Authors: Vladimir Bartol
Miriam and Sara both smiled.
“Who ever gave you that idea, child?”
Halima was afraid that she’d blurted out some inanity again, so she answered carefully.
“My former master told me, ‘Watch out for boys! If they jump over the wall and break into the garden, run away from them, because they keep a lizard or a snake under their shirts and they’d let it loose to bite you.’ ”
Miriam and Sara burst out laughing. Sara devoured Halima with her eyes, while Miriam, biting her lip, said, “Well, there aren’t any mean boys here, and even our lizards are completely gentle and tame. They haven’t done anything nasty to anyone yet.”
Then she began whistling. The lizards turned their heads in all directions, as if looking for the person who was calling them.
Halima huddled between Miriam and Sara, where she felt safer, and said, “You’re right. They’re pretty.”
A little pointed head poked out of a crack in a rock and darted its forked tongue out. Halima froze in terror. Its head rose higher and higher and its neck grew longer and longer. Then there was no doubt: a big, yellowish snake, undoubtedly attracted by Miriam’s whistle, had crawled out of the crevice.
The lizards darted to all sides. Halima screamed. She tried to pull Miriam and Sara away, but they held firm.
“Don’t worry, Halima,” Miriam said, to calm her. “This is our good friend. We call her Peri, and when we whistle she crawls out of her little hole. She’s so well behaved that none of us can complain about her. In general we’re friends in these gardens, people and animals alike. We’re cut off from the rest of the world and take pleasure in each other.”
Halima relaxed, but she wanted to get away from there.
“Let’s go, please,” she pleaded.
They laughed, but complied.
“Don’t be so afraid,” Miriam scolded her. “It should be obvious that we all like you.”
“Do you have other animals?”
“Lots of them. In one of the gardens we have a whole menagerie. But it takes a boat to get there, so sometime when you’re free you can ask Adi or Mustafa to take you.”
“I’d like that. Is this place we live in very big?”
“So big that you could die of hunger if you got lost in it.”
“My goodness! I’m not going anywhere alone again.”
“It’s not that bad. The garden we live in is actually on an island surrounded by the river on one side and moats on the other three. It’s not that big, so if you leave it but don’t cross any water, you can’t get lost. But over there, at the bottom of that rocky cliff face, is a forest with wild leopards.”
“Where did you get Ahriman from that he’s so gentle and tame?”
“From that forest. Not that long ago he was still just like a little kitten. We fed him with goat’s milk, and even now we still don’t feed him meat, so that he doesn’t go wild. Mustafa brought him for us.”
“I don’t know Mustafa.”
“He’s a good person, like all our eunuchs. He used to be a torchbearer for a famous prince. It was very tough work, so he ran away. He and Moad are the garden keepers. But it’s already time to go back to the classroom. Fatima and Zuleika are going to train us in music and singing.”
“Oh, I like that!”
The singing and music lesson was a pleasant diversion for the girls. Miriam gave them complete freedom. Changing places frequently, they would play Tartar flutes, strum on the harp and the lute, light into the Egyptian guitar, compose and sing humorous songs, critique each other and argue, while Fatima and Zuleika tried in vain to command their attention. They laughed, told stories, and enjoyed the chance to let go.
Sara once again clung to Halima.
“You’re in love with Miriam. I saw it.”
Halima shrugged.
“You can’t hide it from me. I can see into your heart.”
“So, and what of it?”
Tears welled up in Sara’s eyes.
“You said you were going to like me.”
“I didn’t promise you anything.”
“You’re lying! It’s why I’ve trusted you so much.”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
It had gotten quiet, and both Sara and Halima turned and listened. Fatima had picked up a guitar to provide her own accompaniment as she began to sing. Beautiful, old songs full of yearning.
Halima was entranced.
“You have to write the words down for me,” she said to Sara.
“I will, if you’ll like me.”
She tried to press close, but Halima pushed her away.
“Don’t bother me now. I have to hear this.”
