The Father of Locks

by Andrew Killeen

  The next time Baba came, he sat by me and talked. He told me about the Ghul, which lived within him, as a worm lives in the stomach of a cow. He told me that he had made a pact: that in return for something he really wanted, he had agreed to let the Ghul possess him. The Ghul was a powerful spirit, the offspring of Iblis, the Devil himself. And it needed the blood of children to live.

  My stepfather told me that he had planned to sacrifice me, so that my blood could feed the Ghul. However now he understood that the spirit intended for me a greater destiny. I would be its host, when he could no longer nourish it. His duties were difficult and dangerous, he said. Several times he had nearly been caught, and some day his luck would fail him. Then I would carry the burden.

  The days in the dark room seemed to have erased my previous life, as surely as the water washed my footprints from the riverbank. Watching my mother and the eunuch die had crushed any last traces of the little girl I had been. Into the emptiness seeped the words of my stepfather, filling my soul, pulsing meaning back into my existence.

  Within a week I had been released from the storeroom. I helped Baba clean it out, since he had freed all the household slaves, including the cook and the nurse. We sold the house for a fraction of its value, and left the city.

  My stepfather now insisted that I call him by his given name, which was Nuri. We travelled the land, dealing in cloth. The sale of the house had given him sufficient capital with which to trade, and he seemed to be a canny negotiator with contacts all across Arabia.

  Two or three times a year, however, the Ghul became hungry, and demanded to be fed. I came to recognise the signs. Nuri would become distracted and irritable, unable to sleep at nights. Then he would go hunting.

  When we had been on the road for a couple of years, he asked me to help him hunt. I felt proud and pleased, that I was trusted in a matter of such importance. We were staying in a small town in the plains of Najd. I found some children playing on the street, and joined in their games. Nuri told me I could not be seen leaving with any of them, so I arranged to meet one little boy later. I made him promise to keep the secret, saying I would show him something marvellous.

  And I did. I showed him the Ghul, when it emerged from within Nuri, twisting his face and altering his voice to a bestial snarl. At first I was distressed by the boy’s screams. But Nuri told me later that they were not cries of pain, but the sound of his soul, his ruh, undergoing purification, so that it could join with God.

  As ever when the Ghul had been fed, we left the town the next day. After that day, though, I always joined Nuri in the hunt. We travelled together and slept together, and when I became a woman, he took my maidenhood. He was my father, my lover, my protector and my teacher.

  Our life was not without its risks. Although we tried not to return to towns where the Ghul had feasted, it was inevitable that our wanderings would take us back sometimes to places where we had hunted. We were met with suspicion, and a couple of times Nuri was brought before the qadi. However, there were no witnesses or evidence, and they had to release him.

  When it ended, it ended quietly. Nuri simply went out one day, and never returned. Perhaps a bereaved parent decided to take vengeance on their own, without going through the courts. I made no attempt to find out. Nuri had instructed me what I should do in such circumstances, even making me repeat his words until he was satisfied that I had memorised them. I packed up our belongings and left immediately, trailing a blanket behind the horses to cover my tracks.

  He had told me that the Ghul would possess me after his death, and I wondered whether I would feel it entering my body. However, I felt nothing. At night there were dreams, of blood and shrieking, but I think they had always been there, as long as I had been hunting with Nuri.

  For the first time in my life there was nobody to tell me what to do. The nomadic lifestyle had become wearying as well as dangerous, and I decided to settle down. All across Arabia the talk was of nothing other than the wonders of Baghdad, so I made my way to the capital. Here I took the money that we had accumulated in thirteen years of trading, and used it to buy a shop.

  My shop prospered, and I began to forget about Nuri, and the Ghul. Then the dreams came back to me. I found myself sitting on the roof at night, staring out across the city, grinding my teeth and tasting blood in my mouth. At last I accepted the truth. The demon was within me, and it was hungry.

  I was reluctant to hunt, and risk having to flee Baghdad, and my new life. However the cravings became stronger. I tried to think of a way that the Ghul might be sated, given an offering that ended its hunger forever.

