The Father of Locks

by Andrew Killeen

  “But – I mean to say, that is my kerchief! I have had it for months! He could have seen me using it – knew that I had it –”

  Ibn Bundar’s bleated protestations could hardly be heard over the excited chatter of the assembled citizens. Al-Shafi’i reasserted his authority, with an air of self-justification.

  “Abd al-Aziz, can you produce two witnesses who will swear that the cloth belongs to your grandson?”

  The veteran scented victory.

  “I am one – and my daughter another –”

  “But two women must act as witness in place of one man! This is insufficient testimony!”

  Abu Nuwas was shouting now as well, as events threatened to stampede out of his control. Al-Shafi’i looked at him in icy triumph.

  “As you well know, agent of the Wazir, that Surah refers specifically to the witnessing of business loans. If this woman of the true faith is willing to testify, I will accept her word.”

  I thought I saw Fatimah glance at her father before looking down and nodding her assent. Al-Shafi’i settled on his mat as if that was the end of the matter, but Abu Nuwas had not given up.

  “Wise Qadi, might I be permitted to question the witnesses?”

  The young judge ignored him, and my master took his silence as permission.

  “Abd al-Aziz, who was your commanding officer at Talas?”

  The veteran bristled.

  “What does this have to do with my grandson? By whose authority do you interrogate me?”

  As he replied, Abu Nuwas looked toward the crowd, who were eagerly awaiting the next development.

  “But I understood that you were proud of your military record. What reason would you have for refusing to answer?”

  The old man stared at him and scratched his neck for a long time before responding.

  “I fought at Talas in the regiment of Sayf al-Din, of the tribe of Quraysh.”

  “Thank you. Fatimah bint Abd al-Aziz, did you buy this cloth for your son?”

  The woman seemed as unsettled as her father by this shift in approach, and her reply was hesitant.

  “Yes … yes, I did.”

  “From where did you buy it?”

  “I don’t remember. Karkh … the suqs … I don’t remember exactly.”

  “So it was not a significant expense? Not a costly purchase, that you would recollect making?”

  Fatimah was becoming increasingly nervous.

  “No, no. It is just an ordinary piece of cloth, which I gave to the boy …”

  Abu Nuwas picked up the red rag, and stared at it intently. The silence in the courtyard became unbearable. Finally he spoke.

  “This fabric is Sichuan weave. It is only produced in western China. Admittedly, there it is common stuff, but to arrive in Baghdad it must have travelled thousand of miles, and would be as expensive as silk. How, then, could you have picked it up, almost without noticing, in the suqs of Karkh?”

  Fatimah looked at my master, then at Abd al-Aziz, who glowered through his thick brows. The hush was so deep that a cat could be heard mewing outside the masjid. Then –

  “I’m sorry, father, but this madness must stop. I have only seen that cloth before in the possession of our neighbour Babak ibn Bundar. And I am grateful to you, whoever you are, for exposing the lie before I swore a false oath, and risked damnation.”

  The furious reaction of Abd al-Aziz was drowned out by the clamour of the crowd. I am sure I saw money change hands; if wagers had been placed on the outcome of the trial, they were now paying out. Babak ibn Bundar looked more relieved than jubilant, and skulked off before anybody could stop him. Al-Shafi’i stood up to formally proclaim the accusation disproved, but he was inaudible and increasingly red-faced.

  Abd al-Aziz was escorted away by al-Takht, still complaining vociferously.

  “You will all regret this mistake, releasing that son of fifty fathers. I tell you, he is guilty! He lives on his own – has never married – never even has a whore! Yet strange noises come from that house – voices, chanting, Iblis knows what manner of evil …”

  As the crowd dispersed, I contemplated Abu Nuwas with new respect.

  “Master, how do you know so much about weaving?”

  “Weaving, boy? I know nothing about weaving. Do I look like a woman, or an artisan?”

  He chortled gleefully at my confusion.

  “I do, however, know about liars. Abd al-Aziz scratched the back of his neck every time he mentioned that cloth. I asked him about Talas to test my theory, as I was pretty certain that he was lying about being there. And sure enough, he scratched as if infested. Then it was a simple matter of making the woman think she had been caught out. She was obviously less comfortable with deceit than her father.”

