The kelauntar begins to trail the crowd, staying a few steps behind so he doesn’t look like part of the mob. He feels a tug on his arm and looks down. Beside him is Ali, red-faced and breathing hard.
“I’ve been trying to find you!” Ali says.
“What is going on? Why are they chanting your name?”
“They’re going to kill a Shaykhi at the caravanserai. It’s my fault. You must stop them!” The boy is crying.
The kelauntar comes to a halt. Mulla Ibrahim and he had never before crossed swords. There was an implicit understanding between them, a line drawn in the warm Bushruyih sand. The Qajars have power, yes, but at the local level the clergy have the people behind them. The kelauntar is not anxious to test this delicate balance of power.
“What do you mean it’s your fault?” the kelauntar says to Ali.
“I told the mullas about a Shaykhi coming to the caravanserai. I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t think they would want to kill him.”
The kelauntar understands the dilemma. He can step in and protect his son from these haunting feelings of guilt, or he can do nothing and preserve the balance of power. As for the Shaykhi, who cares?
“Come with me.” Hasan puts his hand behind Ali’s back, rubs it gently, then pushes the boy forward. They begin to follow the crowd toward the caravanserai. The kelauntar has no idea what he’s going to do.
“The Shaykhi is with Jalal,” Ali says.
The kelauntar dreams of the kalyan.
Chapter 6
Jalal is seated in Kujiri’s room when the noisy mob enters the courtyard. “They’ve come for me,” he says. “Your friend told them a heretic was in the caravanserai.”
“Ali? He would not do that.”
From the courtyard, the old man and the boy can hear the hoarse voice of the mujtahid, Mulla Ibrahim. “If there is a Shaykhi present here, let him show himself!”
Jalal sweeps aside the thin curtain and steps out onto the gallery overlooking the courtyard. The mob below audibly gasps when they see the youngster. Of all the children of Bushruyih, this boy is thought of as the most pious and spiritually gifted. Fathers hold him up as an example for their own sons, and some even call him the child of light.
‘Abdu’llah is at the rear of the crowd, stunned by the image of his son standing alone above the mob.
The kelauntar instinctively weaves his way through the crowd, approaching the mujtahid as he tugs Ali by the hand.
Surprised at the appearance of the boy, Mulla Ibrahim takes a step back. “Jalal—perhaps you did not understand. I was calling for the Shaykhi.”
“Yes. You believe that he is a heretic and deserves punishment for his beliefs.”
Some of the mullas thrust their swords skyward and shout agreement. Mulla Ibrahim gestures for them to lower their blades.
“My child,” the mujtahid says gently, “has this satanic force corrupted your thinking? That certainly would be cause for the Shaykhi’s execution.”
“The Shaykhi is a devout Shi’ite, as you are, my teacher,” the boy replies.
Mulla Ibrahim nods graciously, knowing that he has often claimed credit for developing Jalal’s spiritual insight. “Perhaps some of the Shaykhi’s ideas are different than yours, Jalal continues, “but then, as I recall from one of your classes, you disagree with some of the doctrines of Mulla Fazlollah, the great mujtahid of Fars. And if my memory is correct from another class, you take issue with some of the teachings of other mullas. Are we to pronounce them heretics and sentence them to death?”
Mulla Javad, a student standing near the mujtahid, grasps his sword handle angrily. “The mujtahid’s argument with these most learned doctors of law are over minor points!” he shouts. “The Shaykhis insult Muhammad by teaching that the physical resurrection is a fantasy!”
Javad expects the crowd to cheer his words, but there is only hushed silence as everyone waits for the boy’s response. Jalal steps to the edge of the gallery and places his hands on the rail. His father sees the boy standing there, as if in the pulpit, speaking to the congregation below with such conviction and authority that even Mulla Ibrahim remains silent. This image of Jalal, preaching at the age of twelve with a man’s life on the line, will linger in the mind of ‘Abdu’llah for the rest of his life.
Behind the curtain, Kujiri sits and listens to Jalal argue for tolerance of the Shaykhi views. The boy aptly repeats the teachings that Kujiri had given him on the journey to the caravanserai, but creatively weaves in references from the Qu’ran and the traditions to bolster his convincing argument.