After the lesson they stayed in the classroom. Each one took up her own work. Some sewed or wove, or headed over to a huge, half-finished rug and resumed work on it. Others dragged several beautifully carved spinning wheels into the hall, sat down at them, and started spinning. They chatted about ordinary things, about their former lives, about men and about love. Miriam oversaw them, walking through their midst with her hands behind her back.
Halima thought about her. She didn’t yet have any work of her own. She listened to one conversation, then another, until finally her thoughts focused on Miriam. If she and Sayyiduna were “close,” what was it that took place between them? When she was in the harem, did she also do the things that Apama had described? She couldn’t believe that. She tried to shake off such ugly thoughts and convince herself that it couldn’t be true.
They had supper right before sunset, then they went for a walk. Suddenly darkness settled on the gardens and the first stars came out above them.
Halima walked down a path hand in hand with Sara and Zainab, conversing with them in half-whispers. The sound of the rapids grew steadily closer as the alien and eerie landscape stretched boundlessly before them. Halima felt a twinge of emotion, bitter and sweet at the same time, as though she were a tiny creature who had gotten lost in a strange, magical world. Everything struck her as mysterious, almost too much so for her to grasp.
A light flickered through the thickets. The small flame started moving, and Halima timidly clung to her companions. The flame got closer and closer, until at last a man carrying a burning torch stepped before her.
“That’s Mustafa,” Sara said, “the garden keeper.”
Mustafa was a big, round-faced Moor dressed in a colorful cloak reaching almost to his feet and tied at the waist with a thick cord. When he saw the girls, he gave a good-natured grin.
“So this is the new little bird that the wind blew in yesterday,” he said amiably, looking at Halima. “What a tiny, fragile creature.”
A dark shadow danced around the flickering torch. A huge moth had started circling around the fire. They all watched as it nearly grazed the flame, then darted in a broad upward arc and vanished in the darkness. But
then it would come back, and each time its dance became wilder. Its circuits around the flame grew narrower and narrower, until finally the fire caught its wings. They crackled, and, like a shooting star, the moth hit the ground.
“Poor thing,” Halima exclaimed. “But why was it so stupid?”
“Allah gave it a passion to attack fire,” Mustafa said. “Good night.”
“That’s strange,” Halima mused, half to herself.
They returned and went to their bedchambers, undressed, and lay on their beds. Halima’s head spun from the day’s events. That ridiculous Adi with his rhyming sentences, the agile dance master Asad, tarted-up Apama with her shameless learning, mysterious Miriam, the girls, and the eunuchs. And here she was in the midst of all this, Halima, who for as long as she could remember had dreamt of far-off lands and longed for miraculous adventures.
“It’s fine,” she told herself and tried to go to sleep.
Just then someone touched her lightly. Before she had a chance to scream, she heard Sara’s voice speaking right into her ear.
“Stay completely quiet, Halima, so that Zainab doesn’t wake up.”
She climbed under the blanket and snuggled up against her.
“I told you I don’t want this,” Halima said just as quietly. But Sara showered her with kisses and she felt powerless.
Finally she managed to break free. Sara started to coax her and whisper lovesick words in her ear. Halima turned her back, stuck her fingers in her ears, and fell asleep instantly.
Sara was unsure what was happening with her. Feeling disoriented, she returned to her bed and climbed in.
At about the same time that Halima arrived by such curious circumstances in the strange, new gardens, a young man on a small, black donkey was also riding along the broad military trail toward the same destination, only from the opposite direction, from the west. It couldn’t have been long since he’d removed his childhood amulets and wrapped a man’s turban around his head. A downy first growth of beard barely showed on his chin, and his clear, lively eyes had an almost childish look to them. He came from the town of Sava, more or less halfway between Hamadan and the old capital, Rai. Years before, in Sava, his grandfather Tahir had established a circle of the Ismaili brotherhood whose ostensible purpose was to proclaim a renewed veneration of the martyr Ali, but which was in fact dedicated to the subversion of Seljuk rule. At one point the society also inducted a former muezzin from Isfahan as a member. Soon afterwards the authorities raided a secret meeting of the group and imprisoned some of its members. Suspicions centered on the muezzin as a likely informer. He was tracked down and the group’s conjecture was proven correct. They secretly condemned him to death and carried out the sentence. Subsequently, the authorities seized the brotherhood’s leader, Tahir, and, at the command of the grand vizier Nizam al-Mulk, ordered him beheaded. The brotherhood disbanded in panic, and at that point it appeared that the Ismailis had been banished from Sava forever.
