Ollie's Cloud

by Gary Lindberg

  He opens his eyes—he must have fallen asleep because sunlight is streaming into the room. The legs of a man are standing beside him. Ishaq lifts his gaze to see Ali solemnly looking down at him.

  “Father?” Ishaq says.

  “It’s good to see you, son.”

  Ishaq sits up, rubbing his eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he says.

  “Yes, I know. I’ve been traveling. Much has happened. Last night, Muhammad Shah died.”

  This news sends a shiver through Ishaq. There will now be a wrenching battle for the throne. As always in this land, there will be treachery and bloodletting. For a time, no one will be safe.

  “What will happen?” Ishaq asks.

  Ali sits down by his son. “I knew that the shah could not live much longer so I made all the necessary arrangements for a swift transition of power,” he says. “Within several days Nasir al-Din will declare himself the new shah. Soon after, he will leave Tabriz with the Azerbaijani army, which, as you know, is the most fearsome fighting force in the land and is controlled by Mirza Taki Khan, with whom I have an alliance.”

  “But Mirza Taki Khan is an avowed enemy of Aqasi!”

  “Aqasi has few remaining friends or allies. The new shah and ten thousand troops will soon enter Tehran. Mirza Taki Khan will be named the new grand vizier.”

  “And Aqasi?”

  “He is in his summer residence. The Russian minister plenipotentiary has already sent him a note recommending that he stay there. I expect that Aqasi, the old fool, will try to rally the dwindling band of Iravani guards to escort him back to Tehran, but he has no real hope of staying in power. Besides the Russians, I have also persuaded the British to support Nasir al-Din over Aqasi’s candidate. It is now just a matter of pageantry.”

  Ali speaks calmly, as if these historic events—largely of his making—are of little consequence.

  But Ishaq is frightened by the news. “What will become of you, then? Of us?”

  “There’s nothing to fear, believe me. They understand that I have no political aspirations. And they have clearly seen my… my usefulness. In return, they have given me their support in vanquishing a common enemy, the growing Rasuli insurrection.”

  These words stun Ishaq. He had been distracted by all the political news and had forgotten his own mission, but now realizes that the unfolding events have strengthened Ali’s hand in persecuting the Rasulis. He stands suddenly and walks to the window, looking out at the city now bathed in sunlight. The view, he knows, belies the storm that is building—unless he can reason with his father.

  Ali approaches Ishaq and says, “Something is bothering you.”

  “I just don’t understand why you are so intent on murdering the Rasulis. They’ve done nothing to you… or to the government. Nothing, that is, that they have not been falsely accused of.”

  “Murder is a harsh word,” Ali says. “but a good one. It can be applied in many circumstances. The murder of hundreds of innocent victims on a drowning ship. The murder of a wife and an unborn child.”

  “Those are old stories, father.” Anger is overtaking Ishaq, and he can’t repress it. “Old stories that anyone else would have gotten over. And they are false stories—about how God is to blame, as if you were the judge and jury. How high and mighty of you! But then, that’s your pattern, isn’t it? You tried the Rasul in Tabriz. And now you’re trying to carry out the sentence.”

  Ali steps back, ashen. “Ishaq, do you actually believe that the Rasul is the so-called Promised One?”

  Ishaq knows that he has inadvertently exposed his beliefs. There is no turning back now. Timidly, Ishaq says, “I do.”

  Ali turns and paces. Then he wheels, ready to fling a quiver full of accusations, but is interrupted by Ishaq.

  “So do you, father.” Ishaq’s words are more forceful now. “You believe He is the Promised One… or you wouldn’t be so bent on destroying Him. You want to punish God, and you see the Rasul as His Manifestation, so you are set on punishing Him.”

  The flurry of Ishaq’s words take the steam out of Ali’s intended accusations. Instead, Ali decides to defend his position.

  “I don’t know if the Rasul is who he claims to be, but I hope that he is. If he is not, then I will burn in hell for destroying a young man. And if he is the Promised One, I will burn in hell alongside Pontius Pilate—but I will have my revenge.”

  “You are willing to sacrifice an innocent man?”

