Ali instinctively follows. He mounts his horse and slaps the huge beast into a fierce gallop. He cannot let Jalal be the first to reach the Black Standards! It is a race. If Ali is to be chosen for this divine mission,
let his stallion grow wings
. Flashing hooves chop at the ground. Flared nostrils drink the fiery air. A muscled neck rhythmically thrusts forward and back, cadenced by Ali’s heartbeat, which grows faster still. He can no longer feel the bone-jarring thump of hooves striking the ground. The gallop smoothes into an airy glide. He and the stallion are one. If he would look down, surely the ground would be falling away, his shadow growing smaller.
The first jarring sound is like a finger snap, a dry mulberry twig breaking. Ali recognizes it at once—a rifle shot. The second sound is a loud jumble of Farsi, the native language of Persia. Someone—many people—are yelling for him to stop.
Come no closer!
Jalal reins his stallion to a halt and Ali almost runs into him.
The mysterious figures ahead are now close enough to be clearly seen. There is no Black Standard. Instead, a man is propping up his dark cloak with a stick to shield his head from the sun. And there are no Turkoman horses, only mules and seven men. Two of the men are old, with white flowing beards. Three ride mules. Four walk, and one of these is aiming a rifle at Ali.
The men are tense. They squint malevolently in Ali’s direction. At last they seem to identify the interlopers as two unarmed boys. The man with the rifle laughs coarsely and lowers his weapon.
Two large white encasements, like mummies, are bound with thick ropes to each side of the baggage mules. Ali now understands what he is confronting—a small caravan carrying corpses to be buried near the Holy Shrines in Najaf or Karbala. The old men, bent and sagging on their mules, are going there to die. For a moment, everything is still and silent except for the chiming of bells suspended from the collars of the mules.
Approach!
A hoarse voice intrudes.
With a pinch of knees, Ali and Jalal nudge their horses forward. The men begin slapping their sleeves and chests, making clouds of dust. One of the old men raises a water gourd to his lips, finds it empty.
The boys stop a few yards from the caravan of corpses. Ali sniffs the air, expecting a foul smell. The corpses are so tightly wrapped that even the desert heat cannot leach out the fetid, stinging odor of death. Except for the vaguely human shapes, these enshrouded cadavers may as well be rolls of silk or linen on their way to the market in Mashhad. Ali counts sixteen corpses, two per mule-side.
The man with the rifle points toward the city walls, then opens his parched lips and speaks. “What is this village?”
“Bushruyih,” answers Jalal.
The man nods. “There’s a caravanserai?”
“Yes. Have you been traveling long?” Jalal seems at ease with these strangers.
After a long pause, the man with the rifle lets out a long sigh that seems to reduce his size by half. He squats to stretch his long leg muscles. “About five days,” he replies at last. “We come from Khur to the south. A band of Turkoman attacked us two days ago. They spared our lives when they saw the corpses. Not out of pity—the Turkoman have no pity—but as slow torture, I suppose. They left us with the burden of carrying our dead, but with no money or provisions for ourselves.”
“I have some water,” says Jalal. He unslings his water gourd, sloshes the water inside to show that it is not empty, and then tosses it to the old man with the empty gourd.
Ali finally finds a voice. “Did you fight them?” he asks.
“You want to know if we fought the Turkoman?” The man with the rifle stands and walks menacingly toward Ali, eyeing the boy’s gourd. Ali hands it to the man, who smiles.
“Thank you.” The man takes a long drink and hands it to another man. “We chose not to fight. There were at least twenty Turkoman, heavily armed with blades and muskets. We surely would have been killed and our dead relatives left to rot out here in the wilderness. On the day of resurrection, they would have been very surprised to rise from their sandy graves and look upon the barren desert instead of the Holy Shrines.”
The men find this very funny. They laugh heartily.
The man with the rifle looks up at Ali and smiles. “And so, my little friend—my name is Sadiq Muqaddas. These are my mules.” Sadiq is the
charvadar
, or chief muleteer, who has provided the small band with mules for about six tumans each.
“I am Ali Qasim.”
“Will you lead us, my friend, to the caravanserai?”
“But how will you pay? If the Turkoman took all of your…”
“My father will see that you have food and water,” interjects Jalal. “No man who lives through an encounter with the Turkoman should go without nourishment.”
