The Father of Locks

by Andrew Killeen

  The poet’s injured foot was hampering his movement. The Christian danced around him, swinging a heavy cudgel which he barely managed to dodge. Thomas was now lumbering down the stairs, and soon Abu Nuwas would be outnumbered again. Seeing the danger, he waited until his enemy had heaved a meaty stroke that threw him off balance. Then he rolled underneath the club, spiking the ruffian’s thigh with his sayf. As the Christian fell, Abu Nuwas staggered to his feet and limped towards the exit, bellowing at the Pashtun.

  “Unbolt the door, Ghilzai! Open the door!”

  The Pashtun looked appalled as he realised that neutrality was no longer an option. Thomas was now pursuing Abu Nuwas across the courtyard, threatening all manner of vengeance if the door was opened. I noticed a finely woven prayer rug in an alcove, and snatched a knife from one of the fallen thugs.

  “Unlock the door, Pashtun, or I slash this carpet to ribbons.”

  The furious landlord moved to seize me, but I dug the knifepoint into the rug, and he froze. As I had guessed, his sole concern was to keep his property safe. Reluctantly, he turned and began to draw back the bolts. Thomas howled, but had managed to get between Abu Nuwas and the door.

  “I won’t forget this, Ghilzai, and you can threaten me with the Abna all you like. As for you, scribbler, I’ll chop off your pox-riddled organ and choke you with it.”

  He launched a fierce assault on the poet, and sparks flew as the sayf and the cleaver clashed. I was unable to intervene. The Pashtun would have torn me apart as soon as I ceased to menace the prayer rug. Abu Nuwas was moving with more freedom, however, and began to taunt the Syrian.

  “Pox-ridden, you say? Your mother should see a physician, then, it was she who gave me the disease. You need to get your son looked at as well, I’ve probably passed it to him by now.”

  Thomas responded as the poet must have hoped, with a wild swing at his head. Abu Nuwas dropped to the ground and grabbed a handful of sand, which he hurled at the Syrian’s face. As Thomas clutched at his eyes the pommel of the sayf rammed into his stomach, bringing him to his knees.

  Abu Nuwas headed straight for the door. For a terrible moment I thought he was about to abandon me to the wrath of his enemies. Then he paused, with his sword aimed at the landlord’s throat.

  “Well, boy, are you coming? I believe they have a vacant room here, if you wish to stay.”

  I scampered after him. As I left the courtyard I glanced back at the door in the corner. It was ajar, and I thought I saw eyes staring at me from the darkness.

  The poet’s legs were long and my feet quick, and after a couple of streets it became apparent we had escaped. We slumped against a wall to catch our breath. I recovered first, and asked him the question I had been burning to ask since the fight in the courtyard.

  “Why didn’t you just pay him the money?”

  “Pay him the money?”

  Abu Nuwas snorted with contempt.

  “Where would I be if I went round paying my debts? What would happen to my reputation? You might as well ask me to give up drinking, or blaspheming, or sodomy!”

  There was no answer to that, so I tried another approach.

  “So now we go to the Wazir?”

  This time he laughed at my naivety.

  “No, boy, we are not going to the Wazir. Ja’far al-Barmaki is a cultured and intelligent man, but he has a dreary obsession with duty and responsibility. Whatever he wants me for, it will assuredly not be fun.”

  “Where, then, are we going?”

  “Where else would we be going? We are young, and good-looking, and free, and have a small fortune in gold coins. You and I, boy, are going to a monastery.”

  Five

  The Tale of Three Gentlemen and a Musician, which includes, The Tale of Iblis, the Father of Bitterness

  “Welcome, brothers, to the Abbey of Saint Pachomius!”

  The monastery to which Abu Nuwas escorted me was indeed an interesting establishment. My memories of my upbringing in the Western Christian Church were vague, and I had long considered myself a Muslim. However I was certain that even in the Eastern Church, novices did not usually wear so much make-up. I also had not imagined that monks and nuns would mingle quite so freely, and believed that traditionally they tended to wear rather more clothes.

