“Ya Allah!” gasped Ismeddin as he saw the splendor of that web of enchantment, rippling ever so slightly in the breeze that stirred the sun-baked plaza between the monastery and the Herati Gate.
Then Ismeddin set about with his preparation to beguile the guard.
The captain of the troops barked a command. The rifles of the guard came to the ready.
“Beware, ya Ismeddin!” warned the captain. “Cross that line, and we fire.”
“Wait until I cross the line,” replied Ismeddin. “It is not forbidden that I look at the Holy Carpet. And of an evening it pleases me to play at a curious game I learned in al Yemen.”
At the command of their captain, all save the two sentries on post along the whitewash line retired to the guard house that had been erected at the entrance of the monastery.
Ismeddin unslung from his back a knapsack, and seated himself on the ground within a hair’s breadth of the deadline. Then he took from the knapsack a tiny drum, and with his finger tips and knuckles beat a curious rhythm.
“Aywah! Aywah! Aywah!” he chanted. “Verily, O soldiers, I have learned odd feats in Hindustan—”
“You said al Yemen a moment ago, grandfather!” shouted one of the soldiers.
“See and judge for yourselves, O soldiers! Aywah! Aywah! Aywah! Yes, by God, O soldiers, I will show you a strange feat from Hindustan! Give me a copper coin, O soldiers, and watch this most entertaining feat!”
As he spoke, he reached into the capacious pack and withdrew a slim wand no thicker than the reed of a scribe, and about as long as his forearm: a quaint little wand with a grotesque image of ivory mounted at one end, to give it the semblance of a tiny scepter or mace.
Long shadows were stretching out across the plaza, and the fierce glare of day was being cut off by the bulk of the city walls and the tall minarets of the adjoining mosque.
“Watch with all your eyes, O soldiers!”
He tossed the scepter well across the line.
“By Allah, O Captain!” continued Ismeddin, “your men may not fire, since our lord the Amir said nothing about my little staff. Now watch me remove it.”
“Better not, uncle,” muttered the sentry as he passed. “That father of many pigs would order us to fire if your little finger crossed the line. I’ll kick your staff to you the next time I pass.”
“Captain,” shouted Ismeddin, “is it truly forbidden that I reach across for my staff? Even just one little reach? I am an old man—”
“We warned you, O Ismeddin!”
“Then I am warned! So look with all your eyes, O soldiers, and see a most curious feat. Aywah! Aywah! Aywah! A most curious feat!”
As Ismeddin chanted his litany, he began making passes and gestures.
“Mashallah!” exclaimed the sentry. “It’s moving.”
Even as he spoke, the head of the little scepter rose a hand’s breadth, halted, remained for an instant, its butt resting on the earth, head wavering from side to side. Then it rose another span toward the vertical, and yet again, until finally it stood as erect as a soldier on parade.
“O little staff,” chanted Ismeddin, “take a pace forward, little staff. Old Ismeddin can’t reach across to get you. Take another pace, little staff—” In cadence to his chant and weaving gestures, the rod pirouetted toward him, a span at a time; paused, nodded, dipped, steadied itself, bounded this time half its length; reached the line, then very slowly sank forward until its ivory head touched the ground.
“See, the little staff is a true believer!” pattered Ismeddin.
“Ya sidi!” shouted the guard. “Kamaan! Kamaan!”
“No more tonight, O soldiers,” declared Ismeddin, as he gathered up the coins and twists of tobacco and pieces of bread the guard had tossed him. “I live by your generosity, O soldiers! For I have sworn not to eat the Amir’s bread until I have stolen the Holy Carpet!”
“Does that old jackass think his jugglery will make our vigilance relax?” wondered the captain. “Is this that crafty Ismeddin who’s going to steal the Holy Carpet?…”
Ismeddin in the meanwhile had thrust his miniature scepter into his pack and joined a group of the faithful who were going to the mosque to pray.
