Ollie looks over at Mrs. Chadwick, who leans backward in her chair as if dead. Reginald is standing by her, holding her hand and offering a handkerchief. “What a barbaric thing for a child to witness!” he offers. “And for a mother to hear!”
Herbert is mesmerized. He leans forward and asks, “What about your mother?”
“Good God!” Reginald scolds. “Don’t ask her to relive another moment of terror.”
“It’s all right,” Anne says, calmer now. “It’s been more than twenty years. I’ve just never… I’ve never told the story to anyone before except Gordon. After the Turkoman beheaded my father, he pulled me up onto the horse with him. I clawed him with my nails, but he just laughed. Another Turkoman reached down to grab my mother, who screamed and hit his legs with her fists. He tried to pull her up, too, but she fought back and fell to the ground. And then his horse rose up and came down on top of her. The horse started running and its hooves struck her again. That was the last I saw of my mother. They took me to Bokhara and sold me.”
For a moment there is a deep silence. Ollie’s mind is spinning. He has never heard this tale before. At last Anne looks at Mrs. Chadwick and says, “Perhaps this was not a good time.”
Mrs. Chadwick takes a deep breath, dabs her teary eyes with Reginald’s handkerchief, and says, “No, my dear, this was a good time to tell your story. For two decades I believed that I would
never
know what happened to my son. And then one day Gordon came calling.”
Reginald sits down as Herbert stands. “So Gordon, my good fellow, how did you manage to find Anne in such a despicable place?”
“As you know, I am an Evangelical. Like Augustus, I traveled to Bombay to begin missionary work. While there I became acquainted with some Presbyterians—dedicated people, I must say, although not of my particular religious persuasion. They told me about Augustus and his family, who had left for Persia two decades earlier and had never been heard of again.
“I must admit, the mystery of it intrigued me, and I became interested in Persia. There was so little known about it. And to my way of thinking, there were countless souls there for converting. I could have the whole land virtually to myself. Within two years, while performing medical and spiritual healing among the Hindus, I became relatively fluent in Farsi, taught by a Persian expatriate who had moved to India.
“Finally I began the first of several missions to Persia. I quickly learned that the Muslims—the followers of Muhammad—took a very dim view of Christians attempting to convert their own. If a Muslim changes religions, he can be put to death for apostasy. The one who entices him to convert can also be executed.
“During my wanderings, I arrived in a hamlet called Bushruyih and called upon the mayor to pay my respects. The mayor and I talked for about an hour and then, quite unexpectedly, he told me that one of the slaves in his harem claimed that she could speak some English words. Now if the mayor had been a strict Muslim, he never would have escorted me to the anderun where the women were kept. Fortunately for all of us, the mayor was not a deeply religious man. In fact, he was a nephew of the shah, and so part of the secular order.”
“It would be quite some time before I would lay eyes on Anisa’s face because of the obligatory veil. But when the mayor introduced us, I can remember saying to her, “Good morning,” and being quite startled when Anisa responded by saying, “Good afternoon.” She was correct, of course, as it was half-past noon.
“Anisa implored the mayor to engage me as her English tutor. I believe he found the novelty of this idea quite amusing. And he probably found me quite innocuous. At any rate, I began to teach English to Anisa—Anne—and then to her son. I stayed in Bushruyih for about one month. But I had other obligations, so I had to leave and did not return for another three months.
“During our separation, I began to put the pieces together. An English-speaking slave girl, the mystery of the vanished missionaries two decades earlier—well, you see where this was leading me. On my next visit to Bushruyih, I was once again engaged as Anisa’s tutor. But this time I prevailed upon her to recall her early years. And I discovered that her parents indeed were the fabled Chadwick missionaries. I can’t begin to tell you how excited and terrified I was. Here was a child, an English citizen, held against her will in a foreign land and now grown up. An English child who had survived misadventures and cruelties beyond imagination.
“It became my mission to return Anne to her family in England. When I proposed this to her, she immediately seized upon the idea and we hatched a plot to escape. But my time in Persia was too short and my financial resources too depleted to implement the plan at that time.
“One of my remaining obligations was to return to England for a speaking engagement—a fund-raising tour, actually, for our missionary work. So within several months I found myself in London. I looked up Mrs. Chadwick and told her the story. She contributed a generous sum of money to our cause, which allowed me to shorten my tour and return to Persia. I landed there six months ago, and here we are today.”
