by Harold Lamb
Another servant appeared, and murmured a request.
"Nay, I will look at no letter! I will hear no message. And I do not wish a supper to be brought into the garden. Go thou, Ishak, and see to it that no one enters this garden. Take this accursed case and go!"
"But——"
"If even a jackal enters the wall, thy feet will be beaten."
The gatekeeper took the coin case and stood shuffling his feet uneasily. "But, master, there is one——"
"O God!" cried Omar, so vehemently that the servant fled.
The sun had set and twilight crept through the trees. A last breath of air stirred the surface of the pool and vanished. . . . Ghazali, walking alone down the hill paths toward the city, had found happiness in solitude. Yet Omar wondered if he himself, working among crowds, were not more alone than the mystic. Ghazali shared his thoughts with his fellow disciples; Omar had no one with whom to share his thoughts.
Out of the twilight came the low note of a lute, and a woman's song. The song was of men who came in from war to the well on the desert road, their camels laden with spoil—of the camels kneeling by the thorn bush, while the captives of the warriors wailed a lamentation. It was an Arab song, and presently Omar realized that the singer was near at hand, stroking the lute gently.
"What is this?" he demanded.
Out of the dimness Ayesha appeared. She walked with the grace of a gazelle, and she had taken the veil from her head. Kneeling close to him she bent over the lute again. "A song of the banu's Safa," she answered. "There is more—much more—of it. Will my lord hear?"
"I mean, why art thou here, Ayesha? I gave an order."
"But at the time of the order I was in the garden."
"Well, be quiet."
Obediently Ayesha put aside the lute, and curled her legs beneath her. She seemed perfectly satisfied not to make a sound. Still, she was not motionless by any means. First she thrust back the mass of dark hair, that smelled faintly of musk, from her shoulders. Then for a while she turned her face up as if contemplating the stars. After that she began to take the silver bangles from her bare arms. Whenever she moved, she turned fieetingly toward Omar.
He could not recapture the thread of his meditation. Instead he watched Ayesha's graceful hands, piling the armlets in her lap. She made the pile too high, and it fell over with a chiming of silver, and she caught her breath, like a child surprised in mischief. Her shoulder touched his lip, and he felt its warmth beneath the sheer silk covering. By now it was too dark to see anything very well.
Ayesha was concerned with her hair again, her arms raised to her head, bringing the faint scent of her body to him. Although she had said nothing at all, she had become part of the night that surrounded Omar, shutting him in from all that was outside. A few moments ago his words and his thoughts had been all-important, now only the girl's slight movements mattered.
His hand touched her knee, and a shiver ran across his flesh. Without lowering her arms, she turned her head toward him, her lips smiling. He bent down to kiss her, and suddenly she slipped away from him.
"Ayesha!" he whispered.
But this voiceless girl had altered in magical wise. She was no longer the submissive slave, fearful of his displeasure. She was a thing of the night, elusive and defiant. When he followed her she turned and fled back into the depths of the plane trees where even the stars were blind.
By chance his arm caught her shoulder and his hand fell upon the softness of her breast. Ayesha freed herself and vanished, her bare feet making no sound. All thought of kissing her had left Omar; his body was tensed in the pursuit of her, his blood quickening as they ran through the night.
Losing trace of her, he paused to listen—hearing only the throbbing in his ears, until her low laugh sounded beside him. He sprang toward it, only to stumble into a tree trunk. Again Ayesha's laugh mocked him, and this time he went toward her slowly, making no sound. She was poised to flee away when his arms caught her fast.
For a moment she struggled against him, but he was the stronger and his lips sought hers until she relaxed in his arms and her warm mouth pressed against his. Her loosened hair caressed his throat.
When he lifted her from her feet, and laid her on the ground she did not resist. Her arms closed about him and she was breathless, sobbing as the fire within her overmastered her.
A half hour later as they lay silent, relaxed and content, Omar could still feel the quick pulsing of her heart. The dancing girls he had known did not lie thus, half-unconscious. After her fashion the wild Arab girl loved him.
As for Ayesha, she had become by the night's magic a different being. All of a sudden, she ceased to be quiet and remote. Like a child she patted her hands together and began to sing softly. She laughed over her torn dress, and took his hand, begging him to come with her to swim in the pool.
Out in the starlight he could discern the slender shape of the girl, as she coiled her heavy hair hastily about her head. When she stepped into the warm water she splashed him gleefully. The very pool became aroused and animate when Ayesha cast herself into it. The night and the water and the scent of the sun-warmed roses—all this belonged to her.
"It is good," she said softly, "oh, Allah, it is good to be with my lord."
But when they had dried themselves and put on their garments, Ayesha changed into something else. She uttered an exclamation of warning, and sat listening.
"Men are coming," she whispered after a moment—Omar had heard nothing. "Yonder—look! Ai, they hold bare swords."
Looking where she pointed, Omar saw the flicker of torchlight in the mesh of the trees. It glittered on bright steel, and the brush crackled as the bearers of the torches moved toward them.
"Thou hast no weapon," cried the girl. "Quick, to thy house, to rouse the men-at-arms!"
