Ollie's Cloud

by Gary Lindberg

  “Documentarian,” says Jonathon, helping out. “Actually, I am hoping that your father will document the event in words and I will do so in a historic daguerreotype.” Jonathon turns to Oliver. “Your coming to New York is an affirmative response, I hope.”

  “It is, my good man.” Oliver reaches out and takes Jonathon’s hand to shake it, but instinctively pulls him close and embraces him tightly, finishing with a double pat on the back to dismiss any implication that he meant it too personally.

  “I’m so glad,” Jonathon says. His face shows that he means it more than his words suggest.

  The three of them dine in a fancy restaurant with genuine china, white tablecloths, and a crystal chandelier. Jonathon shares all the big city news and gossip that he can remember, and Ollie smiles and laughs more than Isaac can remember. It seems like the good old days, and Isaac basks in the hope that this camaraderie will last forever.

  “Tell me about this grand event of yours,” Oliver says to Jonathon as he gestures to their Hungarian waiter for more wine.

  “Not my event. Shortly after I got into the city, I contacted my old friend, Samuel Morse. That’s how I learned of his wonderful invention. It has to do with the telegraph.”

  “Of course, I’ve heard of that. Is there a practical use for it?”

  “That’s what Morse has been working on. Somehow he convinced Congress to give him the money to build a short telegraph line between Washington and Baltimore.”

  “Such a distance! How on earth can a signal be transmitted so far?”

  “Well, he seems to have contrived a way for this to happen, and on May 24th he proposes to demonstrate for Congress the first telegraph message transmitted between two cities. It seems quite impossible, I agree, especially since the two cities are not even visible to each other, but with Morse I’ve learned that nothing is ever out of the question.”

  “Two different cities—what!—forty miles apart?”

  “From what I understand, he ran his telegraph line along the connecting railroad track.”

  “Well, now, that’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard about this whole affair. If the message can’t be transmitted by telegraph, then he can just put it on a train and deliver it the old-fashioned way.”

  They all laugh. “I thought perhaps it would be best for us to be with my friend, Morse, in the capitol when he transmits the message,” Jonathon says. “It will be quite a historic occasion.”

  “Yes, in Washington. We should be with the inventor as the message is sent, I quite agree. Where in the capitol will this take place?”

  “In the chamber of the Supreme Court.”

  Chapter 42

  After a difficult journey through the mountains, Jalal finds the flat plain to the north quite agreeable. Lacking a mule, they carry all their belongings on their backs. Following his previous successful missions for the late Siyyid Kázim, he has now undertaken the last and most important undertaking assigned to Kazim’s students—to finally seek out the Qa’im Himself. A recurring dream of the holy city of Shiraz had been haunting him. And so Jalal had set out for Shiráz.

  The journey is nearly over. It is afternoon and Shiraz appears like a quivering desert mirage, a small yellow and white smear against a fringe of purple mountains. As the men walk toward it, the city begins to take form, and as the sun descends, the city appears as an island in a sea of emerald. The panorama is magnificent: vast plain and wrinkled hills, cypress groves and gardens blooming with jasmine and roses, towers and walls, domes and spires, all bathed in the mellow late afternoon light. The stony road is surrounded by a fluttering sea of red and white poppies blown by a fresh breeze that whisks away the sour heat of the day. An orange sun throws long blue shadows from the tall minarets and slender sarv trees. This is the city of Hafiz, the lyric Persian bard of the fourteenth-century.

  They approach the Kazerun gate, one of six entrances to the city. Jalal is fatigued. Every muscle aches and his knees throb. He drops to the ground, sits for a minute, and then lies down. The sand, still warm from the sun, cradles him. He cannot keep his eyes open. Through his eyelids he can see the shadows of birds flying above, hear their songs and the flutter of their wings. Slowly he opens his eyes. The scarlet-rimmed clouds drift slowly above. For a moment he is twelve again, lying in the warm Bushruyíh sand, and the voice of his best friend cries out, “Do you see it? Right there! It’s the Prophet Muhammad, in the clouds.”