Mrs. Chadwick suddenly stands straight up and says, “I know this may appear rude, but I have grown very weary. If you don’t mind, I’m going to retire. Gibson?”
The entire group stands. Gibson enters and takes Mrs. Chadwick by the arm, leading her out the door and into the shadows.
Herbert turns to Gordon and Anne. “Well, I say, this has been a most gripping evening, but I think I’ll shove off as well. May I call you for another conversation? I would like to hear more of the details for the article in
The Times
.”
“As you wish,” Gordon replies.
Reginald pats Gordon on the shoulder. “An Evangelical, eh? My, my.” He staggers out the door without another word.
Ollie is staring at a large oil painting, a portrait of a stern-faced man with brows like a thick hedge, eyes with droopy lids, and pouting lips.
“That is Mr. Chadwick,” Herbert explains. “Edward Chadwick, your great grandfather. He was one of the owners of
The Times
. Very powerful, influential… and wealthy. Not a bad family to be born into, my boy. You’ve done well.”
Chapter 3
For Ollie, the next several weeks are a tumultuous blur of English elocution sessions, shopping trips to acquire the proper apparel for an English school boy, lessons in etiquette and money counting, evening dinner parties, and tours of London and environs. A series of newspaper articles catapults the story of Anne and Oliver into the public’s consciousness.
In
The Times
, drawings of mother, son and rescuer accompany a long article under the headline: ENGLISH HAREM GIRL AND SON RESCUED BY MISSIONARY FROM ENSLAVEMENT IN PERSIA
.
The
Manchester Guardian and British Volunteer
writes: LONDON PUBLISHING HEIRESS FOUND ALIVE IN PERSIAN HAREM. And
The Observer
announces to its Sunday readership: ENGLISH SLAVE GIRL BROUGHT HOME FROM PERSIA.
Anne and Oliver are the talk of society.
Except for the parties, at which he and Anne are usually the evening’s curiosity, Ollie finds himself cut off from his mother. She, too, has been caught up in a whirlwind of activities: interviews with newspapermen, endless speaking engagements at churches and libraries, fund-raising events for the Evangelicals. Despite her tightly packed schedule, Anne seems to thrive on the attention.
Gordon has received a handsome advance from a London publishing house, George C. Boothby & Sons, to submit a manuscript detailing his Persian adventures and the rescue of Anne Chadwick. And he has announced plans to marry Anne.
Ollie is defended from the ferocity of public intrusion by his great-grandmother who personally attends to the boy when he is at home. He finds himself basted with her love and basking in her luxurious favor. The hollow space in Ollie’s soul once occupied by his mother has been generously filled by Mrs. Chadwick. At her urging he has begun to call her
Mum
, an endearment he is fond of because it is so much easier for his Farsi tongue than
great-grandmother
. In his mouth the word
Mum
becomes a hymn of praise, a mantra, a plea, a gossamer thread that binds him to this knobby, wrinkled old woman who makes him feel so warm and happy. The word embodies a power, like the word
Qa’im
, which penetrates vast mysteries and reveals unfolding layers of meaning.
Mum!
The sound of it makes him feel at home and brings a smile to the parched lips of Mrs. Chadwick.
In Ollie’s evolving notion of spiritual truth, the two deities of God and Allah both demand worship and prayer. Ollie has solved this dilemma by viewing the five daily prayers of Islam as five individual opportunities for prayer. And so at dawn, when the
mu’a
dhdh
in
of habit awakens him, he prostrates himself for his well-practiced conversation with Allah. The next three prayers are offered to God in the posture of Christianity, on his knees with hands folded. The evening prayer is once again presented to Allah in the attitude of complete submission.
On one particular damp night, Mrs. Chadwick enters Ollie’s room to find him prostrate on the floor chanting undecipherable words. She gasps, and the intake of air startles Ollie. He arches his back and looks under one arm, seeing Mrs. Chadwick upside down in the doorway. Hurriedly, he chants the rest of his prayer to himself and then rolls over and sits up.
Mrs. Chadwick still has one hand over her mouth in astonishment. “Ollie, what are you doing?”
Ollie is quite sure that
Mum
will not approve of his praying to Allah, but he cannot bring himself to lie about something so sacred. He decides to tell the truth, even if only part of it. “I was praying,” he says. Not at all untrue.
“Praying? But what words were you uttering? Certainly not English—or Latin.”