* * * *
To each of the slaves that the Amir had given him, Ismeddin that evening assigned a sufficiency of tedious, trivial tasks that would keep him out of earshot. As they burnished his scimitar, the trappings of the bay mare, and the daggers that usually bristled from Ismeddin’s belt, and went on all manner of errands, the darwish reclined on his cushions, drinking coffee and smoking the pipe the Amir had provided.
The two who trimmed the pipe and replenished the tiny coffee-cup were gray-bearded, leathery fellows more accustomed to sword hilts and rifle butts than coffee-pots and charcoal-tongs: in a word, they weren’t slaves at all, but a pair of the Old Tiger’s picked raiders, the advance guard of the Companions that Ismeddin had rescued from the limbo of peaceful, Resident-ridden Bir el Asad and posted in the hills to await developments.
At every turn they contrived to upset the coffee-pot and spill its steaming, aromatic liquid into the hearth, or fumble the tongs and scatter burning charcoal over the rug at Ismeddin’s feet every time the pipe received the slightest attention.
”O sons of several dogs!” roared Ismeddin. “Allah curse each of your fathers!”
If the palace walls had ears, the assurances of the coffee-slave and his protestations of his penitence effectively drowned the words that Ismeddin spat out between the curses and revilings he heaped on his awkward attendants.
And as the coffee-brewer loudly begged pardon, and dodged the pot hurled by the irate darwish, the chiboukjji, trimming the pipe, for once failed to drop a live coal, and spoke in low, rapid syllables.
“We don’t know where the infidel dog is hiding. We heard that one of the brethren from Aleppo, or Trebizond, or some such place, came to the monastery just the other day.”
“Find out more. But do nothing to betray Sidi Rankin, if it’s he who has palmed himself off as a dancing darwish. And tell the Companions to patrol the hills closely. Any day, now…”
* * * *
They sat late at chess that night, Ismeddin and the Amir.
Thrice in succession the Amir just succeeded in checkmating the darwish, and was consequently in an amiable mood, and admired Ismeddin more than ordinarily.
“Wallah!” exclaimed Ismeddin. “Played like the Amir Timur. Up to the last, I had that game in my hand.”
“Why speak of chess?” said the Amir. “Stealing the Holy Carpet is much more important! After all, you didn’t come all this distance to beat me at chess.”
The Amir beamed graciously.
“Come now, as one coffee companion to another, forget this stupid idea of taking the carpet. Billahi! You’re a smart fellow, and an uncommonly good chess-player. How about taking a post as prime minister? Abdurrahman Khan has overstepped himself recently, and he’s all ready for the bowstring…only he doesn’t know it. Suppose you take his position?”
“I take refuge with Allah!” protested the darwish. “I am an old man, too late in life for a high position. Still, since you put it that way, you could do me a favor—”
The darwish paused a moment, abashed at his presumption in suggesting some favor other than the one offered.
“Out with it, Ismeddin. Anything except the Holy Carpet.”
“Well, since you insist… You know, the secretaries of your court, and some of the brethren of the monastery, are reputed to be the finest scribes in this part of the world. Will my lord arrange a competition in the more elegant scripts, and then let the decision go in my favor?”
Ismeddin grinned, and winked.
“Wallahi! Nothing simpler,” agreed the Amir. “And if you can impose on some one
by being proclaimed the first scribe of my court, I’ll draw the proclamation now, and arrange the competition tomorrow. And in a way, a love of learning is better than high position. I envy the darwish, roaming about the world—”
“Voyaging,” quoted Ismeddin pompously, “is victory.”
“Even so,” agreed the Amir. And then, quoting just as ponderously, “But while in leaving home, one learns life, yet a journey is a bit of Jehannum!”
And on the heels of that profound declaration, the Amir dictated an order for the competition in writing, followed by a proclamation announcing Ismeddin the Darwish as winner and chief scribe of the court.
For several days Ismeddin dallied about, riding through the city, scattering alms among the beggars, strutting through the souk, and capering about with his mountebank tricks for the benefit of the troops posted before the shrine of Imam Ismail.
