Alhazred

by Donald Tyson

  At the side of this foundry, as it seemed to be by the racket that emanated through its open windows, a group of archers wearing white robes shot arrows at straw targets made in the shape of men. They used black bows of a design unknown to my experience, and larger than any bows I had ever seen, that sent the long black arrows completely through the targets and deep into tightly bound bales of straw piled behind them. I stopped to watch in amazement the power of the bows, until Martala gave a short jerk on the rope around my neck to remind me of my idiocy.

  We were led past the statue of the curiously familiar goddess, through a double door sheathed in hammered brass. The hall within was floored with polished red marble. Gleaming columns of a similar stone stood at intervals, supporting the upper floors. Monks passed us silently in their soft-soled shoes, bearing scrolls in their arms, intent on their own affairs. In spite of their discipline, they could not refrain from a curious glance. I tilted my disfigured face to display the drool on my chin. Their composure never wavered, and I was surprised to see compassion in their eyes.

  Ascending a broad marble staircase to the second level landing, we went down a hallway on the left paneled from floor to ceiling in dark wood. The rooms on either side occupying the main body of the building were filled with shelves of books greater in number than I had ever seen gathered in a single place. I realized that this enormous pile of stones was a library, and my mind reeled. There must be more books under its roof than could be found in the entire city of Alexandria, the book mart of the world.

  We turned the corner into the west wing, and I saw that on this level it was given over to smaller rooms with desks and tables, at which monks read, wrote, or conversed in small groups. Many doors were closed for privacy. Our guide stopped at one such door and knocked on its panel so softly, I barely heard the raps. A sonorous male voice on the other side gave permission for him to enter.

  The room proved to be a private study. A Persian carpet of no great size occupied the center of the waxed floorboards. Books stood in shelves against two walls. Small oblongs of slanting sunlight from the glazed window in the east-facing wall, which overlooked the courtyard, dappled a desk of ornately carved blond wood, illuminating scattered parchments that almost covered its broad surface.

  The black-robed man seated behind the desk did not look up until he finished the sentence he wrote. I saw that the language was Arabic, but could not read the inverted script. His long hair and flowing beard, both the color of sun-bleached cotton, combined with a prominent Greek nose to give his head a noble aspect, like that of a biblical patriarch. He set aside his goose quill and gazed at Baruch with keen blue eyes.

  “These are the men I told you about, Rumius,” said the young monk in Greek. “This is Amed ibn Anas of Alexandria, and his unfortunate older brother Idi.”

  Martala nodded when the name she had chosen for herself was spoken, but I merely lolled my head to one side with my lips parted, the way a dog will perk its ears when it hears a familiar word.

  He stood and came around the desk to study us. His pale eyes pierced so deeply into mine that I found it difficult to maintain my vague expression. He was almost a giant of a man, at least a head taller than me, with a back perfectly straight. When he extended his hand, I saw loose threads hanging from the sleeve of his worn black robe and stains of dry ink on his long fingers.

  He gathered my hand gently into his own and held it.

  “It is as you said, Baruch. A great tragedy.”

  At the urging of Rumius, Martala told the same story she had given the young monk, changing only as many minor details as would serve to make it more plausible. She was wise enough in the ways of deception to realize that no man told the story of his life twice in exactly the same manner. Rumius listened with interest, now and then expressing sympathy or asking a question. His questions were calculated to reveal deception, particularly those concerning the city of Alexandria, but Martala had learned enough about the city during the period of my resurrection to answer them without pause.

  “This young brother tells me that you have an interest in our lessons,” he said at length to the girl.

  “My own education was cut short by the misfortunes of my family. Yet still I thirst for knowledge.”

  “A noble thirst. What languages can you speak, other than Greek?”

  “Coptic, which is the common language in my country. A little Arabic. A little Latin.”

  He tested her language skills, and she gave evidence of an ability greater than she had indicated. From the corner of my eye, I saw that Baruch was impressed.

  “Can you read and write?”

  “I read and write my own tongue and Greek. I can read Latin and Arabic also, but cannot write them.”

  “But you would like to learn?” he prompted.

  “Of course.”

  He laughed easily.

  “Here is one who wants to learn everything,” he said to Baruch, who smiled in answer.

  “Admission to our order is not easy,” he told Martala. “There is a period of probation and study. I am informed that your brother can do simple work, such as sweeping a floor or emptying slops.”

  “That is so, noble father,” she replied.

  “Here we have only the names we choose for ourselves when we join the Order of Sirius. I am Rumius within these walls, nothing more.”

  My heart rejoiced so greatly, I scarce heard his words. We were to be admitted to live within the walls of the monastery. It was more than I had hoped for, though undoubtedly the interest the young monk felt toward Martala accounted in large part for our favorable reception. I realized that the decision to admit us had already been made. Rumius was merely conducting the necessary formalities.