  “But – what if she had held her nerve? What if she knew about weaving herself?”

  Abu Nuwas shrugged.

  “I guessed she would be more comfortable with a sword in her hand than a needle. And I was right, wasn’t I? When I am wrong, then you may stand there looking appalled at me, and say, ‘But Father of Locks, what if?’ Now close your mouth and open your ears, boy. Our police friend is back.”

  I stared at him, uncertain whether to be impressed or appalled, as Al-Takht came over to us.

  “The grandfather knows nothing of any real use. Apparently the child has been running with a gang of street kids, who call themselves the Raiders. The old man was all in favour, thought it would toughen the boy up. Three days ago, he didn’t come home. As far as I can tell, he’s only blaming his neighbour because he doesn’t like him.”

  “But he looks like the man Layla saw.”

  Al-Takht looked at me for a moment before answering.

  “I am not so sure. Umm Dabbah is not the most discerning of women, but she was clear on one point. The man had black skin – ‘not dark like a man of Aksum or Sind, but pure black, like nobody I’ve ever seen.’ There are thousands of dark-skinned men in Baghdad. The Khalifah’s grandmother was from Somalia, and his father al-Mahdi was of the same complexion as ibn Bundar. We cannot accuse him simply for being black.”

  “But his eyes – surely we could just take him to the woman, ask if he is the man –”

  This time I had clearly gone too far. Al-Takht exploded.

  “I take no orders from catamites! Ibn Zuhayr commanded me to assist your master. If he wishes me to arrest Babak ibn Bundar, then that is what I will do.”

  Before he could answer, we were interrupted by a dishevelled policeman, who nervously tugged at al-Takht’s sleeve.

  “Captain – you’d better come back to Sharqiya – you’re needed.”

  The unfortunate man took the full brunt of his Captain’s wrath.

  “Can you dribbling cretins not cope for a single day without me? What’s the matter, have you lost your balls or something?”

  The policeman winced, but persisted desperately.

  “No, Captain – it’s Ghassan the Porter – his little boy Ahmad –”

  Al-Takht was at the door of the masjid before his man had finished the sentence. Abu Nuwas and I hurried after him.

  The Police Captain’s legs were short, but he powered ahead of us furiously as we crossed the city once more. I was surprised that a man of his rank did not have a horse, as would a Captain of the Guard. However it seemed that the Shurta were not so privileged, and al-Takht was a man accustomed to walking. Abu Nuwas loped beside him, and I scurried in their wake, too breathless to ask questions.

  The house of Ghassan the Porter was tiny, only raised above the status of a hovel by constant, desperate and exhausting effort. It was clean and orderly, but a strange smell lingered, like heavy spice. His long, hairy arms gesticulated wildly, his eyes red from weeping.

  “He has been gone since morning, my lord! Even if he had wandered off, he would have come home to eat before now. He must be hungry –”

  Ghassan’s face distorted, and his words froze. Al-Takht shook him.

  “You must tell me what happe
ned, or I cannot help you.”

  The porter sucked in breath.

  “My wife, she was out to fetch water – the well at the end of the road there, where you talked to Umm Dabbah yesterday. She saw a friend of hers, and stopped to talk. She let go of the little boy’s hand, my lord. I’ve told her she’s not at fault. She often did, on the street outside our house.”

  Ghassan’s wife was older than him, certainly too old to bear any more children, and I wondered how they had come to be wed. She too was red-eyed, and seemed distracted with grief, staring into an imaginary distance. She did not react to being discussed, but tipped her head to one side, as if listening to echoes of movement. Ghassan addressed Abu Nuwas defensively.

  “It’s a friendly neighbourhood, my lord, and everybody round here knows my Ahmad. But when she next looked around, he was gone. Nobody saw nothing, master. And with all the talk, my lord, of witches snatching children, and the Devil, and all –”

  The ape-man was convulsed by silent sobs, and we left before he cried out in his pain. Outside, al-Takht inhaled deeply.

