The Presence had always sat thus: head bowed so that should he ever open his eyes and awaken from his dream, he would be looking into the great rock crystal globe which hung suspended from a slim golden chain whose other end was fastened to the curved ceiling of the vault.
In the beginning it had all seemed preposterous, this talk of the Lord of Illusion; but Bint el Kafir was lovelier even than the women of Tcherkess and Gurjestan, so that no reasonable person could have taken exception to some of her pagan fancies.
“It is all very simple, sidi!” she would explain. “You have but to kneel on this small rug at the foot of the dais, and eat but three of these dried plums. And then fix your eyes on that globe of crystal, while I make gestures…thus… And then you will see in the crystal some of his dream.
“Whatever he dreams is truth made manifest; for the world is but his illusion, and when he awakes from his sleep, there will be neither heaven nor earth, but only an emptiness whereof he will create whatever new worlds he fancies.
“Even as your own dreams when you awaken from them become nothing and less than nothing, and lose the brief span of life which your fancy gave them, so likewise will we, the creatures of his dream, vanish at his awakening…this is the Law of Illusion, and he is the Lord of Illusion and creator of gods and angels, djinn and men…”
In the beginning it had been a preposterous, pleasing game, this mummery of eating three dried plums…and watching the great globe whirl and throb and glow and enlarge until it blotted out even the ancient Dreamer, and the abysmal, blue vault with its strange constellations…and hearing Bint el Kafir chanting as from a great distance, in rippling, purring voice…and then seeing emerge from the shifting opalescence the Audience Hall at Bir el Asad…where Maqsoud published from the throne what the Resident whispered in his ear… And once the ritual of illusion had revealed the garden of the palace at Bir el Asad… Maqsoud was walking by moonlight…someone whose nude, oiled body gleamed as he passed stealthily and swiftly across the lighted spaces between clusters of shrubbery was stalking Maqsoud…stalking him until he should pass close enough for the gurgle and tinkle of the spraying fountain to mask the sound of the last three paces to be covered before the slayer would be upon the slain…
Maqsoud whirled, drew his revolver, and fired thrice…
And Shams ud Din was glad that Maqsoud had escaped; for the vengeance was in seeing Maqsoud glancing from time to time over his shoulder, and the jest was knowing that Maqsoud had envied Shams ud Din.
At first Shams ud Din had been critical.
“It is curious,” he observed, “that someone should stalk Maqsoud exactly as I myself was once stalked. And that he should fire thrice, and miss…just as I fired thrice—”
“Nonsense!” laughed the girl, as she poured another glass of Shirazi wine, and with silver tongs trimmed the fire of the narghileh. “Why shouldn’t the dream of the Lord of Illusion betimes repeat itself? Ya amir, has there then been such limitless variety in your own fancies? And now put aside the stem of that everlasting pipe and see if kissing me once would poison you…”
And thus and thus…so that in the end, Shams ud Din could think of nothing in the world more reasonable than that “all this world and its thrones and powers and people are the creatures of some high god’s dream; so that when He awakes from his sleep, we the creatures of his dream will vanish into a nothingness from which in his next dream he will create worlds anew.”
“She is as young as this morning’s dawn, and as old as the first sunset,” Shams ud Din would muse. “And there are none like her, not even in Gurjestan…”
Whereat he would settle back among his cushions, strike his hands thrice together, and call, “Ya Bint el Kafir! ’Atîni qahawat!
“Sam ’an wa tâ ’atan, ya sidi!”
And as the girl with ringing strokes of a brazen pestle crushed the roasted beans of Harari coffee in a brazen mortar, Shams ud Din would sink further back among his cushions and meditate on the follies of sultans on their thrones; so that in the end, when Shams ud Din at times thought of night, and the horses, and the desert, they were illusion, while that which surrounded him now was reality.
* * * *
Nevertheless, it was good to see Ismeddin once more, and hear his salutation as he entered the Hall of Illusion.
Shams ud Din returned the peace, uncoiled from his wrist the tube of his narghileh, and offered Ismeddin the jade mouthpiece.
