Chapter 3
By horseback, through the scorching heat of summer, Jalal has traveled three hundred miles from Shiraz to Isfahan, the first city in the route of the great mission prescribed by the Rasul. Everywhere the ravages of Persian tyranny and misgovernment have been visible. Along the road lay the scorched skeletons of many abandoned villages, and for long stretches the only vegetation has been scrubby tamarind trees and thorn bushes. Jalal has been traveling to many cities to debate the mujtahids and announce the cause of the Rasul. It is hard work. Most mujtahids have been hostile and unwavering in their ignorance.
Now, as he rests in the courtyard of a madrisih in Teheran, he looks up to see one of the teachers, a Shaykhi, glaring at him.
“When I heard that you had come to our school, my heart was full,” the instructor replies. “You were the brightest of Kazim’s students. I had hoped that you would promote the best interests of the Shaykhis, perhaps even help raise us out of obscurity here in the capital. But you seem to have abandoned your teacher’s doctrines and set out on a suicidal mission that will also bring about the complete extinction of the few Shaykhis here in Teheran.”
“Then you will be pleased to know that I have not abandoned the teachings of Shaykh Ahmad or Siyyid Kazim. Did they not both urge us to seek the Promised One, whom they said would appear in our time? And would not their teachings take on a different character after the fulfillment of their prophecy?”
The two men begin to debate the message that Jalal has brought to Teheran. It ends as the instructor expresses his disdain for this weary messenger by kicking sand on him and raging out of the courtyard.
By early afternoon, an animated crowd has gathered to watch a local mulla, known to be a shrewd and fearsome debater, lose point after point in his argument with Jalal. The crowd clearly backs their local cleric, hoping to see the itinerant heretic publicly humiliated. Finally, though clearly beaten, the local mulla proposes that the debate be called a draw “because heresy is powerful; it has the assistance of Satan, and so I have been clearly disadvantaged in this debate and remain unpersuaded in my views.”
Many of the observers leave wondering why
truth
does not have the assistance of God to balance things out.
Jalal finds these public discourses increasingly unsatisfying. The outcome is often unclear and he fears that the sand-kicking Shaykhi instructor may have had a good point. Perhaps these public pronouncements cause more damage than good.
Famished, he begins to walk toward a large open-air market. The meaty aromas of kabob make his stomach growl, but for the first time he begins to worry about his ability to pay. Perhaps he will forego this meal and turn the pain of hunger into a meditation on sacrifice.
As he turns away from the meat vendors, Jalal literally bumps into a man dressed in very odd clothing. The only foreign-looking clothes like these that he can remember were worn by a Christian missionary in Bushruyih, a man who had tutored English to his best friend’s mother.
The man nods politely and in perfect Persian says, “Forgive me, it was my fault. I was following you.”
Startled, Jalal asks, “But why?”
“I’m hungry, aren’t you,” the man says. “May I buy you a kabob? I will explain while we eat.”
As they devour the tender kabobs, the foreigner continues. “My name is Eardley Pickwick,” he says. “Originally from England.”
Jalal nods.
“I am presently a translator for the court. It seems that diplomatic relations with my country have created a demand for persons fluent in both Persian and English. As I was born and raised in England, I have the advantage of understanding my people’s customs and politics.”
“Are you Christian?”
“Let’s just say… I’ve seen the error of all religions, so I have none at present.”
“How did you come to be in Persia?”
“Originally, I was brought here as a translator for another English gentleman, but when I discovered his true purpose—to which I strongly objected—I terminated my employment. Of England, I hold no fond memories or attachments, and I found that my services were needed here, so I stayed on.”
Jalal is finishing his kabob. He was hungrier than he had thought. Pickwick buys him another and they continue talking.
“You promised to explain why you were following me,” Jalal says.
“In a very few days you have caused quite a stir in Teheran. I heard about you, and finally found you. It was not difficult. I should say that you are not well liked by the clerics here.”
“I come to bring them truth, and they feel threatened by it.”
“Let me be blunt. After hearing you debate that insufferable mulla this afternoon, your ideas affected me deeply. Particularly your claim that God has delivered a new Qu’ran.”