Ali had not thought to offer hospitality to this ragged band of travelers. He has much to learn if he wishes to be chosen for the sacred mission. Deciding it is not too late, he adds: “My father, too. He is the kelauntar of Bushruyih.”
Sadiq smiles. “Thank you, friends. But if you can show us to the caravanserai, we can take care of ourselves.”
“Rest a while,” Ali says. “Then we’ll accompany you to the caravanserai.
Ali glances at the two old men seated shapelessly on their mules like sacks of grain. The life seems already drained from them. Ali wonders if they can make it as far as the city gate. Long before reaching Karbala—another seven hundred miles or so—they will probably end up as another pair of mummified corpses hitched to the sides of a mule. Ali watches as Jalal’s horse gently walks over to one of the old men. Seated high on the stallion’s back, Jalal looks down at the old man who is hunched on a mule. The man, who has been staring at the sand since the encounter began, slowly lifts his gaze and smiles at the boy. His face is long and brown. Thick white eyebrows seem to be holding up the weight of an immense striped turban that is a puzzlement of folds. Upon seeing the youth, his slumped body straightens.
“Can I get you anything?” Jalal asks. His voice is a whisper, almost lost in the gusting desert breeze. Ali strains to hear.
“Nothing for myself, thank you.”
“You are going to Karbala?”
“Yes. With my wife.” The old man sadly turns his eyes to one of the enshrouded corpses. “She wanted to be buried near the tomb of Imam Husayn. It was her greatest wish.”
“It’s a great distance.”
“Yes, I know, and I am very old and tired. But I am simply honoring a promise to my wife. Some men have many wives, but I had only one.” The old man pauses, cocks his head, and stares at the youth’s eyes. “And who do I have the privilege of addressing?”
“Jalal.”
“I am Muhammad Kujiri.”
“What will you do in Karbala after your wife is buried?”
“Ahh—the directness of youth. Perhaps you are wondering if I am going there to die. Such is the reason that most old people go to Karbala, I know.”
Jalal is embarrassed.
Kujiri continues: “My reason is different. Perhaps I will die there, perhaps not. My purpose, however, has more to do with something I wish to do
before
I die.”
“Pray at the Shrine?”
“Oh, I will certainly do that. But there is someone there I want to see again.”
“A relative?”
“You are an inquisitive one,” Kujiri says. “I have questions, too. Deep questions. And that is why I must gain an audience with this person. I believe he has the answers.”
“A great mujtahid, then?”
“No. Someone even greater than the greatest mujtahid.”
This statement mystifies Jalal. Kujiri can see the questions written on the boy’s face. For a moment Kujiri considers withholding the answers, but this youth has charmed him.
“Have you heard of Shaykh Ahmad?” Kujiri asks.
“Yes. The mujtahid says he is an
infidel
. Why would you want to see him?”
“Are you familiar with his teachings?”
“We’ve been told to ignore them because they are false.”
“Then how do you know he is an infidel? How can you judge for yourself?”
Jalal thinks about this.
Ali feels suddenly repulsed, as if surrounded by something unclean. This man is a Shaykhi, a follower of Shaykh Ahmad, a known blasphemer and perverter of the teachings of the Qu’ran.
Jalal finally replies. “Since I know nothing specific about this man’s beliefs, I cannot judge for myself.”
“Well, that is why I go to Karbala,” Kujiri says. “I could have paid Sadiq to take my wife to the Holy Shrine for burial. But for myself, I seek the source of those teachings.”
“We should be going,” Ali says. Maybe Jalal will take this hint.
“One moment,” Jalal says. Then he turns to Kujiri. “I have a question about your beliefs.”
The old man looks skyward, as if hearing the question before it is asked, then says: “Perhaps you want to know how much longer we must wait for the Promised One?”
Jalal is astonished. He stammers: “Well—yes…”
“And what is your understanding of the Qa’im?”
Ali seizes this opportunity to confront Kujiri and prove his religious knowledge. “The Promised One will come to kill the enemies of true Shi’ites, infidels like the Sunnis and the Turkoman. He will kill so many that a river of blood will reach the stirrup of his horse.”
“So the Qa’im is a warrior who will come to fill the world with justice by slaughtering enemies of His true faith?” Kujiri says.
“Yes, and he will bring all infidels to Islam by his sword —Sunnis, Jews, Zoroastrians and Christians.” Ali is proud of himself. He feels passion building as he speaks. One day he will become a great mujtahid and use his knowledge and zeal to stir the souls of Shi’ites throughout Persia.