  “Tell me, Amed, do you desire to learn the motions of the stars in the heavens, and the secrets of the gods that have been hidden from common men since the dawn of time?”

  “Yes, Rumius, with all my heart.” Her face glowed with ardor.

  He slapped her in good nature on her slender shoulder.

  “Baruch will find a room for you and your brother, and will tell you more about our work. This is a time of probation. You are free to decline membership in the order for a full cycle of the moon. You will be bound by a vow not to disclose what you have been shown here, but otherwise you will be allowed to leave the gates at any time during the coming month, if that is your desire. After you take your vow and receive your order name, you cannot leave us except by death. This is necessary to preserve our secrets, which would be dangerous to release into the world at this time in its troubled history. It is needless to add that your brother is not bound by our laws, due to his infirmity of mind.”

  “Will I be permitted to keep my brother with me always? For I have sworn to protect him.”

  His face softened.

  “We are not an uncharitable order. You are best suited to see to his needs, so naturally he will be permitted to stay with you.”

  “Then I would like nothing better than to become a brother of your order, like Baruch.”

  The young monk blushed when she cast her bright gaze full upon him. This was scarcely to be wondered at, for I had seen not a single woman within the walls of the monastery, and Martala made an uncommonly attractive youth. I wondered if the growing affection of the monk, which had served us so well in gaining entrance to this place, would be of use to us in the future.

  Baruch led us out the doors of the library and into the sunlight.

  “What is that statue?” Martala asked as we passed the bronze figure on its pedestal.

  “She is the goddess Ishtar, who reaches up to pluck from the heavens Sirius, the Dog Star. She embodies in her qualities the grace and wisdom we strive to attain, but we do not worship her.”

  “What then do you worship?”

  “Truth. Beauty. Wisdom. Justice. H
armony. We worship all these things and none of them. We have no god or goddess set above us.”

  I wondered why the armies of Mohammed had spared this place from the sword, for it was obviously a stronghold of infidels. Perhaps they had not had leisure to lay it under siege in their haste to march eastward. Even so, the days of the monastery were numbered, for the Caliph Yazid at Damascus would never tolerate its existence once its barbarous creed became known to him.

  The young monk led us across the lawn to the ugly building of red bricks. As I had suspected, it was a dormitory for the brothers of the order. Beyond its modest front door, the main hall was narrow and low of ceiling. We ascended to the third level and the rooms assigned to the newest admissions to the monastery, being the least desirable because of the stairs. The rooms varied little in size or appearance, as I saw through the open doorways we passed. Each was long and narrow, with a bed of no great size, a wash stand, a wall rack for hanging up clothing and towels, a copper pot in the corner for piss, and beneath the single tiny window a small table for study.

  I sat on the bed, a look of vacant contentment on my face, and bounced up and down. The thin mattress rustled. Straw. Well, it would hardly have been filled with feathers. Knotted ropes supported it on a simple frame of wood.

  Baruch eyed our leather travel wallet, which Martala hung by its broad shoulder strap from the wall rack.

  “You should know that once you join the order, all your property and possessions become the common property of the monastery. In your case, this is only a formality. I’m sure you will be permitted to keep your pack and its contents. The other side of the coin is that all new members share equally in the wealth of the order, without distinction of age or social rank.”

  “Is the order very wealthy?” Martala asked with a charming smile.

  “Our greatest wealth is our knowledge.” Baruch laughed. “But as to that, we have gold enough for our needs.”

  The girl’s gray eyes lit up at the word like the eyes of a wolf, but she concealed her enthusiasm beneath lowered lashes. So charmed was the monk by her manner, he failed to notice. He stuttered and shuffled his feet, wanting to stay but having little reason to remain with us.

  “Nothing is expected of you for the rest of the day,” he said at last. “Explore the grounds. A brother will bring new robes and shoes to your room while you are away. Tomorrow I will come for you at first light and escort you through the routine of our lives. It is not difficult to learn.”

  “Must you leave us?” Martala pouted.

  “I have duties,” he said with regret. “If you need anything, ask one of the brothers and he will help you.”

  The nape of his neck burned a bright red as he left the room. Martala shut the door softly after him.

  “The fool is in love with you,” I murmured, slipping the noose of the rope off my neck with relief. I rubbed my throat. Where the prickly rope pressed, it always itched.

  “Nonsense. Really?”

  She giggled like an empty-headed maiden, enjoying the thought more than was necessary. I reflected that the monk was uncommonly handsome and well spoken.

  “You must tell them that I can work without your presence,” I went on. “It will give me greater freedom of movement.”

  “Of course. You are bewildered by strange places, but once they become familiar, your confusion passes and you can be trusted to do simple tasks on your own.”

  “I need to get work in the library. That is where the scroll will be that identifies the location of the Well of the Seraph.”

  She nodded her understanding.

  “Did you recognize the figure of the goddess in the courtyard?” she asked.

  “No, but it was oddly familiar.”

