A Poet of the Invisible World

by Michael Golding

  The Right Hand was a set of contradictions to Nouri. Gruff, yet deeply attuned to beauty. Powerful, yet easily affected by what others had to say. Nouri heard the danger in his voice when he gave an order. He saw the blood rise to his cheeks when he was displeased. So he did not wish to anger him by bringing him a pot of cold tea, which meant that he had to get past the strange creature on the path.

  He stepped to the right. The creature stepped to its left. He reversed his movements and it did so too. But before he could reach for one of the figs and hurl it at its head, the sound of a pair of hands clapping loudly and a voice crying “Shoo!” ricocheted through his head. Then the creature folded its gorgeous tail and flew off to a nearby ledge.

  When Nouri turned, he found Leisha, one of the Sultan’s serving girls, standing behind him, her thick hair pulled back into a braid, her dark eyes flashing with indignation above her veil. Like Nouri, she was part of the network of servants that flowed through the corridors of the palace. And though he was not sure what her mother tongue was—there was a flatness to her a’s and a rough, husky sound to her h’s—he’d studied enough Arabic to be able to converse with her easily, as with everyone else at the palace. She was coarse and loud and filled with opinions, which made her seem twice Nouri’s age. But she was probably no more than a few years older than he was, if that.

  Now, with her hands firmly planted on her hips and her brow deeply furrowed, she seemed ready to knock him to the ground.

  “You’re supposed to take The Right Hand his tea! Not dance with the accursed birds!”

  Nouri wanted to say that he was as eager as she was to see that The Right Hand received his tea. But he knew that more words meant more delay. So he hurried off to deliver the tray.

  * * *

  SO HOW DID Nouri Ahmad Mohammad ibn Mahsoud al-Morad wind up as a tea boy in a sultan’s court in a barren country where people wore capes and ate goat and prayed to Moses and Jesus as devoutly as to Allah? What wind blew him westward, and then slightly south? What twist of fate led him from the marauders at the lodge to the bird with the extravagant tail?

  For one thing—at least at the start—it was a journey of sound more than sight. For once the blindfold was slipped over his eyes, Nouri’s doubled ears took the wheel of his perception and charted his progress forward. The cries of the brothers grew fainter and fainter as the footsteps of his abductor fell upon tile and then stone and then earth. He heard the clatter of horse hooves as they moved through the gates and then a whinny rise up as he was hoisted onto the back of a warm beast and clasped tightly around the waist by a pair of bearlike arms. That was when his sense of smell kicked in: even with a single nose he nearly retched from the terrible stench of the fellow. They sat there until the absence of clinking weapons and the thunder of approaching footsteps announced that the destruction was through. Then orders were shouted and horses were mounted and they set off.

  He could not say how long they traveled. Days. Weeks. Time was a mist that tickled his cheeks as they galloped along. His captors would stop every so often to make camp—tossing Nouri a few meager scraps—laying out a hide for him to sleep on—but mostly they just rode. Someone always stayed with him when they descended upon a new village. But while the clash of metal and the gut-wrenching cries grew more familiar with repetition, the memories they evoked of what had happened at the lodge always startled him anew. He tried to press back the images when they came—the blood gathering in shiny pools on the new tiles, the fear in the eyes of the brothers—but over and over they would rise up again and batter his heart.

  As they made their way from village to village, Nouri wondered why his blindfold was never removed. And one day, the same thought must have occurred to his captors. They’d stopped by a stream to water their horses and, as the day was warm, they decided to rest. So they lowered Nouri from the horse, tied his wrists with a rope, and bound him to a tree. Then they spread themselves out on the grass and fell into a heavy sleep.

  In time, the dissonant clamor of their snoring settled into a steady hum. But before Nouri could give over to the calm, he heard the voice he’d come to recognize as their leader’s suddenly bark out a command. In an instant, the others lumbered to their feet. Nouri heard a few of them laugh and a few stop to piss upon the grass. Then they saddled their horses and made ready to depart. As one of them began to untie the rope that bound Nouri to the tree, the leader shouted again. Nouri could feel the attention of the group shift to him. Then the leader shouted a third command and his blindfold was removed.