“Ya sidi,” said Ismeddin’s pipe attendant as he trimmed the pipe, “I hear that the newcomer from Damascus is distinguished for his piety and learning. I bribed a porter to let me take his place and help carry a load of meal and some dressed meat into the monastery. One of the bags of meal broke wide open—by accident, you understand—and I insisted on helping sweep it up. Luckily, I got a look at the brother from Damascus. He has deep-set eyes, and brows that rise to points in the middle, just as you described Abdullah the Scribe.
“And tonight they will hold a ceremony, dancing themselves into ecstasy and then into a stupor. Then, as they lie in a trance, communing with Allah, this newcomer will take the Holy Carpet—”
“Shaytan rip thee open, why didn’t you take it?” demanded Ismeddin. “You were in the monastery.”
“In the monastery, with the muzzles of two rifles prodding me as I swept up the spilled meal,” explained the pipe slave.
“Fair enough. By the way, Selim, have you ever seen such elegant writing?” asked the darwish irrelevantly.
“Never,” admitted Selim. “But what has that to do with the Holy Carpet?”
“That,” explained the darwish, “remains to be seen. Suffice it to say that even I couldn’t have written such elegant diwani, and kufi, and naskh, and ta’alik, and such intricate jeresi.”
Ismeddin folded the manuscript and stuffed it into his wallet.
“Listen carefully. Have a horse waiting for me at the Herati Gate. Let there be another one close to the monastery, ridden aimlessly about by one of the Companions, so that if need be, I can mount behind him instead of running to the gate.”
* * * *
As Ismeddin approached the deadline, the guard hailed him joyously. “Will the little staff march in and take the Holy Carpet?”
“Sing us the one about the forty daughters of the Sultan—”
“No, tell us about Sitti Zobeide and the wood-cutter.”
“How about Abou Nowas and his wife’s five lovers, O grandfather?”
“Sons of pigs, and eaters of pork!” retorted Ismeddin. “Allah sift me if I ever tell you another story, or sing another song, or perform any more juggleries for you. Tonight I have come to steal the Holy Carpet.”
From within the monastery came the sound of pipes, and the eight-stringed ’oudh, and the mutter of drums. The dancing darwishes were beginning their ritual of whirling.
The guard howled with good-natured derision. Sentry duty to keep this ancient madman out of the monastery was almost as good as unlimited looting.
“But before I steal the Holy Carpet, I will perform one more curious feat.”
Ismeddin took from his knapsack half a dozen rods as long as his forearm and somewhat thicker than his thumb. These he planted in the ground, several feet apart, along the deadline.
“Tell me, O soldiers, have you ever been in Feringhistan?” he demanded as he fixed the last rod in place.
“No, by Allah!”
“Is it true that they eat pork?” asked one.
“And drink blood?” wondered another.
“And worship the images of three gods?” asked yet another.
“All that and more,” replied Ismeddin. “But they have most amusing spectacles. In Damascus I stole these unusual sticks from the infidel oppressors of true believers.”
The darwish indicated the upright rods: railroad signal flares, borrowed from the mining concessions in Bir el Asad.
Then Ismeddin produced several small red boxes, likewise the property of the British engineers, and scattered the contents, a grayish, glistening powder, along the deadline. Box after box he emptied until he had a continuous train that extended several paces on each side of the center of the line he dared not cross. This done, Ismeddin struck light to the signal flares, which flamed up with a fierce, consuming redness.
Three musicians approached from out of the darkness behind Ismeddin.
“Where have you been?” he roared. “When we’re through here, I’ll have you flogged! Take your places and begin playing!”
The musicians seated themselves behind Ismeddin, and unslung small brazen trumpets they wore suspended from their belts. Ismeddin, back to his musicians, made a gesture with the tiny ivory-headed scepter, and extended it at arm’s length to his right front.
Ismeddin’s wand flashed down.
