For some reason, however, this eminently reasonable suggestion vexed the Prince further. His dream had made him sad. It had also made him fierce. “You do not understand!” he cried with an embarrassing crack in his young voice. “I remember it all!” Then he fled the court.
In puzzlement, the Caliph turned to his advisers after his son had gone and asked plaintively, “What is it that I have failed to understand?”
The Vizier tangled his fingers among his whiskers and pulled them to keep himself still, a rare effort of self-restraint. Perhaps he knew better than to venture the opinion that Prince Akhmet behaved like a spoiled brat.
“My lord Prince is young,” commented the Most Holy Khartim a-Kul in his religious rumble. “It may be that his ideas are still too big for his ability to express them. It may be that his dream came to him from the gods, and he rightly considers it false worship to compliment the priest when praise belongs only to Heaven.”
This notion “rightly” made His Serene Goodness uneasy. A son whose dreams came to him from the gods would make an uncomfortable heir to the rule of Arbin. The Caliph’s eyes shifted away from his advisers, and he resumed the business of the court without much clarity of thought.
As for the Prince, when he returned to his apartments he kicked his dog, a hopeless mongrel on which he had doted for most of his boyhood.
At the time, no one except the dog expressed any further opinions on the subject.
But of course it was inevitable that the Prince would dream again.
Not at once, naturally. In him, the carp had only begun to rise. The bread crumbs on the surface were few, or the fish did not see them. He was in a sour humor, and his attention was fixed, not on the hope of new dreams, but on the failure of other people to understand the significance of the first one. For a time, he lost interest in women—at least to the extent that any young man can be said to have lost interest in women. At the same time, he experienced an increased enthusiasm for the manly arts of Arbin, especially for hunting, and most especially for the hunting of beasts of prey, creatures of disquiet, feasters on blood. Arbin is a civilized country. Nevertheless the great forests do not lack for leopard and wild pig, with tusks which can gut a horse with one toss of the head, and packs of hungry langur often harry the flocks on the plains. By the standards accepted for a young lord of the realm and his father’s son, Akhmet expended a not-unreasonable amount of time upon matters of bloodshed. Until he dreamed again.
He and his companions, several young men of the court and a commensurate number of trusted retainers and hunters, had spent the night camped among the thick trunks and overarching limbs of a nearby forest. In this forest was said to live a great ape which had learned a taste for human flesh—a small matter as the affairs of the world are considered, but by no means trivial to the villagers whose huts bordered the trees—and for three days Prince Akhmet with his entourage had been hunting the beast under conditions which can best be described as gracious hardship. Apparently, fatigue enabled him to sleep especially well. On the morning of the fourth day, he sprang from his bedding like a dust devil, chasing in all directions and shouting incoherently for his horse. When his companions inquired as to the meaning of his urgency, he replied that he had had another dream. His father must know of it immediately.
Clattering like madmen in their haste—a haste which no one but the Prince himself actually comprehended—Akhmet and his entourage raced homeward.
Now when he burst among us, hot and flurried from his ride, with stubble upon his cheeks and a feverish glare in his eyes, and announced, “I have dreamed again. I remember it all,” I felt a serious skepticism. To remember one dream is merely remarkable, not ultimately significant. To remember a second, however, so soon after the first—if a few weeks may be called soon—as well as after the confusion of a hard ride, and without the exercise of relating the dream to anyone else—
Well, in all honesty, I doubted young Akhmet. I watched him closely for signs of stumbling or invention, which would call the accuracy of his memory into question.
In contrast, His Serene Goodness appeared to feel no skepticism at all. Perhaps he was simply delighted to see his son after an absence of a few days. Perhaps he was delighted by the idea of dreams. Or perhaps he saw in Akhmet’s eyes that the Prince would brook no opposition. Unlike his advisers, who exchanged uneasy glances as unobtrusively as possible, the Caliph only beamed pleasure at his son and said, “Another dream! Tell us at once. Was it also wonderful?”
“It was,” the Prince pronounced, “wonderful beyond compare.”