  After weeks of darkness, the sudden exposure to the light was blinding. Gradually, however, rough shapes began to appear: the mountains, the horses, the men whom he’d been with since the attack at the lodge. As his eyes fully adjusted to the light, he saw the savage looks on their faces. Then the leader—a giant of a man, with soulless eyes—shouted again. Then the man who’d removed his blindfold tore off his head garment.

  There was a stunned silence as their amusement transformed into horror, and then twisted into fury. One of the men drew his sword and raised it up high over Nouri’s head, and Nouri’s only consolation was the thought that he would soon be with Vishpar. Before the weapon came slicing down, however, the leader shouted another command, which stayed the fellow’s hand.

  The air hummed as the leader moved close to Nouri. He raised his choppy fingers to Nouri’s ears, but then he recoiled. Then he drew back and—with a look of disgust—he spat in Nouri’s face. He turned. He shouted again. Then the men gathered their things, mounted their horses, and left Nouri bound to the tree.

  When the sound of the hooves died away, Nouri could feel the terror inside him begin to release. But as time passed, his mouth became dry and his stomach began to ache and he was faced with the fact that he was tied to a tree by a stream in the middle of Allah-knew-where. He tried to wriggle free of his bonds, but he could not do it. They’d left him, like a helpless beast, to roast in the scorching sun.

  The hours crept by. His throat began to constrict and he grew light-headed and dizzy. Then, in the distance, he heard hooves and a pair of men on a pair of ash-colored steeds appeared. When they saw Nouri, they started toward him and he could feel the hope rise in his chest. When they reached him, however, and saw his ears, they spurred their horses and galloped away.

  Nouri closed his eyes and tried to fathom his fate. He could not understand why an extra set of ears caused so much revulsion. He could not understand why he’d spent so many years learning so many things if he was meant to die like a sick calf tied to a tree. Was it possible that all he’d been taught was a lie? Could it be that there was no meaning to life after all?

  He remained there a long while. But then, once again, he heard the clatter of hooves. And this time, when the riders appeared, they were carrying a large chaise, covered in cloth, that was suspended on a pair of wooden rails. When they reached Nouri, they paused. Then a hand decked with glittering rings parted the cloth and a pair of eyes peered out.

  The hand withdrew.

  The curtain closed.

  Then a parcel of braised meat and a small knife were tossed through the slit. Then a voice shouted a sharp command, and the chaise moved on.

  When Nouri saw the meat, he managed to loosen the rope just enough to work his way down the trunk of the tree to the ground. Bending forward, he gripped the hilt of the knife between his teeth and moved it to where he could grasp it with his hands. Then he sliced himself free of his bonds and devoured the meat in a single gulp. It tasted like lamb glazed with honey, but it could have been mule brushed with tar for all he cared. When he was finished, he reached for his head cloth, which lay in the dirt, and re-covered his ears. Then he closed his eyes and lay back against the base of the tree.

  Now that the marauders were gone, and he was no longer bound, Nouri was free to seek refuge. The trouble was, he had no idea where to go. He decided to head off in the direction the chaise had taken. But the ground was quite rocky and in no time his fli
msy slippers were torn to shreds. A terrible thirst gripped him and it was not long before the sweet parcel of lamb seemed a distant memory. He tried to put one foot in front of the next and not think of how hot the sun was or how tired he felt or how barren the landscape seemed. He would take a few steps, then stop, then take a few more, until he could barely move. Then his head began to fill with fog, and the world went dark.

