Bird Summons

by Leila Aboulela

  ‘Can’t you call him?’ said Moni.

  ‘No,’ said Iman. ‘He will come on his own.’ She told them all the stories the Hoopoe had told her. She told them the one about the bear who killed its master by mistake, the sad tale of the selkie, the story of the young camel and that of the frozen snake. She told them the story about Nathan, who long ago lived at the loch, of the sin he committed and how he tied himself up with chains and threw the key in the river. How he travelled to Jerusalem and how one day he cut open a fish and found the key to his freedom.

  Moni and Salma listened to her for hours, captivated by her voice and the tales she was spinning. ‘Iman, you are no longer shy,’ said Salma. The petulance was gone and the studied boredom. The revulsion against being cast as feminine, or even human, all melted away. Iman had grown up. She wore maturity like a cape and it was the best piece of clothing she had ever put on.

  ‘I love life,’ said Moni. And the other two laughed. This did not sound like the Moni they knew. But here she was, cross-legged on the grass, a flower in her hand. She was beginning to look around her, to see all that was beautiful and fascinating. To step away from herself and her problems. To be more than a mother of a disabled child, more than a full-time carer. It should not be a burden looking after Adam, a sacrifice to be self-righteous about, it should be carried with firmness and ease. With gratitude too, because he was special in his own way, unique. If she let her guard down, she could be more generous, more willing to mother another child, a sister for Adam or a brother. That would be moving on – members of a family, each with their weaknesses and strengths. My children, she would say to others. Show photos of Adam being loved and accepted by another child, someone who would never judge him, someone who would know him in a new way.

  And Salma. How had she changed? She would not tell them. ‘Speak to us,’ said Moni. ‘Why are you quiet?’ asked Iman.

  Salma could not yet translate her hurt into words, it was not only her body he had carved into, taken out her strength, tossed it away in a surgical pail. It was not only that. She moved away from her two friends. She lay back on the grass even though she could now sit and stand up. She could braid Iman’s hair and do push-ups. She rolled to her side and cried because she had not had a good cry for a long time. And they came to her, they did not leave her to cry alone. Iman to comfort her and Moni to say kind words. Salma had always been the strong one, the one whose life was sorted, the one who was envied, who knew what to do and what she wanted – but all that had been fragile.

  ‘I want to tell you about my mother-in-law,’ she finally said. ‘And don’t expect a mother-in-law joke.’

  Moni laughed out loud. Iman smiled. She had met Norma many times. There was nothing remarkable about her, nothing of note. She was, to Iman, another chore that Salma slotted into her busy life.

  ‘She saved me,’ said Salma, and told them how Norma had carried her out of that clinic, back through time and countries, to the forest, where they were waiting for her.

  Iman said. ‘It wasn’t her that saved you but what you did for her over the years.’

  ‘Nothing special,’ said Salma. ‘Nothing that anyone else wouldn’t have done. If David had married any other woman, she would have treated his mother the same way.’

  Moni raised her eyebrows, ‘Given her free massages?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Salma. ‘Not if she wasn’t a therapist.’ And when she said that, she felt a whole sense of satisfaction that she had eased someone’s pain. That she had helped. Why all these years putting herself down, ashamed that she had failed her PLABs, that she was not a doctor as she had always dreamt of being? Hiding her low self-esteem beneath the efficiency, aggressively pushing her children to achieve what she couldn’t, the years she lied to her parents, the low salary she continued to accept just to be able to say, ‘I work at the hospital.’ And when Amir surfaced on social media, all she had been willing to give up because he had addressed her as Doctor. She had been unfair to herself.