  Without Nuri I had nobody to school me in the ways of evil spirits. However I began to conceive the idea of the perfect sacrifice. The children would not be orphans, street scavengers no better than dogs, but instead they would be beautiful, bright and beloved. And there would be two of them, a boy and a girl: the King and Queen of Darkness.

  I had always thought of Najida as a princess; she was so pretty and adored. Making her queen seemed like helping her to fulfil her destiny. I was visiting the merchant’s wife, but the call of the Ghul rang in my head. When I saw the little girl alone in the garden, I told her that we would play a trick on her mother. With my help she climbed out of a window. I instructed her to run to my shop, where there was a bowl of figs for her, then bolted the shutters behind her.

  The boy I found while walking through Sharqiya. I heard about the fire, and the manifestation of the Devil, and was drawn to the neighbourhood. For three days I passed by his house. Every day he was playing outside, and I won his trust with kind words and presents. His mother noticed nothing. When a child disappears, its parents will always claim that they only looked away for an instant. In fact, she was so oblivious that I think she must be an eater of hashish.

  When I brought the boy back, I thought it would make Najida happy. However she continued to wail, and beg to be taken home. She even refused her food. The boy was different, quieter, braver. He tried to comfort her, encouraged her to eat. He said that a magic horse with wings of gold and silver would fly down to save them.

  I told them about the wonderful destiny I had planned for them: how they would be anointed as royalty, how their innocent blood would transform the Ghul into a beautiful angel, how they would all three fly up to God together. But this did not seem to console them. Even when I brought them their insignia and crowned them King and Queen of Darkness, they did not thank me.

  Then you came, Ismail. I knew as soon as I saw you that you would put an end to it. Sometimes I allowed myself to dream that we would fall in love. I imagined us running away together, getting married, and having children of our own, whom you would keep safe from evil spirits. In my clearer moments, though, I understood that you would shine light into my cellar, and make me face what I have done. And I delayed and delayed, denying the howls of the Ghul as they grew louder in my head.

  And now you are here. I am sorry the girl could not wait for you, but at least you have saved the boy. And there is still something you can do for me. I know what must be done next, and I accept it. I ask only that you are the one who does it.

  Ah, at last you turn to look at me. Such sadness in your eyes! No, do not speak. Do not ask me to promise never to harm another child, I will only lie to you. The Ghul is still in me, and this is the only way he can be destroyed.

  Oh yes, first let your master carry the boy into the light. He has seen enough. That sword seems awkward in your hands, Ismail. Is it the first time you have wielded it? It is heavy, I know. You must put it here, just below my ribs, then push upward. Into my heart.

  Don’t be weak, Ismail. You will be doing me no kindness, if you do not do this properly, only causing me pain. It is an act of love, Ismail. The last one we will ever share.

  I’m sorry. Do –

  Epilogue

  The Tale of the Boats

  Everybody was at the river, that morning. The summer heat had passed, and a brisk wind whipped the surface of
the Tigris. Nonetheless the aristocracy of Baghdad came out in all their finery, to see the boats arriving; the boats which carried the treasure of Muhammad ibn Sulayman.

  Of course agents and minions would take care of the sordid business of claiming their share. They came merely to oversee the process; and to watch that the agents and minions did not help themselves to a cut of the loot. It had also become a matter of pride, to be seen there. Court gossip would suggest that anyone who was absent was not important enough, or favoured enough, to have been granted a share.

  Salam al-Abrash was there. The eunuch had received only a small allocation, but made a great show of collecting it, fussing around his factors and porters. He was interrupted by a tall man with long tendrils of hair falling about his shoulders.

  “Peace be upon you, Speckled One.”

  “And upon you also, Father of Locks. I have not seen you since the day of the hunt- what, two, three months ago? Indeed, I had heard that you were in some disgrace.”

  “I live in disgrace as the fish lives in the water, my friend. It is my natural element, and therein I thrive.”

