A Poet of the Invisible World (6 page)

“Yes, please,” he said.

The Sufi master nodded. And Nouri's education began.

*   *   *

“THERE ARE A GREAT MANY
rules to learn. And they must be adhered to with great strictness. But the point—and you must remember this, Nouri—is not to become good at following the rules. The point is to bring discipline to the animal part of your nature. So that your spirit—which is who you truly are—can be free.”

It was a crisp winter morning a few months after Nouri had begun his studies with Sheikh Bailiri. They were strolling through the market, past the dried figs and the salted fish and the bowls of ground fennel and sumac and coriander. Sheikh Bailiri found that his mind worked best when he was walking, so each morning, after he'd prayed and broken fast and taken Kavan out to hunt, he would roam with Nouri through the streets of Tan-Arzhan. The boy's head cloth was tied tightly in place—for once he'd seen the stunned reaction of the brothers to his ears, he preferred to keep them safely concealed, even behind the walls of the lodge.

“All is one,” said Sheikh Bailiri, as he plucked a large onion from one of the stalls. He held it up to the light as if he was waiting for it to transform into a dove and fly away. Then he handed the man behind the stall a coin, and handed the onion to Nouri. “Things look different. But their inner spirit is the same.”

Nouri ran his thumb over the smooth, papery skin and tried to focus on what the Sufi master was saying. He loved his morning walks through the city with Sheikh Bailiri. And for all the curious sights, what truly dazzled him were the sounds that pierced his sensitive ears: the ping of the blacksmith's hammer, the braying of the wine merchant's donkey, the chatter of the spice sellers, the gurgling of the fountain. Yet no matter how alluring these things were, Nouri was always drawn back to Sheikh Bailiri's words.

“God is too great to be perceived directly, which is why He fractured into so many forms. You, Nouri, are one of those forms. When you know yourself, you will know God.”

The first thing that Sheikh Bailiri required Nouri to do was to learn the Qur'an. That was the foundation of everything else. The teaching of the Prophet. The Word. Nouri found the book to be both beautiful and direct. But what fascinated him most was the feeling that beneath the words—in the patterns of the syllables and the sounds—was a hidden teaching. After the Qur'an came the Five Pillars of Islam: Faith, Worship, Charity, Fasting, and Pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Only after these things had been explained did Sheikh Bailiri discuss what it meant to be a Sufi.

“Through the Qur'an, the Supreme Being created a holy covenant between Himself and man. A moral guidepost. A set of laws. The Sufis are no less constrained by those laws than any other believers. Their devotion, however, is more inward.”

He explained that each Sufi order was led by a sheikh, who had studied with and been confirmed as a teacher by his own sheikh, in an unbroken chain reaching back to the Prophet himself. To be a Sufi was to be a servant of others. And by serving them, to be a servant of Allah. But one could do this only if one remembered that He was present in all things.

“Constant remembrance, Nouri. That is the goal. But I assure you, it is far more difficult than you imagine.”

When Nouri had been invited to learn the secrets of the universe, he'd expected to receive discourse on how to alter the pattern of the stars in the sky, turn rocks and pebbles into precious stones, manipulate the workings of time. So all this talk about remembrance and oneness and forms was a bit abstract. But he knew that it was a gift to receive private instruction from someone as wise as Sheikh Bailiri. So he kept his ears open—all four of them—and trusted that understanding would come.

Though what mattered most was the inner meaning of being a Sufi, Sheikh Bailiri also explained the Sufi's manner of dress. A loose frock was worn over the body, made either of a light-colored cotton to express his purity or a patched piece of cloth to express his wish to unite mankind. A battered robe was worn over this to remind him of his vow to poverty. And on his head—sometimes surrounding a domelike hat, which pointed to heaven—he wore a turban.

“The cloth that wraps the head of a Sufi is his funeral shroud,” Sheikh Bailiri explained. “So his turban is a constant reminder of death.”

To Nouri, death seemed far, far away. Yet he knew that the remembrance Sheikh Bailiri spoke of was somehow connected to it. It was only when they paid a visit to the city's mosque, however—one crisp Sunday in the month of Shawwal—that he caught a true glimpse of what lay beneath the Sufi master's words.