“Welcome, Ismeddin! And what are you doing in this devil-haunted ruin of a devil-built city?”
“I come from one even more devil-haunted, ya sidi!” grinned the ancient darwish as he seated himself on a corner of the Sultan’s rug and accepted the stem of the narghileh.
“And what news of my pious nephew, Maqsoud? The last time I saw him, someone had just dropped a sizable block of stone from the roof of the palace just as he was stepping out into the courtyard. It barely missed him. Now he glances overhead from time to time, as well as over his shoulder—”
“You saw?” interrupted Ismeddin.
“Aywallahi!” asserted Shams ud Din. “In the globe of illusion.”
“Even so,” agreed Ismeddin. “I had forgotten for the moment.”
“Strange,” resumed Shams ud Din. “That very same thing happened to me. A block of limestone some one had pried loose from the coping. Still, there is after all not such a variety of things to make one’s existence a nightmare… And Maqsoud envied me!”
Ismeddin was stroking his long white beard and muttering something to himself.
“What was that, old friend?” queried Shams ud Din.
“Nothing at all, sidi. Merely an old man’s fancy…” And then, to himself, “Curious I didn’t hear of it…”
The narghileh purred gently for a matter of several minutes. And then Ismeddin: “sidi, Abd ur Rahman and a troop of his cutthroats came down from the mountains and raided Djebel Dukhan. Turned it inside out and then set fire to whatever was too heavy to carry off.”
“There is neither might nor majesty save in Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate,” observed Shams ud Din after a moment’s reflection.
“And Maqsoud turned out all but a handful of the Guard, with old Zaid in command. He arrived just as Djebei Dukhan was well aflame and crackling merrily. There was some pretty fighting. And just as Zaid was forming his troops to take up the pursuit, along came a courier from the Resident, ordering him in the name of the Sultan to refrain from crossing the border after the raiders—”
“And what did Zaid do?” interrupted Shams ud Din.
“Sidi,” replied Ismeddin, “you know Zaid as well as I do. There will be the devil to pay when the Resident’s courier returns with Zaid’s answer. And Maqsoud will fancy that his throne is an ant-heap.”
“Wallahi!” exclaimed Shams ud Din. “But that infidel Sir John serves some purpose after all.”
“And now, my lord,” resumed Ismeddin, “it is high time for you to return to Bir el Asad—”
“What? I return to—Allah and by Allah and again by Allah!” swore the Sultan. “I, return to that madhouse?”
“Yes. Return at once to Bir el Asad,” reiterated Ismeddin. “For the Guard had scarcely been an hour on the march to Djebei Dukhan when an old man—Shaykh Ahmad, they called him—arose from his pipe and coffee and addressed the crowd in the souk. Mashallah! What a speech!”
“And what was he talking about?” queried Shams ud Din.
“About the Old Tiger, your father, on whom be peace and prayer! And about your own self, sidi. But he didn’t finish his speech. About the time he started discussing Maqsoud and the Resident, the pious Companions took things in hand, and rioting broke out.
“When I left Bir el Asad, they had burned and looted the souk, and one wing of the palace, and—God is Wise, All-Knowing—having from somewher
e gotten hold of a few machine-guns, were riddling everything in sight.”
“Stout fellows,” observed Shams ud Din. “But what have I to do with all this playfulness?”
“Just this, my lord: when Zaid and the Guard return, Maqsoud will have to restore order, or the Resident will have him deposed. There will be a good deal of street fighting, and in the end, a general slaughter. And the ringleaders will of course face a firing squad to satisfy British justice.”
“And again,” demanded Shams ud Din, “what has that to do with me? What is it to me what happens in that den of madmen? In the end, they and Maqsoud will exterminate each other, and the Resident will perish in the stench, and—el hamdu lilahi!—I will be bothered with no more tales about Bir el Asad.”
The sultan paused, and grinned sourly.
“Now by Allah and by Abaddon!” shouted Ismeddin as he thrust aside the narghileh and leaped to his feet. “You, the son of the Old Tiger, stand by and see the Companions of the Old Tiger cut to pieces—”
“Foolishness!” scoffed Shams ud Din. “Zaid and the Guard will join the rioters, and then there will be great days in town.”