  The two men stood in silence for a while, watching a fat woman arguing with ibn Zuhayr, the Chief of Police.

  “But it is written here, in the hand of the uncle of the Khalifah himself – to Umayma bint Abu Isa, five thousands dirhams in silver …”

  The long-haired man turned to his plump companion.

  “What is the cause of all this commotion?”

  Salam al-Abrash cast a sideways glance at the man called the Father of Locks.

  “You have been out of favour, haven’t you? Old Muhammad ibn Sulayman died, on the same day as al-Khayzuran. The Khalifah, deep in mourning for his mother, nonetheless roused himself to send an agent down to Basrah, to ensure that he got his share of the inheritance.

  “The agent did a very thorough job. In fact, he took everything of value, leaving ibn Sulayman’s relatives with only the rubbish. And rubbish there was, in plenty. The old man was a hoarder, and never threw anything away. Do you know, they found his old school robes there, stained with ink from his childhood? It is said the suqs of Basrah still stink from the hundreds of fish which were rotting in his storerooms, and which they just threw out onto the streets.

  “Harun kept the goods for himself: the carpets, the slaves, the horses and camels, the perfumes and spices and jewels. However the money he has divided between his courtiers and favourites. These boats are stuffed full of gold and silver coin, and all those with letters of authorisation have come to take their share.”

  Now the singing girls arrived, swaying along the waterfront clutching their furls of parchment. The crowds gasped, to see such glamour gathered in a single place. The wives of the wealthy tutted at their innovations of fashion, while secretly noting the trends they would copy. Salam, meanwhile, had more gossip to share.

  “Since you have been absent from court circles, you may not have heard about the demotion of your friend and patron, Ja’far al-Barmaki. On the day of al-Khayzuran’s funeral, the Khalifah ordered him to hand over to Fadl ibn Rabi the seal ring, and with it control of all the empire’s finances. Nobody knows what the Wazir did to so anger his friend, to be stripped of such power, and see it awarded to his greatest rival.”

  The eunuch broke off when he noticed a slight, pale figure watching from a distance.

  “Is that your boy over there? I have often wondered how he came into your service. One day I catch him breaking into the House of Wisdom, the next he is an honoured guest at the Khalifah’s Palace …”

  “Ah, that is a story for another day. Will you excuse me, Speckled One?”

  The boy watched the tall man approach him.

  “Ismail.”

  “Master.”

  “I have been worried about you. When you ran, after leaving the cellar of Layla bint al-Bazza …”

  The boy shrugged, and said nothing.

  “Where did you go? Where have you been?”

  “I have been with Mishal ibn Yunus. The death of Thomas the Syrian provoked a fight for power among the fityans of Harbiya. He gave me shelter, and in return I was able to help the Raiders at a difficult time. The porter’s son- is he well?”

  The tall man laughed.

  “You will never lack for a friend in Sharqiya. I have taken to avoiding the place, so wearying has Ghassan’s gratitude become. His wife, though, merely smiles vacantly. Layla was right about her. She has eaten hashish every day, since she used it to relieve her pain after giving birth to the boy.”

  “And the merchant Imran ibn Zaid?”

  “I let al-Takht carry the body of his daughter to him. After all, that is work for the police, not for a poor poet such as myself.”

  A blast of trumpets broke into their conversation, and black ranks of Guardsmen marched towards the boats. They were followed by a man on horseback, in magnificent robes of scarlet and turquoise. The Khalifah himself, Harun the Righteous One, had come to see the division of the spoils.

  A troop of Guards peeled away from the main body, and headed downriver to where the boy and the man were standing. They were escorting a handful of white-skinned barbarians in outlandish garb. One of the barbarians ran from the escort, and approached the boy.

  “I had hoped to see you here.”

  It was a girl, slim, unveiled, with yellow hair like ripe corn. She spoke to the boy in Greek devoid of inflection or expression.

  “You killed my father.”