Steadying himself as well as his excitement allowed, he said, “I stood upon a great height, and below me lay the city of Arbin at night, unscrolled with all its lights as legible as any text, so that the movements of the least streetsweeper as well as the activities of the mightiest house were plain to be read. Indeed, the city itself was also alive, breathing its own air, flexing its own limbs, adding its own superscript to the writing of the lights. I knew that the truth and goodness and folly of all our people were written there for me to read.
“Yet as I began to read, the height on which I stood grew even greater, and the city itself expanded, and I shrank to a mote among them—a mote without loss or grief, however, but rather a part at once of the lights and of the darkness between the lights, much as a particle of blood partakes of all blood while it surges through the veins.” The Prince spoke with a thrill in his voice which answered my skepticism, a blaze in his eyes which bore me with him. “Thus at the same time I rose and shrank, losing myself within a greatness that transformed and illumined me. I rose and shrank, and the city grew, and the lights became stars and suns and glories, lifting every living heart to heights which we have never known. And the darkness between the lights was the solace in which every living heart rests from wonder.
“While I dreamed, I was among the heavens and the gods.”
There he stopped. His chest rose and fell with the strength of his breathing, and the fever in his eyes abated slowly.
“This is truly a wonder,” said His Serene Goodness when he had collected his thoughts, “a wonder and wonderful.” Like his advisers, he had no intention of repeating the mistake of the previous occasion. “Is this not so, Vizier?”
“It is, my lord,” replied Moshim Mosha Va sagely. He tugged at his beard for a moment, then ventured to add, “Perhaps it is also something more.”
“More?” The Prince and his father spoke at once, but in differing tones. Abdul dar-El Haj was naturally delighted by anything which would enable him to think even better of his son. Young Akhmet, however, appeared strangely suspicious.
“To remember one dream, my lord,” said the Vizier, echoing my earlier ruminations, “is pleasant and desirable. More so when the dream itself is peaceful and lovely. But to remember two—two such dreams in so short a time—is unusual. It may be that Prince Akhmet has been given a gift. It may be that he has been touched by wisdom or prophecy. In that case, his dreams may have meaning which it would be folly to ignore.
“Perhaps we would do well, my lord, to seek interpretation for his dreams.”
Both the Caliph and his son were startled by this suggestion, and now their expressions were nearly identical. His Serene Goodness had too much common sense—and too little imagination—to believe that a gift of wisdom or prophecy would be a good thing in an heir. And the Prince seemed to dislike any deflection of attention from the dream itself. Nevertheless he held his peace, and his father turned to the Most Holy Khartim a-Kul.
“Do you concur, High Priest?”
Khartim a-Kul waggled the fringe on his hat to conceal his squirming. Wisdom and prophecy were matters of religion, and did not belong to spoiled young princes. Yet he could not ignore his responsibility to His Serene Goodness, or to Arbin.
“Two dreams are only two dreams, my lord,” he murmured judiciously. “It is, however, better to search for meaning where meaning is absent, than to ignore it where it is present.�
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Sadly, Abdul dar-El Haj was not judicious where his son was concerned, and so did not enjoy judiciousness in others. Somewhat sourly, he demanded, “Then interpret this dream for us, High Priest. Give us the insight of the gods.”
The Most Holy Khartim a-Kul rumbled inchoately past the dangles of his hat. He did not enjoy being made to squirm. Neither did he like to fail either his religion or his ruler. After a moment, he said, “The language of dreams, my lord, is private, and requires study. There are interpreters who make a specialty of such matters.” Seeing the Caliph’s mounting vexation, however, he hastened to add, “Yet I might hazard to say, my lord, that this dream speaks of Prince Akhmet’s future. At that forever-to-be-lamented day when your Serene Goodness ceases to be Caliph in Arbin, and Prince Akhmet ascends to his inheritance, he will be one in spirit as well as in body with all his people—‘much as a particle of blood partakes of all blood.’ He will see the good of the whole as well as the good of each individual, and will rule with the same selfless benevolence which has made Abdul dar-El Haj beloved throughout this land.”