“Those were not my words, nor my meaning.”
“Close enough. As a translator—and as a man who only today discovered he was in search of religion—I was hoping that you might let me have a look at this document… if it is in your possession, of course.”
This Englishman is quite transparent; Jalal quickly surmises that there is a hidden motive behind Eardley Pickwick’s request. The man is an opportunist. But then again, God sometimes uses unsuspecting people to further his cause.
“Thank you for the kabobs,” Jalal says.
“You’re very welcome.”
“As for your request, I’ve been instructed to deliver a copy of that tablet to the shah, but twice I’ve been turned away because I do not have ‘credentials.’ Unfortunately, I am just a poor mulla, not a dignitary.”
“Ahhh!” Pickwick says with delight. “Then perhaps we can assist each other. What a happy coincidence that I can deliver your tablet to the shah.”
“You have access to the shah?”
“Actually, to one of his advisers, who I am sure will deliver it personally to the shah at my request.”
“In that case I’m sure it would be permissible for me to present the document to this adviser, who is perhaps your employer.”
“I can arrange that.”
“But I must deliver it to your employer myself. I must place the document in his hands and ask him to give it to the shah. Nothing less is acceptable. If you are permitted to see the document after I deliver it, I have no objection. In this way, perhaps both of us can be satisfied.”
“Very well. I will make the arrangements.”
“I am staying at the…”
“Yes, I know,” Pickwick interrupts. “Stay there until I contact you again. You must remain available.”
That evening, Jalal finds sleep evasive. It seems that God had delivered an answer to his prayers, and yet he feels uneasy.
By mid-afternoon of the next day, Jalal has written and posted a letter to the Rasul revealing the outcomes of his mission so far. He is exhausted. Every joint and limb throbs with fatigue. But the day is not done.
Eardley Pickwick finds him strolling through the gardens in front of the madrisih.
“Come with me,” Pickwick says.
“Now?”
“Right now.”
Within an hour they have been escorted into the citadel, past four levels of guards, down a maze of walkways, through the doors of Golestan Palace, and into the glittering Hall of Mirrors. Pickwick mistakes Jalal’s silence as awe. “I’m sure you are overwhelmed by the majesty of these surroundings,” Pickwick says. “I was quite stunned the first time I gained entrance.”
Jalal is not awe-struck; certainly not by this meaningless and crass display of opulence. Most of it, he knows, is a mirage fluttering above a desert of national debt. Jalal also is not overcome by the political clout of the figure he is about to meet. By comparison to the events of this morning, this journey to the heart of the Qajar dynasty is a distasteful diversion. He longs instead for the sincere fellowship of the Rasul, and imagines the
true
majesty of…
Pickwick whispers into Jalal’s ear, “Bow deeply when you first greet the grand vizier,” he says.
The grand vizier!
Perhaps Jalal has misjudged this Englishman. It is common knowledge that the grand vizier is the power behind the throne.
They approach a short, squat man who stands with his back to them. The man swims in heavy ceremonial robes. A tall conical cap towers above his head. As the grand vizier hears footsteps approaching, he turns and gestures graciously for his guests to forego the normal formalities.
“So you are the man who has been preaching in our streets about a new religious Revelation,” Haji Mirza Aqasi says. His eyes run up and down this dust-covered figure in white. He seems amused. “I understand you have something for the shah. A tablet—am I correct?”
“The author of this tablet instructed me to deliver it personally to the shah.”
“May I see it?”
Jalal reaches into his satchel and removes the scroll. “It is very important that the shah receive this document at the earliest possible time.”
“Yes, yes, I understand. Everyone’s message is the most important one in the world. Well, I can assure you that I will hand your message to the shah myself.” Aqasi holds out his hand for the scroll but Jalal merely stares at him. `
“I must have your word on this,” Jalal says.
Aqasi bristles with anger.
Pickwick reflexively backs away; he has experienced the concussion of the Aqasi’s explosions.
