Nor I, says Fenula. Her mistress cannot see the concern on her face. Go on, she urges.
These men were saying they would take Darim away. To somewhere where he would be safe. And – at this she tries to stop the tears from choking her voice, but cannot – when I asked who would look after him, who would care for my child, they told me it was you. They named you, there in my dream.
Maryam drops to her knees, sobs. They are coming for my son! she cries. They are coming and only you can stay with him! She hugs her belly, this belly which has borne a father’s son, this belly which has known pain and joy and would now feel the deep slice of pain again.
She looks up into Fenula’s face, tries to quiet her tears and says: In the dream, I felt a sting in my arm, as if a snake had bitten me there and now the poison, hot and heavy, coursed through my veins. It was as if I would not be able to look after my son for soon I would be dead, lost to the serpent’s venom.
Fenula kneels down beside her mistress, cradles her, takes a deep breath. If it is as you have seen, then I will protect him well, she says. Do not worry. Yet it could be just a fancy of yours in the face of all the fears which have presented themselves over the years.
No. Maryam shakes her head and her voice is a monotone of matter-of-factness. It was not a dream like any other. I know the dreams of fear and how they come with their demons and djinns to taunt and tease. No, this was different. I know it to be a prophecy. Allah has given me a sign. I must be prepared. Darim must not witness a mother’s sorrow. I cannot burden him when Allah has shown it to be for his safety.
Not many days pass before Rasool comes and says: Mistress. There is word from the village at the head of the main valley. A messenger asks for you there. He says he brings news from al-Khatib and will not rest until his master’s scroll is in your hands.
He pauses. It may be a lie, a ruse to flush us out. It would still take many months for them to search the villages hidden in the side canyons. We could be gone by then.
Or it may be true, she counters and looks up from her weaving. I must think on this, and so-saying, draws the lemon veil and its protective symbols further over her head. Keep Darim in your sight.
Ever, mistress. And bowing, backs out of the small doorway.
She and Fenula are either side of the loom, their eyes meeting through the warp and weft of camel hair strands.
I did not see al-Khatib in the dream. But I cannot believe it is not connected. I will go with Rasool and meet the messenger. You stay here with Darim.
But Mama, the child cries next day. Why can I not come? I am strong enough to hold a mule’s mane!
Maryam laughs. We will be gone but a day to bring these cloths to market. I will be home in time to kiss you in your dreams this night.
He pouts, but Fenula cuddles him up in her arms. Think, she says, for breakfast tomorrow you will have fresh dates to suck. Is that not treat enough?
He smiles, but it is a small smile. And Maryam feels the tug of an umbilical cord not yet fully severed.
In a teteria they meet. The messenger bows low in her presence. Rasool stands by the door, right hand within his cloak.
You are the Lady Maryam from the house of Jamii of Sevilla? My master said no one but she could look upon the contents of this scroll.
I am. Pray tell, how is your master? For it is many years since we last spoke.
He relaxes at her kind tone, looks up into her face, smiles. Forgive me, Lady, but it is indeed you. My master said you would have such eyes as the deepest green ocean. That this would be the clearest sign I had found you.
Your master has a good memory, she says as he hands her the scroll held till now like a precious jewel. But tell me, is al-Khatib well?
His expression clouds. The scroll will alert you to his condition, he says and excuses himself from the room.
She sits with the letter long, reads it over. Again over:
Things have deteriorated since we last met. I remain Grand Vizier in name only. Another counsels our Lord al-Gani. I plan an extended travel to the Maghreb. By the time you receive this, I will be at the madrasa of Marzuq in Sala. Meet me there, with all of your number. My servant will guide you.
Come, she says to Rasool. We must prepare for a journey.
They carry only what they can. The fqih instructs Rasool, the women keen at their leaving. But Maryam is dry-eyed, Fenula silent and Darim excited at the prospect of ocean waves.
