Zulu Heart

by Steven Barnes

  “That … and the fact that the first time I fought for ego. The second, for love.”

  “Love?”

  Kai smiled. “I did not wish you to die at the mosque.”

  The Naqsh Kabir was a sacred symbol, also called Al Naqsh Al Wajid Allah: “The sign of the presence of God.” It comprised a circle inscribed with an equilateral triangle as well as six other linking lines. The Naqsh Kabir was plotted out on the ground, its circle cubits in diameter. Kai instructed Aidan to move along the lines, crouched low enough to make his legs burn. “Move,” he chanted, his voice become a hateful thing that pushed and challenged and never accepted less than a total effort. “Down, up!”

  Aidan performed a corkscrew motion that Kai had taught him, called a selo, going from standing position, turning from the hips without moving the position of his feet, going all the way down until he was in a cross-legged sitting position, then reversing the motion so that he returned to standing, and then screwed back down in the opposite direction.

  Grueling.

  After a repetition, he stepped to the next position on the Naqsh Kabir and performed the movement again. He carried a cannonbell at his shoulder, elbow tucked tightly to his side to prevent undue pressure on the joint. Every breath was torture as his chest fought to expand against resistance. “Kai!” he gasped. “Kai. I am dying! What worse can this German do to me?”

  “None. Which is the point. The more I hurt you here, the less he can hurt you in New Alexandria.”

  Aidan snarled at him. Kai laughed and spanked his palms together.

  “More?” Aidan gasped.

  “I think that that is all for now,” Kai averred.

  “Thank goodness,” Aidan said, flopping onto his back.

  “And now, massage.”

  Aidan sat up and grinned. “Ah,” said Aidan. “I have seen the masseuses you enjoy. Things are finally starting to look up.”

  Bitta entered the room, her bare arms like ebony timbers. She smiled without mirth.

  “I leave you in the most capable hands I know,” said Kai.

  Bitta knelt at Aidan’s side. She began gently enough, but within two minutes she was torqueing and twisting his arms until he thought she would wrench them from their sockets. “Kai? I … uh … ow!”

  Kai smiled as he left. Behind him, Aidan howled into the mat.

  As the days passed, Kai, Babatunde, and the other students used the Naqsh Kabir symbol to help Aidan visualize what they called “lines of engagement.” They drilled him without mercy on a few very simple motions, corkscrewing up and down from the floor. When he screamed for mercy they asked him to reexamine the structural triumvirate, to reintegrate breathing, motion, and posture.

  And to his surprise and grudging delight, whenever he paused to balance them, his acid emotional surge decreased, and he tapped reservoirs of endurance and coordination he would never have imagined.

  Breath. Motion. Posture.

  Aidan came to understand that he was undergoing a simplified, condensed version of the program Kai and Babatunde had devised after Malik’s death, a program which had been designed to use pain, exhaustion, and stress to implant lessons deeply in Kai’s brain. It would teach him to relax and maintain what they called wasîr hurûm, “soft eyes,” even in the midst of a killing frenzy.

  The Irishman thought that the terrifying Malik would have been proud.

  The cannonbells with their ungodly thick handles were used sometimes at the beginnings of sessions to force him to labor in a condition of fatigue, and sometimes at the end to drain the very last strength from his unresisting body.

  Then, limp as a dead fish, Aidan was massaged, fed, and rested. He had no obligations but to exercise, train, eat, and sleep.

  And for that, he thanked the God he no longer believed in.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  In the privacy of her suite, Nandi touched her forehead to that of her old nurse, the sixty-year-old Baleka. In addition to her other skills, Baleka also possessed extensive knowledge of traditional Zulu medicines.

  “I know,” Nandi said to her, “that your knowledge of herbs and umuthi is complete.”

  “Uphethwe yini?”

  “No, no … I am well. There is another need I must ask you to fill.”

  “I have a few skills, ma’am,” said Baleka. “Time to time, I make up a little something. A poultice, or an umuthi.”