As the boy speaks, the mujtahid glances at the kelauntar and begins to appreciate the increasing delicacy of the situation. The villagers are certainly behind the mullas, but ultimate power and authority still rests with the ruling Qajars. If only the kelauntar had not shown up here! The mujtahid suddenly is not anxious to test the balance of power.
“I ask you,” the boy concludes, staring at Mulla Ibrahim, “should we punish a Shaykhi for his desire to comprehend the spiritual significance of the Prophet’s teachings? If we punish each attempt to discern meaning, whether right or wrong, we may quench the spark of reason and interrogation that you yourself, Mulla Ibrahim, have ignited in so many of us.
He gestures toward the curtain. “The man you seek is behind this curtain. He journeys to the tomb of Imam Husayn to bury his wife, who believed that she would be physically resurrected. This man respects the beliefs of his wife, even though he doubts the need for a resurrection of the body. He and his wife lived in peace for many years, each of them holding fast to their own questions and beliefs. On his way to Bushruyih, this man’s caravan was marauded by the Turkomans who took everything of value that they could find. But they spared his life so he could bury his wife at the Holy Shrine. Surely if the murderous Turkoman can show mercy, you can as well. What an example of the Prophet’s mercy this can be!”
The hundred or so spectators are stunned by the eloquence of this child. There is not a word spoken until Mulla Ibrahim breaks the silence.
“You have a bright mind, Jalal. It has been a joy to have you as a pupil!” The crowd murmurs approval. The mujtahid smiles, again taking credit for the boy’s genius.
Chapter 7
The kelauntar’s compound is encircled by a windowless mud wall spattered in patches by white pigeon droppings. The cooing, fluttering birds strut along the top of the wall like an army of sentries. Ali and his father, trailed by the retinue, walk along the barren wall and approach a barrel-chested man.
Gholam Reza and three others guard the solitary front door, a massive wooden slab studded by iron bolts. Gholam nods respectfully at the kelauntar, opens the groaning door and says, “The tutor has arrived. He is in the anderun.”
Beyond the door and through a short corridor Ali inhales the leafy breath of the garden—a shady oasis of mulberry, walnut and fruit trees, fragrant red and yellow roses, luminous white irises and china asters, sculpted iron benches, fountains fringed with violet leaves.
The house reaches like the thumb and fingers of a hand to grasp the courtyard on three sides. To the left is the birun or men’s apartment and to the right is the mysterious anderun or women’s quarters. The house is built of sun-dried bricks thickly whitewashed and glimmering in the leaf-dappled sunlight. Steps lead up to a verandah that stretches nearly round the garden. A dozen two-leaved doors, each capped by fanlights and filled with gaudy-colored glass, provide gay portals to the interior. Numerous windows, like sparkling jewels, catch and fling the sunlight toward the kelauntar as he and Ali walk toward the Judas tree. Four sullen children, Ali’s younger half-sisters, play dignified games around the edge of a large water tank.
Hasan and Ali have not spoken a word to each other since leaving the caravanserai. The kelauntar’s mind is lost in chaos. He is simultaneously astonished by Jalal, envious of the cloth dyer whose son has captivated the village, ashamed of his own gutless performance at the caravanserai, stung by the vizier’s ext
ortion, and deeply craving the opium-rich kalyan.
He slowly bends his cracking knees until he is seated on a bench, and then turns his deep-set eyes toward Ali who is staring at him. He sees in Ali’s face disappointment and rejection. After hearing his son’s plea for help he had been outdone by a brave twelve-year-old boy. But the final outcome had been positive, had it not? Perhaps if he had intervened the result would have been worse. It may have been the kelauntar’s wisdom and maturity that caused him to recognize the virtue of restraint, of letting young Jalal act out his disarming performance.
No, this self-delusion is not working. Under the piercing gaze of his son he cannot conjure success out of deceit. He knows too well the darkness of his own heart, the tortuous pathways of his scheming mind. And he knows that within hours Ali will be torn from his mother.