  “If he is an imposter, he is not innocent.”

  “What about all the Rasulis who will be slaughtered?”

  “They have enlisted of their own free will.”

  “So why not murder all Muslims, or Christians, or Zoroastrians. Maybe we should slaughter all the Hindus and Buddhists, too.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! But do I have to remind you of all the wars that have been fought because of religion?”

  “Do I have to remind you that your war against the Rasulis is now part of that wicked history? Is it any wonder that we need fresh guidance from God!”

  “These other religions, despicable as they are, have become too deeply rooted to destroy. But this new one, this Rasuli religion—I can keep it from adding to the contamination.”

  “What if the Rasulis have been simply duped by the charisma of an imposter— they deserve to die for that?”

  “It is their actions that make them guilty, not their beliefs. Did you know that the Rasulis have launched an insurrection in Mazandaran? They are parading through the villages beneath the Black Standard, recruiting for their cause.”

  “Father, they want peace, not war. They only want to state the Rasul’s message and give the people a choice to accept or reject it. Why is this so threatening? No, it comes down to revenge, doesn’t it? How many lives are you willing to sacrifice to satisfy your bloodlust?”

  Ali marches to Ishaq and slaps him hard.

  The stinging blow brings tears to Ishaq’s eyes. Ishaq realizes now that he has taken the worst possible approach to this conversation. He should have heeded Zarrin’s advice: Show him your love. Then show him the love of God reflected in you.

  The tears in Ishaq’s eyes multiply. “I love you, father, but I see what hate can do, and I don’t want that for me or my wife.”

  “Your wife?” Ali cocks his head and squints. “Ishaq, are you married?”

  “Not yet. And probably never. Zarrin, the woman I love, is a Rasuli, and she has gone to join Jalal’s march in Mazandaran.”

  “I’ve heard of Jalal. A clever one, I’ll give you that.”

  “If you continue your persecution of the Rasulis, I fear for Zarrin’s life.”

  “It is out of my hands, son. If the Rasulis persist, they must be dealt with. I can’t control the villagers.”

  “You can stop provoking them!”

  “There is nothing I can do. I hope that this girl comes to her senses and returns home.”

  Ali speaks these words coldly. Having invoked his future hell-mate Pontius Pilate, Ali is now washing his hands of any responsibility.

  “She will not return,” Ishaq says angrily. His body is trembling. “She will be killed, and I will not blame God for her murder. I will blame my father.”

  Ali tries to appease. “You don’t mean that, Ishaq.”

  “Yes, I do. But I will only blame you for a brief time, because, God-willing, I will die with her.”

  “You plan to join the march?”

  “As soon as I can.”

  Ishaq rushes to the other side of the room. In a mad flurry he begins to pack his things. Ali stares at him for a moment as if calculating his son’s threat, and then leaves without a word.

  Once packed, Ishaq carries his bags into the receiving room and finds his father waiting with two armed guards.

  Ali speaks to the larger guard. “Take him to the palace harem. He must not be allowed to leave.”

  “You are imprisoning me?” Ishaq asks incredulously.

  “Protecting you. If you think
back, you will realize it is not the first time.”

  The guards seize Ishaq by the arms.

  “Be gentle but firm,” Ali instructs. “He will try to escape. If he does, I will have your heads. While he is in custody, see to it that he has everything he wants. Anything at all. He may be released only on my order, or in the event of my death. Is that understood?”

  The guards nod.

  “Then take him away.”

  Ali does not look at Ishaq as he is led from the apartment, even when Ishaq yells, “You should have just left me on the piers!”

  Chapter 19

  In a cold drizzle, Jalal gathers the Rasulis around him for the Morning Prayer. When it is finished, he turns his gaze upon the two hundred hungry, shivering men—and the one pale woman. Yesterday, over twenty of them had left the march after Jalal had spoken of the certain perils to come.

  With his sword at his side, Jalal leads the men toward Barfurush. For an hour they march in silence. The rhythmic sway of Jalal’s white stallion begins to induce a familiar effect, a faint tremor in his arms.