  This indulgent institution was on the very fringes of town. Abu Nuwas had managed to find a bargee still punting along the dark Northern Canal, and a gold coin was more than enough to persuade him to convey us most of the way. The barge travelled little faster than walking pace, but it was a relief to sit down for a while. As we drifted along I explained to the poet, to his great amusement, how I had come to be the Wazir’s messenger.

  Despite my having told him my name was al-Rawiya, he continued to call me al-Walid, the Newborn. I was annoyed by the implication that I had not existed until he deigned to notice me, but my annoyance only seemed to encourage him. To divert him, I asked him about Ja’far al-Barmaki, and he was shocked by my ignorance.

  “You have never heard of the Barmakids? You truly are a Newborn, like a babe playing with lions, surrounded by dangers you do not understand.

  “The Barmakids, boy, are the second family of the Khalifate, after the Abbasids. While our glorious ruler struts around being magnificent, they quietly get on with the business of running everything. They are administrators to their bones. Before the coming of Islam, they were the hereditary wardens of an important Buddhist temple, over in Balkh. They saw which way the wind was blowing though – converted to the true faith, and grabbed the tail of the Abbasid revolution. They soon made themselves indispensable to the new regime.

  “Ja’far’s father, old Yahya al-Barmaki was Wazir to Harun’s father and brother during their reigns. Now Ja’far serves Harun, although the old man is never far away from the crucial decisions. There’s another son as well, Fadl ibn Yahya. Fadl’s a worthy fellow, but rather dull. I think Harun finds Ja’far more fun to be around.”

  I was not sure whether I should have made more of an effort to conduct the poet to the house of Salam, but short of bashing him over the head and dragging him there, there was very little I could do. Besides, the Wazir’s instructions had been to take him the gold, pass on the message and stay with him until he presented himself. The first two I had done, and the third I was obeying by accompanying him to the Abbey of St Pachomius.

  We were greeted at the door of the monastery by a plump, cheerful monk. Despite his age he had reddened his graying hair with henna and his eyes were ringed with kohl. There was a little embarrassment about an outstanding bill, but this was quickly settled with a handful of coins. I noted that there were some debts which Abu Nuwas chose to repay.

  When he saw the bag of gold the fat monk became positively effusive. He showed us to a room where three men sat around drinking wine. In the centre of room two novices, a boy and a girl, were listlessly breaking their vows of celibacy, to cheers and jeers from the onlookers. In a corner musicians played a tired ghazal.

  “Who’s the gosling, Abu Ali?”

  The speaker was pudgy and weak eyed, with a smile that seemed a little too eager and a nervous half laugh in his voice. The man who sat across from him was more attractive, fine-featured to the point of gauntness. There was a third drinker, but he ignored our arrival. Instead he listened intently to the music, although from the scowl on his face it gave him scant pleasure.

  At first I looked around for the Abu Ali that the plump man was addressing. It took me a moment to realize that he was walking to Abu Nuwas, whose close friends rarely used his nickname. The gosling, of course, was me.

  “His name is Ismail al-Walid, the Newborn. He is the miraculous offspring of the moon and a window, and you are to keep your grubby hands off him, Father of Madness.”

  Abu Nuwas sprawled on a vacant farsh, and indicated that I should join him. I sat carefully upright on the edge of the rug. The pudgy man whom he had called Abu’l-Atahiyya, Father of Madness, passed a jug of wine over. His gaunt companion jo
ined in the banter.

  “Does that stricture only apply to our fat friend? Are my grubby hands free to roam where they will, Abu Ali?”

  He was lean to the point of emaciation, but handsome in the delicate way which was in vogue at the time. Abu Nuwas waved the jug at him.

  “I have nothing to fear from you, Abbas. I know your pecker doesn’t lean that way. Besides, are you not still consumed with love for the delicate Fauz? How is your Tyrant? I was deeply moved by your last ghazal:

  “When Fauz walks, her girls around her,

  She walks as if on eggs and glass.

  I heard she cried from fright on seeing

  A lion’s image cast in brass …”

  Abbas’ hollow cheeks flushed at Abu Nuwas’ teasing, and the Father of Madness joined in.