The boy looks into his father’s eyes. They are moist and expressive. He sees in them love, yes, certainly love, but also something he has not seen before—self-doubt. He also sees pain, such terrible pain. He wants to put his arms around his father to return the love, but he is now twelve; he should not act like a child. He is angry, too. Angry that his father has let him down. That his father beats his mother. That his father’s affection is deeper for the wine bottle and opium pipe than for Ali.
The kelauntar glances down at his feet and mutters, “Ali, I’ve made a decision.” He takes Ali by the hand. His lips smile but his sad eyes betray apprehension as he says, “I’m sending you to the madrisih in Mashhad.”
Is this fair compensation—school in exchange for a mother?
Ali is stunned. He had never been able to muster the courage to ask for such a wonderful thing. After learning that Jalal was going to the famous seminary, Ali had been so envious that he had prayed for forgiveness.
“I’m going to Mashhad?” Ali asks, looking for reassurance.
The kelauntar’s eyes smile now. “Yes. I think we can be ready for you to travel there with Jalal next week.”
This is pure joy! Ali throws his arms around his father and squeezes as hard as he can.
It has been a long time since the kelauntar has experienced the physical touch of his son, the tactile transfer of affection. It is electric.
Tears gather in the kelauntar’s eyes. He knows that he has bribed Ali, but in his emotional abyss even a purchased expression of love is a treasure.
For a blissful moment the kelauntar allows himself to believe that a hug is love, that a son’s pardon has been granted, and that a bridge has been built. He knows that when the delusion fades, there is the blessed opium-filled kalyan.
Ali exuberantly rushes toward the anderun to tell his mother the good news.
Chapter 8
‘Abdu’llah strides toward the blacksmith shop. He is anxious to inspect the gift that he is having crafted there for his son. Most of the blacksmith work is coarse and utilitarian—shoes and bits for mules and horses, iron gates and latches, repairs and refurbishments. The simple work suits the crude skills of five sweaty workers. The sixth, however, is an exception—Baqir Muhammad Shafti.
For ten years, Baqir had worked as a master sword-cutler in Isfahan, the old capital of Persia once celebrated for its exquisite manufacture of swords for the Qajars. As with most trades in Persia, the art of sword-making had all but vanished and few artisans were now capable of fabricating blades equal to those of former ages.
Baqir had been working for a maker of fine weaponry when his employer had come into possession of a precious sword crafted by a famous cutler named Assad’u’llah who had lived many years ago. Some of his famous swords, it is said, possess powers that defy belief.
One night the Assad’u’llah sword had disappeared and a frantic search by police discovered it concealed in Baqir’s house. Despite his protests of innocence, Baqir had been sentenced to have his thieving hands cut off. His wife, however, managed to sell all their property and with the proceeds bribed the police chief to allow Baqir’s escape. He had fled east into the Great Salt Desert, finding safety in the remote village of Bushruyih.
‘Abdu’llah came to know of Baqir’s tale of woe one evening after the sword-cutler had drunk a bottle of red wine and tearfully confessed his secret past to the cloth dyer. Baqir then had revealed the part of the mystery that had never come out.
Baqir’s employer, it seems, had recognized Baqir’s immense talent and had commissioned him—for a handsome price—to produce a counterfeit Assad’u’llah sword. The exquisite forgery, from its material and manufacture down to Assad’u’llah’s etched signature, was so perfect that no expert could discern the fraud. One evening, the employer had planted the sword in Baqir’s house, reporting its “theft” and suggesting that Baqir had been behaving suspiciously. He had hoped to accomplish two things: avoid payment, and ensure that Baqir could never again counterfeit another sword that might devalue the employer’s treasure. After the arrest, Baqir could not explain the true circumstances for fear of even harsher punishment. After all, he had committed a crime.
A few months after Baqir’s drunken confession, while ‘Abdu’llah had been pondering alternatives for a gift for his son, the idea of a sword had come to him. Yes, this was it! He would commission Baqir to create an instrument equal to the Assad’u’llah sword. This one would be no counterfeit, however. He would have Baqir inscribe the sword with his son’s name.
