A Poet of the Invisible World (28 page)

He was just placing his purchase in his sack when he heard a voice.

“I suggest that you get some rose of Jericho as well.”

He turned and, to his surprise, he found Sharoud standing behind him.

“Fenugreek is good,” he continued. “But rose of Jericho will help to purify his blood.”

“I'm afraid I've spent all the money Abbas al-Kumar gave me on the fenugreek,” said Ryka.

Sharoud peered into his eyes and then smiled.

“Allow me.”

He reached into the pocket of his robe, drew out a coin, and purchased some of the bitter herb. Then he handed it to Ryka.

“We wish to keep our master alive, don't we?”

“Of course.”

Ryka lowered the rose of Jericho into his sack.

“There's a merchant that makes a nice apple tea,” said Sharoud. “Will you join me for a glass?”

“It's kind of you to offer,” said Ryka. “But I ought to get back.”

“As you wish. Just remember that it's an arduous climb.”

At Sharoud's words, Ryka thought of how strenuous the journey up the mountain would be, and of the promise he'd made to Nouri that he would take time to rest. “On the other hand,” he said, “it would be good to take some refreshment before I start back.”

Sharoud smiled again. “It will do you good.”

Sharoud led Ryka past the silk sellers and the cheese sellers and the men discussing the Hadith to a small tent where a man with an extravagant mustache sat beside a steaming kettle perched over an open fire.

“Some apple tea,” said Sharoud. His eyes scanned the pastries that lined a table beside the fire. “And a pair of
baslogh.
”

The man combed his fingers through his lavish mustache. Then he went to one of the sacks that were propped up along the wall, scooped out some pieces of dried fruit, and placed them in a teapot. He carried the teapot to where the kettle sat, filled it with hot water, placed it and a pair of etched glasses on a wooden tray, and laid a pair of warm pastries beside them. Then he handed the tray to Sharoud and returned to the fire.

“Come,” said Sharoud. He led Ryka to a table and a pair of chairs that were perched outside the entrance, lowered the tray to the table, and they sat.

Ryka waited for the tea to steep and for the dervish beside him to speak. In all the time he'd lived at the mountain lodge, he'd barely spoken with Sharoud. He made Ryka nervous, with his beady eyes and his imperious manner. Regardless of how enticing the
baslogh
looked, he wished that he'd headed straight back to the lodge.

“You seem to be adapting to the order,” said Sharoud. “It's not a path to which many can adhere.”

“I thank Allah for giving me the courage to search for Him.”

Sharoud poured the tea into one of the glasses. “And may He give you the strength to find Him.” He handed one of the glasses to Ryka. “The pastries are rather sweet. But even a Sufi must give over to the senses now and then. Don't you agree?”

Ryka—who entirely missed the insinuation in Sharoud's comment—reached for one of the pastries and took a bite. It was quite delicious. For a few moments, the two men were silent. Eating the
baslogh.
Sipping the tea. Then Sharoud lowered his glass to the table and spoke.

“You and Nouri have become quite close.”

Ryka nodded. “He shows me the way to God.”

“Perhaps.” Sharoud paused. “Or perhaps he obstructs it.”

“I don't understand.”

“You're young. It's natural that you would place your faith in someone who's older.” Sharoud took a sip of his tea. Then he gazed into Ryka's eyes. “But what you're doing is unnatural. And deeply offensive to God.”

Ryka said nothing, but Sharoud knew that his words had pierced him.

“You need look no further than the Qur'an for confirmation.
‘Will you commit abomination before the Lord? Will you lust after men instead of women?'”

Ryka felt the ground give way beneath his chair, the pastry turn to granite in his stomach.

“Take heed,” said Sharoud. “Allah sees into the darkest corners. There is nowhere to hide.”

He took one last sip of his tea. Then he headed off into the crowd, leaving Ryka alone.

For a long while Ryka just sat there, unaware of the tea growing cold or the bodies moving past him or the man sitting distracted by the fire. It had never crossed his mind that what went on between himself and Nouri in the deep hours of the night might be wrong. It was so full of joy—so consistent in its power to move him beyond the boundaries of his existence—he could only think of it as a blessing. Now it was as if a veil had been lifted and what had seemed good was suddenly evil. And though he could not name the feeling that coursed through him as shame, he knew that his connection to Nouri would never be the same.

