Chapter 40
The Rochester winter of 1844 is colder than most, as if nature itself were mourning Alice’s death. For weeks, Ollie has not spoken to Reverend Crenshaw and Phebe; if possible, he has grown still more bitter and rancorous.
Forbidden to visit his “grandparents,” Isaac has continually disobeyed his father. The Reverend and Phebe had always treated him like their own flesh and blood, and he misses the fresh pies and hot meals, so he secretly visits them after school. On this chilly February night, as he lies awake in bed, Isaac tells himself it is foolish to feel like the longsuffering product of a broken home when this family, after all, is nothing but an artifice created by chance circumstances and New York adoption law. But in the end he always decides that the truth of the matter comes from the heart, and he knows that in their hearts all of these people—Ollie, the Reverend, Phebe, and yes even Jonathon—truly love him.
Ollie has walled himself in—or
out
, as the case may be. He has left the religious community of Rochester behind and begun a campaign of “cleansing,” as he calls it, to rid the town of charlatanism, hypocrisy, and superstition. His chief targets are the clergy and the overtly pious. Three weeks previously, in a manic outburst, Ollie had stomped into St. Martin’s Catholic Church during mass and before a filled sanctuary had publicly washed his soiled hands and face in a basin of Holy Water while muttering that the only articles of faith worth honoring were the articles he would soon be publishing in the newspaper. True to his word, less than a week later he published charges of corruption of minors against Father Flaherty; claimed that witnesses had seen Rev. Jacobs, the Temperance leader who preached at Union Methodist Church, imbibing spirits in the parsonage; called out Deacon Smythe of Colony Baptist Church for using profanity when issuing orders to his colored mill workers; accused Rev. Longley of the First Congregational Church of an adulterous relationship with a blonde congregant “who is fond of wearing scarves about the neck and little else when in the solitary pastoral care of the Reverend.”
No one knew how Ollie had persuaded the editor of the
Rochester Chronicle
to publish such clearly slanderous charges. Some suggested bribery, but most citizens and many churchgoers privately speculated that Ollie certainly must have gathered some evidence on which to base his allegations. (No one suspected that Ollie had bought the failing newspaper and retained its editor for a handsome salary.) This unspoken conclusion was given additional weight when, despite fierce denials, none of the accused chose to sue the slanderer in open court. One of them, in fact—the much-loved Rev. Longley, who apparently was more loved than anyone thought—suddenly left his church after fifteen years of ministry “to attend to a grievously sick relative in Boston.” The others, including the uncharged clergy of twenty or so other churches, seemed more intent on scanning the faces of their congregations for traitors or, worse yet, the countenance of Oliver Chadwick, who just last Sunday rose from his seat in the third to last pew of Trinity Lutheran Church and asked Pastor Yngqvist if he would be using this week’s offering to cover his personal gambling debts. (Pastor Yngqvist had angrily and unwisely answered no, which many took to mean that he had always covered his gambling debts from his personal income. The irony of the Pastor’s defense was not lost on the congregation, which had endured an hour-long diatribe on the wickedness of gambling the previous week.)
In a scathing series of three articles, Oliver had dubbed William Miller—the father of the Adventist movement—“a new edition of Mormonism.” He wrote that Miller and Joseph Smith were “two kings speaking lies at the same table.”
In just over a month, Oliver had become feared by the religious mainstream and cheered by the rest. No one knew where or by what means Ollie gained his information, and this caused a great wave of paranoia to set in among the Men of God. They grew suspicious of everyone they knew, but at the same time their overall behavior (some believed) grew more Christian and their vices fewer.
Jonathon had abandoned the farm for New York City, disgusted by Ollie’s malicious behavior. And as Reverend Crenshaw also began to fear Ollie, the old man seemed to cast a suspicious eye on young Isaac as well. “I’m not a spy for my father,” Isaac would often plead, and the Reverend would usually nod politely as if to agree, yet the Reverend was now often absent when Isaac came to call, and when the Reverend was present he was often mute, or nearly so.
Of the family that Isaac had held so dearly, by springtime he remains in contact with only two. Phebe and he continue to find ways to communicate and sometimes meet; these are glorious moments filled with love and tenderness. Ollie, on the other hand, has adopted severe authoritarian measures in his attempt to impose discipline on his disobedient son. He now drops Isaac off at school in the morning and picks him up after school, ensuring that the boy has no clandestine contact with the Crenshaws. A harsh regimen of chores keeps Isaac occupied at all other times.