“I was praying in Farsi,” he says honestly. “Since I am more fluent in Farsi than English, perhaps my prayer will be better understood in that language.” A valid premise. Who is to say?
Mrs. Chadwick wags her head and walks to the bed. She sits and pats the bedcovers with the palm of her hand, beckoning Ollie to join her there. Amusement shows through her oval eyes, which strain to mask it. Ollie climbs onto the bed and lies down on his back, bony knees pointed toward the ceiling.
Mrs. Chadwick places a hand on one of these knees, caressing it like a mother. “Ollie, I know this is confusing, but I want you to know that Christians do not have to lie on their bellies to pray.”
“Is it wrong, then?”
“Well, I imagine that no posture could be considered incorrect if one is praying. But it is unnecessary to prostrate yourself, and in some quarters people may think that you are, what shall I say, promoting your piety.”
Ollie does not know what piety means, but he says nothing.
“And another thing… God knows many languages. He is omniscient, after all. That means he knows everything, so to speak. So you do not have to pray in Farsi for God to understand you. Truth is, he understands English quite well but prefers Latin. Don’t ask me why. Are you clear about these things?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“Good. Then we have another issue to go over, something of great importance to you.”
Ollie sits up and crosses his legs. Everything that Mum says is of great importance to him.
“Reginald Pennick paid me a visit this evening. You remember Reginald, don’t you? The Anglican priest from St. Martin’s.”
“The fat one, yes.”
Mrs. Chadwick’s eyes glisten with delight at the boy’s candor. “Yes. Mr. Pennick stopped by to deliver some wonderful news. We have received permission for you to attend school at the Charterhouse, a fine boarding school.”
“A
boarding
school?”
“Yes, a boarding school, meaning that you will live there also. This is the best way for you to absorb the atmosphere of the school and get to know your fellow students and teachers.”
Ollie is suddenly fearful. “But I want to stay here. With you, Mum. I don’t want to leave home again. I can learn to pray the correct way.”
“Oh, Ollie, this is not a punishment. I’m not sending you away because you prayed incorrectly. This is… a
reward
. You will learn so much there. And you will receive the finest religious instruction.”
Ollie wants to register another complaint, but this school, this Charterhouse, is beginning to sound like the famous madrisih in Mashhad. Yes, had not his mother promised that he would soon attend the finest school? She must have meant the Charterhouse.
An English madrisih.
It must be a very good school if Mum were sending him there. And while he is quite certain he cannot become a mulla at the Charterhouse, perhaps he will become a great Christian priest.
His fear evaporates and excitement begins to surge, tempered only by the knowledge that his friend, Jalal, will not be there with him. “Then I am ready to go,” he says.
Mrs. Chadwick, amazed at his sudden transformation, simply stares at him for a moment before saying, “Pardon me?”
“I accept your reward. I would like to go to the Charterhouse very much.” He speaks with a sense of joy and throws his arms around Mrs. Chadwick as he says, “Thank you, Mum, thank you.” He remembers the day that his father gave him permission to attend the madrisih. He has the same feeling now.
Mrs. Chadwick says, “You are very welcome, my son.” She embraces him, wraps herself around him, absorbs him into herself, and the years melt away until she is holding Augustus in her arms again.
Chapter 4
The picnic had been dreamy. Ollie and his mother and Gordon had romped and played in the sun, cuddled in the cool grass, stuffed themselves with Clare’s lunch of bread and cheese and haddock, sipped sweet tea, and then explored the park on foot. They had laughed at bad jokes, recalled stories of Persia, and had even shed a few tears over the memories of friends left behind. Ollie had never felt so safe and loved. His only regret, as he would recall in later years, was that Mum had not been invited. Then it would have been
perfect
. She would have seen that there was nothing to worry about.
As daylight had faded, ominous clouds had begun to stir on the fringes of the sky and a chill had clawed its way through Ollie’s coat. The afternoon laughter and chatter had given way to silence as the carriage clattered down the rutted road to a dinner party at Walter Nettleship’s home. They had not changed clothes—Gordon had said the party was “informal.” But as their clothes had remained unchanged, the gay mood had altered considerably, perhaps due to fatigue or the return of more gloomy weather.
Ollie remembers these things as he sits in a small room stuffed with frayed furniture and the gaudy souvenirs of Walter Nettleship’s missionary journeys. Nettleship and nine others, all unfamiliar to Ollie, have joined Anne and Gordon to celebrate Ollie’s passage into formal English education.
