“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning,” said Ryka.
“Did you rest well?”
Ryka shrugged. “Not really.”
“It’s the altitude. The air is thinner. It takes a while to adjust.”
“I don’t sleep very well,” said Ryka. “But then I never have. I’m used to it by now.”
“Perhaps you need a more strenuous task,” said Nouri. “When I work very hard during the day, I sleep like a baby at night.”
Ryka paused a moment. “I have a problem with my heart.”
“Is it serious?”
Ryka shrugged again. Then he turned his head to look out at the mountains, and Nouri fixed his eyes upon him. He had the grace of a panther. He was alert, yet at the same time he seemed fiercely attuned to another world. Before Nouri could study him any further, however, the youth turned back.
“How did you lose your hearing?” said Ryka.
“There was an explosion,” said Nouri.
“When?”
Nouri closed his eyes and thought back. “It’s been almost a year now.”
“And you hear nothing?” said Ryka.
Nouri shook his head. “Not a sound.”
Ryka tried to imagine what it would be like to hear nothing. Not the patter of the rain upon the roof. Not the rustling of a leaf.
“Where would you like to begin?” said Nouri.
“That’s a difficult question.”
“Not really. Wherever we begin, we always wind up at God.”
Ryka thought for a moment. “Then explain how to get there. Tell me about the Stages of the Journey.”
Nouri was silent. There were so many things that the boy would have to grapple with before he was ready to grasp the Stages of the Journey. But he’d asked him where he wished to begin, so he leaned forward and launched into a description of the lengthy process that led from the Gateway to Awakening through the Door of Self-Denial to the Development of Conduct—and Character—and Principles—and then onward up the perilous slope until one arrived at Unity with God. Ryka sat very still as he listened. And though he stopped Nouri every now and then to ask questions—
“What is the difference between peacefulness and tranquility?”
“How does one move from intoxication to sobriety?”
“How does one submit to annihilation?”
—he mostly listened, his eyes firmly fixed on Nouri’s as he spoke.
For Nouri, the experience was both pleasing and troubling. For though Ryka and Vishpar could not have been more different—the one dark where the other was golden—the one frail where the other was fierce and strong—something about the tender youth brought his childhood friend to mind. Nouri hadn’t thought of Vishpar in a long while. But as he and Ryka sat on the small stone bench, he could feel that he was falling in love. And whether it was wonderful—or terrible—or both—he knew that there was nothing he could do to avoid it.
Twenty-One
It was a long while before it became clear to the brothers that Sheikh al-Khammas was ill. He’d become so infused with light as the years had passed, they barely noticed that his skin had developed a gray, sickly pallor, that his eyes had become milky and veiled, and that he grew thinner with each passing day. Only when he lost interest in food—for no matter how simple the meal, the Sufi master had always savored each bite—did the brothers begin to suspect that, though his spirit was still strong, the body that housed it was under siege.
“Perhaps it’s a chill—” said Abbas al-Kumar.
“The lodge can be quite drafty—” said Omar al-Hamid.
“And the nights can be bitter—”
“And windy—”
“And Sheikh al-Khammas’s cell is exposed on two sides!”
The brothers took turns bringing him yogurt and lamb broth and cups of mint tea heaped with honey.
“For the Prophet himself,” said Abbas al-Kumar, “claimed that honey can cure any illness.”
To Nouri, however, it was clear that Sheikh al-Khammas was suffering from more than just a chill. So one day he asked one of the physicians at the hospice to accompany him back to the mountain lodge. When they entered the Sufi master’s cell, the doctor peered into the old man’s eyes and examined his tongue and ran his hands over his legs and his chest and his belly and thumped the entire length of his spine. And when he was done, only Sheikh al-Khammas was unsurprised at his diagnosis.
“There are a number of things I could point out,” said the doctor. “The liver is weak. The blood is too cool. The kidneys are beginning to fail. But the only real condition he’s suffering from is exceeding old age.”