“It is you who are foolish, oh, mockery of a prince!” raged Ismeddin. “The Resident will call in Feringhi troops to outnumber them ten to one. And in the end, the ringleaders—stout fellows who followed your father out of the hills—will face a squad of British rifles.
“This jest and vengeance of yours goes too far! Shams ud Din—Sun of the Faith, in total eclipse—all for vengeance and weariness…wherefore this weariness?… The Lord, the Amir Timur—did he perhaps spend fifty years in the saddle, all fresh and unwearied? The Old Tiger your father—did he forsake his Companions for the sake of treason which lurked in every corner? For Maqsoud to be the butt of your jest and the theme of your vengeance—very good. But for the white-haired companions—oh, father of many little pigs, what manner of prince are you?”
Shams ud Din turned the color of an old saddle, and half unsheathed his scimitar.
“What have you to do with swords, ya ajooz?” mocked the darwish. “Old woman—fling your turban into the dust, and stay here to play with your Gurjestani dancing girl—” Shams ud Din’s blade clanged back into its scabbard.
“You are right, Ismeddin. I will go, and face the Feringhi rifles with those white-haired old ruffians.”
“My lord,” replied Ismeddin, “rather than die like a man, go out and live like a man. If you appear, and restore order, the Resident will not demand reprisals. And you will sit more securely on your throne than before.”
“Done, by Allah, and by my Beard! And you shall be my chief wazir—”
“Not I,” protested Ismeddin. “Not until the wind which has whitened my beard ends by blowing away my brains, ya amir!”
Ismeddin turned toward the passage that led to the pit, and thence to the courtyard, far above.
Then came a whirring, and a clang, and a sinister click: and the exit was closed by a grille-work of bronze.
There was a tinkling of anklets, and the poison sweetness of an overwhelming perfume, and the poison sweetness of a woman’s mocking laugh.
They turned from the barred passage, and faced Bint el Kafir, resplendent in smoldering rubies and cool, unblinking sapphires, and wearing the tall, curiously wrought head-dress she wore whenever one of the kings, her lovers, was sentenced to leave the Presence and join the circle of those who sat on small pedestals in the courtyard far above: for such was the tradition from ancient times.
“Such unceremonious leave-taking, Shams ud Din,” she purred. “You have tired of your jest and your vengeance, and now you seek to evade the bargain, and your pedestal, and your everlasting watch in the courtyard. And without even bothering to bid me farewell.”
And then, to Ismeddin: “Oh, darwish, spare yourself the trouble of wrenching at those bars! Fifty years ago, you might—but no, not even then. They were drawn and hammered by cunning smiths—”
Ismeddin ignored her mockery and frantically wrenched at the bars. If but one would yield, a man as lean as he or Shams ud Din could squeeze through.
“It’s no use, Ismeddin,” said the Sultan. “Ten men couldn’t break those bars.” And then to the girl: “It is not for myself that I am leaving. My people need me. A foolish, rattle-brained people. A horde of cutthroats they are…pork-eaters, wine-bibbers, and heretics. But they are the Companions of the Old Tiger. Therefore open that door. Not for my sake, but for the obligation of an amir to his people.”
“Flames and damnation!” stormed Ismeddin, still vainly wrenching at the bars. “Hear Shams ud Din asking favors of a woman! Wallahi! Billahi! Yallahi!”
“Very noble, Shams ud Din,” agreed the girl.
She paused to adjust the tall, quaintly wrought head-dress that towered above the twining midnight of her hair. And her smile became even sweeter, and her voice purred more softly.
“Very noble, Shams ud Din. But the Lord of Illusion has dreamed otherwise for you. Nor will I whisper anything to change his dream. Think well, you prince of a state that could be encircled by a beggar’s loincloth tied to a scholar’s turban…what is it to the Lord of Illusion if a handful of your father’s followers face a firing squad each one of them merited forty years ago…is that to interrupt his dream and make him change its course?”
She turned to the solemn, sleeping Lord of Illusion.