  Please God, not now, he pleads. Not as we prepare to enter the city.

  But each rocking step of the horse seems to intensify the trembling. He grips the horn of his saddle with both hands, trying to suppress the shaking, but to no avail. He tries to control his breathing, but the shuddering continues.

  Zarrin has been riding behind Jalal on a dark brown roan provided by Assaf, the physician. She has been studying the frail leader in flowing white garments who has already become a legend among Rasulis. She alone detects the faint quivering of his arms, the desperate grip on the saddle horn. Old Abbas trots merrily along the right side of Jalal’s horse, so Zarrin urges her roan to his left side.

  Jalal appears almost to be in a trance. His eyes are focused on some indistinct object ahead, as if this unwavering gaze is the sole means of staying saddled. He does not seem to notice Zarrin at his left.

  For an hour they trudge through intensifying rain. About three miles from the city gate they find the road blocked by several hundred armed citizens shouting obscenities and waving weapons in the air. Jalal stares at them impassively. All of his strength and concentration is on controlling his tremors. If he gives in to fear or anger now, emotion will fuel the convulsions.

  Please God, not now!

  Faced with this fanatical mob, some of the Rasulis unsheathe their swords.

  Her heart pounding, Zarrin draws her blade and holds it high in the air. The others raise their swords.

  Rain clatters on the cold steel. The mob’s curses stop suddenly as the militia prepares to be attacked.

  Jalal blinks and turns his head to Zarrin. He must direct his men! His right arm is trembling too violently to be useful now. He sweeps his left arm out and with a shaking hand grips Zarrin’s arm, forcing her to lower her weapon.

  “Not yet,” he whispers hoarsely. “Our swords must not leave their scabbards until the aggressor forces us to protect ourselves.”

  Zarrin slides her sword back into its scabbard. The others do the same.

  Interpreting this as a sign of weakness, the militia again begins cursing and advancing toward the Rasulis.

  Zarrin can feel the fierce vibration of Jalal’s body as his arm connects with hers.

  Is he afraid? she wonders. Despite his words, does he fear death?

  “They are advancing!” Zarrin says.

  “Not yet,” Jalal replies. And then he releases her arm.

  A volley of shots! Four Rasulis fall dead.

  More shots.

  Assaf the physician yells and grips his leg, slumping to the ground.

  Jalal watches a tall, slender man in a brown turban lean against a tree, raise his musket, and fire at the marchers.

  Old Abbas, who has been standing to the right of Jalal, is thrust backward by the force of the shot. Blood sputters from his chest.

  Jalal’s entire body is quaking now. Zarrin suspects that he has been overcome by madness or disease or fear. She is about to draw her sword and take command when she notices Jalal turning his eyes to the rain clouds above and moving his lips, as if praying.

  More shots ring out.

  Jalal bows his head. His body quakes uncontrollably, but he manages to whisper, “Now it is time.”

  How this shaking, quivering man can lead the Rasulis into battle, Zarrin cannot fathom. But as Jalal firmly grips the hilt of his sword, the trembling stops. With a steady hand, he unsheathes the gleaming blade from its jeweled leather scabbard.

  Zarrin has never seen such a magnificent instrument! Even in the gloom of this rainy morning, it seems to shine with its own light. On the vivid black jowher of the blade she can see engraved in gold the name Jalal.

  And then the blade flashes in a sudden shaft of sunlight, singing with the voice of angels. Jalal has begun the charge. Pointing his blade at the tall fanatic who had murdered Abbas, Jalal gallops into the thick of the mob and finds the man cowardly hiding behind the six-inch trunk of a tree.

  The attackers are stunned at the boldness of the Rasuli charge and begin to fire their muskets.

  Whipping the reins against the neck of her roan, Zarrin struggles to keep up with Jalal as bullets buzz past like angry bees.

  In flowing white robes, Jalal jumps his steed over a fallen log and races toward the killer of Abbas. Without slowing, Jalal swings his sword—the gift from his father—in a powerful arc. The stroke cleaves in half the trunk of the tree, the body of the man, and the barrel of his musket. The tree falls, crashing into a group of villagers.

