Ordinarily, I would have enjoyed dinner and music, savouring the strange otherness of tastes and sounds, but in my downcast mood I merely grew fretful and uneasy. I wanted to flee the room and spend the last moments with Kazimain, alone. I wanted to hold her, to love her. I wanted to feel the softness of her skin, to feel her warm and yielding flesh in my arms. I wanted to tell her…Alas, there was so much I wanted to tell her, I could not think. My mind spun anxiously; my thoughts whirled like leaves in a tempest, and I could get no peace.
And then, when the meal was finished and the last of the dancers departed, the women rose from the table and disappeared through a door on the far side of the room.
I made to follow, but Faysal laid a hand on my arm. “They go to the harim,” he informed me good-naturedly, “where no man is permitted—not even moon-eyed lovers.”
“But I must speak to Kazimain,” I insisted.
He shrugged. “Tomorrow you will speak to her.”
Tomorrow will be too late, I thought, and followed the women out of the room. They crossed a torch-lit courtyard and disappeared behind a high door. The harim guard bowed his head respectfully at my approach, but made no move to step aside. “I wish to speak to Kazimain,” I told him.
“You will wait here, please,” he said in a soft, almost feminine voice. The guard returned a few moments later to say that Kazimain did not wish to speak to me.
“Did you tell her who asked to see her?” I challenged.
“I told her,” replied the guard. “Princess Kazimain expressed her inestimable regret, and wished her future husband a good night.”
“But I—” I began, and then realized I did not know what I could say to her anyway. I returned to the banquet hall and slumped heavily in my seat.
“Take my advice and eat something,” urged Faysal. “The journey will be hard and we will not find food like this on the way. Eat! Enjoy yourself.”
But I could eat nothing more, and sat watching the surrounding revelry in a misery of agitation and regret. When at last the amir retired to his private quarters, and we were free to stay or go as we would, I left the continuing celebration and went to my room where I spent a restless, wakeful night.
The thin dawn light found me ill-rested and on edge. At the sound of footsteps in the corridor, I rose at once, and realized that I had been listening all night for that sound. But it was not Kazimain who entered my room—an unknown servant appeared and placed the familiar tray on the wooden stand. The servant asked if there was anything else I required, then departed. Ignoring the food, I dressed instead, and then stood staring out the windhole, watching Ja’fariya come to life beneath the sun’s watery rays. I thought of going to find Kazimain, and though I would not be allowed to enter the harim, I thought I might at least send a message for her to meet me in the courtyard.
I had just decided on this plan when I once again heard footsteps in the corridor. Thinking that Kazimain had come after all, I turned expectantly. A young serving boy appeared, and my heart fell. “Please, master,” said the boy, his bow quick, all but indiscernible, “I am to say the horses are ready.”
I thanked the boy and, taking a last look around my little cell of a room, I picked up my parchment scroll and tucked it carefully into an inner fold of my robe. I then proceeded along the corridor, and down the stairs, through the hall, and out into the courtyard where the horses were saddled and waiting.
For the sake of speed, the amir had decided that we should travel with no more than ten of the rafiq; the amir, Faysal, and myself, brought the number to thirteen. The same number as that of the monks who had begun the ill-fated pilgrimage, I thought ruefully, and it seemed an unfortunate coincidence to me. I might have prayed that this pilgrimage met with better success than the last one, but God, I knew, would heed not a word anyway. So, I saved my breath for breathing.
The amir had ordered the handsome grey saddled for me, and I walked to where a groom stood holding the reins, and spoke to the horse as Sadiq had done. Yaqin tossed her head and nuzzled my neck, giving every sign that she remembered me.
“She likes you.”
I turned quickly. “Kazimain! I hoped I would see you before we left. I feared—”
“What? That I would let my almost-husband go away without wishing him farewell?” She stepped nearer, and I could see that she had put off her sorrow and was now reconciled to the necessity of my leaving. Indeed, she seemed cheerful and resolute—as if she was determined to make the best of my absence.
