Gary Lindberg has travelled around the world to research his novels. As a writer and film producer/director, he has won over one hundred major national and international awards. He is the co-writer and producer of the Paramount Pictures feature film
That Was Then, This Is Now
starring Emilio Estevez and Morgan Freeman. He lives in Minnesota with his wife, Gloria.

PART 1

Bushruyih, Persia 1823

Chapter 1

Two boys, each twelve, lay on a blanket of warm Bushruyih sand, heads nearly touching, eyes fixed on the clouds. Ali, younger than his friend by a month but taller by three inches, squints as the sun emerges from behind a luminous mountain of nervous vapor, then his eyes widen.

“Do you see it? Right there!” Ali points toward a small pinched cloud near the peak of the white mountain. His friend, Jalal, tries to follow the aim of that rigid finger. “It’s the Prophet Muhammad, in the clouds,” Ali exclaims.

“How do you know? Have you seen the Prophet?” Jalal smiles. “Maybe it’s the Promised One.”

“The Qa’im? No, it looks like the Prophet. He’s come to me in my dreams.”

“Then maybe
you
are the Qa’im.”

“Don’t be disrespectful!” Ali barks angrily, a pious reflex hammered by a careless remark. He can barely believe that Jalal would say such a thing. Anticipation of the coming of the Promised One, the Qa’im, the Islamic messiah, is stirring in Persian hearts. It has become a religious passion, enveloping the minds of small children, middle-aged merchants, old mullas, camel drivers and muleteers and rice farmers and harem eunuchs, seizing their dreams and shaping their lives.

“It is said the Promised One may already be among us,” says Jalal. “There is a Tradition that says, ‘His cause will appear and His name will arise in the year sixty’.”

Ali’s eyes narrow. On the Islamic lunar calendar, 1260 coincides with the Gregorian year 1844, only 19 years away. He says, “If he’s born in 1260, how could he be among us today?”

Jalal sits up and drops a handful of sand in Ali’s hair. “Sometimes I wonder about you. How can you grow up to be a great mujtahid if you pay so little attention to details?” He takes a sip of water from a gourd slung over his shoulder.

Ali shakes the sand from his hair and jostles his friend with a bony elbow. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“All right, the Tradition says that His
Cause
will
appear
in the year sixty. And so if He were thirty years old by 1260, He would be our age right now. He could be
you
!”

Ali flinches at the suggestion. The thought makes him tremble. Could he be the Promised One, the
Qa’im
, and not know it? Had Zoroaster or Jesus or Muhammad known His true station when He was twelve years old?

Jalal stares at Ali momentarily and then laughs. “I was joking!”

Ali realizes that he has been caught in a terrible fantasy. Even to entertain the slightest notion that he, of all the youngsters in Persia, could be the Promised One of God is to have committed the sin of pride. He kicks Jalal in the leg and then stands up, stomping a few steps away with his arms folded angrily in front of him.

Jalal rubs the pain from his leg without complaint. “I think it’s safe to say you are not the Qa’im.”

“Of course not!” What is this new feeling that has overtaken him?
Disappointment!
He is disappointed that he is not the Qa’im, that he was not chosen to be the Promised One.

“Ali, forgive me if I said something to hurt you.”

In a silvery flash Ali sees that Jalal exhibits the qualities that one would expect in the Qa’im. Never has this boy shown anger or violence. He seems possessed of spiritual insight far beyond the other twelve-year-olds in the village.

Ali turns to face his friend, who is smiling, and in that youthful countenance Ali sees the flickering of something—a mirage perhaps, or a glimpse of… what? Could it be the reflection of Allah in the mirror of this boy’s gleaming face?

A dagger stabs at Ali’s heart. Had he kicked the Promised One? He feels suddenly hot and prickly. He drops to his knees as if sword-struck, then raises searching eyes. He touches his friend’s arm lightly, leaving a trail of sand and goose bumps.

“What’s the matter?” asks Jalal.

Ali Qasim feels caught in a vortex. The world is tilting. History and prophecy, once rivals, embrace. He is ether, a feather on the desert breeze, a beetle floating on the froth of time. He cannot speak, can only stare at his friend’s face, which eclipses the sun. He is dazzled and frightened. Filled up like a new wineskin. Completely unprepared for the prospects that are unfolding. Dreaming, perhaps!

Jalal bends and speaks. His words like riprap break the waves of hope and terror. “Ali—I am not the Qa’im either.”

