A Poet of the Invisible World

by Michael Golding

  “Meet me in the garden,” he said, “after the next call to prayer.”

  Sharoud nodded, and Nouri continued on. Then—after an hour had passed and they’d performed the salah—they met on the stone bench beneath the argan tree, just a few paces from Sheikh al-Khammas’s grave.

  “You wished to speak with me,” said Nouri.

  Sharoud nodded. “I believe it’s important.”

  “Well, I’d be grateful if you’d keep it brief.”

  Sharoud turned to face Nouri directly. “It’s not my place to give you advice. But it’s an important moment for the order. You cannot be blind to it.”

  “The loss of Sheikh al-Khammas is a terrible blow. It will take us time to adjust.”

  “Sheikh al-Khammas was a great man. And he led this order with great wisdom for many years.” Sharoud paused. “Perhaps, in his greatness, he kept it alive.” He paused again, careful to choose his words. “Or perhaps—Allah preserve him—he kept it from moving forward.”

  Nouri felt the heat rise to his cheeks, but he fought the impulse to respond.

  “I do not question your assumption of the mantle,” continued Sharoud. “For whatever reason, Sheikh al-Khammas chose you to take over as our murshid. But I do question whether you realize what’s at stake. Either the order flourishes”—his eyes grew even darker—“or it collapses.”

  “And what would you have me do?” said Nouri.

  “I’d have you focus your energy on ensuring that it’s the former and not the latter. Grounding our order in a new set of disciplines. Searching for ways to increase our ranks.” His mouth curled. “Not sitting all day in a dark cell beside a sickly boy.”

  “That boy is our brother.”

  “Perhaps. But he seems to evoke the lowest part of you.”

  “No, Sharoud. The highest part.”

  “You cannot—”

  “No!” cried Nouri. “I won’t hear you! I won’t let you speak about what you don’t understand!”

  Sharoud’s eyes glittered. He wanted to shout that what Nouri had done with Ryka was an abomination. But he knew that he’d said enough. So he rose from the bench and left the garden.

  For a long while, Nouri just sat there—letting the blood drain from his throat, urging his heart to stop pounding, willing the thoughts from his mind. He knew that, in part, what Sharoud had just said was true: the order was at a crossroads and it was up to him to shepherd it forward. But he was unable to do that until he was shown the way. So he sat there until his spirit had regained its balance. Then he rose from the bench and returned to Ryka’s side.

  * * *

  DESPITE THE EXOTIC ELIXIRS that Abbas al-Kumar concocted, despite the bed rest, despite Nouri’s loving attention, Ryka’s condition did not improve. He tried to return to his daily chores, but he soon found that he grew weak while tending the roses, he felt dizzy while practicing zikr, and the grayish-blue cast to his skin became its permanent hue. What troubled Nouri the most, however, was the wall that Ryka had erected between them. He no longer shared what he was thinking or feeling. He would not allow Nouri to hold him. Something had damaged his trust and Nouri felt sure that if he could learn what that was—and put it right—Ryka’s health would return.

  One morning, Nouri suggested to Ryka that they go walking together. He knew of a path that was quite gentle and he was convinced that the fresh air could only do him good.

  “We’ll take it slowly,” he said. “I promise. We’ll stop and rest whenever you need to.”

  Ryka—who longed to spend time with Nouri even as he tried to avoid him—could not refuse. So he accompanied him to the kitchen for a bowl of shaami and they set out.

  Neither said a word as they moved through the gates and out along the curving path. The sun warmed their faces and the ground felt solid beneath their feet. As they made their way along, Nouri was reminded of that morning when he and Vishpar had been sent to the Darni Sunim to fetch the fountain. So much had occurred between that moment and this one. Yet he was just as affected now as he’d been then by the nearness of his friend.

  At first, Ryka seemed to revive from the exertion. His pace increased, and the warmth returned to his cheeks. Eventually, however, he could feel his strength begin to drain away.

  “I need to rest,” he said.

  Nouri placed his hand, ever so gently, on his back. “Take as long as you like.”