  Nandi nodded. “I am certain. I need a favor of you, one that requires that you follow my orders explicitly, and tell no one.”

  Baleka retreated a step, tilting her head a bit sideways. “Especially…?”

  “The masters of the house.”

  Baleka smiled. Happily, at no time had Baleka seemed intimidated by their new home. At the moment, that attitude worked to the princess’s advantage.

  “Good. I want you to find me these things.” Nandi extended a slip of paper. Baleka scanned it, and then as Nandi had expected, nodded in the affirmative.

  Kai and Aidan sat comfortably cross-legged on the floor in Babatunde’s study, awaiting instruction.

  Three nights a week, Babatunde taught lessons to Aidan, but his duties hardly stopped there. He was intimately involved with the orphanage and its operation, still gave zikr to his flock in the tiny mosque the Wakil Abu Ali had once constructed for him, and was tasked as well with continuing Kai’s education.

  Ordinarily he might have taken a free evening and spent the night in Djibouti Harbor working with his friend Kokossa, but he had chosen instead to delve more deeply into the Irishman’s mind and heart. He was not trying to create another Kai: for that, Babatunde had neither the skills nor the time. This was not a long-term program, but a shortened path to the ability to conquer one specific foe. Still, whatever tools they gave Aidan would have to function under the most severe stress imaginable. To do that, he had to anchor those skills where fear and despair could not reach. And to do that, he had to understand Aidan’s previous spiritual teachings. How much simpler this might have been if Aidan were a believer! Still, Babatunde believed that the Irishman’s quest was honorable, one pleasing in the eyes of the One God, by whatever name He might be called. “Where were we yesterday?” He asked.

  Kai spoke first. “Aidan was telling us of his people’s beliefs.”

  “What I can remember,” Aidan said. “I am not a student of these things.”

  “Posh. Yesterday you mentioned a blessing your wise women placed upon you. Tell us again. This may work well for us, Aidan. As there is but one God, the creator of the universe, worshipped by all men under many names, there are phenomena of mind and body that men all the world over have seen, truth that goes far beyond culture and even race. What are the names of the ‘three cauldrons’?”

  Aidan furrowed his brow. “The Coire Soís,” he said. “The Cauldron of Knowing.”

  “And its location in the body?”

  “The forehead, I think. Coire Ernmae, the Cauldron of Vocation.” He thumped himself over the chest. “Coire Goiriath, the Cauldron of Warming.” And here he touched his navel. “I think that’s it.”

  “Those who have achieved vision, be they of whatever culture or people, see the same inner truth. What the Irish call the Coire Ernmae is called Anahata by the Indians and Kheper by Egyptians. My own people consider this space sacred to the god Ogun. It is generally known as the ‘heart center.’ It corresponds to emotion, and also forward motion.”

  Kai cocked his head slightly to the side. “Malik alluded to this, although he rarely spoke directly.”

  Babatunde sighed. “Malik lived in the material world, and was afraid to open his eyes to the ocean of energy birthed by Allah. Although his body was attuned to it—explaining his mastery—his mind could see nothing greater than himself. To such a man, old age and death are the greatest horrors imaginable.” He looked on the verge of saying more, but appeared to change mental paths. “Tell me, Kai, what you remember of his teaching.”

  “He said that the iKung people of the Kalahari say
there are three major centers in the body: head center, heart center, and belly brain.”

  Babatunde nodded. “There are similar divisions among the natives of this continent, I believe. Continue.”

  Kai closed his eyes, urging memory. “Through these centers flows the Life Force.” He shook his head. “I cannot remember the word.”

  “I cannot help there. My own people, the Yoruba, call this force Ashé. The Egyptians call it Ra-Buto. The Indians Prana. The Chinese Chi. The Greeks, who learned the concept from Egypt, called it Pneuma.” He leaned close to them. “Listen to me,” he said. “Whenever you find similar concepts in dissimilar cultures, there is a good chance that wisdom lies beneath the façade.”