Thus the High Priest of the Mosque extricated himself from his lord’s displeasure.
While I, who see peril everywhere, saw peril not in Khartim a-Kul’s interpretation, but in young Akhmet’s reaction.
So vehemently that spittle sprang from his lips, he snapped, “Nonsense, Priest. You rave. Dreams have no meaning. Only the memory of them has meaning.”
In fury, he withdrew himself from the court.
The Caliph was shocked. “Now what have we done amiss?” he inquired plaintively.
None of his advisers answered. Apparently we had once again misunderstood Prince Akhmet’s reasons for relating his dream.
Later, we learned that the Prince had gone straight to his father’s harem, where he had covered one of his favorite women savagely, leaving the marks of his teeth on her breasts—marks which took weeks to heal.
So the seeds of concern were planted.
Those seeds did not sprout, however, until the Prince dreamed again, despite the fact that during the interval he tended them in a desultory fashion, giving them occasional water and fertilizer. In a time of unusual application to the study of weapons, he presumed upon his favored station to do one of his instructors an injury. He became increasingly rough in his treatment of women. His commands to his servants were sometimes far-fetched—and sometimes his anger was extreme when those commands were not carried out to his satisfaction. Such signs, however, such bubbles rising from the depths of the pool, were generally ignored. We are taught to be indulgent of the behavior of princes. And he was still young. In the words of one of his grooms, he had conceived an itch which he did not know how to scratch. Therefore he was irritable. And he had not yet learned the benefits of self-restraint.
Finally, Akhmet’s actions passed unheeded because our fears were focused elsewhere. After many years of health, His Serene Goodness Abdul dar-El Haj began to fail. A cough which the physicians could not ease brought blood to his lips in flecks. His appetite left him, and his flesh began to sag from his bones. His wives lost the capacity to comfort him. Often he needed assistance to rise from his cushions. Because he was so much beloved, the sight of his decline filled his advisers and all his people with grief. We had little heart to spare for the vagaries of the young Prince.
So he committed small hurts without reprimand, performed small acts of unreason without restraint, caused petty vexations throughout the court, and was ignored. Too little notice was taken of him until he dreamed again.
This time, his dream brought him out of sleep in the lonely hours of the night. Such was the power he remembered that he could not contain himself until morning. He must relate what he had seen. Regardless of the Caliph’s weakness, Prince Akhmet hurried at once to his father’s chamber, where physicians stood watch at his father’s bedside, and maidens dabbed away the blood as it came to his father’s lips.
“I have dreamed again,” he announced peremptorily, ignoring his father’s weakness, his father’s uneasy sleep, “the most wonderful dream.”
With difficulty, His Serene Goodness opened his eyes. Perhaps because he was still partly in sleep, or perhaps because his pain ruled him, or perhaps because he could not be blind to his son’s inconsideration, he replied in a weary tone, “I, too, have had a dream. I dreamed that I had a son who loved me.”
At this time, young Akhmet was still within reach of chagrin. He seemed to see his father’s illness for the first time, and all his demand left him. Falling to his knees at the bedside, he cried, “Father, forgive me. You are ill, and I have been heedless, heartless. What can I do to comfort you? Why do these physicians not heal you? Why do you tolerate them, if they have no power to heal you? I will do everything I can.”
This at once dispelled whatever anger the Caliph may have felt toward his son. Stroking the youth’s beautiful head, he said, “You will give me ease if you tell me of your dream. Only be still while my advisers are summoned, so that they may hear you also. And permit the High Priest to bring his interpreters, so that the truth of your wonderful dream may be understood.”
Prince Akhmet bit his lips, plainly distraught. Yet he acceded to his father’s wishes.
And so the advisers of the court were summoned to Abdul dar-El Haj’s chamber, along with interpreters roused and admonished by the Most Holy Khartim a-Kul himself.