We will visit my old master from Granada, she tells him. He has so often wished to meet you. His servant will guide us to a special place where the sun sets behind the sea.
They follow the caravan route north to Marrakech for more than a week before stopping for several days’ rest. Then on to Casablanca where Darim stands rigid, wide-eyed in his joy. Boats atop waves – a revelation of the highest order!
I wish to sail! I wish to sail! is his constant seagull’s cry.
Along the coast road they travel to Rabat, cross the river Bu Regreg, enter the medina of Sala by the Bab Mrissa gate where Darim is overwhelmed by the height of its arch and the twin towers which flank it.
They are each as tall as our mountains at home! he shouts into the sky.
Along a wide road they go, past the slave market of Suq al-Kebir, to the street leading onto the square of the Great Mosque and the madrasa which stands opposite.
Crossing the threshold, Darim bounces like a puppy, laughs at the elaborate mosaics and honeycombed stucco of the courtyard galleries. He runs his hands over anything he can reach in a frenzy of delight.
Mama, Mama! Is this script? he asks, pointing to calligraphy embedded on a tablet and fused into the patterned tilework.
Yes indeed, she smiles. And it says:
This is a safe haven where you can at last abandon the pilgrim’s staff.
They climb the staircase to the upper gallery, Darim reaching out to the carved plaster on the walls as they pass.
Look, Mama, he says. It feels like old bones – from dead camels or goats baked long by the desert sun.
Yes. And her joy at his joy is swift-crushed to white dust.
She sits with al-Khatib in a salon on the upper floor where brass lanterns glow in deep alcoves.
This is just like the Court of the Lions! she marvels.
Her master chuckles. But of course – during our exile I often studied here with the great Marzuq, and al-Gani was more than pleased to replicate such a place of learning in Granada upon our return.
She laughs. I remember him working with the artisans, covered in plaster dust, such happiness on his face!
She grows solemn, looks down at her fingers, laced in her lap. My brother, she sighs. When he was still a brother.
Much has changed, says al-Khatib, and more will come. We must be ready. He draws breath and begins.
When I was in Sala those ten or more years ago, we had many visitors – whirling dervishes, the followers of Rumi, and even some who were not of our faith. It is about these men I wish to talk with you now.
Go on.
They are from Christendom, but not like the Roman Catholics of Castile. They are Orthodox Christians from Byzantium. Having heard of Ibn Marzuq’s madrasa, a teaching monastery in their eyes, having read of the philosophy of Ibn Arabi, a delegation arrived one day here in Sala. I found them to be men of great faith and interesting ideas. We are all Peoples of the Book, remember, and as Sufis we look beyond the Book to where God resides in all our hearts. Where we are all One.
Of course! she says in frustration, wanting this information to end so he may tell what must be done.
I have remained in correspondence with them over the years. One could call us friends ... He pauses, his sigh deep.
It has been six years, and I thank Allah we could all remain steady at court during this time. But al-Gani has let his anger at this one event cloud his every judgement since. Zamrak is the constant worm in his ear – whether it is about Pedro’s death and changes at the Castilian cour
t, or my Sufi treatises which are now deemed heretical, or a chance to wield power through a weak Merinid sultan in Fez …
He throws up his hands. And into this mess, the news that you are alive and have borne a child to the Christian. I know not how Zamrak secured the information or why it took until now for it to be known, but that is incidental. Of importance is that al-Gani’s rage has a target, focussed solely on you and what he calls your Infidel child. We meet here because I may not be able to save your life, but I have a plan to remove your child from harm.
The monks from the East, she says.
Yes.
They are already here?
Yes.
And did they bring a strange dog with them?
Thirty
I sit in the salon with al-Khatib and the three men from the East. We sip tea and discuss this great thing. In the dream, I had cried and wrung my hands. I had split in two. Yet now I sit calm within their sight and agree on one condition – that my servant, Fenula, who was my nurse from babyhood as well as Darim’s, accompany him on the long journey and remain at his side in his new home.