  When he came to, he found himself lying on a thick bed of straw, wrapped in a blanket, in the back of a large wagon. It was night, but enough moonlight streamed down to let him perceive the kindness of the face of the slender man who sat beside him. For the next several weeks, he mostly slept, stirring every so often to find the man holding a damp cloth to his brow or spooning a bitter broth into his mouth. As he slept, he had feverish dreams: Habbib on the back of a large black bull charging toward the edge of a cliff; Sheikh Bailiri guiding a gilded boat down a river; Vishpar holding a bow that he aimed at a dragon growing out of his own body.

  When at last he awoke, he found himself in a warm bed in a spacious room at the palace. And though no one ever explained how he’d come to live at the center of this sun-soaked court—with its soaring towers, and its ravishing gardens, and its intricate system that channeled crystalline water from the mountains into its fountains and pools—day by day, he was beginning to accept the place as his home.

  Now, as he approached the lavish chamber of The Right Hand, his thoughts were quite far from the path he’d had to travel to get there. He was focused instead on the warmth of the tea, the crispness of the naan, and the exacting nature of the man who was about to receive them.

  When he reached the chamber, he paused for a moment. He steadied the tray. He adjusted his tunic.

  Then he took a deep breath and rapped on the door.

  * * *

  INSIDE THE CHAMBER, PROPPED on a silk pillow on a wicker divan, the man known as The Right Hand was listening to a pair of youths play the most beguiling music. The older one—who was slender and had the faint beginnings of a beard—was playing a haunting melody on the tar. The younger one—who was still covered with a layer of baby fat—stood with his eyes closed, his arms floating like tendrils at his side, singing in a seraph’s voice:

  Away—away—

  My beloved has gone—

  Far away my beloved has gone.

  And I here must stay—

  Must stay—must stay—

  From dawn until dusk until dawn.

  The sounds were like sweet chestnut honey to The Right Hand. They relaxed him and brought thoughts of the pleasures he would partake of on his journey to the nearby city of Amanduena. The Sultan believed it was time to form an alliance between the two courts, and if anyone could grease the diplomatic wheels it was The Right Hand. He had a way of melting resistance. Of making differing points of view somehow converge. But what excited him even more than the political games—or the sumptuous feasts that accompanied them—were the games of seduction. He’d not been to Amanduena for several years, and he felt sure there would be a host of new beauties to choose from. Perhaps he’d find a small laundry girl with a devourable mouth. Or a young kitchen maid with flashing eyes and plenty of flesh to hold on to. He was so immersed in thoughts of the upcoming journey, he did not even notice that his food had not arrived. Only when he heard the rapping on the door did it cross his mind that his breakfast was overdue.

  He shouted to the servant boy to enter. Then he studied the boy as he moved toward him with the well-heaped tray. It was clear from the way he spoke that he came from a distant part of the realm. And though the head covering he wore seemed a bit strange—it was not really a turban, and it wrapped right over his ears—he assumed that it was a fashion native to his land. The Right Hand had had many youths attend him over the years. But he could not remember one as tender and sweet-faced as this one.

  For Nouri’s part—although he’d entered the lavish room dozens of times by now—he never felt completely at ease in the chamber of The Right Hand. For one thing, it was always filled with the cloying smell of incense. For another, it was stuffed with too many glittering objects to allow a trace of Allah to enter in. Mostly, though, he was made nervous by The Right Hand himself: his booming voice, his gruff manner, his heavy-lidded gaze that seemed to peer right into his soul. He was kind to him, though. And he did not say a word about the lateness of his tray. So Nouri carefully laid out the cup and the bowl and the basket and the teapot. Then he poured some tea into the cup, knelt beside The Right Hand’s divan, and waited to be dismissed.

  By now, the youth who was serenading The Right Hand had moved on to a song about a journey across the sea. As The Right Hand reached for his cup of tea, Nouri listened to the angelic voice pour out into the room. When the song was finished, The Right Hand gestured to the two youths to depart. So they bowed their heads and left the room. Nouri waited for the command to depart, but it did not come. Instead, The Right Hand reached for one of the plump, ripe figs, popped it into his mouth, and—for the first time since Nouri had begun serving him—turned to him and spoke.