In the corridors of the palace, upon the way to the Caliph’s sickchamber, I encountered Moshim Mosha Va. The High Priest of the Mosque strode some paces ahead of us with his interpreters. We were able to speak quietly.
“This is unseemly,” said the Vizier, with disgust hidden under his beard. “I am old. I need more sleep.”
“You are old,” I replied, “and need less sleep, not more. You have no more use for dreams.”
He snorted to me. “You are glib, wizard. I know of no other reason why the Most Pompous Khartim a-Kul has not branded you a heretic. But glibness will not save you when that little shit becomes Caliph. For myself, I believe I will put an end to my life. I do not wish to spend my waning years tormented by his fancies.”
I smiled at the thought that the disputatious Vizier would ever consent to death. Pleasantly, I answered, “That is because you do not understand him.”
He paused to peer closely into my face. “Do you?”
“No,” I admitted. “But I will.” I must. Have I not said that I see peril everywhere?
Together, we followed the High Priest into the sickchamber of His Serene Goodness Abdul dar-El Haj.
The young Prince still knelt at his father’s side. The Caliph’s fingers stroked his son’s fine hair. In that pose, the lord appeared to be passing his blessing to his heir.
“Come and hear what my son has dreamed,” said His Serene Goodness when we had gathered around him. “This is the third dream, and must have meaning.” It seemed that the Caliph had reconciled himself to the idea of a gods-gifted scion. Or perhaps he realized, in his unimaginative way, that Prince Akhmet must be reconciled to himself in order to become a fit lord for Arbin. “High Priest, are these men the interpreters of dreams?”
“They are, my lord,” answered the Most Holy Khartim a-Kul, sounding more than ever like a subterranean mishap. “We have prayed over the young Prince and consulted the stars.”
I knew for a fact that this was pious falsehood. Khartim a-Kul had had no attention to spare for Akhmet. All his hours had been spent in preparation for the rites and ceremonies of the Caliph’s passing, and of the installation of a new lord. I kept this knowledge to myself, however.
“We are ready,” the High Priest concluded, “to bring you our best insight.”
“Very well,” said His Serene Goodness as though his breath were fading. “Let my son speak his dream.”
At the Caliph’s bedside, Prince Akhmet rose to his feet and told us what he had dreamed.
“In my dream, I saw a mighty suzerain, a nameless caliph in a land I have never kn
own. He was in the time of his best youth, and though I did not know him and could not name him, his features were the features of the Caliph of Arbin, His Serene Goodness Abdul dar-El Haj, my father.”
Had the Prince been more of a politician, I would have believed this beginning false. But it was impossible to mistake the ardor of his stance, or the growing hunger in his gaze.
“His head was crowned with light,” said young Akhmet, “and love lived in his eyes, and his limbs were of such beauty that all hearts were drawn to him. He was the center of the storm, where peace lives untouched by pain. He was the pause between the beats of the pulse, the rest between respirations, and his gift to all who knew him was balm.
“Yet he was more than this. Indeed, when he spread out his hands, the world was shaped by his gestures, so that nature itself took on the form of his will. He stretched his fingers, and plains were made. He shrugged his shoulders, and mountains grew. Where he pointed, there were rivers. The seed of his loins gave birth to new peoples, and his caress left all women faint with pleasure.”
While he spoke, I observed, as I should have observed weeks ago, that he had changed. His lips had grown pinched like a simoniac’s, and his cheeks hinted at hollowness, and his form was as gaunt as his youth and beauty permitted. Regret is useless, but still I regretted that I had not turned my attention to him earlier.
“And in my dream,” he continued, “the storm of pain which drives all men, but which could only run in circles of folly around the nameless caliph, took notice of him and grew wrathful, for it is not given to men that they should be free of pain, or that they should free others, or that the world should shape itself to their will. Therefore the storm moved against him. Great was its wrath, and terrible, and whole lands and peoples were bereaved by its power. The reach of his beneficence was constricted as pain bore peace away and his place in the center of the storm shrank.
Reave the Just and Other Tales Page 16