  “Agent of the Wazir, I hope you have one of your clever tricks to play now. If not, might I ask that you look for this child, the son of my friend and neighbour, while I go and organise my men?”

  Abu Nuwas nodded, and the Police Captain left. My master and I drifted down the street in uncomfortable silence, peering around. Twilight was settling on the city, the shadows lengthening and distorting, and our efforts were futile. Soon we arrived at the charred remains of the buildings destroyed by the hooded stranger. It was here we had spoken to the boy Ahmad, only the day before. I shivered.

  “Is it possible, master? That the children are being … sacrificed?”

  “I don’t know, boy. One disappearance is an accident, two a coincidence; but three begins to look like a hunt.”

  Just then a sharp wind blew up, cutting me to the bone, even through my costly clothes. At the same moment a dark hulking shape loomed at us out of the gloaming.

  Without thinking I stepped behind Abu Nuwas, and I noticed that he reached for a sword he was not carrying. Then I looked at the stranger’s face and recognised the spiteful, terrified eyes of Umm Dabbah.

  “He has come! He has taken the boy! Protect me, my lord … if you have power you must protect me!”

  She clutched the poet’s arm as she spoke. Gone was the resentful suspicion she had displayed the previous day; darkness was closing in and fear was overwhelming her. He tried to calm her.

  “Who has come, Umm Dabbah?”

  She shook her head, desperately.

  “He has come for the Name … she opened the Door That Should Not Have Been Opened. Ten hungry men! Shall I be saved, if I can find ten hungry men?”

  Abu Nuwas could form no words. Umm Dabbah’s eyes seemed to clear, and she noticed the confusion in his face. With an indrawn breath like a mirror shriek, the old woman turned and fled.

  For a moment we stood dumbfounded. Then we raced after her. In the instant we hesitated, though, she had vanished into the crazy alleys of Sharqiya.

  Abu Nuwas pointed me along the south road, and ducked down a side street himself. I trotted in the direction he had indicated, painfully aware of the slap – slap – slap of my feet echoing off the houses. As I approached a crossroads I slowed and quietened my gait, fearing to startle the old woman. So when I turned the corner, I nearly ran into the back of the hooded figure which strode ahead of me.

  At first I thought it must be Umm Dabbah, but I quickly realised the old woman was a good cubit shorter. I padded like a cat after the tall figure, keeping to the shadows, trying to catch a glimpse of the face under the hood without being seen myself. At the next corner he paused, and glanced furtively around. I saw huge, aberrant eyes in a dark face. And my heartbeat was scarcely slowed when I saw it was Babak ibn Bundar, the glass-eyed veteran whom my master had defended in court.

  The old man scurried off around the corner. I followed him as swiftly as I dared. His presence in Sharqiya, so close to the scene of another abduction, was enough to condemn him, even if he had not been acting so suspiciously. Every few paces he looked around him. Several times I had to duck into doorways, and if he had two good eyes I am sure he would have spotted me.

  After a few blocks of this stuttering pursuit, he arrived at a long, low building, and tapped at a small door. I saw a spyhole open to examine him, before he was admitted. The door closed behind him, and I was alone on the street.

  It was clear that knocking on the door would be futile. Whatever was going on inside, casual visitors were not welcome. I strolled around the building nonchalantly. All the windows were shuttered, and there were no other entrances. Then, at the rear, I noticed a peculiar thing.

  At the level of my feet, there was a gap in the wall, perhaps a cubit long and a little over a span in height. The hole was covered by a crude grille of iron. From somewhere inside the building I could hear a rhythmic sound, like a muttering or moaning.

  There was nobody around. I squatted down to examine my find. I reckoned I would be able to wriggle through the gap, if I could get the grille off. I tugged at it uselessly, then looked for signs of corrosion that I could exploit. There were none.

  Something did not make sense. For the iron to be free of rust it would have to be relatively new, but the building was rough and weathered. My fingers ran around the edges, feeling for the join. The grille had been stuck over the gap fairly recently, using some form of mortar.

  I picked up a sharp stone from the ground and scraped it against the mortar. The cement crumbled easily. Encouraged, I worked vigorously at the join, and soon the grille was loose like a rotten tooth.