  Kai closed his eyes and recited. “What Malik said is that to the warrior, the importance of the three centers is thus:

  “One: the head center controls motion left and right.

  “Two: the heart center controls motion forward and back.

  “Three: the belly brain controls motion up and down. It is also the seat of instinctive motion, and is the most important center for the fighter to master.” Kai blinked and then opened his eyes. That is what I chiefly remember.”

  Babatunde smiled. “Yes. But he left something out. The other centers are essential if the fighter would be a master. The lower centers are ‘animal,’ dealing with survival. Anahata, or the domain of Ogun, marks the beginning of wisdom. Until wisdom is attained, one cannot truly ‘move forward’ on the road of life.”

  “Do the Sufi have a word for this same center?” Aidan asked.

  “Of course. The heart is the place of the ‘moving soul.’ Its business is with the knowledge of the spiritual path. Its work deals with the first four of the Beautiful Names of the Essence of Allah.”

  “What are they?” Kai asked.

  “As with the rest of the twelve Names of the Essence, these four Names have neither sound nor letters. They cannot be pronounced.

  “The twelve Divine Names are within the origin of the Confession of Unity, La ilaha illa Llah, There is no god but the One God.”

  “What is this ‘moving soul’?” Kai urged.

  “The place of the ‘moving soul’ is within the life of the heart. It can see Paradise, its inhabitants, its light, and all the angels.” Babatunde’s voice became contemplative and far-off. “The speech of the ‘moving soul’ is the speech of the inner world, without words, without sound.

  “It is the heart of the heart. Its business is divine wisdom. The Prophet, Peace Be Upon Him, said, ‘Knowledge is in two sections. One is in man’s tongue, which is the confirmation of Allah’s existence. The other is in man’s heart. It is in this secret heart that He deposited His secret, sirr, for safekeeping. “Man is My secret, and I am the secret of man.”’”

  “I don’t understand,” Aidan said. “My head hurts. What does all of this have to do with fighting?”

  “Your head hurts because it is too small to contain Allah’s creation. But that same creation is contained within your heart. Every beast of the field knows naturally how to fight for its survival, and the survival of its family. Only man must be taught to open his heart, because only man is divine. And yet priests and Imams, being human, seek to insert themselves between man and Allah, telling us that the secret to salvation lies outside ourselves. Why would Allah create a creature that he loves without giving that creature means to seek counsel directly? To whom must a baby plead to have access to his mother’s breast?”

  At this odd thought, both Aidan and Kai chuckled.

  “That would be thought heresy in many places,” Kai said.

  “Sufism has almost always been regarded as heresy. We believe that the universe and God are one. Since humans are part of creation, a human being can, through true journeying along the inner path, become one with Allah.”

  Babatunde stood and paced. “Each of you will understand my words in a different way. Although you are the same age, your life experiences have differed greatly. But the heart-space connection between you could not be stronger if you were twins.”

  Kai and Aidan glanced at each other, and after a moment, gave embarrassed smiles. “It does no good to argue with him,” Kai said. “He’ll just wear you down with another hour’s lecture.”

  “The heart, my students. Aidan: listen to the Cauldron of Vocation. It beats within your breast. Sit quietly, and listen to what it has to tell you about your path. Then put your feet on that path, regardless of the cost, and you will approach your truth.

  “And Kai,” he said, facing the Wakil. “Follow the path of Kheper, the home of the moving soul. You are surrounded by serpents, who will challenge you in manners you cannot now comprehend. To either side of you will be knives. But as Setepenamen was said to have cut the Phrygian Knot, your heart will see you through the complexity, and the dark night ahead.”

  He paused. “Aidan, you think that Kai saved you that terrible day in Malik’s courtyard. Yes. He saved your life, and family. But your heart connection, his love for you, saved his soul, and his uncle’s as well.”

  At that they were both stunned into silence. “To do what is right as opposed to what is legal, or expected, or customary, is the action of the righteous man. But to follow your heart when mind as well as body urge you toward disaster—that is the door to enlightenment.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kai said.