There are still moments, however, when Ollie and Isaac share the kind of intimacy they enjoyed before Alice died. These times occur primarily at night when the two of them speak only Farsi to each other. At such times Isaac often asks about Ollie’s early life, and Ollie tells stories about his beautiful mother. With each telling, Ollie’s memory of Anisa, of Anne Chadwick, glows a little brighter and the bitterness that he had felt toward her diminishes ever so slightly. He wants to keep the memory of her alive, as he does the memory of Mary Rogers and Alice Crenshaw Chadwick. His remembrance of them, and their love, and their senseless deaths, is the fuel that sustains his vendetta against a Power that he surely cannot beat, but which he can fight.
And fight he will.
In early May, Oliver receives a surprising letter from Jonathon Fury.
My heart has been cold since returning to New York and I realize now that I had too easily given up the friendships I enjoyed in Rochester. While I cannot in good conscience approve of your behavior at all times, I have come to the inevitable conclusion that I am not responsible for your actions, but only for my faithfulness to a friend, a virtue which I have sorely lacked and failed to demonstrate. I write now for two reasons: to ask your forgiveness; and to invite you to a most special occasion, one which I believe you will thoroughly enjoy.
On May 22, Professor Morse, whom you may recall introduced me to the mysteries of the
daguerreotype, is unveiling a new invention which he promises will revolutionize the world. I will be making a picture of this historic occasion, and I believe that you might be interested in attending for the purpose of announcing this grand event through the newspapers. If you choose to attend, I trust you will see fit to bring Isaac, as I miss him terribly and would greatly appreciate seeing him again.
Your friend, Jonathon.
Oliver sets the letter aside, tries for a moment to dismiss it from his mind, then picks it up and reads it again. Until now he had not recognized how lonely the farm house had become with Jonathon gone.
Chapter 41
On May 18, the God-fearing citizens of Rochester are happy to see Oliver leave their city. Jesus may not have returned yet, but the departure of the “antichrist” (as some churches have nominated Oliver) is seen by many Christians as the next best thing. According to Pastor Yngqvist of St. Luke’s Lutheran, watching Oliver board the train sends him into “a Rapture of a different sort.” Perhaps with this pot-stirrer stirring the bigger pot of New York City, Jesus will consider coming to Rochester.
In the few days before his departure, Oliver had sold the
Rochester Chronicle
to his loyal editor for a pittance and a promise to continue printing Oliver’s articles. He had also put the farm up for sale. It was clear to Isaac that he and his father would not be returning. The “militant religious reformer” had set his sights on a bigger battlefield.
It is late afternoon when Oliver and Isaac exit the train in New York and catch a carriage to the Regis Hotel. On the way, the carriage passes the old boarding house on Nassau Street. Isaac cranes his neck to see his old home, a place of great happiness that he will never forget, but Ollie does not seem to notice.
At the hotel they are greeted by Jonathon Fury, who bursts into a sunny grin when he sees Isaac. “My goodness, old man,” Jonathon says to Isaac, “you’ve grown inches in the few weeks since I left.”
The two embrace emotionally.
Oliver feels a twinge of guilt; he can’t remember the last time he had hugged his son.
“It’s good to see you, Jonathon,” Oliver says. His manner is reserved—not aloof, but cool.
“Likewise.”
“I trust the City has been generous to you.”
“It has.”
An awkward pause threatens to linger too long, so Isaac interrupts. “Father says that you have a friend with a new invention.” The remark is directed at Jonathon. “He says that your friend will be announcing it shortly, and you’ll be the official doc… docu…”
“Documentarian,” says Jonathon, helping out. “Actually, I am hoping that your father will document the event in words and I will do so in a historic daguerreotype.” Jonathon turns to Oliver. “Your coming to New York is an affirmative response, I hope.”
“It is, my good man.” Oliver reaches out and takes Jonathon’s hand to shake it, but instinctively pulls him close and embraces him tightly, finishing with a double pat on the back to dismiss any implication that he meant it too personally.
“I’m so glad,” Jonathon says. His face shows that he means it more than his words suggest.
The three of them dine in a fancy restaurant with genuine china, white tablecloths, and a crystal chandelier. Jonathon shares all the big city news and gossip that he can remember, and Ollie smiles and laughs more than Isaac can remember. It seems like the good old days, and Isaac basks in the hope that this camaraderie will last forever.