  “Don’t tell his adoring public, but the real Fauz is a saggy wife with three ugly kids. After Abbas deflowered her, the best she could do in marriage was an oil merchant. Yet still he churns out that whining verse about his unrequited passion for the dainty virgin Fauz …”

  This was too much for Abbas.

  “Fuck off, Seller of Jugs! Don’t you have some jugs to sell? Or is there not some rich man willing to toss you a coin for some arse-licking doggerel? For a jug seller to look down on an oil merchant’s wife, the world must be turned upside down.”

  It dawned on me at last who the two men were, both of them renowned writers. Gaunt Abbas was famous for his verses of chaste love, whereas Abu’l-Atahiyya, the chubby Father of Madness, was a master of madih, poetry in praise of the high-born and wealthy. My head twitched from side to side, watching their faces, as I tried to keep up with the verbal sparring. Abbas was still riled by others’ mockery, and turned on Abu Nuwas.

  “As for you, Abu Ali, how is your Tyrant? How is the Father of Bitterness? Have you heard, Ibrahim, the latest story he is spreading around, in a desperate bid for notoriety?”

  The last question was addressed to the scowling man across from us, who had not acknowledged us. Despite the annoyance the music seemed to be causing him, he was more vexed still to be distracted from it. He shook his head. Abbas pushed on regardless.

  “Then I shall tell you. It is not enough for people to believe that his words are whispered to him by a captive Jinn, as they say of the rest of us poor scribblers. No, he is trying to start a rumour that he gets his inspiration from Iblis, the Father of Bitterness, the Devil himself !”

  The older man, Ibrahim, shrugged, but Abu’l-Atahiyya shifted uncomfortably.

  “Such talk is dangerous, Abu Ali.”

  “What, do you fear that to talk of the Devil is to summon him?”

  “This is no subject for jest. The Khalifah is indulgent, particularly of you, but he has imprisoned me for heresy in the past.”

  Abu Nuwas did not answer, instead taking a long draught of wine straight from the jar. He passed it to Abbas, but the skinny man had not finished badgering him.

  “Is that what the gosling is for, Abu Ali? Is he for Iblis? Are you going to sacrifice him, so that you can use his blood to summon the Devil?”

  “It won’t be his throat that’s bleeding, either, but the other end.”

  These were the first words that Ibrahim had uttered since we entered the room, and they did not endear him to me. I began to wonder what further depravity I might encounter, in this temple of perversion. Abu Nuwas’ response was as close to serious as I had yet heard him.

  “I have always thought that Iblis has been given a bad name unfairly. Surely his refusal to bow to Adam was simply a rejection of idolatry?”

  Up until now I thought I had been following their raillery, but this reference was beyond me. Abbas must have noticed my puzzlement.

  “Your gosling looks confused. Does it speak?”

  “Speak? It reads Greek philosophy, Abbas, and is probably smarter than you. However it was raised by wolves, or sharks, or something, and has never been schooled in the true faith.”

  It was true that there was much I did not know about Islam, which I had adopted unquestioningly as the religion of civilisation. The Nekorite traders taught me nothing of their faith, and Hermes the Kritan was a Jew, in name at least. We had studied the Sharia law for practical reasons, but I had never heard the myths that these men would have learned as children.

  “You should educate him, Abu Ali. You are so learned in these matters.”

  Abu’l-Atahiyya turned to me, the first time anyone had addressed me directly since our arrival.

  “Did you know, boy, that your debauched master was once a pious scholar? He was the youngest hafiz in Basrah – memorised the entire Quran before he was ten! Tell him the story, Father of Locks. Nobody tells it better than you, obviously because you know the protagonist so well. Tell us all the story.”

  So he did.

  The Tale of Iblis, the Father of Bitterness

  Before the world began, there was only God. In His wisdom He created light, then from the light He fashioned angels. The angels all fell down and began to worship Him. However they did not do so through choice, but because such was their nature, and they could do nothing else.