  They looked around, but there was nowhere to sit. So Nouri removed his robe and laid it out on the ground. Then he took Ryka’s arm, helped him sit, and lowered himself beside him. Again they were silent, Nouri waiting for a sign from Ryka, Ryka waiting for the fury in his chest to subside. Then Ryka brushed the hair from his brow, raised his eyes to Nouri’s, and spoke.

  “You’ve said that everything happens as it must. That each action—each breath—is the will of Allah.”

  “It cannot be otherwise.”

  “Then how can we know if our actions are supporting our aim? And not blocking the way?”

  Nouri saw the conflict in Ryka’s eyes. “It’s not what we do that matters. It’s whether we can maintain our connection with God while we do it.”

  “But surely certain things are wrong—”

  “Of course.”

  “And yet they’re still the will of Allah?”

  Nouri leaned closer. “We each have a path to follow.” He paused. “Not all of them lead to awareness.”

  Ryka tried to make sense of what Nouri was saying. “So even if we think we’re moving closer to God, we may be wrong.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Our actions—our thoughts—may still draw us away.”

  Nouri said nothing. It was clear that someone had made Ryka doubt the closeness between them. And that someone could only be Sharoud. But Nouri decided that, for the moment, he would say no more.

  When Ryka was ready, Nouri helped him to his feet. Then he took his arm and escorted him back to the lodge. Over the following weeks, however, his condition only worsened. There were times when his breath was so short he was unable to eat. There were days when his head was so light he had to remain in bed. The weaker he grew, the harder it was for Nouri to broach the subject of the distance between them. Yet he remained convinced that if he could remove the doubt that Sharoud had inserted in his heart, Ryka’s heart would regain its strength.

  One morning, when Nouri went out to the terrace, he found Ryka seated on the bench. “May I join you?”

  Ryka nodded, and Nouri seated himself beside him.

  “It’s good to see you out of bed,” he said. “I hope it means that you’re feeling better.”

  Ryka was silent. Then he shook his head. “Not really.”

  Nouri gazed at the youth and felt his stomach clench: the heightened awareness he felt when Ryka was near was only increased by the fact that it had been weeks since they’d touched.

  “Abbas al-Kumar found a book that explains the medicinal uses of wildflowers. He thinks it can help.”

  “Abbas al-Kumar means well. But some things are not fixable.”

  “Perhaps. But I’m not giving up.”

  Nouri’s words seemed to pierce something in Ryka. And though he knew that the youth would prefer him to say no more, he decided to press on.

  “The love that we feel is a blessing.”

  “It isn’t the love that concerns me. It’s how we express it.”

  “And how is that wrong?”

  Ryka blotted his brow. “The Sufi must embrace sobriety.”

  “Yes,” said Nouri. “And intoxication. What we do can’t be wrong if it brings remembrance.”

  “And what if it brings forgetfulness?” said Ryka. “What if it places a wall around the soul?”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Ryka raised his eyes to Nouri’s. “I think it’s a test.”

  “Then you can pass it.”

  “Not for me.” Ryka paused. “I think it’s a test for you.”

  Nouri was silent. Then h
e shook his head. “The only test is whether we can bear the fire. And keep God in our hearts.”

  Ryka wanted to believe this. And the truth was that he’d never felt closer to God than when he was in Nouri’s arms. But the poison Sharoud had sprinkled into his heart seemed to have damaged its fragile workings. And he could not take the chance that he was the devil on Nouri’s path and not the dove.

  “Who’s done this?” said Nouri. “Who’s made you doubt?”

  “No one.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Nouri raised his hand to Ryka’s cheek just as a tear trickled down.

  “Don’t—”

  Nouri looked into the youth’s eyes, but they were firmly barred. So he leaned in to kiss him. Ryka tried to pull away, but Nouri whispered in his ear: “Whatever Sharoud has told you, it’s a lie. Trust your heart.”