Ali sits. Sighs. Of course! They are both just twelve-year-old boys. In the sand. Playing. Imagining great and wonderful and terrible things. Minds affected by the heat. Just boys. “Yes, I know,” he says. But he is still not quite convinced.

The sun is too much for them now. The boys crawl to the shade of a small clump of mulberry trees that breaks the monotonous flat horizon outside the city walls. Their horses, sleek and strong Arabians with bridles but no saddles, are tied to one of the trees. To the west, the Salt Desert stretches beyond the curve of the earth, beyond Ali’s imagining. But the boys’ gaze now is toward home, Bushruyih, which lays a half-mile west of the mulberry trees, a grimy, sun bleached village that seems to have been heaved up ungenerously from the desert floor. This is their home, in the mighty region of Persia called Khurasan.

Crumbling mud walls mutely encircle the village and guard it from Turkoman marauders, invading armies, hostile neighbors, evil spirits, all that is unknown and uninvited, which is almost everything. Ali wonders why a village would waste precious water making mud for walls. He tries hard but cannot think of anything in Bushruyih worth guarding.

The wooden city gate in the southeast wall is massive and ornate, serving as both warning and greeting. Mountains form a wall beyond the city. And beyond them Ali has heard there is an even greater ocean of sand. He has never been beyond the mountains, or past the Salt Desert to the east.

The dwellings inside the walls of the village are built of mud-coated stone, marl, or brick, carelessly whitewashed. From a distance they look like rotten teeth. The larger habitations of the merchants have flat roofs and tall
badgeers,
wind-towers that capture the wind from any direction and guide a refreshing breeze through channels into the dwelling below.

Dusty, twisting Bushruyih streets follow ancient footpaths. In some places they are too narrow for two people to walk shoulder to shoulder. In one quarter of town the graveyard overlaps the main street, its flat tombstones providing sparse pavement.

Through the city gate Ali can see the glimmering white abode of Mirza Hasan Qasim, Ali’s father and the
kelauntar,
or mayor, of Bushruyih. Ali can also see the chief mosque of Bushruyih, a shabby mud and brick edifice that is undistinguished except for its large size. From this joyless structure, the
mujtahid
—the chief Muslim cleric of Bushruyih—oversees the spiritual life of the residents.

A hundred steps behind the mosque is the flea-infested caravanserai, an inn for travelers and their animals. Tall arched entrances open onto a square yard surrounded on all sides by two stories of squalid, bare rooms. A gallery on the upper floor serves as a hallway and passage to the rooms used by travelers. Camels, mules, and horses are quartered in stables below these rooms.

The colorful and noisy bazaar is across the street from the caravanserai. Behind one of the largest shops, which offers a rainbow of exquisitely colored and patterned fabrics, are the dying rooms of Jalal’s father, Haji Mulla ‘Abdu’llah. Some say that this cloth dyer’s way with colors is close to alchemy. The title
Haji
before his name identifies him as one who has completed the Haj—a holy pilgrimage to Mecca. Because he leads prayers at the mosque, Bushruyis also call him
mulla
, a respectful title for learned men and religious scholars. ‘Abdu’llah’s shrewdness has helped him become one of the wealthiest residents of the village.

Ali and Jalal continue to stare peacefully at the village. The rhythm of Islam courses through their veins, beating a steady cadence. In a moment, just a moment, the
m
u’a
dhdh
in
will summon the faithful to their noon prayer with a voice like the breath of angels, and Ali will shiver in the heat, press his moist forehead into the sand, empty his mind of all but the Will of Allah, resonate to the spiritual impulses, and recite the prayer that he has spoken so many hundreds of times.

The wind shifts as the call to prayer begins. A cool mountain breeze wafts across the village toward the mulberry trees, toward Ali, carrying the golden melody of the
m
u’a
dhdh
in
to his ears, into his mind and his soul. He is a pilgrim on a mystical journey, a traveler who has never left home, a seeker. If it pleases Allah,
let him be the one to find the Promised One!

The mesmerizing chant of the
mu’a
dhdh
in
ends. Ali raises his head. Sand rains from his face like tears. A single thought invades his mind:
he had not recited the prayer.
He had disobeyed the commandment of Allah and selfishly pled his own cause. What a sinful, prideful, self-seeking person he is!

Jalal is seated in the sand, staring at Ali. “I have something to confess,” he says.

Ali shakes his head knowing that he should be the one to confess.