When Tahir’s grandson reached the age of twenty, his father told him the entire story. He bade him saddle his donkey and get ready for a journey. He took him to the top of a local tower and pointed out the conical peak of Demavend as it shone snow-covered above the clouds in the infinite distance.
He said, “Avani, my son, grandson of Tahir. Go straight along the road that leads toward the peak of Demavend. When you reach the town of Rai,
ask for directions to Shah Rud, the King’s River. Follow it upstream until you reach its source, which is nestled at the foot of several steep slopes. There you’ll see a fortified castle called Alamut, the Eagle’s Nest. That is where an old friend of Tahir, your grandfather and my father, has gathered all who profess the Ismaili teachings. Tell him who you are and offer yourself in service. This way you will be given the chance to avenge your grandfather’s death. My blessing be with you.”
The grandson of Tahir put on a crescent saber, bowed respectfully to his father, and mounted the donkey. His ride to Rai was uneventful. At a caravanserai he asked after the easiest route to Shah Rud.
The innkeeper said, “What on earth takes you to Shah Rud? If you didn’t have such an innocent face, I’d suspect you wanted to join the chief of the mountain, who gathers all those infidel dogs around him.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” the grandson of Tahir dissembled. “I come from Sava to meet a caravan that my father dispatched to Bukhara, but which seems to have been held up on the way back.”
“When you leave town, keep Demavend to your right. You’ll come to a well-worn road which is used by caravans coming from the east. Stay on that and it will lead you to the river.”
The grandson of Tahir thanked him and remounted his donkey. After two days of riding, he heard the roar of water in the distance. He turned off the path and rode straight toward the river, alongside which a footpath led alternately through sandy open spaces and thick stands of shrubs. The incline of the river grew steadily steeper and the water more thunderous.
When he had thus half-ridden and half-walked his way through a good part of the day, a detachment of horsemen suddenly surrounded him. The attack came so unexpectedly that the grandson of Tahir forgot to draw his saber. When he remembered and reached for its handle, it was of no use to him. Seven sharp spear points were aimed at him.
It’s shameful to be afraid
, he thought, but what could he do against such superior power?
The commander of the horsemen addressed him. “What are you prying around in these parts for, greenhorn? Maybe you’ve come trout fishing? Be careful your hook doesn’t get caught in your own throat!”
The grandson of Tahir was at a total loss. If these were the sultan’s horsemen and he told the truth, he’d be finished. If they were Ismailis and he kept silent, they’d take him for a spy. He let go of his sword handle and desperately searched the soldiers’ mute faces for an answer.
The commander winked at his men.
“It looks to me like you’re searching for something you haven’t lost, my underaged Pahlavan,” he said, and then grabbed something from between his saddle and stirrup. A white flag, the symbol of the followers of Ali, fluttered on the short stick which he held in his hand.
What if it’s a trap?
Avani thought. “No matter, I’ll risk it,” he declared to
himself. He jumped off the donkey and reached his hand toward the flag, which the commander had thrust in his direction, and he reverently pressed it to his forehead.
“There you go!” the commander called out. “You’re looking for the castle of Alamut. Come with us, then.”
He drove his horse forward up the path alongside Shah Rud. The grandson of Tahir remounted his donkey and followed him. The soldiers poured after them.
They drew closer and closer to the mountain range, and the roar of Shah Rud grew worse and worse, until they reached a rocky cliff at the summit of which was a watchtower bearing the white flag. At the foot of this cliff the riverbed veered into a steep canyon.
The commander of the detachment held back his horse and ordered the others to come to a halt too. He waved a flag toward the tower and received a reply that the way was clear.
They rode into the canyon, which was chilly and dark. The path here was narrow but well constructed. In places it had been hewn into the living rock. The river roared far beneath them. At a bend in the path the commander stopped and raised his arm to point ahead of them.