It shall be as you wish, the abbot says. But once there, he will learn our faith and the rites to become a monk within the monastery. He will take a new name.
I understand, and so will he. We all stand naked before God in the final hour and know who we truly are.
al-Khatib sits at my elbow, slightly removed. He presses his fingers into my arm and I gasp at the pain, feel anew the snake’s venom, poison with the power to heal.
This, my master murmurs, is the way it must be.
I have prepared my son for this moment, a moment I will ever recall when the poison threatens to kill rather than cure. He is summoned, and climbs the spiral stairs to the salon without fear.
These men will take you to your new home, I explain. East across the seas. You will have your journey on a sailing ship after all, and it will be long, and very exciting.
My child stands solemn before me, golden curls cascading from a broad honeyed brow down past eyes of the deepest green-black.
Your eyes! Your eyes are my mother’s eyes! Why have I never seen it before? They are the colour of the ocean on a day foretelling storms.
That means they are your eyes, Mama.
al-Khatib smiles. Know that you are ever bound by the ink which pools in your souls and wells out through its windows.
They had come from the East, these three wise men, bearing no gift save a son’s salvation. They had come from the East, and would return whence they came with Allah’s precious gift, my son.
Fenula busies herself adjusting Darim’s baby wrap into a travelling cloak. The dancing circle of free men, the trackless ones, is full at his back.
I have acquired an amethyst and carve anew the ghazal of Rabi’a. As for the father, so for the son:
A Beloved unlike all others.
He alone has touched my heart.
And although absent from sight and touch,
He is ever present in my heart.
Now, I say, we must add our journey’s meanders from the land of the Feija here to the sea onto the scroll of our life.
We sit, draw the pictures, write the words – the first day of sailing ships and a child’s spontaneous wish, the sunset behind the sea and an orange orb sunk deep into the green of foam-tipped waves.
It is up to you and Fenula to draw the sailing ship which takes you to your new home, and continue the journey with much detail. Then I can come and look at it one day, and you can tell me all about your wonderful adventures.
You will come to visit, Mama?
One day, I promise. One day we will be together again.
You can add your journey to the big map, he chatters as he draws. Make sure to draw a little map of where you go and what adventures you have so we can put it all on the big map. Alright?
Of course! But your journey is the most special of all – that is why you are the keeper of our memory. And you must take with you the writing box with its ink and brushes for only through its magic does our story come alive.
His mother’s words ebb and flow as they head to the docks and the merchant ships from the ports of England and France, Genoa and Venice, crowding the harbour. Everywhere the bustle of loading, unloading, screeching seagulls, shouting men, all so special and exciting.
They find their passage, bound for the isle of Sicily, its cargo of rugs and textiles, ivory and honey, already stowed. Such a whirl of activity! The knife-cut swift to the last strands which bind.
He takes out her amulet, the cold stone quickly warms in his hand, knows it is charged with love. To light the fuse, begin the alchemy, all he need do is add his own fire.
Under your pillow, she reminds him, to bring you sweet dreams.
And I will write my love for you in the sky each night! she calls from the dock as the ship casts off. In amongst the so many stars with every other mother’s message to her child far distant, there hers will be.
I will find it! he cries back, a voice tugged past her by the breeze. I will find your message in the stars each night!
From where he stands on deck, he cannot see her tremble, knows not she feels afresh the pain of his entry into the world, splitting her belly, sheathing her legs. Oh! How she trembles, but endures, laughs aloud with fleeting joy, knowing her cure lies in the poison of his excited face aboard a sailing ship’s deck.
And so raises her arm to the heavens, shows him how she would write the sky, great sweeping curves of calligraphy woven as he watches, and reads. Reads it all. Wisps of mist conjured to write the sky with love. Remembering they would be together again one day. For that she had promised, on this day.