  Sometimes, when things are the most confused, a light penetrates the darkness and grace is restored. This is what Nouri thought had occurred when Ryka threw his slender arms around him and held him tight. But he would never be sure. For Ryka’s tender heart could not sustain such a vigorous battle. And when his grip relaxed, he lay dead in Nouri’s embrace.

  Twenty-Five

  At first Nouri thought that Ryka’s damaged heart had been swapped for his: the pain was so great he could barely breathe. He cradled the dead body in his arms and carried it back to the lodge, but by the time he reached the gates he was on fire. He paced the hallways. He wept. But there was no escaping the torment.

  When the time came for the cleansing of the body and its placement in the ground, Nouri could not take part. But once the shrouded vessel had been interred—just beside the remains of Sheikh al-Khammas—he could not tear himself away. He seated himself on the grass between the two graves and there he remained. Abbas al-Kumar brought him food and Omar al-Hamid knelt before him from time to time and intoned the salah. The rest of the time he sat alone—eyes closed, arms folded tightly across his body—and burned.

  The days passed. The nights passed. And Nouri’s grief continued on. Whether the sun blazed or the rain pelted down, he sat on the grass and mourned. One morning, however, he heard a voice. And when he opened his eyes, he found Sharoud standing before him.

  “You were chosen to be our leader,” said Sharoud. “Well, it’s time to lead.”

  Nouri looked into Sharoud’s eyes and felt a hatred so deep he did not recognize himself. He wanted to leap up and throttle the life from his body. But he closed his eyes and bore down against it, and Sharoud went away.

  Another day passed. And another. And another. And then, one night, he remembered the curative power of words. He went to his room, lit a taper, found some paper and a pen, and sat down at his desk. He reached for the pen and his thoughts and feelings began to flow. He wrote about Ryka’s eyes. Ryka’s smile. About life. About love. About loss. But the words, no matter how graceful, seemed false.

  He threw down the pen and raised his head to the rafters.

  “You take everything I care about!”

  He reached for one of the pages on which he’d written the pointless words.

  “Then take it all!”

  He placed the edge of the page in the flame of the taper and watched as it began to darken and curl. Bit by bit it became particles of crackling ash that flew up into the darkness. He prayed that it would combust into a blaze that would ignite the room and consume his grief. But it burned quite slowly, until he held a singed scrap between his fingers, and the flame died out.

  He sat there a moment. Alive. Awake. He went to the trunk and scooped up the written pages that lay inside. He removed one of the blankets from his bed, spread it out upon the floor, piled the pages on top, and tied the corners up into a heavy bundle. Then he lit an oil lamp, hoisted the bundle over his shoulder, and headed out into the night.

  He moved like a wraith through the gates and out over the path that led to where he and Ryka had gone walking. The night was cold and the stars glittered like signposts overhead. When he reached the place where they’d stopped and talked, he lowered the lamp and the bundle to the ground. Then he knelt down, untied the corners of the blanket, and exposed the pages to the night. For a moment, he was still: a soldier in the Prophet’s army before a battle, Abraham with Isaac before the knife was raised. Then he slid open the cover of the oil lamp, touched one of the pages to its flame, and set fire to the entire stack.

  He remained there until the flames died out, and the first streaks of light traced the horizon. Then he blew out the lamp, rose to his feet, and headed off down the mountain.

  * * *

  HE WANDERED FOR DAYS, moving out past the farms and the villages into the river valley that skirted the northern edge of the desert. The land billowed before him like a wave he implored to carry him away from the lodge, from the world, from himself. At times he would pass a small band of pilgrims or a cluster of nomads, but for the most part he was alone. The fire inside him still raged, but the constant movement seemed to keep it at bay.

  He walked for days, resting only when his body could go no farther, scooping water from the river only when his head became so light he was afraid he’d collapse. One day, however, he could walk no more. So he found a small cave near the river where he could take refuge. It was oddly shaped, with a trio of walls that rose to a dome overhead and a jagged entrance that let in the morning sun. But it gave shelter from the wind and Nouri knew that he could be alone there with God.