After a deep breath, though, Aqasi smiles weakly and says, “You have my word. The shah will have your tablet no later than tomorrow. Come now—the scroll.”
Jalal hands the scroll to Aqasi. As possession of it changes hands, he sees a fleeting flicker of fear on the grand vizier’s face immediately followed by a smirk of victory.
So this is the
new Qu’ran
, is it?” Aqasi says.
“It contains a message for the shah. I am sure he will understand it.”
“I am certain of that.” Suddenly the grand vizier wheels to his left and marches from the room without another word.
“The audience is over,” Pickwick says.
Late the same evening, Pickwick is summoned to the personal chamber of Aqasi who has been studying the tablet.
“You did well to obtain this treasonous tract for me,” he tells Pickwick. “It is even worse than I had feared. The author has the gall to ask Muhammad Shah to convert and assist his cause. In his view, the shah’s authority to govern is subservient to this new religion. Even worse, this imbecile attacks me.”
“By name?”
“By title. This is treason—and blasphemy.”
“Do you want to have the messenger arrested?”
“The man is intoxicated by this heresy. He will never reveal the author’s identity,. Let him go. Perhaps he will lead us to the mastermind of this plot.”
“You think it is political rather than religious?”
“Everything comes down to power. And in Persia, religion is power. If we ignore it, this ripple of insurrection will become a tidal wave that can sweep us from power. On the other hand, if we can identify the fool behind this tablet and support the clergy in actions against him, we can
consolidate
our power and place the mullas clearly in our debt.” He shows a sinister smile that chills Pickwick. “The Qajars and the clerics have not been on the same side for a long time.”
Pickwick despises this man and dreads his role in the persecutions to come, but he fears leaving Aqasi’s service even more. He has learned too much about Aqasi. And Aqasi knows that Pickwick had assisted Herbert Eaton in the assassination of Mirza Hasan Qasim. Eaton had escaped. Pickwick had not; he struck a bargain with Aqasi.
“May I read the tablet?” Pickwick asks calmly.
“Of course,” Aqasi says. “There are no secrets between us.”
Chapter 4
Danush, the youngest disciple, has become the Rasul’s closest confidant. On most occasions, words are not required for Danush to understand the Rasul’s emotions and needs. Danush feels warmed by the Rasul’s presence and is continually astonished at his master’s composure in the face of a gathering threat.
Despite the Rasul’s admonitions to keep his identity secret, some of the Letters have revealed too much. Shiraz has become the focal point for those seeking the one who claims to be the deputy of the Qa’im. Rumors have pointed toward a young merchant in Shiraz, known to his small band of disciples as the Rasul.
Already the young man’s tablet has stimulated wide discussion and fierce debate. The message is seen by some as a justification for open rebellion against unpopular governors. Others see in it the work of Satan and the need to defend the traditions of Islam at all costs. A few respond to the tablet’s call for spiritual renewal and seek ways to join the “new religion.” Riots have broken out in some towns and villages.
It is the season of the Hajj—the annual pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina. In the village of Jidda, the Rasul and his disciples Danush and Mubarak set out by camel on a journey of several days. About ten kilometers from Mecca they don the pilgrim’s attire and walk to the shrine, joining a hundred thousand other pilgrims at Masjid al-Haram, the sacred sanctuary of Islam. In this huge courtyard thousands of worshippers orbit around a large black cube known as the Kaaba, the object towards which all Muslims throughout the world turn during prayer. This flat-roofed building rises fifty feet from a narrow marble platform on mortared bases of blue-gray stone. Tradition holds that the Kaaba was built by the prophet Abraham as a landmark for the House of God. At one corner of the Kaaba is a sacred stone that some believe was delivered by the angel Gabriel.
The floor and roof of the Masjid al-Haram are filled with pilgrims. The Rasul and his companions push their way into the courtyard. The sweaty, swarming pilgrims sweep them into their orbit, but the Rasul moves purposefully toward the Kaaba. Suddenly separated from the Rasul by the crush of bodies, Danush and Mubarak lose sight of Him. He seems to have been swallowed by the sea of humanity.