The brothers heaved a collective sigh of relief and their lives went on. But one day, Sheikh al-Khammas did not appear for the morning meal and when Nouri went to see him he confessed that he did not have the strength to leave his bed. From then on, all of the meals were prepared by Abbas al-Kumar, zikr was conducted by Omar al-Hamid, the maintenance of the lodge was taken over by Sharoud, and the tending of the garden fell to Nouri and Ryka. The hearth fire of the order was now confined to a simple cell. But it was a flame of great strength, and the brothers were convinced that it would burn for years to come.
As a result of Sheikh al-Khammas’s confinement, life at the mountain lodge began to change. Without the master’s presence at meals, Abbas al-Kumar could not control his eating and in less than a month he swelled to an alarming size. Omar al-Hamid could not refrain from prayer, and often lay prostrate on the cold stone floor until his bones began to ache. Sharoud—whose dark thoughts rose up to fill the space created by the Sufi master’s absence—took to pricking himself with the needle throughout the day. And an aching closeness grew up between Nouri and Ryka. From the early morning until late at night, they talked and worked and ate side by side, forging not only the contract of teacher and pupil, but the compact of friend and friend.
There was no reason that the deepening bond between Nouri and Ryka should have bothered Sharoud. But like all things connected with Nouri, his sudden closeness to the new aspirant made Sharoud’s ascetic blood boil.
So he waited.
And he watched.
And though at times he wished to stick the needle into the four-eared Sufi or the pewter-colored boy instead of himself, he managed to keep his impulses in check.
* * *
“IF THE DISTANCE BETWEEN God and man is even greater than we imagine,” said Ryka, “how do we bridge the gap?”
“We must learn how to serve,” said Nouri.
“But what can a man possibly do that would matter to God?”
“It’s not what he does that matters. It’s how he does it.” Nouri paused. “Service wears out our sharp edges. And opens the heart.”
It was a cool morning in the month of Muharram. Nouri and Ryka were walking in the mountains, and the higher they climbed, the more exalted Ryka’s questions became. They’d been working together for nearly six months now. And while their talks had only begun to scratch the surface of the truths Nouri wished to impart, he was impressed with Ryka’s ability to move beyond the strictures of his mind.
“And what does the aspirant do when the heart resists?”
“He kneels lower. He bows deeper.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
Nouri smiled. “Then Allah will provide the means.”
Ryka was silent, and they continued walking. It seemed as if years had passed since he’d first come to the lodge, and at the same time the place seemed as strange as the day he’d arrived. He was inspired by the simple dedication of the brothers and he was awed by Sheikh al-Khammas—who, despite his illness, still cast his benevolent light over the lodge. Yet no one had as strong an effect on him as Nouri. At times—as they sat on the terrace or in the garden beside the pool—he could not bear to meet his gaze. At other times, he could not look away. But he listened quite closely to what he said, and did his best to understand the spiritual map he laid out before him.
“Then why do we have to work so hard to reach him?”
“We work to become empty. When your thoughts disappear, God will draw near.”
Ryka’s eyes flashed, and Nouri felt a hand reach inside him and twist his stomach into a knot. For months now, he’d walked with Ryka and sat with Ryka and worked and eaten and prayed with Ryka. And for months he’d tried to resist what he felt when the youth was near. He’d noticed other men over the years—the lanky fellow who sold figs at the market—the youth with the liquid eyes who tended the stables—but he’d always managed to keep the feelings they aroused inside him in check. Ryka, however, evoked a yearning that Nouri had not felt since he’d first arrived at the mountain lodge. He was moved by his tenderness. His beauty. His grace. And he was intrigued by his gravity: in the six months since Ryka had appeared, Nouri had not once seen him smile. He was an enigma to Nouri. And though he did not wish to stare at the youth, the silence he dwelled in forced him to keep his eyes fixed upon him when they spoke.