  They waited for the Hoopoe. They chatted and waited. They sat in silence and waited. Salma grew restless. Perhaps they should set out on their own. They could complete the journey without the Hoopoe, figure out a way, instead of this endless waiting. Moni was thinking ahead to all that needed to be done to get back to the city; this wait was a waste of time. Perhaps, she thought, the role of the Hoopoe was over. To restore their bodies was no mean feat, a miracle in itself. Did they still need him now? Iman listened out for the sound of wings; she scanned the sky. She was sure that it was not yet over. If they set out, they would get lost, they would not return. ‘Wait a little longer,’ she urged her friends. ‘Be patient.’

  The sun began to set. Even if the Hoopoe were to show up now, it would be too late. They would not be able to make progress in the dark, they would have to wait for day. They were almost asleep, huddled together under the tree, when the Hoopoe came back. He came to them not as guide but as storyteller. The story he told was for the three of them, not only Iman. It was Attar’s fable, The Conference of the Birds. They had known it – read it, heard it, saw the bird illustrations in a book – but then, over time, forgot.

  ‘The birds of the world,’ the Hoopoe said, ‘gathered to discuss a prospective journey to find their king. Many found excuses not to set out. The journey was too arduous, they said. We would get lost, they said and stayed behind. The group that flew out did face many perils. They flew over deserts and mountains, for years they travelled and at times it felt as if their whole life would be spent on the route. Some got distracted by the charming scenery, some were eaten by wild animals. Some went mad from hunger and dashed themselves against the rocks. Some were burnt and drowned and molested. Only thirty birds survived to the very end. They reached the majestic court battered and bruised without feathers or strength. Why on earth would His Majesty receive you? the court’s herald said. You are nothing to him. When they begged and cried, they were granted an audience. At long last they were in the presence of their Beloved. What did they see? They saw the whole world and other worlds, myriad suns and stars, lights upon lights. Within this dazzling reflection they saw their greatest shock – they saw themselves. Thirty birds. How could that be? they wondered. It was as if they were looking into a mirror. It took them some time to solve the puzzle. Their existence was within him because nothing existed outside of him. The birds merged with the one they had flown towards, the one who was themselves and everything else. From the lowliness, they rose again so that seeker, destination and the way became one.’

  In the morning, the women followed the Hoopoe down the mountain and across the valley. They climbed up a small hill and looked down at a clearing near a lake. They saw men busy constructing a building. They were dressed in clothes only seen in paintings and films set centuries ago. The men were not using any modern building technology and they were singing as they worked.

  ‘It’s the monastery,’ said Salma. ‘We are watching it being built.’ Her relief that she was near a familiar landmark overcame the oddity that they had been swept back in time. The monastery meant that they were close after all to where they had started. They had indeed returned part of the way.

  Caution made them hold back, made them hide themselves under a tree. The scene before them was all freshness and hope. A house of worship rising. They felt the sincerity that fuelled the manual work, men toiling to build what they might not live to see, working for a necessary grandeur and elevation. Moni, Iman and Salma saw the monks come in and takes their vows, some of which they would keep and many of which they would not be able to uphold. Vows of celibacy that were not imposed on them by the Almighty, which they took on voluntarily and then fell into sin. Iman, Salma and Moni saw the years sweep over the monastery, the waning of faith bringing with it corruption and corruption further eroding faith. They saw the abuse of little boys and the unlawful accumulation of wealth. They saw worldliness encroach upon the sacred, the
secular triumphing over the religious, how this life became more important than the next. They saw enthusiasm dwindling and distractions growing until the place was empty, devoid of prayers. Then the renovations began. Architects hired to restore the original features, designers to make the apartments fit the theme. The chapel becoming a swimming pool.

  But not everything was swept away. There was something of the prayers left behind, a concentration of what had been the most sincere, a density. The three of them had come upon it in the refectory, Salma first, then Iman and Moni. They felt the print left by the priest who had read the prayers up at the pulpit while the monks ate their meals. Men deprived of women experienced the deepest thankfulness for the food on their plates.

  ‘You can see him now,’ said the Hoopoe. ‘If you go down and look through the window, you will be able to see the whole scene.’