“Tell me about this grand event of yours,” Oliver says to Jonathon as he gestures to their Hungarian waiter for more wine.
“Not my event. Shortly after I got into the city, I contacted my old friend, Samuel Morse. That’s how I learned of his wonderful invention. It has to do with the telegraph.”
“Of course, I’ve heard of that. Is there a practical use for it?”
“That’s what Morse has been working on. Somehow he convinced Congress to give him the money to build a short telegraph line between Washington and Baltimore.”
“Such a distance! How on earth can a signal be transmitted so far?”
“Well, he seems to have contrived a way for this to happen, and on May 24
th
he proposes to demonstrate for Congress the first telegraph message transmitted between two cities. It seems quite impossible, I agree, especially since the two cities are not even visible to each other, but with Morse I’ve learned that nothing is ever out of the question.”
“Two different cities—what!—forty miles apart?”
“From what I understand, he ran his telegraph line along the connecting railroad track.”
“Well, now, that’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard about this whole affair. If the message can’t be transmitted by telegraph, then he can just put it on a train and deliver it the old-fashioned way.”
They all laugh. “I thought perhaps it would be best for us to be with my friend, Morse, in the capitol when he transmits the message,” Jonathon says. “It will be quite a historic occasion.”
“Yes, in Washington. We should be with the inventor as the message is sent, I quite agree. Where in the capitol will this take place?”
“In the chamber of the Supreme Court.”
Chapter 42
After a difficult journey through the mountains, Jalal finds the flat plain to the north quite agreeable. Lacking a mule, they carry all their belongings on their backs. Following his previous successful missions for the late Siyyid Kázim, he has now undertaken the last and most important undertaking assigned to Kazim’s students—to finally seek out the Qa’im Himself. A recurring dream of the holy city of Shiraz had been haunting him. And so Jalal had set out for Shiráz.
The journey is nearly over. It is afternoon and Shiraz appears like a quivering desert mirage, a small yellow and white smear against a fringe of purple mountains. As the men walk toward it, the city begins to take form, and as the sun descends, the city appears as an island in a sea of emerald. The panorama is magnificent: vast plain and wrinkled hills, cypress groves and gardens blooming with jasmine and roses, towers and walls, domes and spires, all bathed in the mellow late afternoon light. The stony road is surrounded by a fluttering sea of red and white poppies blown by a fresh breeze that whisks away the sour heat of the day. An orange sun throws long blue shadows from the tall minarets and slender sarv trees. This is the city of Hafiz, the lyric Persian bard of the fourteenth-century.
They approach the Kazerun gate, one of six entrances to the city. Jalal is fatigued. Every muscle aches and his knees throb. He drops to the ground, sits for a minute, and then lies down. The sand, still warm from the sun, cradles him. He cannot keep his eyes open. Through his eyelids he can see the shadows of birds flying above, hear their songs and the flutter of their wings. Slowly he opens his eyes. The scarlet-rimmed clouds drift slowly above. For a moment he is twelve again, lying in the warm Bushruyíh sand, and the voice of his best friend cries out, “Do you see it? Right there! It’s the Prophet Muhammad, in the clouds.”
The sound of sandals on pebbles brings him out of his reverie. He sits up and sees the silhouette of a stranger approaching, a young man with the brilliant orange light of the sun behind him. He stands to greet this apparition, and as the young man nears, Jalal can see the green turban of the Siyyids, direct descendants of the Prophet Muhammad.
The young man silently embraces him. The touch is gentle and soothing, sending waves of calm and comfort through Jalal’s aching body. It is the kind of embrace that Jalal imagines receiving from Ali, should God permit that they be reunited. And then they are standing before each other, Jalal with many questions.
The youth’s face seems familiar. “Are you a disciple of Siyyid Kazim?” Jalal asks.
The youth replies that he reveres the Siyyid’s teachings. And then he overwhelms Jalal with expressions of affection and loving-kindness. For some time they talk; Jalal is mesmerized by the soft, melodious voice and the gleaming eyes of this youth, who cannot be more than 25 years old. At last the young man invites Jalal to his home.
From the gate, the main road is lined with gardens and on the east a residence for dervishes. On the west side, the Garden of the Throne, formed by terraces stacked on terraces, stands on rising ground overlooking the city. The magnificent fountain at its summit pours out cascading streams of water over slabs of marble.