  “Not yet,” Babatunde said. “But I see the clouds forming. One day, and not a day far away, you will understand.”

  Kai closed his eyes. “It is strange,” he said. “I feel fear, and am not certain why.”

  “Because to truly move from one level to another is like awakening as a surgeon is sewing up your abdomen. Do you imagine that a child in the womb feels no trepidation when his mother brings him into the world? We would avoid this at all costs, but cannot. We can but lose ourselves in the pleasures of the world—sex, drink, power—to distract us from death.”

  “Death?”

  “Death. Of the body, or the ego. ‘Die before you die,’ remember those words?”

  They had originally been uttered by the Prophet. On becoming a Sufi, Kai had been asked to compare that statement with another, found in the holy Hadith Qutsi. ‘My servant hates to die, and I hate to disappoint him.’ Both statements related to the dissolution of what is transitory in man: ego and will. With the “death” of these, true wisdom might flower. “Never could I forget them.”

  . “Remember them,” Babatunde said gravely, “in the days ahead. Whatever man has done to lift one of you, and lower the other, know why you were brought together.”

  “And why is that?” Aidan asked.

  “I think you have one heart. You are brothers, born in different worlds, who now share a common path,” Babatunde said. “The world will not embrace what you are,” he said. But now he smiled. “So perhaps, you must change the world.”

  “Mashallah,” Kai answered. Whatever Allah wants, happens.

  “Just this once,” Aidan said, “I’d rather it be what I want.”

  “Why not? You believe in God in your way, your Christ….”

  “My mother believed in Jesus,” said Aidan. “I tried to.”

  “Please,” said Babatunde. “Go on.”

  “No offense, Kai—I can understand how you can believe in God. After all, His light shines upon you, and all your people as well. But fate has brought me little save misery. My mother believed, and her days brought her only pain, shame, and death.”

  “We are not meant to understand the mystery of His ways,” said Babatunde.

  “Again,” said Aidan, “easy for you to say. I can’t believe. I’m sorry.”

  There was a pause, then Babatunde sighed. “We can proceed with your willingness to open your mind. Do you trust us?”

  “With my life.”

  “For now, that will suffice.”

  Kai shook his head. “I feel sorrow that your tribulations have driven you to question the existence of He who created us all.”<
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  “And chose that you, and those like you, could buy and sell me, and those like me. I am afraid that if I believed in God … I would hate him.”

  Babatunde gave one hard, flat chuckle. “Then unbelief is a better place to begin, my young friend.”

  With a piece of yellow chalk, Babatunde traced the Naqsh Kabir upon the wall.

  “Oh, damn,” Aidan said. “This thing again?”

  Kai nodded. “We have to structure your mind, give you a way to hold and associate all that we’re teaching you. You will dream this symbol, the Naqsh Kabir.”

  “Nightmares, more likely,” said Aidan.

  “Shall we begin?”

  Aidan agreed, and Babatunde moved closer. “Close your eyes. Visualize a circle. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now the triangle within the circle. Then two parallel lines …”

  Later, while Aidan sat cross-legged and attempted to meditate, Kai and Babatunde talked outside the room.

  “I did not know,” Kai said.

  “And you blame yourself?”

  “How can I not? If my friend dies without the light of Allah, his soul perishes.”

  Babatunde gazed up into his student’s eyes. “It is our task, our privilege, to bring lost sheep to the fold. He thinks that his people’s bondage is a sign that there is no God. What do you say?”

  “I say that I know there is a God, and that slavery is an institution of men.”

  “It is not the creation of Allah?”

  “No.”

  “So Allah exists, and is good?”

  “Yes!”

  “Would you be so certain, were you Aidan?”

  Kai opened his mouth and then closed it again, then furrowed his brows as Babatunde walked away.

  Day by day Aidan flowered, his mental and physical efforts awakening a hunger to know, to find some truth beyond the pain and pleasure of his senses. God there might not be, but still he sensed a world that seemed to expand as he explored it, revealing one layer after another, a richness surpassing expectation.