Omar, however, was in no fear of a night attack. He waited until the men came out into the open, when he recognized Ishak, his gate-keeper, and four of his own armed followers. Still distrustful, Ayesha veiled herself and slipped back into the rose bushes.
Ishak advanced to the pool, until he saw Omar, when he gave a cry of relief.
"Ya Khwaja! We heard sounds of moving within the trees. We thought that thieves had beset thee. Then a body was thrown into the water, and I said to these ignorant ones, 'Come, we must look into this. God forbid that our master be slain!'"
Omar flushed with anger. "Has it come to this, that I cannot enjoy a girl in the garden without the whole of the household coming forth like bees from a hive?"
Snatching a scimitar from the nearest man he beat the terrified Ishak about the shoulders with the flat of the blade until blood ran. Groaning loudly, Ishak submitted patiently. He had intruded upon a woman's seclusion, and fully deserved a beating. He was glad to be beaten now, because Omar would forgive him later instead of ordering the soles threshed from his feet. The other men, sheathing their weapons covertly, were also glad, because in beating Ishak the master might forget them. Still, Ishak believed and they believed that they had done right in coming.
After a moment Omar lowered his arm and laughed. "Go, now, O ones without sense. But remember that henceforth this garden is haram—forbidden, to men."
"On my head," responded Ishak, wiping the blood from his lips. "Yet, O master, what of the gardeners; what of Hussayn and Ali and Ahmed——"
"Let them kill flies in the stable. The garden is better without them."
When the servants had departed hastily, Ayesha came forth from her hiding place. She was laughing. "Good it is that thy servants are sluggards. I would not have welcomed them a little earlier."
Omar did not think of his letters for several weeks. He did not, in fact, think of anything except Ayesha. She could go unveiled in the garden now, and she found something new to delight in every evening.
She could not share Omar's thoughts, and that became a curious tie between them. For the Tentmaker longed to escape from his own thoughts, and Ayesha understood this. In certain thi
ngs she was wiser than he—and wisest of all in her silence.
There was something of mothering in her love and something more that was fierce and unbridled. In no time the rest of the household was made aware that the Arab girl had become the master's favorite.
Ayesha would go herself to prepare the trays of his food in the kitchen. Only once did Zuleika challenge her right to do this.
"Thou hast enough," said Ayesha calmly, "to feed—all thy brats and thy low-born cousins who go away from the storehouse with meat under their coats, ay, and the pockmarked lover of thine eldest girl who should be married instead of hanging about the road. I will see to the master's dishes and try to forget what slips from thy hand."
After that Zuleika contented herself with muttered remarks about the temper of desert-born waifs.
This very remoteness of the girl from the people he had known pleased Omar. Only in his presence did she become altogether human and alive. While he knew every curve of her slim throat and every hollow of her body, he never knew what was in her mind. Lying beside him, her breath mingling with his, her eyes half closed, she seemed to be listening to something far off that he could not hear.
Then she was always surprising him. Once she asked calmly if he meant to have a eunuch to guard her apartment.
"Certainly not," he denied.
"Well, there is one now, sitting in the corridor." Ayesha felt rather pleased by the importance of a guardian eunuch. It was customary, she knew, among the gentlefolk of Islam. Still, it would not be altogether agreeable to have a creature attendant upon her all her days.
When he inspected the outer corridor Omar noticed a strange figure sitting against the wall within summons of the door. The figure—a thin black man in a red khalat—rose and crossed its hands respectfully at his approach.
"What art thou?"
"May it please the Protector of the Poor, my name is Zambal Agha, and Ishak sent for me to serve this house."
The high-pitched voice and lacklustre eyes convinced Omar of what Ayesha had perceived at a glance. "Come with me," he said.
At the gate he called forth Ishak, whose head was still bandaged.
"When did I give thee command to employ a eunuch for the hanim's chambers?"
Reproachfully, Ishak glanced at his master. "I knew that my lord's attention was bestowed elsewhere, so I applied the whip of expedition to the rump of necessity, and brought hither this one."
"Well, send him hence again."
"I hear—but, master, the garden is large and all of it cannot be seen from the house."
"Send him away."
The thought of Zambal Agha mounting guard in his garden displeased Omar. Besides, Ayesha had not been brought up among eunuchs, and he had no wish to set a spy upon her.
Ishak was offended, and asserted his dignity before Zambal Agha by changing the subject. "It is now twenty days that the letter from his Highness Nizam al Mulk waits unanswered, although I told thee it was pressing. A post rider brought it in haste. I have watched it carefully, for Nizam al Mulk writes only upon great matters of state. Shall I bring it forth?"
Omar had forgotten the letter. When he ripped it open and read it, he bit his lip.
"Bismallah ar rahman ar rahim," the message ran. "In the name of Allah the Compassionate the Merciful, write thou at once without an hour's delay to Malikshah, assuring him that the portents of the stars are unfavorable for his return to Nisapur. Imperatively I desire that he continue the war north of Samarkand. I have word from his camp that he is thinking of returning to Khorasan and dismissing half the forces under arms for the winter."