The three musicians as one set their small brazen horns to their lips. The clear notes drowned the music coming from the monastery, where the brethren were well into the second phase of the ritual, whirling themselves into a trance. The blare of those brazen trumpets rang like the voice of a drunken god and wrenched the hearts of the listeners like daggers thrust home and fiercely twisted. And Ismeddin sang in sonorous Arabic that rolled and thundered like the voice of doom.
The guard stared at that little group of musicians, half blinded by the flares, and enthralled by that song that would carry across a battlefield. But they did not know that only two of the three trumpeters were sounding off; and that the third, for all his cheeks being inflated to bursting, was making not a sound, watching, instead, for Ismeddin’s next move.
The red flares were dying. One was dead—no, not quite. For as the fire flickered up once more, it set light to a fuse that hissed and sputtered swiftly toward the train of ash-gray powder.
Ismeddin closed his eyes, and bowed his head.
And then came a terrible, dazzling flash like the full blaze of uncounted noonday suns.
As Ismeddin leaped to his feet and dashed through the heavy wall of smoke that rolled forward from the explosion of that heavy charge of photographer’s flashlight powder, the hitherto silent trumpeter picked up the chant where Ismeddin had left off.
The guard was stone-blind from the terrific flame they had faced with un-averted eyes. But they heard a great voice singing to the nerve-searching blare of brass, and believed that Ismeddin was still with his musicians.
The whirling darwishes, a full dozen or more of them, lay scattered about the hall, drunk with the divine ecstasy of having attained Oneness with Allah. Ismeddin laughed triumphantly as he leaped forward and snatched from its silver pegs the rug that hung before the tomb of Imam Ismail.
From without still came the blare of the brazen horns.
But Ismeddin knew that at any instant the guard would emerge from its beguilement: so he swiftly folded the carpet into a compact bundle, drew his pistol, and dashed for the door.
The guard of a sudden thought of the Amir’s sanguinary fancies, and of Ismeddin’s sleight of hand. Panic-stricken, they milled about, groping in the impenetrable blackness that clouded their eyes.
From the monastery came the yells of the shaykh, and of the musicians who had played for the participants of the ceremony.
A bolt clicked home. A rifle barked. The captain roared orders which no one understood in the confusion. And the brethren who had not danced themselves into a stupor emerged from their
cells behind the hall.
“The Holy Carpet is gone! Stop him!” shrieked the shaykh.
Ismeddin, followed by his musicians, ran across the plaza, crouched low and zigzagging to avoid the fusillade that poured after them. And with a hail of bullets whistling over their heads, they gained the Herati gate.
Ismeddin let drive with his pistol before the sentry at the gate could bring his rifle to the ready, and dropped him in his tracks. A dozen bounds brought him to the clump of trees where horses and a groom awaited.
* * * *
Ismeddin and his musicians were getting a comfortable lead on the pursuit.
“Ya sidi,” said the groom as he reined his horse to a walk, “just for a minute I came near mounting up and taking to the hills. Lucky you got there when you did.”
“How so, Aieed?” demanded Ismeddin. “You had that thick wall between you and the rifle fire from in front of the monastery.”
“That’s not it at all, sidi,” explained the groom.”I saw that flash. It looked like all Jehannum breaking out! Wallah! What a flame!”
“That’s when I ran for the carpet,” interposed Ismeddin.
“You made good time, then. For the next thing I knew, there was shooting and shouting, and a general riot. Then I looked about me, and up there on the wall I saw a horse without a rider, and a man going over the wall. I couldn’t see whether he dropped, or climbed down.
“I was about to ride over to him—I thought it was you—when I heard the clatter of hoofs, and saw him charge out of the clump of trees he’d landed in.
“Just then you tore through the gate, with bullets kicking up dust all around you, and you shot the sentry’s head loose from his chin. Ya Allah! If I hadn’t waited—”
“But you did wait, el hamdu lilahi!”
The darwish frowned a moment, and stroked his beard. “What manner of man was this, Aieed?”
E. Hoffmann Price's Fables of Ismeddin MEGAPACK® Page 16