  The sound of sandals on pebbles brings him out of his reverie. He sits up and sees the silhouette of a stranger approaching, a young man with the brilliant orange light of the sun behind him. He stands to greet this apparition, and as the young man nears, Jalal can see the green turban of the Siyyids, direct descendants of the Prophet Muhammad.

  The young man silently embraces him. The touch is gentle and soothing, sending waves of calm and comfort through Jalal’s aching body. It is the kind of embrace that Jalal imagines receiving from Ali, should God permit that they be reunited. And then they are standing before each other, Jalal with many questions.

  The youth’s face seems familiar. “Are you a disciple of Siyyid Kazim?” Jalal asks.

  The youth replies that he reveres the Siyyid’s teachings. And then he overwhelms Jalal with expressions of affection and loving-kindness. For some time they talk; Jalal is mesmerized by the soft, melodious voice and the gleaming eyes of this youth, who cannot be more than 25 years old. At last the young man invites Jalal to his home.

  From the gate, the main road is lined with gardens and on the east a residence for dervishes. On the west side, the Garden of the Throne, formed by terraces stacked on terraces, stands on rising ground overlooking the city. The magnificent fountain at its summit pours out cascading streams of water over slabs of marble.

  Jalal finds himself ignoring the beauty of the city, so entranced is he by the sweetness of this youth, the dignity of his bearing, the genuine affection he has shown to a stranger. After some minutes of walking, the youth stops at the door of a modest house and knocks. An Ethiopian servant opens the door and smiles warmly at the young Siyyid.

  The young man crosses the threshold and motions for Jalal to follow. He is seated immediately onto a Persian carpet and the servant offers a ewer of water so that he might wash the stains of travel from his hands and feet.

  The young man takes the container and pours water over Jalal’s hands. The traveler is surprised by this act of servitude; instinctively he recoils, but the host is gently persistent. After Jalal dries his hands, the youth gives him a drink that is both sweet and bitter, warm and cold, oddly refreshing and impossible to identify; it has a taste that he cannot recall ever experiencing before. He is overcome with a sense of well-being and wonders at the marvelous alchemy that is present in the beverage, then slowly becomes aware that the source of his euphoria is not the beverage—which he now recognizes as a simple blend of lemon water and honey— but the presence of his host.

  The time for prayer comes quickly. The green-turbaned youth stands beside Jalal and prays with him. An hour after sunset, the Siyyid looks up at his guest and asks a most surprising question. “After Kazim, whom do you regard as his successor and your leader?”

  The mention of Kazim startles Jalal. He searches his memory for a connection between this youth and the Shaykhi leader, and then it comes to him. Yes, he has seen this young man before—at the Shaykhi school. The mysterious young man who had sat at the rear of the chamber with the shaft of sunlight illuminating his lap. This is the young man to whom Kazim had so surreptitiously paid his respects.

  “At the hour of his death,” Jalal begins, “our departed teacher insistently exhorted us to scatter far and wide in search of the Promised One.”

  “Has your teacher given you any distinguishing features of this Promised One?”

  “Yes, of course!” Jalal responds with a litany of physical and spiritual, intellectual and spiritual characteristics delineated by Kazim. He pauses, wondering if he has missed anything, when su
ddenly the youth declares, “Behold, all these signs are manifest in Me!”

  So astonished is Jalal that he can only smile and politely point out that surely there must be at least one of these characteristics that is not present in his host; otherwise how could these signs collectively distinguish the Promised One?”

  The youth’s arguments are convincing but not conclusive. They serve principally to incite Jalal’s instinct to debate, searching for at least one missing sign.

  Without success.

  The youth stares at Jalal without a smile, and the traveler immediately feels a surge of remorse. His host had showed him nothing but love and hospitality, only to be repaid by arrogance and condescension.