  The three held hands and ran down the hill. The sun shone down on them and afterwards, for the rest of their lives, they would remember this as one of their happiest moments. They would recall the anticipation and how young they felt, like little girls, with all their strength and flexibility, with easy joints and laughter in their throats. Iman held Salma’s hand and Salma held Moni’s hand. It started to rain, a light drizzle that sprinkled them as they moved. The water touched their heads and made them special. The hill sloped down, and they gave in to the pull of gravity, the acceleration of their steps and heartbeats. Each of them was self-conscious, aware of her restored body, how good it felt to be whole, to be upright. How good it was to have a clear mind and balance, to have a tongue that could talk and feet that could hold up her weight with ease.

  ‘It’s Nathan,’ said Iman, when they looked through the window. ‘I thought at first he was Mullin, but it’s Nathan. He is the one reading the prayer. He is the one grateful that he had lost his chains. He came back home and had been forgiven. It is he who built the monastery.’ She recognised him from the Hoopoe’s description, from spending story time on him and his journey to Jerusalem. She recognised him from that time she had glimpsed his image through the window and thought he was, like her, dressed up in costume.

  There he was now, through this window, no longer in chains, understanding what he was reading: every word. They recognised him as one of them, a believer, though he had not lived long enough to know the Last Prophet, nor to hear the final revelation. They had in common with him the knowledge of their Creator, the desire to seek forgiveness, the trajectory of slip and rise, the journeying to come close. They understood him, and he would have understood them too, if he had lived in their own time. The similarity between them was more than the difference. Through the window, the medieval scene was as exotic as a European painting, the rituals alien but acceptable. They had an affinity to it, an understanding that existed despite the barriers of time and race.

  The scene could not last long. Just long enough for Iman to make her guess and for the three of them to bear witness. Then it flickered and was gone. The refectory was empty, the monastery in a further period of time. It could even be the future, as the furniture was different from how they had seen it, the tartan chair no longer tartan, the billiards table replaced, the design more minimal. But the pulpit was still as it was, the wooden panelling, the door and the large window. ‘The room is waiting for you,’ said the Hoopoe. ‘It is your turn now.’ That was the last thing he ever said to them, the last they saw of the shimmer of his crown and the black stripes of his feathers. ‘It is your turn now.’ For the final steps of the journey, the guide does not need to be there. It is the traveller’s private time, the traveller’s specific destiny and not that of the guide.

  The three stepped into the room and they knew what they had to do. It was obvious. One after the other, they climbed the pulpit. They sat, they did not stand up. They did not need paper or book. The words were in them, memorised and often practised. Each one recited as much as she could recite. If she made a mistake, the others corrected her; if she stumbled, they nudged her memory. Each one of them had her own way of remembering. Moni kept her eyes shut. Salma looked down as if she could see the pages in her hands. Iman recited in a melodious way, unhurried and rhythmic, less of a reading than a chant. Between them, they managed whole suras and hundreds of verses. They did what they could, and they did better than they ever thought they would be able to. The walls heard them, the building heard them, the grounds too had been waiting to hear them. They were adding to what was already there, supplementing what had already been granted. There was nothing radical in what they were doing, nothing contrary. It was a continuation. A flow meandering but not changing direction, because the direction had always been the same. The paths might be infinite, but the destination one.

  When they finished, it was time to go home, but the door of the refectory would not open for Salma. Iman tried the window and it would not budge. They were stuck without the Hoopoe to ask for advice. They had come this far and now here was another obstacle. They were locked in.

  They conferred and even shouted for help. Moni rattled the door, Salma banged on the window. It was no use. But suddenly when Iman turned the handle of the door, it opened. They rushed to get out, but it closed again. Only Iman could open it, only Iman was allowed to pass through.

  ‘I will not leave you,’ she said to the other two. ‘We came together, we leave together.’

  ‘No,’ said Salma. ‘Go and our turn will come.’

  Moni hugged Iman goodbye. She could do that now, the tenderness in her, the spontaneous gestures of affection coming out.