“The truth is simple,” said Nouri. “It’s we who are complicated.”
Ryka suddenly stopped. Then he took a deep breath. “Do you think we could rest for a while?”
“Of course,” said Nouri.
He led Ryka to a cluster of rocks that bordered the path and they sat.
“Are you all right?”
Ryka nodded. “I just needed to catch my breath.”
They were silent a while. Ryka focused on the pace of his breathing. And Nouri focused on Ryka.
“You said you had a problem with your heart,” said Nouri. “What’s wrong with it?”
Ryka turned and gazed into Nouri’s eyes. “It’s backward.”
“Backward?”
Ryka raised his hands to his chest. Then he crossed them over each other. “The parts are reversed. So my blood doesn’t follow the usual pathway to the lungs.”
“Is it painful?”
“Not really. But it can make me dizzy. And sometimes it makes me turn slightly blue.”
As Ryka said this, Nouri saw that the bluish cast to his skin had increased.
“I’m not like other people,” said Ryka.
Nouri was silent a moment. “Neither am I.”
A strong current passed between them. Then Nouri raised his hand to Ryka’s cheek, leaned forward, and kissed him.
“Perhaps we should head back,” said Nouri, as he pulled away.
Ryka nodded. Then they rose and started back toward the lodge.
They said no more as they made their way along. But they both knew that things would be different now.
* * *
AS THE MONTHS SLIPPED BY, Sheikh al-Khammas grew smaller and thinner and less tethered to the earth, until at last he was like a child’s rice-paper toy, brittle and shot through with light. The brothers took turns drawing his drapes in the morning, massaging his feet, sponging water on his brow, and reading him passages from the Qur’an. He no longer had the strength to practice zikr. And when speaking, he would often fall asleep between one sentence and the next. But he was still the glittering sun around which the lives of the faithful brothers revolved.
It was therefore troubling when Nouri announced one morning that Sheikh al-Khammas wished the brothers to gather in his cell after the midday meal.
“We should go there now!” cried Abbas al-Kumar.
“If our teacher wants to see us—” said Omar al-Hamid.
“There’s no reason to wait—”
“Even a breath—”
“To obey!”
Abbas al-Kumar rubbed his forehead with the palm of his left hand and Omar al-Hamid tugged on his beard. Then they cried out together:
“When the master calls, the servant appears!”
Sharoud, who rarely listened to what the two dervishes said, to their surprise, agreed. “If Sheikh al-Khammas wishes to see us all at the same time, it must be of the utmost importance.”
Nouri, however, insisted that if Sheikh al-Khammas wished them to come right away, he would have said so. So he told the brothers to attend to their morning chores and await the appointed hour.
When they finally filed into the Sufi master’s cell, the drapes were still closed and a pair of tall tapers stood glowing. In the gauzy light, Sheikh al-Khammas seemed more fragile than ever, and as the brothers spread out around his bed they were unsure that he even knew they were there. As their eyes began to adjust to the darkness, however, he suddenly spoke.
“I smelled the scent of oranges in the night.”
The brothers said nothing.
“The loveliest fragrance,” he said. “In the darkness, over my bed.”
“The orange trees along the path are just beginning to bloom,” said Omar al-Hamid.
“Not the flower,” said Sheikh al-Khammas. “The fruit.” He closed his eyes. “As if someone had sliced one open and held it up to my nose.”
“Perhaps,” said Sharoud, “it was a dream.”
“Not a dream,” said Sheikh al-Khammas, as he opened his eyes. “The scent of oranges.”
The brothers waited while the Sufi master stared into the darkness. Then he turned to Ryka.
“How are the roses?”
“They’re doing well.”
“And the daisies? And the oleander?”
Ryka nodded. “Everything is thriving.”
There was another silence. Nouri wanted to ask if he could open the curtains. Abbas al-Kumar wanted to ask if he could bring him a blanket. A drink. Sharoud wanted to ask why they’d been called. They waited, however. And after a while, Sheikh al-Khammas spoke again.