  Even as he admonishes himself, though, Jalal is preparing for a more stringent test. During his interminable travels, he had devised an examination that he was convinced would sift out pretenders and identify the true Promised One. In this test, Jalal would ask the claimant to spontaneously dictate—with no hesitation, and in a style and language entirely different from prevailing standards—a commentary on the Surih of Joseph. This chapter of the Qu’ran had perplexed for centuries the supplest religious minds. Even Kazim had refused when asked by Jalal to write such a commentary, saying, “This is beyond me. But that Great One who comes after me will reveal it for you without being asked, and that commentary will be one of the clearest evidences of the loftiness of His position.”

  As Jalal is deciding how to proceed, ‘Ali Muhammad gently says, “Now is the time to deliver the commentary on the Surih of Joseph.”

  Unasked, ‘Ali Muhammad takes up a pen and begins to record with astounding speed his spoken words. Without pause, without hesitation, he delivers a flawless exposition on the bewildering chapter of the Qu’ran. Jalal sits enraptured by the melodious words of this mysterious revelation, and the unbroken flow of writing, and the sweeping force of the secrets and wisdom imparted by this youth. He is transported into another world, in which the threads of material knowledge and spiritual truth are woven into the music of heaven, and the seen coexists with the unseen, and time ceases to exist at all.

  But when the pen stops writing, and the youth’s voice no longer sounds, Jalal crashes back into the world of Shiraz. Still dizzy with ecstasy, he tries to stand, but falls sideways. His host steadies him.

  “I must go to my companions,” Jalal says, though he is not sure why; perhaps he is afraid that if he stays he will die of bliss.

  “Please sit, my friend,” the young Siyyid says. “If you leave in such a state, whoever sees you will certainly say, ‘This poor man has lost his mind.’”

  Jalal sits down again.

  It is two hours past sunset on May 22, 1844.

  Chapter 43

  In Washington, D.C., thirteen-year-old Annie Ellsworth is being driven home from school in her father’s carriage. Not every school girl in the capitol is so privileged, but her father is the Commissioner of Patents. Annie would not understand that such a position is unique in its ability to attract large “honorariums” for speeches that are never given, provided that patents are. What Annie does understand is the power of God to heal, bless, forgive, and protect. From her earliest years, Annie has been connected to God. As her good friend Samuel Morse has told her, she and God each hold a telegraph key and communicate over a direct line.

  Some of Annie’s school mates call her “spooky”; she never loses her temper, or cheats at games, or gossips, or does any of the naughty things that every other thirteen-year-old does. She prefers to read her Bible rather than discuss boys; she’d rather pray than eat. Annie’s mother—no saint (if such a station is based on behavior)—worries about her daughter. In truth, she worries that Annie will disclose her mother’s petty vanities and vices to God, and that retribution is just around the corner. It is not easy being the mother of an angel, especially when one is a bit of a devil.

  On this glorious spring day, Annie has a problem. “Sammy”—as she calls her parent’s friend, Samuel Morse—has asked Annie to decide on a message to be sent over the telegraph. It is quite an honor, as this will be the first message ever to be sent by telegraph from one city to another. Because she is such a serious young girl, she has taken this responsibility to heart. She wants the message to be exactly right, to communicate something very important to the world, but so far she has not come up with the right message.

  At about the time that Jalal resettles himself onto the comfortable carpet in the young Siyyid’s house in Shiraz, Annie is arriving home. The carriage pulls up outside her house, scattering a flock of pigeons. She watches them fly away and then, while looking up into the empty sky, she sees the image of a man in the clouds and she knows what Sammy’s message should be.

  She races into the house and writes the message onto a piece of note paper, folding it in half and placing it into an envelope that she addresses to “Samuel Morse.” She puts her name on the back and takes the envelope to the carriage driver, instructing him to deliver it immediately. The driver, who has often taken Mr. Morse to his favorite hotel after visits with the family, delivers the message to the hotel desk. Samuel Morse is handed the envelope when he returns to his hotel after dinner. He is amused by the envelope, understanding at once what it contains.

  “In this envelope,” Morse explains to his dinner companions, Jonathon Fury and Oliver Chadwick, “is the message that I will send from Baltimore to Washington. It has been chosen by the most remarkable young lady I know.”