  The boy nodded, not challenging the literal truth of the statement.

  “He was trying to kill me. You were my first, you know.”

  The girl seemed surprised at the change of subject. For the first time emotion crept into her voice.

  “And you mine. I do not deny that I was trying to distract you from overhearing Brother Catwulf. It was my fault you were there. I heard your master joking about your friendship with the Chamberlain, and gave you the message meant for him. But I did like you. I hoped to save you …”

  “And now?”

  “We are leaving tomorrow.”

  “Has it been a success, your mission? Have you achieved what you came here for?”

  The girl answered as if reciting something learned by rote.

  “We are returning with messages of friendship from the Commander of the Faithful. Our embassy has been merely the seed, from which will grow ever greater peace and cooperation between our Kingdom and your Khalifate.”

  There was an awkward pause, followed by a shout from one of the Guards. The girl touched the boy’s face, gently.

  “Goodbye, Ismail.”

  “Goodbye, Hervor. I hope you arrive safely in your own lands.”

  She looked as if she were about to say something else, but instead she turned and ran back to her escort. The tall man snorted.

  “Women! They are always complaining about something. ‘You do not bring me gifts, you do not pay me enough compliments, you killed my father …’ Really, boy, you should stick to your own sex. At least you know what you are dealing with.

  “Ah, now here comes our esteemed Wazir. We should pay our respects. He has been enquiring after your whereabouts.”

  The boy and the man walked towards a handsome Persian, who stood talking to a portly man of middle age.

  “Peace be upon you, mighty Wazir! And upon you, Yaqub al-Mithaq. I trust you have recovered from your wound.”

  The portly man looked suspicious.

  “What wound?”

  “Oh, I believed that you had suffered lacerations upon your arm, in the shape of the letter Zay. My apologies if I am mistaken.”

  The man called al-Mithaq bristled, but the Persian intervened.

  “Peace be upon you, Father of Locks. I received your message concerning the outcome of your business, for which I owe you thanks. I have been waiting for you to present yourself, and demand a reward.”

  “I deemed it judicious to absent myself for a while. It seems that I inadvertently caused offence …”
/>
  “What, for your comments about my friendship with Harun? Great men cannot afford to take umbrage every time they are mocked in private. Besides, it is useful to have a hold on you. Now if you ever annoy me, I shall tell the Khalifah what you said.

  “No, I believe that you are most effective in adversity. Also, I wanted to see how the young man would respond. I understand he showed great resourcefulness. In fact, Ibn Zuhayr has been demanding his head, for the assault on his man. I had to convince him that it might not reflect well on the police, that this scrawny youth was able to outwit and immobilise an armed officer.”

  “I am sorry to hear that our efforts did not prevent the Chamberlain gaining in influence, at your expense.”

  “Such fluctuations are all part of the game. In the end it was nothing to do with the Name, or the Door. Harun had felt for some time that my family had become too powerful, and it was only al-Khayzuran’s influence that had prevented him from acting sooner.

  “Besides, one cannot repress the truth forever. Truth is like water: it finds its own level, and will always seep out in the end. One can constrain it with walls and channels, as the miller narrows the river upstream of his mill, and in so doing generate power. But one must tend to the walls constantly, for leaks appear without warning, and a small trickle soon becomes a torrent.

  “Yes, careful management of the truth is essential, for those who are responsible for the prosperity of empires. Our lands must be irrigated, but not flooded. We need it to live, but too much of it will drown us. However, there is something more powerful than the truth. Something that, if I must choose, I will take in preference to the truth every time. Do you know what that might be?”

  “No, mighty Wazir.”

  “A sword, Abu Ali. A great big fucking sword.”

  The Persian turned away. The man and the boy bowed, and walked on up the river. In front of them, a pudgy man with weak eyes dropped a bag of coins, which spilled everywhere. The cream of Baghdad society got down on their hands and knees, scrabbling in the dirt for money. Among them stalked a dwarfish hunchback, shouting like a prophet in the wilderness.