Jalal finds himself ignoring the beauty of the city, so entranced is he by the sweetness of this youth, the dignity of his bearing, the genuine affection he has shown to a stranger. After some minutes of walking, the youth stops at the door of a modest house and knocks. An Ethiopian servant opens the door and smiles warmly at the young Siyyid.
The young man crosses the threshold and motions for Jalal to follow. He is seated immediately onto a Persian carpet and the servant offers a ewer of water so that he might wash the stains of travel from his hands and feet.
The young man takes the container and pours water over Jalal’s hands. The traveler is surprised by this act of servitude; instinctively he recoils, but the host is gently persistent. After Jalal dries his hands, the youth gives him a drink that is both sweet and bitter, warm and cold, oddly refreshing and impossible to identify; it has a taste that he cannot recall ever experiencing before. He is overcome with a sense of well-being and wonders at the marvelous alchemy that is present in the beverage, then slowly becomes aware that the source of his euphoria is not the beverage—which he now recognizes as a simple blend of lemon water and honey— but the presence of his host.
The time for prayer comes quickly. The green-turbaned youth stands beside Jalal and prays with him. An hour after sunset, the Siyyid looks up at his guest and asks a most surprising question. “After Kazim, whom do you regard as his successor and your leader?”
The mention of Kazim startles Jalal. He searches his memory for a connection between this youth and the Shaykhi leader, and then it comes to him. Yes, he has seen this young man before—at the Shaykhi school. The mysterious young man who had sat at the rear of the chamber with the shaft of sunlight illuminating his lap. This is the young man to whom Kazim had so surreptitiously paid his respects.
“At the hour of his death,” Jalal begins, “our departed teacher insistently exhorted us to scatter far and wide in search of the Promised One.”
“Has your teacher given you any distinguishing features of this Promised One?”
“Yes, of course!” Jalal responds with a litany of physical and spiritual, intellectual and spiritual characteristics delineated by Kazim. He pauses, wondering if he has missed anything, when suddenly the youth declares, “Behold, all these signs are manifest in Me!”
So astonished is Jalal that he can only smile and politely point out that surely there must be at least one of these characteristics that is not present in his host; otherwise how could these signs collectively distinguish the Promised One?”
The youth’s arguments are convincing but not conclusive. They serve principally to incite Jalal’s instinct to debate, searching for at least one missing sign.
Without success.
The youth stares at Jalal without a smile, and the traveler immediately feels a surge of remorse. His host had showed him nothing but love and hospitality, only to be repaid by arrogance and condescension.
Even as he admonishes himself, though, Jalal is preparing for a more stringent test. During his interminable travels, he had devised an examination that he was convinced would sift out pretenders and identify the true Promised One. In this test, Jalal would ask the claimant to spontaneously dictate—with no hesitation, and in a style and language entirely different from prevailing standards—a commentary on the Surih of Joseph. This chapter of the Qu’ran had perplexed for centuries the supplest religious minds. Even Kazim had refused when asked by Jalal to write such a commentary, saying, “This is beyond me. But that Great One who comes after me will reveal it for you without being asked, and that commentary will be one of the clearest evidences of the loftiness of His position.”
As Jalal is deciding how to proceed, ‘Ali Muhammad gently says, “Now is the time to deliver the commentary on the Surih of Joseph.”
Unasked, ‘Ali Muhammad takes up a pen and begins to record with astounding speed his spoken words. Without pause, without hesitation, he delivers a flawless exposition on the bewildering chapter of the Qu’ran. Jalal sits enraptured by the melodious words of this mysterious revelation, and the unbroken flow of writing, and the sweeping force of the secrets and wisdom imparted by this youth. He is transported into another world, in which the threads of material knowledge and spiritual truth are woven into the music of heaven, and the seen coexists with the unseen, and time ceases to exist at all.
But when the pen stops writing, and the youth’s voice no longer sounds, Jalal crashes back into the world of Shiraz. Still dizzy with ecstasy, he tries to stand, but falls sideways. His host steadies him.
“I must go to my companions,” Jalal says, though he is not sure why; perhaps he is afraid that if he stays he will die of bliss.
“Please sit, my friend,” the young Siyyid says. “If you leave in such a state, whoever sees you will certainly say, ‘This poor man has lost his mind.’”
Jalal sits down again.
It is two hours past sunset on May 22, 1844.