 

Twenty-Four

The fenugreek did nothing. Neither did the rose of Jericho, the parsley, the turmeric, the coriander, the gray verbena, the basil, the marjoram, or any of the other herbs Abbas al-Kumar added to Sheikh al-Khammas's food to reinvigorate his blood. Day after day he lay in the darkness—his eyes open—his body inert—until it seemed as if he'd go on in that state, perched between life and death, until the end of time. He ate the simple food Nouri brought him. He murmured the Shahaadah
.
He glowed as if he'd swallowed the sun. One day, however, he stopped speaking and then a few days later he stopped eating. And that was when Nouri knew that the end was near.

From then on, Nouri remained at his teacher's side: eating the meals Abbas al-Kumar carried in, responding to the call to prayer with a fervent whisper, sleeping when he could no longer resist. He found it hard to believe that a heart so great could actually stop beating. That a man so profound could ever draw his last breath. But Nouri kept his hand on the Sufi master's chest, determined to feel that final moment when his spirit broke free.

Later—when he tried to reconstruct the exact order in which things had occurred—he could not remember whether the cat had shrieked before or after the shutters had crashed open or whether the mirror had shattered before or after the taper had gone out. He only knew that when he heard the sound he drew his hand from Sheikh al-Khammas's heart, and when he placed it back, the shrunken body was still.

Death had finally come.

And Sheikh al-Khammas was gone.

*   *   *

WHEN NOURI ANNOUNCED
that Sheikh al-Khammas had died, the brothers were grief-stricken. The Sufi master had been their compass, and they could not picture life in the mountain lodge without him. They knew, however, that there were strict rules regarding the mourning of the dead, and sacred rites they had to perform. So they reminded themselves that their beloved
murshid
was now with God, and then set to work.

The first thing that needed to be done was to carry the body to the meeting hall for cleansing. And since Ryka was too frail and Abbas al-Kumar and Omar al-Hamid were too old, the task fell to Nouri and Sharoud. As they raised the lifeless body from the bed, they did not exchange a glance or utter a single word. They simply carried it from the cell, down the stairs, and into the hall where the others were waiting. They laid the body on a table that Omar al-Hamid had placed at the center of the room. Then Abbas al-Kumar removed the clothes, drew a rag from a bucket of perfumed water, and began washing it from head to toe.

When the cleansing had been performed three times, Omar al-Hamid began the shrouding. The Sufi master's turban was used and—just like the washing—the shrouding was done three times. Then the brothers chanted the Salaat-ul Janaazah
,
and the body was carried to the garden, where a simple grave had been dug beside the shimmering pool where the Sufi master had loved to sit.

They placed the shrouded corpse in the grave and covered it over with soil. Then Nouri knelt down and lowered his forehead to the ground. He remained there for a very long while, bidding farewell to his beloved friend. And when he rose to his feet, it was clear that the mantle had been passed.

Over the following days, a hush fell over the lodge. For despite the fact that Sheikh al-Khammas had been bedridden for months—barely moving—barely speaking—his death was like the arrival of winter on a bright summer day. The brothers went on as before: taking their meals, chanting their prayers, practicing
zikr
. But the future of the order was unclear, and no one knew this better than Nouri.

To complicate matters, Ryka became ill. For from the moment Sharoud dropped the doubts into his apple tea, his fragile heart began to falter. Before he even left the bazaar, he suffered one of his spells, which caused him to knock over a stand of melons. He took the climb up the mountain so slowly the sky was dark when he arrived. And though Nouri pressed him to explain what had happened, he would not say a word. That night, when Nouri came to his cell, Ryka said that he was too tired to be intimate. And the following morning—when Nouri began his vigil at Sheikh al-Khammas's side—Ryka vowed that they would never make love again.

It was clear to him now. It was wrong. And what was even more clear was that the fault lay with him. He must have been sent to Nouri as a test of strength. To see if his friend could move beyond the yearnings of the flesh. So he decided that he would use his unorthodox heart to remove the temptation.