Nouri had gazed at the vast dome and the slender minarets of the Darni Sunim dozens of times, yet he'd never set foot inside. For despite the alluring beauty of the place, the brothers preferred to maintain their worship in the small chapel mosque at the lodge. On this day, however, Sheikh Bailiri slowed his pace as he and Nouri approached the dreamlike structure.

“Allah is as grateful for a simple dwelling as for the most elaborately carved building in the world.” He turned to Nouri. “But it's very beautiful. Would you like to see what it looks like inside?”

Nouri nodded. So Sheikh Bailiri escorted him up the six weathered steps, where they removed their shoes and placed them beside the others that were lined up next to the door. Then he took Nouri's hand and they passed through the doorway into the mosque.

As Nouri entered the sacred space, he could feel his breath catch and a shiver run down his spine. The floor was lined with fine woven carpets, the walls were graced with filigreed windows, and the dome—which spread out over their heads—was richly painted with flowers and leaves and suns and moons and stars. But what thrilled Nouri the most was the fact that wherever he looked—on the walls—on the doors—on the frieze that ran in a circle beneath the dome—were the most exquisitely calligraphed words.

“The Prophet came to remind us that we must keep Allah in our hearts at all times.” Sheikh Bailiri raised his hand and gestured toward the river of words. “And praise him!”

Nouri gazed at the curving script that sang from every surface of the room.

Words.

In praise of God.

Words.

Words.

Words.

As he stood there in the cool, filtered light, Nouri could feel a peace wash over him. In the corner, a pair of men in white turbans sat on a prayer rug reading the Qur'an. On a nearby ladder, a young man was hanging a brass lamp from a crossbeam. Everything seemed to be floating in space, from the stairs of the
minbar
to the
mihrab
set into the eastern wall. Nouri wondered if the people who knelt before that niche felt the same inner confusion that he did. He wondered if the path he was traveling was affected by his actions or if it was preordained. He wondered why he had to labor to reach God if God was already inside him.

In the rarefied air of that holy space, Nouri's thoughts soared like a dove. So he was utterly unprepared when a voice cried—

“Look out!”

—and the polished lamp that the young man had been hanging came crashing to the ground.

Nouri froze, his hand glued to Sheikh Bailiri's, a strange light dazzling his eyes. He felt as if he could see things as they were. As if he could see himself. The thoughts that crowded his head disappeared. The laws of the physical world seemed to dissolve into the welter of metal and glass at his feet.

“That's it, Nouri!” whispered Sheikh Bailiri. “That's what you're after! That's who you truly are!”

Nouri did not understand what he meant. But he suddenly saw that another world existed. And as its light began to fade, and the contours of his usual world rose over him, he vowed that he would find his way back.

*   *   *

WHEN SHEIKH BAILIRI TOOK NOURI
under his wing, Habbib glowed with fatherly pride. He'd spent countless nights gazing at the youth while he slept, wondering what would be his fate. He knew that no one could prepare him for that fate better than Sheikh Bailiri. Yet he could not help but feel a certain sadness at how the new patterns of the boy's life created a distance between them. When Nouri was not out roaming the city with Sheikh Bailiri, he was immersed in a series of small daily tasks: laying the table for the morning meal, lighting the candles in the chapel mosque, filling the water jugs that sat beside the doors of the brothers' cells. Habbib would wait patiently until bedtime, when the child would curl up beside him and listen to one of his tales. On his eighth birthday, however, Sheikh Bailiri announced that he was going to give Nouri his own cell.

“The Sufi must be a part of the community. But like everyone on the spiritual path, he can only find himself in solitude.”

So Habbib and Nouri still toiled in the garden and immersed themselves in the stories of the Shahnameh and sat beside each other at meals. But the time they spent together was now a fraction of what it had been.

Even at its most extreme, however, Habbib's reaction to Sheikh Bailiri's devotion to Nouri was mild when compared with that of Sharoud. On the day when he'd unraveled the boy's head garment and exposed his secret, Sharoud had expected Nouri to be cast out into the street. When Sheikh Bailiri instead called Sharoud to his cell and took him to task, the somber dervish could hardly control his fury.