  “Did you enjoy the music?”

  Nouri hesitated. The court was still an elaborate mystery to him, and for all of his attempts to prove otherwise, he had no idea how a tea boy should behave. He knew that he had to say something, however. So he cleared his throat and said, “It was very nice.”

  The Right Hand reached for a piece of naan and tore it apart. “Tell me your name.”

  “Nouri.”

  “And you’re—let me guess—” The Right Hand peered at him. “Fifteen?”

  Nouri nodded.

  “And do you play an instrument? The tombak? The tar?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you draw then? Make pottery? Practice calligraphy?”

  Nouri shook his head.

  “The arts are a strong tonic to the spirit,” said The Right Hand. “Here in the court even the servants are encouraged to practice something. That is what it means to be enlightened.” He swallowed a hunk of naan and washed it down with a gulp of tea. Then he turned to Nouri. “Have you heard the word enlightened?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, then you must find an art to pursue!”

  Nouri was silent. He feared that if he said the wrong thing he’d be tossed, like a sack of squeezed lemons, out of the court. But he also feared that if he said nothing he’d find himself studying candle making or puppetry or playing the oud. He knew which art to pursue. He’d devoted himself to it for years. So though he worried that he might be speaking out of line, he said, “I like to write verse.”

  The Right Hand gazed at him for a moment and then laughed. “Verse!” he cried. “Allah the Equitable! To think that a poet has been serving my tea!”

  Nouri blushed. But before he could say more, The Right Hand spoke again.

  “When you come tomorrow, bring me something you’ve written.” He made a brisk gesture with his hand. “You may go now.”

  Nouri bowed. Then he rose to his feet and hurried from the room.

  He had no idea what he would bring to The Right Hand when he returned with his tea the next day. But he knew that—with the high standards The Right Hand maintained—it would have to be good.

  Nine

  When Nouri left the chamber of The Right Hand, he headed straight to the kitchen to ask Leisha where he could find paper and a pen. When she asked what it was for and he told her, her mud-colored eyes grew wide.

  “A poet!” she said, laughing. “Next you’ll tell me you’ve been appointed to carve marble figures for the Sultan himself!”

  When Nouri persisted, she led him to a cramped room at the end of a corridor on the third floor of the palace where a man with watery eyes was copying text from a large leather-bound book. When she told him that Nouri had been instructed to write a poem for The Right Hand, the fellow turned to him and squinted a few times. Then he handed him a few sheets of parchment, a pot of ink, and a matted quill.

  “Be su
re to use plenty of adjectives,” he advised. “The Right Hand will like it if it has plenty of adjectives.”

  Nouri thanked the fellow. Then he carried the things to his room and returned to his chores.

  That night, before bed, Nouri knelt on the floor and came face-to-face with the challenge of the task before him. He’d not written a word since the attack at the lodge, and he feared that if he raised the lid to the place where the poetry came from, the horror would rise up too. So he cracked it only a trace, allowing enough blood to warm the dozen or so lines he laid down about the sleek ginger cat that wandered the court.

  When he read it the next day for The Right Hand, he was delighted.

  “A poet!” he cried. “A veritable poet!”

  He instructed Nouri to bring him a new poem the next day. And the next day. And the next. And soon, like the playing of the tar and the singing, Nouri’s reading became a part of the morning tea.

  As the weeks passed, Nouri grew more and more confident about his poems. Whatever he wrote about—the figs, the fountains, the mountains that ringed the palace, the eunuchs that tended the bathing chamber, the Caliph’s horses, the Sultan’s robes—The Right Hand would praise him and ask for more. Occasionally, when he raised the lid, a memory would slip out and grip him with terrifying force. But for the most part, the writing brought solace, and a sense of peace. Eventually he decided to find a place where he could write outdoors—with the sun on his cheeks and the open sky overhead—and not lose the solitude of his room. So he set out to explore the hidden corners of the palace and see what he could find.