  So intent was I on my work that I nearly missed the sound of footsteps until it was too late. Someone was coming. Hurriedly, I rubbed dirt on my face and slouched against the wall with my hand out like a beggar. Then I realised that I was still wearing the expensive coat Abu Nuwas had given me for the feast. I stripped it off, and, with only a moment’s regretful hesitation, scrunched it into a ball and sat on it, just as a man came round the corner.

  Fortunately, my white skin must have convinced him that I had some horrible disease, because he muttered a charm against the evil eye and hurried away. My heart was pounding; my hasty disguise would not have survived closer inspection. When I was calm again, and certain that nobody else was around, I got up.

  The coat was ruined, and I left it in the dirt. The grille, however, came away in my hands with only a little force. I noticed that there was no floor on the other side at street level, but I had come too far to turn back now. Checking for one last time that I was unobserved, I squeezed through the gap and dropped into the darkness.

  Twelve

  The Tale of The Great Demon Time, Devourer of All Things, which includes, The Tale of the Game of Four Divisions

  I fell some six cubits, landing with a thump on cold, hard earth. The impact knocked the wind from my body, and I had to lie still for a moment while I regained my breath.

  I was in a dim corridor. The only light came from the hole through which I had entered, now high above my head. At one end of the corridor a stairway led upwards. At the other, the passage turned sharply, and I could not see what lay beyond.

  The air was hazy, and reeked of incense and candle wax. The rhythmic sound I had heard earlier came from around the corner, and was now clearer. It was the sound of a dozen voices, repeating, in a slow monotone, a string of meaningless syllables:

  “On Ma Tri Mu Ye Sa Le Du

  On Ma Tri Mu Ye Sa Le Du …”

  The chanting was punctuated unpredictably by long, resonant chimes, apparently operating to a rhythm of their own, and an animal grunting and bleating. All this must have covered the noise of my clumsy entrance, as nobody had come to investigate. I crept towards the corner.

  Peeking around I saw an underground chamber, lit by braziers. The men and women intoning the gibberish sat on cushions with their back to me. They had shaved heads and w
ore red robes.

  Babak ibn Bundar stood in front of them, also clad in red, and with his eyes closed. In one hand he held two thick cymbals which dangled from a single leather thong. From time to time he clashed the rims of the cymbals together, and this produced the chimes I had heard. The animal noises emanated from a young goat, tethered to a butcher’s block. All of this was unsettling; but what really caused my hair to stand on end was the indigo-skinned monster watching over the scene.

  The beast was human in shape, but with fangs like a tiger’s and a third eye in the centre of its forehead. It wore a crown made of five human skulls, and trod corpses beneath its clawed feet. In one of its six hands it held a bowl of blood, also made from a skull.

  My fear was hardly lessened when I realised that the monster was a painting on a wall hanging. The illusion of movement had been created by the smoke from the braziers, and a faint rippling of the cloth. Other banners hung beside it, decorated with horses and dragons and tigers, but none was as detailed and lifelike as the three-eyed monster. There were also strange symbols carved into the walls, crosses with four crooked arms.

  The chanting was increasing in intensity now, slowly building in tempo and volume. Ibn Bundar passed the chimes to one of the seated figures, and picked up a knife with a long blade that curled like a snake. The goat took fright, and began to writhe and whine.

  “On Ma Tri Mu Ye Sa Le Du

  On Ma Tri Mu Ye Sa Le Du …”

  As the incantation reached a climax, some of the seated figures began to break into spontaneous shouts and wails. The animal, too, seemed to scream as the knife descended. Then it was silenced.

  The chanting fell back to a whisper. Ibn Bundar bent down behind the block, and I could not see what he was doing. When he stood up again, he held an inverted skull in both hands. He put it to his face and tipped it back, and the blood ran down his face and into his beard as he drank. I must have let out an involuntary gasp, because his real eye darted in my direction, the glass orb following slowly after it. I pressed myself against the wall, but too late. He lowered the skull, pointed in my direction, and let out a hideous, wordless howl from his bloodstained mouth