  It did not take long for him to establish a daily routine. He awoke as the sun streamed in and went out to wash in the river. Then he gathered some dates and nuts and returned to the cave. At first his mind was blank, but soon the thoughts began to come. So he reached for prayer. The repetition of the ninety-nine names of Allah. The recitation of verses from the Qur’an. Eventually, however, he settled on the six words There is no god but God. Day after day, they trickled out in a gentle stream, over and over and over. And as they did, the memories rose up.

  He and Habbib planting crocuses in the garden.

  He and Vishpar lying beside the fountain, beneath the stars.

  The fear that gripped him as the marauder thrust the blindfold over his eyes.

  The pain that seized him as The Right Hand defiled him.

  The startling whiteness of the snow outside Enrico’s barn.

  The numbing pleasure of Abdallah’s pipe.

  The blissful encounters with the men in the dark alleys.

  The thump of the laundry rod as it hit his head.

  The boom of the explosion as he hit the ground.

  The sweetness of Ryka’s embrace.

  As each memory flashed and died away, Nouri grew emptier inside. Until even the words of prayer disappeared and there was only silence. He hovered in the tiny cave like prayer itself, humbled to find that the closeness to God he’d reached through his love for Ryka was surpassed by what he had received through its loss.

  Nouri lost track of time. The days, the weeks, the months slipped by. But eventually, the pain began to diminish and one morning he awoke to find that the fire inside him had gone out. So he left the cave and started the long trek back to the lodge—finally ready to lead the order.

  * * *

  IN ALL THE TIME THAT ABBAS AL-KUMAR had been a member of the order, he’d never hung the laundry up to dry outside the entrance to the lodge. He usually strung a rope between the oaks that bordered the southern wall, which more than sufficed to drape the tunics and bedsheets and robes of the tiny gathering of brothers. When visitors came, he’d hang a few pieces over a ledge or place a line between the kitchen and one of the columns of the north portico. Now, however, there was so much to dry he had no choice but to string a rope from the front door to the grillwork of the gate and hang the items there.

  “It looks like a market stall,” said Omar al-Hamid. “Or the inner courtyard of a harem.”

  Abbas al-Kumar paid no attention to the comments. It was a lovely day and he could not help hummi
ng a little tune as he drew the clothes from the basket and hoisted them over the line. He was thinking about the fresh herring he’d found that morning at the market; if he hung out the laundry in time to roll out the crusts, he would bake a herring pie for the midday meal. As he squeezed the excess water from the tunics and smoothed out the creases from the sheets, he imagined the fishy fragrance rising from the hearth. His song was interrupted midnote, however, when he saw the stranger making his way up the mountain path.

  He was as slender as the stamen of a hibiscus flower, his head tightly wrapped, his beard untrimmed, his body clothed in a tattered shift. Abbas al-Kumar couldn’t tell whether he was an aspirant or a mendicant, but he knew that after the long, arduous climb he would be hungry. So he went to the kitchen, fetched a piece of naan and a cup of water, and returned to the gate.

  “It’s a long trip!” he called out.

  The man said nothing. He simply continued walking until he reached the place where Abbas al-Kumar stood.

  “It’s always good to refresh oneself after the climb,” said Abbas al-Kumar, as he approached.

  He offered him the cup and he drank. Then he held out the naan and the fellow tore off a piece, placed it in his mouth, and began to chew.

  “You always sustain us, Brother Abbas.”

  The man raised his eyes to Abbas al-Kumar’s and only then did the corpulent Sufi realize that it was Nouri.

  “You’ve come back!”

  Nouri nodded. “I’ve come back.”

  “We thought that you’d been eaten by a mountain lion! Or that you’d fallen from a cliff!”

  “I should have come to see you before I left. But I didn’t know that I was leaving. I just started walking. And I couldn’t stop.”

  “The heart is a bafflement,” said Abbas al-Kumar. “It can torment us even more than the stomach!”

  Nouri wanted to explain that his heart had surrendered. But he could not find the words. “It’s been a battle,” he said. “But I’m back. And I have an order to lead.”

  Before Abbas al-Kumar could respond, he heard a voice.