“I would give anything to stay with you,” I told her.
“I know.” She smiled. “I will miss you while we are apart, but it will only make our joy the greater when we meet again.”
“And I will miss you, Kazimain.” I ached to take her in my arms and kiss her, but such a thing was not done; it would have brought her into disrepute among her people. I was constrained to satisfy myself with merely gazing at her, and engraving her face upon my memory.
She grew uncomfortable beneath my gaze and lowered her eyes to her hands where she held a small silk-wrapped bundle. “A gift for you,” she said. I thanked her and asked what it was, preparing to open it. “No,” she said, laying a warm hand upon mine. “Do not open it now. Later, when you are far from here—then open it and think of me.”
“Very well.” I tucked the parcel into my belt. “Kazimain, I—” Now was my chance, but I found I was no better prepared than before; words abandoned me. “I am sorry, Kazimain. I wish it could be otherwise—deeply do I wish it.”
“I know,” she said.
Just then Lord Sadiq emerged from the palace. Faysal signalled to the rafiq, who mounted their horses and began riding towards the gate; he then called to me: “Be mounted! We go!”
“Farewell, Kazimain,” I said awkwardly. “I love you.”
She raised a hand to her lips and, kissing her finger-tips, pressed them to my lips. “Go with God, my love,” she whispered. “I will pray for us both every day until we are together once more.”
Abruptly, she turned and hastened away. Darting between the pillars, she was gone. Faysal called again, and I climbed into the saddle and followed him out. We proceeded through the still-empty streets of Ja’fariya, the air cool where shadows yet lingered. The amir rode at the head of the column with Faysal behind, leading the three pack mules, and myself beside him.
In no time at all we passed the city gates, and proceeded along the main road which ran beside the Tigris River which, at that time of the year, was little more than a turgid stream, much withered between its rock-bound banks. The stone of the region was pale pink, and the colour had seeped into the land, making the dust and soil ruddy. The further from the city we travelled, the more desolate the surrounding hills became. We soon left the few outlying settlements—with their pink, cracked-mud hovels and tiny, scrupulously tended fields—far behind.
We rode through the morning, pausing only briefly to water the horses. I had never ridden so far all at once, and it was not long before I began to feel the ache in my legs. Faysal observed my distress. “In a few days, you will feel like you were born to the saddle.” He laughed at the face I made at this, and informed me, “Do not worry, my friend. We will rest during the heat of the day.”
The sun was so hot by then that I reckoned the resting place he spoke of could not be far. But when Sadiq showed no sign of halting, I asked Faysal if he thought the amir had forgotten. “He has not forgotten, never fear,” he laughed. “See the trees?” He squinted far ahead into the distance towards a dusty green clump amidst the pale pink rocks. “We can shelter there.”
Indeed, we might well have sheltered there, but we did not. Upon reaching the place, we rode on. I looked back longingly, and Faysal laughed, and pointed to another clump of trees on the horizon. Alas, we passed those, too, and another as well before the amir at last turned his mount towards the welcome shade of a tamarisk grove.
The instant the mare came to a halt, I threw myself from the saddle, and only then rea
lized how very sore I had become. It was all I could do to stand upright, and I could not take a step without wincing. “We water the horses first,” Faysal said; he spoke in a kindly way, but his meaning was clear enough. I hobbled after him, leading Yaqin to the riverbank where she could drink her fill. We then unsaddled our mounts and staked them to long tethers beneath the trees so they could graze on whatever they might find.
Only then did we refresh ourselves, returning to the river a short way upstream of where the horses had drunk. There we knelt on the damp soil, splashed water over our heads, filled our mouths with water and spit it out once more. The water was too silty to drink, but it wet our mouths. We quenched our thirst from the waterskins the mules carried. And then we settled down beneath the trees to rest.