“One thinks that the end will never come,” he said. “That this eating—this laughing—this breathing”—he paused a moment—“this existence will just go on and on.” He paused again and the light in his milky eyes grew stronger. “But no matter how small it may be, our order must go on. It is a part of Allah’s plan. And in order for it to do so, I must choose a khalifa before I die.”
“You mustn’t speak of dying!” cried Abbas al-Kumar.
“The physician assured us—” said Omar al-Hamid.
“In the clearest terms—”
“That you have years left to live!”
A faint smile traced over the Sufi master’s lips. “Physicians are wise,” he allowed. “But the All-Knowing Allah is beyond wisdom.” His twisted fingers fluttered across the edge of the bedsheet. “As you know, my successor need not be chosen from among you. I myself was brought in from another order to be the murshid here.”
He paused again, and the brothers could feel their future hovering in the air. “But that was another time. With another purpose. What matters now is that you hold to the path. And that you go deeper. And for that I need not look elsewhere for someone to guide you.”
It was only when Sheikh al-Khammas spoke these words that Sharoud knew he’d been chosen to lead the order. He knew that Abbas al-Kumar and Omar al-Hamid had both lived at the lodge for much longer, but the former was not far from being released from his body and the latter, for all his piety, was not a leader. It was obvious that Nouri was not ready for such a role, and there was no point in even thinking about Ryka. What surprised Sharoud was the sudden clarity he felt. His shame fell away. His guilt. His fear. Everything he’d been through had been a test. There was nothing standing in his way.
It was just as clear to Nouri that the office of khalifa would fall to Sharoud. His practice was diligent, his knowledge of the Shari’a was absolute, and his devotion to the order was unassailable. Although Nouri could not forget the ill will he’d once borne him, he’d kept his promise not to reveal what was hidden beneath his head cloth. So Nouri vowed that he would do his best to obey Sharoud’s will when he took over the order.
“I’m still here,” said Sheikh al-Khammas. “But when I die, your new murshid will be Nouri.”
The room was silent as each of the
brothers took in Sheikh al-Khammas’s words. Abbas al-Kumar was surprised; Omar al-Hamid was relieved; Ryka was joyful. And Nouri—who could only wonder if the darkness had caused him to misread the Sufi master’s lips—was completely stunned. Yet nothing could match the shattering blast that went off in Sharoud. All of the years he’d struggled to let go of having been cast out of the lodge in Tan-Arzhan, all of the battles he’d waged to melt his anger and resentment, all of the wounds he’d made in his flesh with the tiny needle had come to naught. It was a juncture. A turning point. The wheel of his spiritual ascent suddenly froze. Then—with a roar like the screeching of a thousand crows—it reversed its direction. And his soul began to plummet downward with amazing speed.
Twenty-Two
And then, one day, Nouri’s hearing returned.
Abbas al-Kumar had decided to make a carrot jam for Sheikh al-Khammas and since he could not even begin without fresh cubeb, he asked Nouri to head down to the village to fetch some from one of the lay members of the lodge who had an elaborate spice garden. Nouri knew that Abbas al-Kumar could have fetched the cubeb himself. The walk would have done him good. But it was a pleasant day and, if truth be told, he was grateful to get away for a few hours and think.
From the moment Nouri had been chosen to be Sheikh al-Khammas’s khalifa, his mind had been awhirl. One thought rose up after the next, each contradicting the one that had come before.
How can I be the next leader of the order?
I’m not wise enough.
I’m not selfless enough.
What makes me worthy to follow in Sheikh al-Khammas’s footsteps?
There was his writing, of course. Each day, Nouri poured himself into his verse, fashioning a gift that he could lay at Allah’s feet. Yet he could not help but feel that each thought—no matter how graceful—no matter how deeply felt—was merely a shadow of the truth.
A Poet of the Invisible World Page 19