“I see. Very interesting,” Kujiri says flatly.
Ali is deflated. His passion has failed to arouse the Shaykhi.
“And you, Jalal, is that what you believe also?” Kujiri asks, his gaze firmly focused on the youth’s unblinking eyes.
Jalal blinks once, twice, gaining time to think. Ali’s rhetoric, a serviceable condensation of one of the mujtahid’s more popular sermons, now sounds skewed, even radical. Could it be that killing infidels is the way to worldwide justice? Hadn’t this been tried before without lasting result? Would not the Promised One have some clearer insight, some innovation, some better solution to offer?
“Certainly, the Qa’im may prove to be a great warrior and leader of armies,” Jalal says.
Kujiri laughs and says: “You would make a fine diplomat.” He turns to Ali. “What can you tell me about who the Qa’im is?”
“Well—he was born a thousand years ago. He escaped from his enemies. And he has been living there ever since, with his wife and some believers, in a city of seventy thousand portals where people speak seventy thousand languages.”
“My, it must be hard to have a conversation there!” Kujiri says. “Go on.”
“We are told that he has helped many travelers who were lost in the desert. Maybe he helped you survive your encounter with the Turkoman!”
“Yes, perhaps. And young Jalal, do you agree with your friend?”
Again Jalal blinks. His mind whirls. He had heard this story countless times and had never questioned its literal truth. But now, hearing it again…
“How can I say if this is true?” Jalal replies at last. “Perhaps over time the story has gained some decoration. Or perhaps it may have another meaning.”
“Ahhh!” Kujiri says, letting the long vowel seep slowly from his lips. “In other words, the story may be symbolic, not literal. In which case, to find the true meaning of the story, we should consider…”
“Ali is right, we should be going,” Jalal says curtly. He feels suddenly uneasy with the direction of this conversation. His mind is agitated, his gut rumbling. Never before had he challenged the longstanding teachings of his faith. Or thought to.
Kujiri sighs, smiles, and then sags into his thin saddle. “You are right.”
As the small band of travelers ride toward the village, Ali and Jalal, almost in unison, wonder how Kujiri would have answered that question—
how much longer before the Qa’im appears?
—if they had let him. But what does it matter? Scores of Bushruyis solemnly stare at this macabre caravan of the dead as it enters the city gate and passes the mosque.
Seized by the desire to pray, to cleanse himself of the Shaykhi taint, Ali makes an excuse to abandon his friend. He removes his boots, places them near the entrance to the mosque and silently enters.
Chapter 2
On the far side of the mosque the mujtahid speaks to a small gathering of robed mullas who sit reverently at his feet. It is a dialogue, with questions thrown to the mujtahid who then dispenses truth and wisdom as he sees it. Mulla Ibrahim Baqir, like all mujtahids, exercises authority to expound his own theories and opinions about religious laws. He is a prominent doctor of jurisprudence and religion, and in religious matters his followers adopt his views, imitate his behaviors and follow his instructions, sometimes unthinkingly. In Bushruyih, Mulla Ibrahim has many followers. The brightest and most serious ones are invited to attend classes in which heated debates are common. As Ali approaches the group, the topic is whether the Prophet Muhammad’s urine was ritually clean.
Ali unconsciously stirs, his face a hatchet of smoke in the darkness. The mujtahid sees him. Mulla Ibrahim knows that Ali is the son of the governor of Bushruyih. At first, the mujtahid is angry. It is easy to see Ali as an agent of the despised Qajars. Was he sent here to spy on my teachings? Did I say something that would offend the governor?
The mujtahid bites back an inclination to chastise Ali for interrupting the group, knowing that his powerful father might take offense. He motions the youth forward.
Ali slowly walks through stripes of sunlight that pierce the chamber.
“Ali Qasim,” the mujtahid says.
“Yes, Mulla Ibrahim. May your shadow never grow less.”
“And to what do I owe this honor?” The mujtahid now seems amused. His smile softens and he cocks his head to listen, favoring his good left ear.
Ali glances at the faces of the mullas. All are staring at him.
“There is a matter on which I need to consult,” Ali says. He is no longer certain this was a good idea.