Jalal continues: “I asked Allah to appoint me to find the Qa’im.”

Ali’s guilt is swept away by something else—
competition
. Perhaps it was not selfish to volunteer for a divine mission. Maybe it was an act of courage. Now they would see who Allah favors!

Ali stands, feeling suddenly tall and strong. The clouds above have disappeared, like veils parting. Looking up, there is nothing between Ali and Allah.

“Someone is coming!” Jalal is looking south. A shape with many legs, made wrinkled and warped by the rising mirage heat, seems to float on the watery glare of the desert floor. Slowly the shape swells into something more distinct—not one shape, but many shapes. Men on horseback. Silhouettes against a boil of dust.

A hot and crampy ball of fear explodes in Ali’s chest. All strangers here are scorpions. Every child has heard the frightening tales of the Turkoman nomads of Anatolia and northeastern Iran.
Turkoman
is the most feared word in Khurasan. They raid and burn Shi’ite villages, kill the women and elderly, and take the young men to Bukhara or Khiva to be sold as slaves. Of course, it has been many months since a Turkoman party ventured so far from the northeastern frontier as Bushruyih. But just last year the vulture-shredded carcass of a lone Turkoman—identified by his black sheepskin cap and scraps of his billowing trousers and shirt of coarse linen—was found in the desert barely five miles from the Bushruyih gate.

Like Ali and most Persians, the Turkoman nomads are Muslims, but of another stripe. Shortly after the death of its Founder, Islam was cleaved into two warring camps—Shi’ite and Sunni. Each camp accused the other of heresy. Mutual hatred grew so intense that Sunni mullas legalized the killing and looting of Shi’ites. Attacks on Shi’ite
infidels
, they said, would please God and His Prophet, wash away one’s sins, and provide sure entry into Paradise. Such beliefs fan the flames of brutality already raging within Turkoman breasts.

What frightens Ali is that even one Turkoman was so close to Ali’s home. There were enough perils to keep one awake at night—snakes and scorpions, evil eyes, demons… and Turkoman raiders. Of course, these barbarians would never venture so far over the Persian border if they did not possess the finest breed of horses. A horse is to the Turkoman what a ship is to the pirate; it carries himself and his fortunes. The saddle is his fortress. It was known that some Turkoman horses could go 600 miles in five days!

As the undulating shapes come nearer, Ali and Jalal cautiously retreat to the mulberry, untying the horses and desperately grasping the bridles. The boys are breathing heavily, but neither wants to be the first to bolt. Ali fingers a small silver charm that hangs among many others from a chain around his neck. This comforting object, which looks like a tubular needle-case, contains pieces of paper inscribed with verses from the Qu’ran. Wearing the Qu’ran is a great protection.

“It’s probably a small caravan,” says Jalal hopefully.

“Yes, probably.” Ali is prepared to agree with any theory that does not involve the Turkoman.

“There is not much sand being kicked up, so there can’t be that many of them.”

Ali grips the bridle more tightly. “Probably just a few.”

He speaks bravely, but Ali cannot shake his fear that the menacing, shape-shifting shadow moving toward them is Satan manifested as a band of Turkoman raiders on the strongest, fleetest horses in the desert. He imagines that they are the horses of the apocalypse that he has learned about from Gordon Cranston, the roving Christian missionary who sometimes teaches English to Ali and his mother.

Ali has always been proud of the Arabian stallion that his father had given him for his tenth birthday. It is a magnificent animal, pure white except for a mane and tail dyed deep orange with henna. The tail is proudly tied up in a knot.

Ali judges the distance to the Bushruyih gate. Yes, he could make it there safely on his Arabian if the Turkoman began their charge at full gallop.

Jalal squints and cocks his head, trying to straighten the rippling figures. “I’m trying to see if they’re carrying flags,” he says expectantly.

Ali does not understand. Why would these horsemen be carrying flags?

“I’m looking for the Black Standards,” Jalal says. “Certainly you know why.”

“No.”

“The Black Standards—flags of pure black. They are symbols of the promised Qa’im.”

“How do you know these things?”

“I read.” And then Jalal punctuates the desert air with an exclamation: “Yes! I can see the Black Standards hoisted aloft.”

He leaps onto his Arabian stallion and repeats the words of the prophecy. He leans forward in the warm arch of the animal’s back and digs in his heels. The horse rears with a snort and lunges toward the jagged string of travelers.

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