  “Well it should have been. It was engraved on one of the golden tablets in the hall of pillars beneath the Sphinx.”

  I clapped my hands together, more loudly than I intended.

  “Of course. That is where I remember it.”

  One of the tablets had illustrated the fallen pyramid on the plain. Another showed the goddess Ishtar reaching upward to capture the Dog Star. I wondered if all the images on the plates pertained to this ancient land between the rivers, and once again regretted not prying them out of their places.

  For the rest of the afternoon we wandered around the compound and visited its buildings. The monks were cheerful but modest in their greetings. They all seemed to know that we were to be admitted to the monastery for a period of probation. As I suspected, the kitchens were located behind the dormitory, and were possessed of their own pens of livestock. Chickens were kept for meat and eggs. Cows were maintained for milk, and were permitted to graze on a part of the lawn out of the way of the exercise of the monks. There was even an ingenious marble bath house large enough to accommodate scores of men at one time. Its water, heated in the undying fires of the kitchens, was diverted to the bath through a series of lead pipes by means of copper pumps.

  The water for the monastery came, not from the river as I had supposed, but from a great cistern fed by a perpetual spring in the southwest corner of the grounds. A small but fortified building protected the mouth of the well that gave access to the water. When Martala inquired about it, she was told that the cistern was always full, and that the overflow from the spring was diverted through a culvert to the river. Unlike the sourness of the river water, that drawn from the spring tasted sweet on the tongue. I reflected that with sufficient food in storage, the monks could withstand a siege of many months, or perhaps even years. As I learned by listening to the girl’s conversations with various brothers, the monastery had been assaulted by armed forces several times in its long history, but never had it been conquered. The monks regarded it as impregnable.

  They had good reason for their confidence. Each was trained with rigorous discipline in the fighting arts, and exercised daily to maintain a fitness of body. Their principal weapon was the great black bow that they made in their workshop—the building of smoking chimneys at the southern wall. They were beautifully lacquered and decorated with filigrees of gold leaf on either side of the wound leather handgrip.

  The power of these bows astonished me. One of those engaged in archery practice handed his bow to Martala, but she could only draw it half of the way. The monk assured her that after a few months of practice she would gain the strength to use it. The arrows were almost as long as my arm and finely crafted, yet the storehouse attached to the workshop overflowed with them. I could well believe that four-score of archers ranked along the walls could hold off an attacking army of thousands.

  The monks also used the sword and pike, but regarded them as inferior weapons. The ability to strike at a distance with the bow held for them an almost mystical significance. They likened their black arrows to thunderbolts, the weapon of divine judgment in the fables of the Greeks. A monk intimated to Martala that the arrows were intended, not to defend the monastery against any mortal foe, but to fend off the attack of unholy forces. He was about to speak further, but his companions drew him away, as though he had already said too much.

  When we retired in the evening, we possessed a better understanding of the monastery buildings and their functions, but had learned almost nothing about the true purpose of the order. That they loved wisdom for its own sake, I did not doubt, but there was something more that drove their relentless quest for perfection in arms.

  “We must gain access to their records,” I murmured to Martala.

  The monks retired early, and the hall outside our closed door was quiet. I did not wish my voice to carry.

  “They intend to instruct me in their wisdom. Surely the lessons will be taught in the library,” she whispered.

  She lay beside me on the narrow bed, naked as I was against the warmth that radiated down from the roof. The shutters of the window stood wide, but little night breeze entered our
stifling room. A thin layer of sweat covered my chest, not enough to run down in rivulets but slick to the touch.

  “Have you considered what to say about the bath?”

  I felt her body stiffen.

  “Goddess, no. Alhazred, what am I to do?”

  “You cannot bathe with the other monks, that’s certain.”

  We lay considering this problem without voicing a solution until sleep took us.

  The dark man came in my dream. I walked at night across the sands of the Empty Space, as I so often did in sleep. The waxing crescent of the moon cast my shadow before me, and the drone of flying beetles filled the air. I heard their gentle buzz all around as they went on their night errands, oblivious to my life. My heart felt peaceful in my breast. I noticed a second shadow beside my own, rippling like an ebony serpent across the ribbed sands, and became aware that the dark man walked beside me on my left side. He had been there for some while, keeping pace with my steps, before I took notice of him.

  “You must learn the purposes and plans of the monks,” he said in his hollow voice. “That is why I have led you to this place.”

  “I will learn what I can learn, once my own purpose has been satisfied,” I said, greatly daring at my insolence.

  “My purpose is your purpose. Without achieving it, you will never know the location of the well.”

  “You would conceal it from me?” I felt anger rise in my breast. “I am not your slave.”

  He laughed without malice. My words had not touched his emotions. I was not important enough to arouse his anger. Suddenly he turned and grasped the hem of his cloak, sweeping it over me. I cried out in terror, the cold of it biting through my skin to the bone. When he pulled it away, we stood in a small valley before a low mound of flat stones that was half covered by blowing sands.