The rafiq talked in low voices among themselves, and I lay back half-asleep listening to the murmur of their speech—like the lazy drone of insects humming in the shade beneath the trees. I do not remember sleeping; indeed, I do not think I closed my eyes at all. I was simply leaning with my back against the tree, staring up through the shadowed leaves into the pale blue sky above, when all at once I saw the heavens opened up and a great golden city revealed.
I made to cry out, so the others might see this marvel, but my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth and I could not utter a sound, so I watched in mute amazement as the dazzling city descended slowly from the sky. The glorious place gleamed and shone with a radiance far surpassing any earthly light, and this gave me to know that I was seeing the Heavenly City itself.
As if to confirm this assumption, there came a sound like that of the ocean in full gale: a deep-booming roar of majestic and limitless power, a voice to shake the foundations of the earth. The wind-wail swelled until it filled all the world; my inward parts vibrated with the sound, and I felt as if the ground whereon I lay might crumble beneath me and flow away like water. Strangely, no one else appeared to notice either the terrible din or the sharp, bright rays of light streaming all around.
I tried to stand, to run, but had lost control of my limbs and could not move. I could but stare, transfixed as the white-clothed citizens of the Heavenly City began streaming earthward on the piercing shafts of light—angels, speeding to earth on various mercies and intercessions. The sound I heard was that of the ceaseless movement of their wings as they hurtled down.
How, I wondered, was it possible that this sound was not heard among men? For the mighty wind-roar permeated all the world, and filled the heavens. Indeed, it seemed more substantial than any mere created thing, and more enduring—a tremendous column to uphold the fabric of the world.
One of the heavenly minions flew towards me, striking down from the sky like lightning. Towering above the tree where I reclined, his face shining with all the intensity of the sun, he gazed down upon me with fearful severity. “How long?” he said, shaking the leaves on the branches with the force of his demand.
He seemed to expect an answer, but I remained mute before him, still unable to open my mouth. When I did not speak, he cried out again. “How long, O man?”
I did not understand the question. Perhaps he sensed my confusion, or heard the thought in my head, for he looked down upon me and said, “How long, Faithless One, will you offend heaven with your arrogance?”
Lifting a radiant hand, he swept his arm wide, and I saw the whole vast army of heaven encamped around us with their horses and chariots of fire. I could not endure the sight, and had to close my eyes lest they be burned to cinders in my skull.
“Remember,” the angel intoned, “all flesh is grass.”
Opening my eyes, I looked again; but the chariots and their shining occupants were gone, and gone, too, the heavenly messenger who had spoken to me.
I could move again and my mouth was unstopped. I looked around and was amazed to see everything precisely as it had been before. No one gave the slightest indication of having seen or heard anything. The warriors still sat talking, the horses still cropped the dry grass. Nothing had changed. I lay back against the tree and closed my eyes. Sure, the heat and sun had combined to induce a waking dream.
That is what I told myself, and I believed it, too. By the time we roused ourselves to continue on, I had persuaded myself that I had seen and heard nothing—a fleeting trick of the imagination only. If there had been anything out of the ordinary…sure, the others would have seen and heard it, too.
This strained certainty remained with me through the rest of the day, and I gradually put the incident from my mind. The following days bled together, each melting into the next like ice shards in the sun with nothing to distinguish one from another. We rode and rested, ate, slept, and rose to ride again. Each day’s end saw the gradual advance of the ragged line of mountains to the north. After five days, we turned away from the river and proceeded north-east towards the foothills of the nearer range. “The mines are there,” Sadiq told me; he pointed to a cleft low down on one of the larger crags. “We must go through that pass to reach them.”
“How far is it?” I asked, anticipation quickening within me. “How many days?”
“Four, perhaps.” The amir considered this for a moment. “Yes, four—if all goes well.”
“And how many until we reach the mine?”
“Another day—the mountain trails are very bad.”
As if to reach our destination the sooner, he pressed on with renewed vigour, driving a swifter pace. It was well after sundown when we finally stopped to make camp for the night, and I was so tired and preoccupied by the stabbing pains in my legs and thighs and back that I ate little of the stew Faysal prepared for our supper, and quickly retired in silent torment to nurse my aches.