  The door closed behind Iman and the others paced the room in silence. When Moni tried the window, it opened for her. She understood straight away that she would have to leave alone. She would not be able to take Salma through with her. It was futile to protest. All she could do was hug her friend and then climb out with a joke, ‘I would never have imagined being able to do this.’

  Salma was alone. She tried the door, she tried the window, but neither were to be her exits. Was she the one destined to stay here on her own?

  Unless there was another way out. A way that was not a window or a door. She paced the room and found it – a hatch at the bottom of the wall panel. Small but not too small. She squeezed her body through it and found herself in a tunnel with damp soil around her. The air was dank and all lay in darkness, but she crawled along the earth, crawled slowly and crawled more. It took a long time, dragging herself through the damp soil, inching forward, waiting for a glimpse of light. Trusting that it would be there, the darkness could not go on for ever. A chink, and the sun was there ahead, at last, there it was ahead. Salma increased her speed, no longer feeling the effort now she was nearly there. When she finally emerged and stood up, she found herself staring straight at her car.

  Moni and Iman were waiting for her. They had packed up all their things, including hers, and left the cottage.

  ‘It’s Monday,’ explained Iman, handing Salma the car key.

  Salma kicked the car wheel in frustration. ‘We were meant to go visit Lady Evelyn’s grave yesterday. Sunday is the only day. Now I can’t drive the car into the estate!’

  ‘We can still go,’ said Moni. ‘I don’t mind walking. I can walk now. We’ll leave the car at the forest and cross the railway line by foot.’

  ‘It will be twelve miles, Moni. Can you do this?’ Iman’s voice was gentle.

  ‘I’ll try my best.’

  ‘We can’t not go,’ said Salma. ‘It’s why we came in the first place. We have to.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  They heard the clap of gunshot and the stags bellowing in the distance. Around them, the hills and crags were in shades of rust and copper, stretching out for miles, and the more the three of them climbed, the more they felt that there was nothing else except them and the glen they were walking through. The path was muddy and often there were rocks that were sharp to step on. The gradient was not steep but gr
adual. Often, they forgot they were climbing, until a dip downwards afforded them a larger view of clouds touching the brown mountains, the vast moorland spread out with hills dotted in white rocks and yellow heather. Slopes of hills with ancient, unpronounceable names, rocky valleys and rough grass. A waterfall just like that, appearing out of nowhere, the gushing sound of it, then a smaller one and another. A river ran parallel to the path, sometimes twisting narrow and becoming shallow as a stream with islands of pebbles and greenery. Sometimes, as they were walking, the water was just there, within reach, and sometimes instead there was a steep precipice leading to the river. The gurgle came from every side and above them. It filled their ears and they sensed the flow underneath them, clean and cool, running under the grass, coming down from the heights of the deer forests and peaks.

  Salma was following the map in Lady Evelyn’s book. They were walking the dotted line that paralleled the river and curved around the mountain. Moni felt a pressure in her bladder and the continuous sounds of flowing water didn’t help. She tried her best to ignore her body and keep walking. The path was wide enough for one large car, more than ample for the three of them, and they walked at the same pace, not speaking much, except to say that the weather was good, no rain, no fog, neither too cold nor too hot. And where were the hunters? they wondered. Up there, out of sight, stalking the deer in the forests and further glens? From time to time, the roar of a stag could be heard, sounding very much like the bellow of cattle. Or was that a horn to call the deer? Mile after mile, they walked. Whenever Iman glimpsed a large rock projecting up high on the hill, she thought it was Lady Evelyn’s grave. But it was too early, there was still a long way to go. Whenever there was a bend in the path, Salma would think that it was the last bend, the turn after which they would see the hunting lodge ahead of them and there on the left, up on the northern hillside, would be the headstone they were looking for. Iman illusionary, Salma too optimistic, Moni more and more anxious about her need for a toilet.