“I see. Well, you have a mosque full of the brightest religious minds in Bushruyih. We can spare a few minutes to resolve any perplexity that you may have.” The mujtahid turns to the assembled mullas and then says, “Isn’t that right?”
The robed gathering murmurs approval.
“Please, go ahead. What is your dilemma?”
Ali is not sure how to begin, so he mumbles.
“Speak up, Ali Qasim, so we can all hear you.”
Ali clears his throat and starts again. “In the desert today Jalal and I encountered a group of travelers headed for Karbala.”
“And why were they headed to Karbala? To bury their dead at the Holy Shrine?”
“Yes. And they had been attacked in the desert by the Turkoman, who took all their valuables.”
“Let me presume that your dilemma is how to help this unfortunate band of travelers, though the best fortune of all is that they are alive! The Turkoman are not known for compassion.”
“That is not what I am concerned about. While we were talking to the pilgrims, I discovered that one of them follows the teachings of Shaykh Ahmad.”
These words erase the amusement from the mujtahid’s lips. His eyes narrow coldly and his voice drops an octave. “Tell me—did you speak to him?”
“No, I just listened to him talk to Jalal.”
“Did you touch him?”
“Touch him? I—I don’t think so. No, I didn’t.”
“And did this caravan continue on toward Karbala?”
“They were very tired, so Jalal took them to the caravanserai.”
The mujtahid begins to pace. “It’s good that you did not touch him. Shaykhis are unclean, no better than dogs!” He turns to the mullas. “They corrupt the teachings of the Prophet Muhammad and possess the satanic power to mislead those who listen to them.”
Ali backs away, feeling responsible for the mujtahid’s sudden wrath.
“This youth found the strength to resist their false teachings,” the mujtahid continues. “He found the strength to report the Shaykhi heresy that has poisoned our village.”
The mullas mumble approvals. Two of them smile and nod.
“Shaykh Ahmad is an imposter, for no man who studies the Qu’ran can reach the conclusions that he expounds.”
Several of the mullas rise in anger, shouting curses. One of the younger clerics pulls a knife from its sheath, exclaiming, “I will cut out his blaspheming tongue!”
There are more shouts, more drawn knives. Ali is frightened now.
As the mujtahid continues to pluck the exposed nerves of the mullas with his rhetoric. Now swords are drawn. They glint in the slanting beams of sunlight.
The mujtahid is not finished. He is carried on a wave of emotion. “These infidels are worse than idolaters,” he says. “They are heretics and cannot be redeemed. If such a man were in the caravanserai, he must be punished and made to recant!”
Ali tries to envision the old Shaykhi as a powerful agent of Satan, but can’t reconcile the images. Certainly the old man was no threat. Ali begins to regret his words and fear for Kujiri. He feels suddenly emboldened. “Excuse me,: he says, “but if this man cannot be redeemed, then what would be the purpose of making him recant?”
The mujtahid immediately understands his error. He glowers at Ali’s insubordinate challenge, .
At last one of the students says: “Even though a Shaykhi cannot be redeemed, by recanting he will demonstrate the power of truth over satanic fancy. Mulla Ibrahim, thank you for allowing us to reach this inevitable conclusion.”
The mujtahid’s humiliation is reversed. He smiles and says, “This is the lesson I hoped you would learn. We must lay bare the Shaykhi lies and make this evil-doer renounce his infidelity—or die.” He unsheathes his sword and carves the air with it. “Let us go find Satan!”
The mullas all rise and shout. With his final words before marching out of the mosque, the mujtahid pierces Ali’s heart: “We go in the name of Ali Qasim!”
Ali watches the mullas leave. Their blades are sharp. Ali’s head is pounding and perspiration rains from his face. I have no right to question the authority of the mujtahid, he tells himself.
Ali wants to nullify his catalytic role in the coming violence but he cannot find a convincing argument. In the end he knows that he has betrayed an old man who possesses a kind and searching heart. Ali had offered up a sacrificial victim to the ready knives of self-righteousness.
We go in the name of Ali Qasim!
The mujtahid’s scorching words sear his heart. Ali has become the banner of bloodlust!
I have no right to question the authority of the mujtahid, he tells himself again. I am just a boy. But his heart does not believe his argument. He can only picture the old man Kujiri. The kind smile. The gentle laugh.
Ali prostrates himself and prays that the Will of Allah be done. It feels like a cheap way out, but it’s the best he can do.