouri gazed up at the sky and said no more. Perhaps it was just a phase. Perhaps his longing for Vishpar would sizzle out like the stars, leaving no trace behind. At the moment, however, it burned hot and bright. And he was grateful for the darkness to shield him from the glow of his friend’s eyes.

  * * *

  THE SCALES ON THE DRAGON’S back and wings were a chalky green, like oxidized copper. But the flesh on his belly was black as the inside of a cave. His claws were like hooks and as he soared through the air, his eyes glinted yellow with fire. He rose in a spiral, growing larger with each turn, the smoke streaming like spittle from his mouth. Then he reared back, spread his enormous jaws, and devoured the sun.

  Habbib lay in bed, on his back, panting. It took a moment before he realized that there was no moon that night, that the darkness that enveloped him was the darkness of his cell, and that he’d awakened from another difficult dream. They’d come with such frequency over the last few weeks he was surprised they still shook him. Yet each time a new one appeared, it filled him with terror.

  This one was as awful as anything so far. The gleam of evil in the creature’s eyes. The whir of its wings. The glee with which it consumed the light. He knew it meant something, but he could not say what. And since he did not wish to bother Sheikh Bailiri again, he rose, threw his cloak over his bedclothes, and headed out into the night.

  By the time he’d made his way down the curving road that led into the city, the sky had begun to lighten. He’d not ventured out so early since he’d helped his father deliver the naan when he was a boy, and he’d forgotten how fiercely life pulsed in the early-morning streets. Dogs sniffed the alleys looking for scraps, broken-down carts were being hitched to old nags, the smell of frying dough oiled the air. As he moved farther into the heart of the waking city, however, Habbib could feel a tension beneath the surface. On the steps of the Darni Sunim, a trio of men stood whispering. In the public garden, eyes darted left and right. Habbib could not say what it meant, but he knew something was wrong.

  Sheikh Bailiri did not need Habbib to warn him that danger was in the air. For the anxiou
s whispers had already reached his ears. According to Atash al-Malik, one of the lay members of the order, the village of Rhuna, about six days north, had been attacked at the height of Ramadan by an army of men. Darwash, to the east, had been sacked, its mosque razed and its inhabitants forced to flee. Sheikh Bailiri knew that if these forces were to reach Tan-Arzhan there would be no stopping them. But he also knew that they might head off in another direction. So he decided that the best way to keep the brothers calm was to turn their attention to a new project.

  Sheikh Bailiri had thought of erecting a chahar taq over the courtyard for many years. A domed pavilion with four open arches, it would offer the brothers a way to pray in the open air no matter the time of year. With the new fountain at its center, the courtyard would be transformed into a living mandala. A place in which to affirm the presence of Allah. So on the very same morning that Habbib awoke from his dream about the dragon, Sheikh Bailiri gathered the brothers in the courtyard to share his vision of the new structure.

  “The dome will protect us from the elements,” he explained, “but the sides will be open to the air. Think of how lovely it will be to be able to remain outside during a downpour! Or in the summer heat!”

  The brothers listened as the Sufi master described the time and the care and the sweat that the project would require. But they were eager to serve. So they agreed, one and all, to undertake it.

  Sheikh Bailiri knew that the building of a chahar taq would take far more work than any of the brothers imagined. But it would keep their minds off the rumors that were swirling about the town. At least for a while.

  * * *

  OVER THE FOLLOWING WEEKS, the brothers began learning the skills that were required to build the new structure, and raising the funds that were needed to purchase the materials. With the help of a local draftsman, Jamal al-Jani drew up the plans. Then Vishpar journeyed out to the quarry to retrieve the smooth blocks of marble from which it would be made. Piran Nazuder met with a tradesman whose great-grandfather had helped to build the Darni Sunim to learn the methods involved in fashioning a dome. And Salim Rasa designed the pattern for the tiny tiles—which Hajid al-Hallal fetched from a tile maker in Nashtam—that would cover it when it was done.

  As the weeks passed and the simple pavilion began to rise, Nouri made a difficult decision. The conversation beneath the shooting stars had only deepened his friendship with Vishpar. And he suddenly felt that it was a betrayal of that friendship not to reveal the strange fact of his four ears. So one morning, while they were working on the southern arch, he leaned over to his friend and said, “There’s something I need to show you.”

  Vishpar wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “What is it?”

  “I can’t talk about it here. Come to my cell tonight before bed.”

  Vishpar agreed and they continued on with their work. But while the older youth hardly gave it another thought, for the rest of the day Nouri could think of little else. What would Vishpar say when he removed his head garment? Would he be repulsed like Sharoud? Would their friendship—which meant the world to Nouri—be cast aside?

  That night, after the evening prayer had been performed, Vishpar went to Nouri’s cell.

  “What did you want to show me?” he asked, as Nouri ushered him inside.

  “Is it not written that each man’s bird of fate has been fastened upon his neck?”

  “It is written.”

  “Well, mine,” said Nouri, “has been fastened a bit higher up.”

  He paused a moment, his mouth dry, his stomach clenched, his heart pounding. Then he reached up, untucked the ribbon of his head cloth, and began to unwind it.

  When the four ears were finally revealed, Vishpar was stunned. But what he felt was neither love like Habbib nor disgust like Sharoud nor the glory of God like Sheikh Bailiri, but rather a deep sense of wonder.

  “Amazing.”

  “I just thought you should know.”

  Vishpar took a step closer. “Were you born with them?”

  Nouri nodded.