Again Omar read the letter through, and then tore it into shreds. It was hazardous to put a message like that in writing—Nizam should have known better. Also the astronomer had had more than he wanted of false prognostication, at Nizam's dictation. Granting that the Minister was working only in the interest of the state, still Malikshah was King. The Sultan had spent most of the last years in the saddle of war. If he wished a winter's peace, why should he be opposed?
In Nisapur Omar might have reasoned differently. But he had talked with Ghazali, he had tasted of happiness with Ayesha, and—bidding Ishak fetch him paper and sealing-wax—he wrote in answer to Nizam only one word: "No." Below this he traced his signature—Khayyam. Folding the paper, he sealed it with his signet. "Send this by a galloper to his Highness at Nisapur."
"By now," put in Zambal Agha, "the Minister is at Ray, to suppress a religious rising."
Ray was far to the west of Nisapur, more than a week's fast ride.
"Find out where he is, and send it to him."
"On my eyes." Ishak turned the missive curiously in his gnarled hands. "Yet is it a marvelous short letter, O my master, and——"
"Since thou must know, it is but one word and that is 'No.' Below that is the takallus of Khayyam. Don't send Ahmed," he added as an afterthought. When he walked back to the house, he stopped beside a fire on the driveway. It was a little fire, but the three chief gardeners, Hussayn, Ali and Ahmed, were all tending it. They were squatted beside it talking, and they rose at his coming, respectfully crossing their hands.
"May thy day be happy, O master," Hussayn said.
Upon the fire Omar dropped the fragments of Nizam's letter, waiting until every particle of paper had charred before he went on. The three gardeners watched with great interest, and when they sat down again they had a new topic of conversation.
"Beyond doubt," Hussayn maintained, "this was a communication of vast importance. What fine handwriting!"
"And the seal," put in Ali sagely, "was red. Such a red as we see in the seals of Nizam al Mulk. Look how it makes drops like blood i' the fire."
They stared at the crimson drops that vanished into the ashes. After a while Ahmed rose and sought through the grounds until he came upon Zambal Agha making up a bundle of his clothing in readiness to take to the road.
Nothing seemed to trouble Ayesha. When Omar asked her if she did not want something, she considered for a while and admitted that she would like some new silk for a dress and thread-of-silver to embroider a pattern on it, and a jar of musk with a little ambergris and oil of poppy seed. That was all. When he gave her a headband of polished gold she cried out with delight. Then for hours she experimented, arranging her hair within the new band and studying the effect in a silver mirror. At times she would stretch out on the carpet beside him, and breathing deep, would fall asleep as easily as a drowsy animal. For the good-natured and procrastinating Persians of the household she had only mild scorn.
"Tomorrow," she exclaimed. "It is always tomorrow with them. They talk about yesterday, and they do things tomorrow."
"But they are happy."
Ayesha had not thought about that. They had different feelings in them: they laughed and cried easily.
"And thou, Ayesha," he persisted, "thou livest only in today."
"Only in thy presence," she said, looking full into his eyes.
At such moments the memory of Yasmi stirred in Omar. Something in Ayesha's eyes, and in her way of turning her head swiftly, was the same. Omar understood that during these years he had been seeking Yasmi, unreasoning. She had died so suddenly, and the agony of her death—of which he never spoke, even to Jafarak—had seared him like a flame. It was all distant now, as if he recalled a dream that had no reality in his waking moments.
With Ayesha he could not feel the happiness that had been almost pain in Yasmi's arms. With Ayesha he was at peace; her love was like the walled garden with its roses that bloomed and scattered their petals on the ground, heedless of the hours or the tumult of men. Still the memory of Yasmi crept into the garden.
Once when Ayesha had been playing in the sun with her cherished headband, he cried out in anger: "Oh beloved fool, thou art not made of gold, that men will dig thee up after thou art buried!"
Surprised, she burst out laughing. She looked at her slim arms with great amusement. "Of course I am not made of gold." For a while she cogita
ted, wondering more at Omar's outburst than at the meaning of his words. "The dead," she said gravely, "are the dead. They do not change."
"They do not change," he repeated.
For years he had been struggling against the conviction that the desert-born girl expressed so simply. The dead did not walk again in life upon this earth. They were dust and drying bones, buried in the earth—and still the memory of Yasmi would not die. At times when he was very tired he thought that if he raised his head he could see her coming along the path to the House of the Stars, her veil billowing in the wind.
Two weeks later a courier on a staggering lathered horse beat with his stirrup on the gate of Kasr Kuchik bringing a summons from Nizam. The Minister asked Omar to leave at once for Ray and to make all possible haste.
When Omar said farewell to Ayesha the next morning, there were tears in the girl's eyes. She had teased him for hours to take her with him. "May Allah watch over thee," she whispered. "Do not wander among strangers without a weapon."
At the gate Ishak came forth to make his salaam, and Omar fancied that he had seen disappearing around the corner the white turban and the red khalat of the long-dismissed Zambal Agha. He reined in sharply.
"What is this, Ishak? Is that castrated black hanging about the place?"
Ishak crossed his hands submissively. "After the late prayer last night, I heard that the Protector of the Poor would journey to Ray. Only Allah knows when he will return. Is not the honor of his house in my keeping?"