Thirty-one
Three travelling dervishes, Mevlevis who follow the master Rumi, invite the students of the madrasa to participate in their ceremony of dance, their whirling trance of delight.
Come, says al-Khatib. You may watch from an alcove their celebration of God’s love.
She shakes her head. I cannot witness joy when pain is slicing me in two.
Come, says al-Khatib, and takes her gently by the arm.
The men sit in the oratory, cross-legged on cushions around its walls, silent, heads bowed, before the breath of a reed pipe begins to slowly lift them into a chanting circle.
May Allah grant you total soundness,
O travellers on the Way of Love.
May the Beloved remove the veils from your eyes
To see the secrets of time and centre true.
Listen Laleima, a voice inside her commands. Listen to the reed pipe, how it speaks, sings. Fired by love, its song is sorrow incarnate. Separated from the Beloved, love sets the reed aflame, sets love surging in its heart.
Drums beat, the room is rhythm-bound. Arms outstretched, the dervishes begin to twirl. Their robes billow. Weightless they become, levitating in a dance that stills time, transforming it to a moment beyond time. Till suddenly, over. At the height of its frenzy, complete.
A spirited performance, says al-Khatib. And turns to see tears upon her veiled cheek.
He leads her up the stairs and onto the roof of the madrasa. A clear night, the stars brilliant in their heavens, they sit, observing this movement of the universe while they themselves are stilled, in this turning world.
It is said, al-Khatib begins after a time, that Rabi’a practised the ancient art of combating spiritual sleep by avoiding physical sleep. She would sit up on her roof all night while the consensus of day slept to watch the universe turn and be at one with the Beloved.
I am lost in a wilderness of unlove, she says in a monotone of despair. My loves sent from my sight, gone. And I lost.
Of course you grieve. But love is still full in your heart. Your path may be hidden for a time, your heart veiled by pain, but still you are guided by love’s light. God’s love will never abandon you.
Yes, I know all this. But it makes the pain of separation no easier to bear. Sometimes I wo
nder if death is the answer.
The only answer, he counsels, is to die to self. When there is no longer a Lover or Beloved, there can only be Unity of Being.
But I experience that only when we were together! With my lover, my child. There is no Unity of Being when we are apart!
Ah, but there you are wrong. He smiles gently. When you take all your pain into yourself and make it your cure, little by little you die to that which you thought you were – Lover, Mother, Self. You will dissolve into love, return to a core where there are no labels. Where you become, God willing, love itself.
Dawn is lightening the sky when her lesson ends. As he suggests, so she agrees. To face her wilderness, forty days and nights in retreat – to meditate on grief and pain, re-find the source of love, the cure in the poison, the strength, the will to live.
To a cell in the madrasa, she takes books by Ibn Arabi, Attar, Rumi, and the Holy Qur’an. Takes bowls of dates, olives, nuts, apples and figs. Rasool will sit on the verandah throughout this time, bringing a warm bowl of rice or couscous in the evenings, clean water in the mornings, and placing them in her antechamber without a word.
She walks with her master in the quadrangle before entering the cell, moves across the walls, her hands reading the scripts. Released from blindness, her soul’s vision clears. No need of translation in the space she will enter – a space in which to touch spirit, dissolve veils, merge with symbols, and comprehend at once the no-language of insight, of message twinned with intent. In a place of oneness, mirror polished, glass clear, no curtains will be left to part.
al-Khatib envelops her in a hug. Farewell. Remember, wherever you turn, there is the face of Allah.
What is this? Farewell? For only forty days?
Ah, he says. I am an old man. And sometimes nostalgia for what might have been is the veil which clouds my vision.
In the cell, she opens the Qur’an to the Surah al-Baqarah, verse 286. This is her meditation to restore strength:
Allah does not burden any soul with more than its capacity to bear.
She sits and prays. Sits and prays:
La ilaha il Allah. La ilaha il Allah.
The Taste of Translation Page 14