Baqir had brought with him to Bushruyih several koors, cakes of Indian steel, from which the finest blades are made, dreaming that one day he would have reason to use them. That day had finally arrived. With great determination, he’d hammered a gently curving blade out of the koors and then placed it over a low fire all night. The next morning he had removed the blade, smoothed the surfaces, filed it expertly, and then heated it again. At last he had plunged the blade into a trough of castor oil. Over the next several days he had tenderly polished the blade, sharpened it, and fitted the hilt.
His next step had been to bring out the jowher, the damask pattern of the blade, a natural design of dark wavy lines produced by the crystallization of the steel. The true quality of a blade is known by the arrangement and closeness of the pattern and the bell-like chime it emits when struck by another hard object. To reveal the jowher, Baqir had cleansed the blade from oil and grease. Then, using sword-cutler’s alchemy, he had unwrapped a strange yellow stone mysteriously called záji shámi and ground it to a powder in a china cup containing hot water. With a piece of cotton he had painted the solution onto the blade and let it dry, then repeated the process twice. Each time the black jowher had grown more vivid. The pattern was unusually dark and tight, the design exotic. Finally it had been time to engrave the name of Jalal of Bushruyih in gold upon the blade.
Baqir next had turned his attention to the scabbard, which he had fashioned from thin wood laminate, fitting it precisely to the blade. Then he had joined and covered this hardwood skeleton with black leather on which he had stamped a verse from the Qu’ran rendered in his wife’s expert calligraphy. On the finished scabbard he had mounted a pattern of gold and gems that he had purchased with the money ‘Abdu’llah had paid him for the sword. He had needed no incentive to produce this masterpiece. The opportunity to again apply his artistry had been its own reward. And in his opinion, the quality of this piece exceeded the fraudulent Assad’u’llah sword he had created years ago.
‘Abdu’llah strides into the blacksmith shop, beaming with expectation. He looks at Baqir, who smiles broadly.
“It is finished, then?” ‘Abdu’llah asks.
“It is ready for its first breath.”
The gleaming object rests in a locked cabinet within the blacksmith’s shop. Baqir unlocks the cabinet and removes a burgundy satin pouch the length of a sword. The pouch is rigid as Baqir hands it to ‘Abdu’llah, who can vividly remember his first sword, pale and lifeless by comparison.
The other workers, none of whom have seen Baqir’s project until now, gather around ‘Abdu’llah as he anxiously opens the tie that closes t
he end of the pouch. ‘Abdu’llah’s hands are trembling with anticipation. Slowly he removes the bejeweled scabbard. The entire group gasps with delight at the exquisite beauty of this object. ‘Abdu’llah is stunned. He glances at Baqir with wide eyes. Baqir nods, urging him to remove the sword.
Holding the scabbard in his left hand, ‘Abdu’llah places his right hand on the hilt and slides out the glinting blade. Its beauty—the perfection and uniqueness of the jowher, the flawless arc, the golden luster of his son’s engraved name—is beyond belief. As he tilts the blade, a flash of reflected light ignites his face. He turns to Baqir in admiration.
“This is truly a masterpiece!” ‘Abdu’llah says.
Awestruck, the blacksmiths applaud the artisan.
“There is one other thing you must do,” Baqir replies. “Give it life!”
‘Abdu’llah understands. He sets down the scabbard and transfers the sword’s hilt to his left hand. He tests the blade’s sharp edge. It whines against the whorls of his thumb. He snaps a fingernail against the blade and it sings, resonating with the clear voice of an angel.
Chapter 9
In the kelauntar’s anderun, two people are seated on the floor of the front room, which is used for receiving female guests. The first person is Ali’s birth mother, Anisa, so achingly beautiful and porcelain-perfect that it startles to see her move. She reclines on huge satin pillows and clutches an outer robe of pale blue brocade that only partially conceals her billowing skirt and the white stockings that clothe her legs. A creamy-colored muslin veil, bound low on her forehead, cascades down the hair behind. The exquisite beauty of her face is fully revealed to her seated companion, Gordon Cranston, the English missionary who tutors her when he is in Bushruyih.
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