  After many more days of hard marching, the Black Standard breaks the crest of a hill. Below, a small building is situated in a courtyard surrounded by a short octagonal wall. This simple square building, Jalal knows, is the shrine of Shaykh Hujjat, a revered cleric who had recorded many traditions of the words of Muhammad. This is where the Black Standard will come to rest. This is where the Rasulis must make their stand.

  Jalal knows that many fanatics inflamed by fear and hatred, and even perhaps military troops, will soon be attacking them from all sides. The shrine quickly must become a fort.

  Jalal turns to his companions and says, “We have arrived.”

  Chapter 20

  Nasir-al Din Shah, the boy-king, wears the garment of arrogance well. Like a snake, he has shed the old skin of boyhood to reveal the bold new stripes of authority. Of the many titles that orbit around the throne of Persia, Nasir-al Din Shah has selected one of which he is particularly fond: the Pivot of the Universe.

  The shah has chosen Gordon Cranston to be his interpreter on the recommendation of Ali. In proposing this appointment, Ali deceitfully had explained that Cranston’s left hand had been chopped off by Aqasi in retaliation for the interpreter’s stubborn defense of Nasir-al Din’s claim to the throne.

  Cranston is wary of Ali’s motives but appreciates reinstatement to the shah’s inner circle.

  Lamps are lit in the shah’s great chamber as dusk descends. The shah is seated on a burgundy carpet with Ali, Cranston, and Mirza Taki Khan, the new grand vizier. The mood is solemn. Troubling news from Mazandaran has just arrived.

  “Who is this Jalal?” the shah asks Ali.

  “One of the Rasul’s disciples, and from all reports a brave warrior and charismatic leader.”

  “I should not have let you persuade me to spare the life of that imposter, the Rasul. If he were dead, his followers would scatter and soon forget him.”

  “I beg your indulgence,” Ali responds. “but to make a martyr of the Rasul before his followers are humiliated or defeated would only create a rallying point for their fanaticism. They must be weakened first.”

  The grand vizier leans toward Ali and says, “A small band of these Rasulis soundly humiliated a group of devout Muslims near Barfurush. So tell me again who is being humiliated and defeated?”

  “Our agents tell us that Jalal and his Black Standard have taken refuge in the shrine of Shaykh Hujjat, which they have been bu
sy fortifying against attack. That doesn’t sound like a conquering army.”

  ”Yes, but even now men from the surrounding villages are joining ranks with the Rasulis at the shrine. And Jalal has also managed to get Danush freed. Danush has now joined them at the shrine. It sounds more like a festival to me. Even Mirza Ramin has visited.”

  “Mirza Ramin—the nobleman?” the shah asks.

  “The same,” Ali replies. “He is a devout follower of the Rasul. In fact, he organized a conference for them near Badasht. Despite his reputation for kindness and compassion, he is a very dangerous man.”

  “But he is greatly respected throughout Persia,” the shah says. “Even my father respected this man, and loved his father, the vizier of Núr.”

  “It is this respect that temporarily spares him,” Ali says.

  The grand vizier snorts impatiently, rises, and walks to a window that reveals a vast purple sky. He wheels and stares at Ali expectantly. “How do you propose to handle this?”

  Ali rises also, not wishing to remain in a posture of subservience. “With your permission, I will gather an army of five thousand men from Mazandaran and overwhelm their makeshift fort. We will crush them with overpowering force. It is to our advantage that Danush and Jalal are both there, for we will destroy them together.”

  “Five thousand men!” the young shah says, laughing. “I would think a thousand would be sufficient. The reports says that there are—what?—three hundred Rasulis in the shrine?”

  “Now that Danush and his escort have arrived, three hundred and thirteen to be precise,” Ali says, confident in the reports of his agents.

  The grand vizier blanches. “My God!” he groans. “The Traditions say that the coming of the Promised One will be accompanied by the three hundred thirteen men who fought with the Prophet Muhammad at the Battle of Badr!”

  “Get a grip on yourself,” Ali says in English.

  Gordon, the only one but Ali who can understand, laughs quietly.