  In his wisdom God desired to be worshipped by a being of consciousness and free will, that adored Him because it understood his divinity. He therefore created fire, which itself makes light. From the fire He shaped the Jinni. And He made the Earth, and placed the Jinni upon it.

  At first the Jinni were grateful to their creator, and gave Him praise and thanks. But in time they became intoxicated by their own power. They began to fight among themselves to determine who was the greatest, and the Earth screamed with the scorching of their battles.

  When God heard the screams of the Earth, He called to Him the most devout and upright of the Jinni, who was called Iblis. He commanded him to go among his people, and bring them back to the ways of righteousness. Iblis did as God willed, and when the Jinni did not heed his calls, he blasted them with flames so fierce that they burned even these beings made of fire.

  As he pacified the Jinni, pride began to creep into the heart of Iblis. He considered that he must be the favourite of God. But God, in His wisdom, had decided to create a new race of beings, which would have the free choice of the Jinn, but without their supernatural powers.

  He sent the Angel Jibril to the Earth, to take soil from which He might mould His new creation. But the Earth begged to be spared, saying:

  “If this being offends God, then I will suffer, just as I suffered for the sins of the Jinni. Surely God cannot have intended for you to harm me, by stealing my very substance from me?”

  Jibril, who by his nature could do no wrong, was confused by the Earth’s pleading, and returned to God empty handed. So God sent the Angel Mika’il. Again the Earth begged, and again the Angel returned empty handed. Finally God sent Azra’il, the Angel of Death. When the Earth pleaded with him, he answered:

  “It is not for us to wonder why the innocent suffer. When God commands me to take, I take, and there is no reasoning in the universe that can persuade me to disobey. But to ameliorate your loss, I will take only a little from each land.”

  So the Angel of Death took some black mud from the lands of the south, and some brown sand from the centre of the world, and some white clay from the countries of the north, and took them to God. And from these God created Man.

  The first Man was called Adam. By the standards of our times he was a giant, being sixty cubits in height. God breathed life into him, and for forty days he lay immobile and insensate as the dirt from which he was made. Then, from the top of his head downwards, the dirt turned into flesh, and the mud became his blood. When the process was complete, he sneezed, and praised the name of God.

  At this God was pleased, and ordered all creation to bow down before Adam. The ranks of the angels fell to their knees, for they could do nothing other than obey. The stars and the moons made obeisance to Man, and so did the Earth, and all the creatures of land and sea and air. Even the proud Jinni bowed down.
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  All except Iblis, who stood with his head held high. And God said to him:

  “Why do you not prostrate yourself before this being that I have created?”

  Iblis replied as follows:

  “How can this thing be greater than I? It lives and dies, and has an immortal soul, but so do I, and the others of my kind. Do we not also think, and converse, and have children that we love? Do we not also choose how we live our lives, and suffer the consequences of our choices?

  “Yet we have powers that this being can only dream of. We can fly, and make ourselves invisible, and bend reality to our will. We can be as large as a mountain or smaller than an ant. How can we be inferior to him?

  “Further, this Adam is made of dirt and muck, of dull, unresponsive earth, home to blind, slimy, crawling things. We Jinni are beings of fire, of subtle, dancing flame, which gives both heat and light. Surely we are of a higher order?

  “Above all else, You have taught us that there is no God but You. How can You ask us to bow down before this Man, as if he were another Creator? I abase myself to You, and to You alone.”

  With that Iblis the Jinn prostrated himself before God. But God was angry, and said:

  “O haughty, clever Iblis. You try to trap me with my own words? I banish you to the scorched wastelands of Jahannam, where you shall eat nothing but the bitter, thorny fruit of the Zaqqum tree, and it will boil and gash your innards for time without end. And to Mankind I give the ability to enslave your people. They will call them Afarit, the Strong Ones, but they will enchain them with symbols and incantations, and make them carry out their wishes, for good or ill.”

  Iblis replied:

  “I submit to Your will. However I ask one boon. Before I go to Jahannam, let me visit the Earth for a little while. I will tempt and confuse these Men, and they will turn away from You, disobey and deny You, for they are weak and foolish creatures of mud.”