“Surely it must be for the best,” he cried, “that such a horror has been brought to light!”

“The Sufi is respectful of others at all times,” said Sheikh Bailiri. “You had no right to tamper with the boy's apparel.”

“But who knows where he came from?” said Sharoud. “Habbib's story is full of holes!”

“He's a boy with a special gift,” said Sheikh Bailiri. “As you yourself pointed out.”

Sharoud—not wishing to offend the Sufi master—said no more. But as the weeks passed and Sheikh Bailiri began to mentor the child, he could not hold his tongue.

“How can you honor this creature with your guidance? It's an insult! An outrage!”

“Remember the rules of conduct, Sharoud.”

“But he has two sets of ears! It's a sacrilege!”

“No, Sharoud. It's a blessing. A miracle.”

But Sharoud was insistent. “He's unfit to be among us!”

Sheikh Bailiri had spent decades on Sharoud: trying to support what was highest in him, helping him to move through his dark, difficult moods. In that moment, however, it was clear that it was he, and not Nouri, who was unfit to be in their midst. So on the following morning Sharoud awoke to find his shoes turned outward at the door to his cell, which meant that he had until sundown to take leave of the lodge. It was a shock to everyone. Sharoud had been a part of their lives for so long it was unfathomable that he should suddenly go. But Sheikh Bailiri was firm, and by the snuffing out of that evening's candles, Sharoud was gone.

As far as the others were concerned, they were not so much dismayed by Nouri's ears as they were amazed.

“No wonder he can invent such splendid verse,” said Jamal al-Jani. “He can hear more words than anyone else!”

“With Nouri among us,” said Piran Nazuder, “the order is most surely twice blessed!”

So once Nouri's head cloth was retied, he was treated like a rose petal in the washbasin: a flash of color in a world of function, a reminder of the wonder of Allah.

As for Nouri himself, he could not stop thinking about that moment at the mosque when he'd been swept to another world. He wished, more than anything, to go there again. Yet try as he might, he was unable to find his way back. He returned to the Darni Sunim, but its shimmering surfaces remained locked up tight. He held his breath—he pressed his fingers against his eyelids—but nothing came of it at all. He thought that another crash might somehow trigger the experience. So he dropped a ceramic bowl onto the floor. He shattered a vase against the stones of the courtyard. He smashed a plate against the wall. Yet nothing evoked the stunning awareness he'd experienced at the mosque.

Eventually he decided that only a precise reenactment of what had happened could lead him back. So one morning he fetched a ladder from the garden, carried it into the chapel, and placed it beside the small glass lamp that hung from the ceiling. He climbed the ladder, attached a rope to the chain, and climbed back down. Then he positioned himself so that, with one good tug, the lamp would come crashing down at his feet.

He closed his eyes. He tightened his fingers around the rope. But then he heard Sheikh Bailiri's voice.

“Even if it startles you,” said the Sufi master, “it won't be the same.”

Nouri opened his eyes to find Sheikh Bailiri standing at the entrance to the chapel.

“You can't spend your life pulling down lamps.” He crossed the room to where Nouri stood, and he knelt down. “What happened at the Darni Sunim was a gift. To get there again will require effort. And will. Only you can say if you have the strength to remain on the path. Only time will reveal whether you do.”

Nouri gazed into Sheikh Bailiri's eyes. He had no idea what awaited him on the path. He suddenly pictured it aswarm with demons. But his destiny beckoned. And there was no way he could turn back now.

 

Five

So the weeks and the days and the months went by, and Nouri's education continued on.

“You cannot avoid life, Nouri. You have been given it for a reason. You have to move through it—the struggles—the fears—until you can be in it and out of it at the same time.”

He explained to Nouri that to be a Sufi was to strive for a direct experience of God.

“Why wait until you die to see Allah,” he said, “when you can see Him now?”

As Nouri's ninth birthday approached, Sheikh Bailiri taught him that the world was an illusion.