Panic seizes Danush and he begins to swim frantically through the crowd, looking everywhere for the Rasul but seeing only a mass of white-clad pilgrims. The hot sun glares off their garments, blinding Danush momentarily. For a moment he is carried forward by the crowd, his feet lifted off the ground and his arms flailing helplessly. Finally he finds a seam and pushes again toward the Kaaba. Mercifully, a gentle breeze stirs the air.
Danush cannot yet see the Rasul, but he can hear his voice above the din of the crowd. Yes, it is the Rasul’s voice; it carries in the breeze. The words are faint but he can make them out. The Rasul is saying, “I am the Qa’im whom you were expecting.”
The ceaseless rotation of the crowd slows, and then stops, as if the call to prayer had just sounded. Around Danush the faces of the pilgrims appear curious but confused. The murmur of the crowd, once the roar of an ocean, is now a gentle lapping on the shore. Danush pushes forward again and finds the Rasul holding the ring knob of the Kaaba door.
“I am the Qa’im whom you were expecting,” the Rasul repeats.
Now the crowd grows still as the Rasul’s words are translated into the various languages spoken by the pilgrims who have come from many lands. And then a hush overtakes the courtyard. There is no outcry, no cheers, no hysteria, no charges of heresy or blasphemy—only stunned silence, as if the pilgrims cannot comprehend what has just been said.
A tall pilgrim near the outer wall of the courtyard begins to push urgently toward the Kaaba. He wants a close look at this man who has brought the pilgrimage ritual—the last of the Five Pillars of Islam—to a complete halt. This pilgrim has studied the Rasul’s tablet and unexpectedly had found himself transformed by its message. He had come to Masjid al-Harám at the beginning of the month of pilgrimage hoping that the author of those wondrous words would appear and reveal himself as the Traditions had foretold. A Christian by birth, and never a Muslim, he had disguised himself as a pilgrim to penetrate this holiest of Islamic shrines.
The silence of the courtyard is eerie. A sparrow flutters overhead and the sound of its wings causes many eyes to look up.
A third time the Rasul says “I am the Qa’im whom you were expecting.”
Still there is no response. The tall pilgrim continues to push toward the Kaaba, but he is too late. As the crowd begins to understand what has happened, and begins to buzz with awareness and sudden opinion, the Rasul steps into the crowd, is embraced by Danush, and then disappears into the anonymity of the crowd.
The tall pilgrim reaches the Kaaba too late. He takes a deep breath, imagines that the air filling his lungs might be the same air that had caressed the holy body of that young man. His body shivers in the heat. Was he the only person here who understood the event that had just transpired? Should not these thousands of pilgrims have been expecting this momentous occasion?
The tall pilgrim feels a firm grip on his right arm, then another on his left. Someone shouts at him in Arabic. He speaks Farsi but understands enough Arabic to know that his ruse has been discovered. In his haste to achieve the presence of the Qa’im he had entered a holy area prohibited to non-Muslims.
Two more men approach him, shouting Arabic curses. A coarse voice speaking Farsi interrogates him. He cannot claim to be a Muslim. His knowledge of Islam is too academic. If he has been truly transformed by the message of the Qa’im, he cannot lie.
And so Eardley Pickwick admits his deceit. His pilgrim captors roughly escort him outside the courtyard and throw him into the dirt. One of them pulls a knife from beneath his pilgrim garb and holds it menacingly above Pickwick. These Muslims consider such a grievous offense to be punishable by death.
As the man with the knife lowers it and places the sharp edge beneath Pickwick’s chin, the Englishman considers showing his court credentials. That may save him. But as he feels the cold blade on his throat, he also feels tired and sick. He has seen too much. Sinned too much. He has little left to offer, even if he were spared. He has no life in England to which he can return, and he despises his life in Persia. He has become a servant of evil in serving Aqasi. Maybe this end is not so bad. He may be bound for hell, but then again, if he sheds his blood for this newest Manifestation of God, perhaps there will be amnesty for the first martyr.
He looks up at his executioner and smiles. The knife moves. He can taste the blood in his throat.
Only God knows his sacrifice.