  “And they function?”

  “Extremely well, I’m afraid.”

  Vishpar shook his head from side to side. “Amazing.”

  Nouri raised the edge of the head cloth to one of his ears and began binding them again.

  “Wait,” said Vishpar.

  Nouri paused, the ribbon hanging in midair.

  “Can I touch them?”

  Nouri took another deep breath and nodded. Then he stood very still as Vishpar raised his fingers to his ears. He tapped them. He squeezed them. He moved their tender flaps forward and back. Then—when he was certain that they were real—Nouri covered them again. The following morning they met in the courtyard and continued working. And though Vishpar never mentioned the ears again, Nouri knew that they were closer now.

  As work on the chahar taq neared completion, the whispers in the city grew louder. It was said that Shadira, a village only three hours away, had been routed. It was said that the invaders had set up camp along the River Tolna and were preparing for a new assault. As a result, many of the merchants in Tan-Arzhan closed their shops. Curfews were imposed, and the wealthier families shuttered their houses and headed south.

  Sheikh Bailiri was too wise not to heed the threats. Yet he was convinced that a handful of poor dervishes was unlikely to be the target of an attack. So he instructed Jamal al-Jani to gather the order’s few precious belongings—the silver candlesticks, the blownglass lamp, the leather-bound copy of the Qur’an—and bury them beneath the ash tree that stood by the eastern wall. Then he focused the brothers on the completion of the chahar taq.

  The morning on which the Sufi master proved to be naive was graced with an unseasonable warmth. So Sheikh Bailiri allowed the brothers to remove their robes and shoes and work in their loose cotton shifts. All that was left to be done was the final sanding of the arches and the placement of the last tiles upon the dome. But by the end of the morning—despite the freedom of their clothes—the brothers were bathed in perspiration.

  “It’s too hot to go on,” said Piran Nazuder.

  “What’s the point in building a chahar taq,” said Jamal al-Jani, “if we die of sunstroke before it’s done?”

  Sheikh Bailiri knew that with a little more effort the structure would be complete. But he could also see that the brothers were exhausted. So he instructed Salim Rasa to fetch a large pitcher of pomegranate juice and some cups and called for a break.

  “The last efforts are always the hardest,” he said. “But it’s important to take things slowly, and get them right.”

  The brothers sat with their cups of sweet juice. Ali Majid slept. Habbib basked languidly in the sun. Only Nouri, with his two pairs of ears, heard the clamor of the horse hooves in the distance. Only he felt the disturbance in the air and the approaching danger. Before he could issue a warning, however, his ears rang with the music of a single plucked string. Then an arrow went whizzing through the air and struck Piran Nazuder dead.

  In a flash, the courtyard was filled with men, their hulking bodies covered in pelts, their beards like black smoke, their eyes glinting with malice. Salim Rasa tried to flee, but he was struck as swiftly as Piran Nazuder. The others dropped down and hugged the ground, hoping that if they cowered they would be spared.

  Nouri didn’t cower. But neither did he leap up, seize one of the invaders’ swords, and start doing battle. That was left to Vishpar. Like a panther protecting his brood, he bounded across the courtyard, toppled one of the attackers, grabbed his weapon, and—in less time than it would have taken to blanch an almond—dispatched a trio of the hot-blooded brutes. At the sight of him in action, Nouri felt a thrill shiver through him. He envisioned his friend single-handedly routing the entire pack. He pictured himself kneeling down before this hero who’d saved his life.

  This was the image that flashed in Nouri’s mind as someone grabbed him from behind and tethered his wrists. And it would have been the image that stayed with him had h
e not seen Vishpar rush forward in order to deflect the next blow and be pierced through with a gleaming sword. That was when they slipped the blindfold over Nouri’s eyes and the world went black. And though other faces pressed in at the edges of the darkness—Sheikh Bailiri’s—Habbib’s—Ali Majid’s—the look on Vishpar’s face as the marauder ran him through was what remained in Nouri’s heart as they carried him away.

  PART TWO

  Eight

  Nouri gripped the silver tray with both hands, careful not to jostle it as he moved through the garden, but he was not prepared for the creature that suddenly swooped from the tree and darted across his path. Its body was the most dazzling blue he’d ever seen. And though its head was quite small, its tail was enormous. When it saw Nouri, the creature froze and cocked its head to one side. Then its tail began to spread out until it stood like a painted fan. Nouri remained perfectly still, aware that the pot of tea and the freshly baked naan he was delivering would soon grow cold. Yet he could not help feeling that the eyes that were scattered across the tail were staring at him and that if the creature could speak it would say, “What, in the name of Allah, are you doing here?”

  It was a question that echoed through Nouri’s head quite often. For though the conditions of his new life were good—he had a large room and clean clothes and plenty to eat—he generally felt as if he’d taken a wrong turn and stumbled into somebody else’s life. Everything around him was strange: the food, the landscape, the faces. When he thought of how things might have turned out, however, he tried to accept the confusion, and focus on the various tasks he was meant to perform each day.

  At the moment, he was supposed to deliver the silver tray with the pot of tea, the basket of naan, and the bowl of figs to the ornate chamber of The Right Hand. He had no idea why they called the man he’d been ordered to wait upon The Right Hand. When he was first brought to his chamber to meet him, the swarthy fellow had just come from riding and Nouri had half-expected that when he removed his gloves he would find that his right hand was made of wood or covered in scales or scarred by fire. When it was revealed, however, Nouri saw that there was nothing strange about it at all.