Nettleship is a brittle stick of a man with trousers too tight and a fat, pasty face that seems squeezed out of a high collar. Dinner had been a buffet of tasteless sandwiches, dry fruit, and flat pastries that crumbled before you could put them into your mouth.
Ollie is glad that dinner is over, but feels claustrophobic as the group gathers in a circle around him.
“So young master Chadwick,” Nettleship says, “I understand that you have been a Christian for only a short while.”
Ollie looks at his mother, who avoids his eyes, then turns to Gordon who is looking at a chip in the wooden floor. “Yes, sir,” Ollie says.
“I wonder if you fully understand what it means to be a Christian.”
Ollie feels his blood begin to stir. He knows that he is being challenged, but he does not know why. Still, he had stood up to Mulla Ibrahim in debate, and he remembers Jalal’s courageous defense of the Shaykhi at the caravanserai, so he stiffens in his chair and speaks up: “As you said, Mr. Nettleship, I have only been a Christian for a short time, so I am certain that I do not fully understand what it means to be a Christian. I hope that my education at the Charterhouse will teach me to be both an English gentleman and a Christian.”
The group murmurs approvingly. In their experience, it is rare for a twelve-year-old to address adults in such an articulate and forceful manner. Walter Nettleship smiles and says, “Well said, young man. I had expected more of an accent, but your elocution is quite good. My compliments to your tutor.”
“Thank you,” Gordon says.
“However, your expectation that the Charterhouse will teach you how to be a Christian is misguided. You see, the Charterhouse propagates a High-Church brand of religion that has very little to do with being a Christian.”
Ollie is confused by this statement, but then he begins to understand. This man, Nettleship, must be the
mujtahid
of the Evangelicals. He speaks with great authority. And the
High-Church
must be a kind of heresy, like the Shaykhi movement, that threatens the pure ideals and teachings of the Evangelicals.
Nettleship turns to Gordon. In a deep baritone he commands the handsome missionary to speak. “Gordon, have you taught this young man about the sinfulness of human nature?”
Ollie does not like this man, Nettleship, and he does not like the way that Nettleship puts Gordon on the spot in front of the others, so he interrupts: “I know about sin. I know that all men are sinful. If you want to know what I have learned, then please ask
me
.”
“So you know that all men and women are basically sinful creatures, sinful from the day they are born, rotten to the core with sin. And you must know, then, that each human being has inherited the sins of his father, and his father’s father, all the way back to Adam, the first man. And you must also know that your soul, Oliver Chadwick, is putrid with sin, encrusted with it, oozing the venom of Satan. Everyone here knows that you have grievously sinned.”
The room is silent. Everyone looks at Ollie. The blood rushes from the boy’s head and his stomach begins to cramp as he suffers under the gaze of the Evangelicals. His father had done many bad things, this he knows. But Ollie cannot understand how he, the son, can be blamed for them. Thinking back, however—yes, he can remember his own sins. He had kicked Jalal, betrayed the Shaykhi, coveted a position at the madrisih in Mashhad. His mind had wandered during prayers. He had been prideful and selfish, disrespectful to his parents, less than completely honest with Mum.
So it is true, then. He is a deeply sinful creature who deeply deserves the scorn of the others.
“I can see that you agree, Oliver. Now the question is, do you know who has lived
without
sin?”
Ollie knows this. Perhaps this is his redemption. “Yes,” he says quietly but bravely. “Jesus was without sin.”
Nettleship gives Gordon a congratulatory glance for his tutelage.
“And the Prophet Muhammad, praise be unto Him.” Ollie adds. He had promised Mum to be truthful to his heart.
Nettleson turns back to Ollie, startled, but before he can speak Ollie adds: “And the Imam Ali, who was the
perfect man
.” Anne and Gordon stare at Ollie, astonished at his statements.
“That’s enough blasphemy!” Nettleship roars. The resonant blast sends Ollie back into his chair. “Your head has been filled with satanic fantasies.”
Gordon speaks up: “Walter, I have been teaching him for months. He knows that Jesus Christ is the Son of God and the only one who has lived without sin. I don’t understand…”
“The boy has heard you, Gordon,” Nettleship says, “but Satan is strong within him, whispering lies and insulating him from the saving power of Jesus Christ. God knows the evil climate in which this child was reared. Heresy and heathenism, immorality and whoring within his very home, wickedness and blasphemy of every kind. The child was plucked from the bowels of hell on earth. Did you expect that the demons in him would faint away upon hearing your words?”