At first the illness was feigned. He'd been through it so many times it was easy to fake the dizziness, the shortness of breath, the frenzied fluttering in his chest. As the days passed, however, the false manifestations began to give way to the real ones. His guilt over his impassioned nights sapped his blood. And the loss of those nights caused a sorrow that he could hardly bear. With each day he grew weaker, until it was clear that something had to be done.

Nouri instructed Abbas al-Kumar to prepare Ryka ginger-and-honey tonics and strong cups of hawthorn tea. When these had no effect, he called in the doctors. But after endless examination and much shaking of heads, they explained what Nouri already knew: Ryka's heart was not like other hearts, and its fate was uncertain. So once he'd finished his vigil beside Sheikh al-Khammas, Nouri devoted himself to tending to Ryka.

When Sheikh al-Khammas died and Nouri took over the order, Sharoud did his best to remain silent. When the doctors appeared at the gates of the mountain lodge to see Ryka, he escorted them to his cell. But when Nouri began spending his days at Ryka's side, Sharoud could no longer hold his tongue. So one morning, as Nouri was taking a bowl of
maast-o khiar
to the youth, he intercepted him on the stairs.

“I need to speak with you.”

“Can it wait?”

Sharoud frowned. “I'm afraid not.”

Nouri had not slept well in weeks, and the last thing he wanted was to struggle with Brother Shadow. But he knew better than to stir up Sharoud's wrath, so he acquiesced.

“Meet me in the garden,” he said, “after the next call to prayer.”

Sharoud nodded, and Nouri continued on. Then—after an hour had passed and they'd performed the
salah
—they met on the stone bench beneath the argan tree, just a few paces from Sheikh al-Khammas's grave.

“You wished to speak with me,” said Nouri.

Sharoud nodded. “I believe it's important.”

“Well, I'd be grateful if you'd keep it brief.”

Sharoud turned to face Nouri directly. “It's not my place to give you advice. But it's an important moment for the order. You cannot be blind to it.”

“The loss of Sheikh al-Khammas is a terrible blow. It will take us time to adjust.”

“Sheikh al-Khammas was a great man. And he led this order with great wisdom for many years.” Sharoud paused. “Perhaps, in his greatness, he kept it alive.” He paused again, careful to choose his words. “Or perhaps—Allah preserve him—he kept it from moving forward.”

Nouri felt the heat rise to his cheeks, but he fought the impulse to respond.

“I do not question your assumption of the mantle,” continued Sharoud. “For whatever reason, Sheikh al-Khammas chose you to take over as our
murshid.
But I do question whether you realize what's at stake. Either the order flourishes”—his eyes grew even darker—“or it collapses.”

“And what would you have me do?” said Nouri.

“I'd have you focus your energy on ensuring that it's the former and not the latter. Grounding our order in a new set of disciplines. Searching for ways to increase our ranks.” His mouth curled. “Not sitting all day in a dark cell beside a sickly boy.”

“That boy is our brother.”

“Perhaps. But he seems to evoke the lowest part of you.”

“No, Sharoud. The highest part.”

“You cannot—”

“No!” cried Nouri. “I won't hear you! I won't let you speak about what you don't understand!”

Sharoud's eyes glittered. He wanted to shout that what Nouri had done with Ryka was an abomination. But he knew that he'd said enough. So he rose from the bench and left the garden.

For a long while, Nouri just sat there—letting the blood drain from his throat, urging his heart to stop pounding, willing the thoughts from his mind. He knew that, in part, what Sharoud had just said was true: the order was at a crossroads and it was up to him to shepherd it forward. But he was unable to do that until he was shown the way. So he sat there until his spirit had regained its balance. Then he rose from the bench and returned to Ryka's side.

*   *   *

DESPITE THE EXOTIC ELIXIRS
that Abbas al-Kumar concocted, despite the bed rest, despite Nouri's loving attention, Ryka's condition did not improve. He tried to return to his daily chores, but he soon found that he grew weak while tending the roses, he felt dizzy while practicing
zikr,
and the grayish-blue cast to his skin became its permanent hue. What troubled Nouri the most, however, was the wall that Ryka had erected between them. He no longer shared what he was thinking or feeling. He would not allow Nouri to hold him. Something had damaged his trust and Nouri felt sure that if he could learn what that was—and put it right—Ryka's health would return.