  “What is this historic message?” Oliver asks.

  Samuel Morse waves the envelope back and forth, as if trying to divine the message without reading it, then puts the envelope into his coat pocket. “I don’t know,” he says. “But I like surprises. Let’s wait until Friday.”

  In the transforming bliss and harmony of his host’s modest Shirazi room, Jalal feels connected to all spiritual beings, as if he can commune without effort with all who reside, either permanently or temporarily, in a spiritual plane that transcends the limits of the material world. The universe seems open to him now, fractured to its core so that he can see and hear what was previously unseen and unheard. His spirit seems to mingle with his host’s, and with thousands of others who seek nearness with their Beloved and pray for insight, and through meditation tune the subtle vibrations of their bodies and souls to the melodies of God.

  Jalal sits spellbound by the utterances of this young man, humbled by his depth of knowledge. Time floats effortlessly past, without meaning or boundary. A river of wisdom rushes by him, and Jalal recognizes that even with cupped hands he can capture only a few drops.

  After a peaceful silence, the young Siyyid looks up at Jalal and says, “You are the first to believe in me! I am the Gate of God, and you are the gate of that Gate.”

  In the Supreme Court chamber, all is ready for the grand demonstration. Distinguished gentlemen from Congress greet Samuel Morse with hearty handshakes, though most are privately skeptical that this telegraph gadget will deliver as promised. The whole idea of it simply defies logic.

  Jonathon Fury has set up his cumbersome camera in a strategic position from which he can capture Mr. Morse and the telegraph key at the most opportune moment. Oliver Chadwick and Isaac sit in hard wood chairs beside the camera; now sixteen, Isaac’s insatiable curiosity makes him perhaps the most interested occupant of this room, except for Mr. Morse.

  With a loud clearing of the throat, Samuel Morse begins his presentation with “heartfelt thanks” to Congress for providing the money required to construct the telegraph line from Baltimore to Washington. Next, he delivers a pedantic, too-long discourse on the physics of electricity and the logic behind the dots and dashes that will soon be embossed onto a strip of paper by the telegraph device. The inventor immodestly refers to this system of symbols as “Morse code.”

  Before he is finished with his lecture, a number of witnesses are checking their pocket watches and rolling their eyes. At last he introduces his “very special guest,” Annie Ellswo
rth, who is attired in a flowery dress and matching hat. Seated next to her parents in the first row, she now stands to applause, blushes, then bows politely and retakes her seat.

  “Miss Ellsworth has selected the message that we will be communicating to my colleague, Alfred Vail, in Baltimore. After Mr. Vail receives it, he will send the same message back to me here in Washington, and that will conclude our demonstration. The message is in this sealed envelope, which I have not yet opened.” Then, turning to Jonathon and Oliver, he says, “Are you gentlemen ready?”

  They nod.

  Morse opens the envelope, studies the message, and then smiles at Annie. He leans over the telegraph key and begins a series of clicking sounds that are undecipherable to anyone save himself. When he is finished, he folds his hands in front of himself and speaks to the group. “Alfred Vail already will have received my message, and I expect he is translating it for the group assembled there. In a short while, he will retransmit the mess—”

  At just this moment, the telegraph begins to click and pull through its strip of paper. For the first time, everyone in the chamber is attentive. After a few seconds, Morse tears off the paper strip and holds it up, focusing his eyes on the embossed bumps.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, our demonstration has been a success. Mr. Vail has transmitted to us the very same message that I sent him only moments ago.”

  A smattering of applause greets these words. It was not a very dramatic demonstration, but the device seemed to have worked. Unsatisfied, though, Oliver raises his hand.

  “Mr. Chadwick?” Morse says obligingly.

  “Yes sir, I was wondering if you could tell us what the message was.”

  “Oh, my yes, of course. My compliments to Miss Ellsworth for a most fitting message, indeed. Let me read it to you.” He holds up the strip of paper again, looks at it, and reads.