Sleep proved elusive, however, and I lay weary and wakeful, regarding the stars in their long slow circling sweep of heaven’s dome. Without the sun to inflame it, the air grew steadily cooler, and I pulled my cloak more tightly around me and listened to the soft chitter-chatter of the insects along the river course. Eventually, I grew drowsy and closed my eyes.
It seemed as if my eyelids had no more than touched one another when a voice spoke out of the darkness. “Rise, Aidan!” whispered the voice. “Follow me.”
I woke and sat upright, and saw a figure dressed in white striding rapidly away. “Faysal!” I hissed aloud, not wishing to wake those sleeping around me. “Wait!”
He halted at the sound of my voice, but did not turn around. I struggled to my feet and, with limping steps, hurried after him. What was he doing, waking people in the dead of night?
I had taken no more than three or four paces when he moved on, leaving me to follow as best I could. “Faysal!” I called, trying to keep my voice down. “Wait!”
He led me a short distance along the riverbank to a place where the tamarisk grove thinned; here he stopped to wait. I hobbled as best I could over the rough rocky ground, forbearance rapidly turning to annoyance with every painful step. By the time I joined him, I was justly irritated at having been made to scramble after him in the dark.
“Well?” I demanded curtly. “What is so important you must drag me from my sleep?”
He gave no sign of having heard me, but continued gazing across the river. “Faysal,” I said, more loudly, “what is wrong with you?”
At this he turned, and I found myself looking into the face of dear, dead Bishop Cadoc.
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Cadoc glared at me from beneath lowered brows. “I am disappointed in you, Aidan,” he said tartly. “Disappointed in the extreme—and disgusted.”
His round face warped in a scowl, the good bishop clicked his tongue in sharp vexation. “Have you any notion of the trouble your disobedience is causing? The pit yawns before you, boy. Wake up!”
“Bishop Cadoc,” I said, annoyance melting in the strangeness of the meeting, “how do you come to be here? I saw you killed.”
“Yes, a very great gift that—and just look what you have done with it,” he growled, his frown dour and disapproving. “Think you I could stan
d aside and watch you obliterate all that has been accomplished on your behalf from the moment you were born to now?” He glared indignantly. “Well? What have you to say for yourself?”
Unable to frame a suitable reply, I simply stared at the apparition before me. It was Bishop Cadoc, without any doubt whatever. Yet, though his features were the same, he exuded health and vitality beyond any I had known him to possess; sure, he seemed more alive than many living men, and the eyes that regarded me with such disapproval held nothing otherworldly about them, but were keen as double-edged blades. His simple monk’s mantle was not white, as I supposed, but a softly glimmering material which gave a faint illumination to his face and hands—something more than moongleam, though similar—which made him appear to be standing in reflected light.
Curious, I reached out a hand to touch him—to see if his form was as solid as it appeared. “No!” He flicked up a warning hand. “Such is not permitted.” Indicating a nearby rock, he said, “Now sit you down and listen to me.”
Stubbornly, I stood. “I am no—”
“Sit!” he commanded, and I sat. Placing fists on his hips, the bishop of Cennanus na Ríg glowered. “Your stiff-necked pride has brought the pilgrimage dangerously close to failure.”
“Me!” I cried, leaping up. “I have done nothing!”
“Sit down and listen!” the bishop commanded sternly. “Night is soon over, and I must return.”
“Where?”
Ignoring the question, he said, “Lay aside your damnable pride, brother. Humble yourself before God, repent, and beg forgiveness while there is yet time.” He paused and his features softened. We might have been two monks talking by moonlight, a senior churchman chastising his wayward junior.
“Look at you! Wallowing in arrogance and self-pity, drowning in doubt—and all because of a trifling disappointment and small vexations of uncertainty. What do you know of anything?”
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