Ollie knows that Nettleship is referring to Persia and his life there, but he cannot relate to these words. London had seemed more like hell than Bushruyih. And he was quite certain there were no demons inside him.
Wouldn’t he know? S
till, he believed in demons and jinns and evil eyes, so maybe…
“Oliver, I want you to listen to me very carefully,” Nettleship says, pressing his doughy face close to Ollie’s. “Are you listening?” He pauses. “You are doomed to hell, my child. And there is only one thing that can save you from eternal damnation. The atoning blood of Jesus Christ, who died and rose again that you, Oliver Chadwick, might have eternal life and be spared the unending torment of hellfire and brimstone.”
Anne suddenly breaks into tears. She is afraid for her son’s soul.
Please God
, she prays,
help Ali to accept your Son and denounce the false gods of Islam.
Nettleship continues. “We are here tonight, Oliver, because God has a plan for your life, but we have only this one evening to help you understand how Jesus can save you and help you follow that plan. Yes, I said
God
, not Allah or any other false god that Satan has concocted to deceive you. And I said Jesus, not Muhammad or any other anti-Christ that Satan has invented to lead you astray. The path of Muhammad is a shortcut to hell!”
Ollie is hyperventilating. Could it be true?
Yes, it could be!
Nettleship leans forward and cradles Ollie’s face in his hands. His angry roar now becomes a personal plea, heartfelt and tearful, a song of salvation. “Ollie, I don’t want you to burn in the fires of hell. But your sins are so great that they are like heavy weights tied to your soul. Your belief in Muhammad is the greatest sin of all, because if Muhammad is in your life and your heart there is no room for Jesus Christ, and Jesus is the only one who can remove your sins and help you soar into the heavens, free of your burden, saved at last and forever from your bondage to Satan, protected from his claim on you.”
Nettleship motions for the others to gather around Ollie. The bodies push in and hands reach out to touch him like the tentacles of a great beast. The weight of so many hands is like the weight of a mountain and he feels as though he is being buried alive. He gasps for breath. Could it be that he is a container for Satan and his demons? How could Ollie have thought that
he
, one of the greatest sinners of all, was the Promised One? This, perhaps, was his greatest sin!
Nettleship’s soothing, pleading voice continues to wrap Ollie in hope. “The Bible is God’s incorruptible, infallible Word of God, my son, and the Bible says that man cannot serve two masters. My dear boy, you cannot serve both Jesus and Muhammad, you cannot serve both God and Satan. You must make a choice. If you do not choose tonight, we may not be able to help you, because tomorrow you enter another hell, a school that will deceive you in many new ways, and you may be lost forever.”
Ollie’s face is flushed and his body trembles. The scorching heat of his guilt sears his heart. Had everyone in his past lied to him? About Muhammad and Ali and the Promised One and the path to heaven and the Qu’ran…?
“There is but one choice, Ollie. Accept Jesus as your savior. Reach out to him. Accept him as your only master and guide. Renounce Satan and his minions, Muhammad and his book of lies. Ask Jesus to forgive your sins and he will do it. He will take them and fling them into the fiery pit, throw them into the face of Satan himself. And you will be free. Will you do this, Ollie? Will you ask Jesus?”
Ollie shakes violently. His body aches with guilt. He is so afraid. So confused He will do anything to remove this terrible pain. To end this torment. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, yes.”
Then say the words, Ollie, say these words: “Jesus, come into my heart and forgive my sins.”
Ollie sobs. “Jesus, come into my heart and forgive my sins.”
“I accept you as the Son of God and the Lord of my life.”
Beneath the layer of hands, Ollie reaches inside his shirt. “I accept you as the Son of God and the Lord of my life.”
Nettleship looks up at the ceiling, perhaps seeing God there, and says, “I renounce Satan and his hold on me, and all other false gods and prophets.”
“I renounce Satan and his hold on me,” Ollie repeats, “and all other false gods and prophets.” Inside his shirt he tenderly caresses the silver tubular charm that hangs from his necklace. It contains a verse from the Qu’ran:
And those who put away false gods lest they should worship them and turn to Allah in repentance, for them there are glad tidings.
With a sigh, Nettleship says, “In Jesus name, Amen!”
The many hands all lift heavenward with a chorus of
Amens
, and Ollie breathes deeply, saved from suffocation.
Silently, Anne thanks God for her son’s salvation while Gordon weeps for his own sins.