“More than high god, you once dreamed that a top-heavy empire collapsed, and Dhoul Kamayn with his long spears marched resistlessly to fulfill your fancy. Once your fancy turned to slaughter, and Genghis Khan swept over the earth with his Golden Horde, and what slaughter the Mighty Manslayer made! Oh, Lord Dreamer, will you change this fellow’s fate that he may delay for a few years the just doom of the pious companions of his pious father?”
“And so,” said Shams ud Din, “I cannot serve my people?”
“Thou hast said,” affirmed the girl. “The Amir Timur…the Lord…he who succeeded in everything he attempted…failed when he sought to leave me. And marched to his place in the courtyard, for he was bound by a strong doom that neither gods nor men can evade, for whatever the Dreamer dreams, that moment becomes fate made manifest.”
So saying, she began to make curious passes and gestures, and chanted in cadenced syllables of a doom that none had ever evaded.
Ismeddin stepped back from the unshaken bars. Then he drew his scimitar, and tried its edge, and eyed for a moment the slim, curved blade and the veined markings that banded it, ladder-like.
“They call you Ladder to Heaven…now if it please Allah—”
The darwish assaulted the grille-work.
“You have split stout skulls and their vain helmets, ya sayf!” he shouted as the blade rang dear against the bars. “Now shear again! Ya sayf! Cut deep!”
And through the clang of steel, Ismeddin heard the voice of Bint el Kafir purring like throbbing music from a great distance:
“Shams ud Din, you are worthy of your predecessors…and I will be very lonely as I wait for another king, your equal… I will often think of you up there on your pedestal, Shams ud Din…it is wise and excellent to yield to your fate, Shams ud Din…”
Then Ismeddin heard the girl chanting in a strange, rippling language such as he had never heard before; and a great fear seized Ismeddin.
“Once more, ya sayf!” he shouted to drown that deadly chant.
The last stroke. He flung his sword ringing to the tiles, gripped the bar, wrenched it until its sheared end touched the floor, and turned to face the Sultan.
Shams ud Din stood staring fixedly into the great crystal globe of illusion. His head nodded to the cadence of the girl’s silky voice as she chanted in that ancient tongue, and stroked his cheeks with weaving gestures. His features were immobile—
“In the great name of Allah I
take refuge from Satan the Damned!” intoned Ismeddin in a voice that would carry across a battlefield. “Shams ud Din! Wake up!”
He could as well have whispered. And then the globe of illusion, suspended from its golden chain, began rotating; pulsing, glowing like a ball of cold, sinister fire.
In another moment the Sultan would have crossed the Border.
Ismeddin drew the Sultan’s scimitar from its scabbard.
“To the Lord of the Daybreak I betake me for refuge—”
The blade flamed out and clipped the golden chain. The globe of illusion crashed and splintered against the tiles.
The girl’s scream followed them up the winding stairs as Ismeddin half carried, half dragged Shams ud Din after him.
“Wallahi!” gasped Ismeddin as he reached the courtyard. “The world, it seems, has not yet vanished, in spite of my cracking the crystal and the Dreamer’s dream which he was dreaming.”
Then he shook Shams ud Din vigorously.
“To horse, ya amir! In another second you would have been petrified.”
He rolled the Sultan into the saddle, mounted his own beast, and led the way, clattering down the stone-paved avenue leading out of the ruined citadel and into the jungle.
“It seems,” began Shams ud Din at last, regaining some command of himself, “that for the figment of someone’s dream, I am still passably substantial. I heard you, but I couldn’t answer. I tried to tell you—Allah! What did I try to tell you?… In another instant it would have been too late. I’m chilled through, and my flesh is still about half stone. Ismeddin, what’s the secret? It’s more than the doings of a juggler in the souk or a faquir from Hindustan…”
The sultan shivered.
“Who knows?” countered Ismeddin. “Unless it might be that Bint el Kafir fed you too many of those strange-tasting dried plums, and whispered too often in your ear as you slept.”
E. Hoffmann Price's Fables of Ismeddin MEGAPACK® Page 13
