A Poet of the Invisible World (5 page)

In time, Nouri's talent for words became a simple fact of the lodge. Salim Rasa would look up from chopping the onions as the boy passed the kitchen and call out, “Say something, Nouri!” Piran Nazuder would follow him around, hoping to witness the birth of a new thought. But it wasn't until Sharoud paid a visit to Sheikh Bailiri that the Sufi master truly contemplated the boy's gift.

From the moment he saw him lying in his cradle beside the self-consuming snake, Sharoud had been watching Nouri. He felt sure that the child had somehow bewitched the creature, and as he followed his development over the years, nothing swayed him from the belief that there was something ungodly about the child. Sometimes he would find him frozen in the courtyard staring at the sky. Other times he would spy him in the branches of a tree, as if it pained him to be too rooted to the earth. Most of all, he was convinced that some mark of the devil was concealed beneath the tightly wound folds of his head garment.

Sharoud knew such thoughts were unworthy of one who had given his life to Allah. So he tried as hard as he could to cast them from his mind. He decided, in fact, that the only way to fight his distrust of the child was to make some gesture toward him. So one morning he decided to pay a visit to Sheikh Bailiri's cell.

The Sufi master was not accustomed to private visits from his
murids,
let alone a visit from Sharoud. So when the dervish rapped on his open door, he was rather curious about his purpose. “How may I assist you, Brother Sharoud?”

“If it's not too much trouble,” said Sharoud, “I wish to speak with you about Nouri.”

Sheikh Bailiri, who sat cross-legged on the floor, his falcon Kavan perched on his left forearm, gestured to Sharoud to sit. Sharoud complied. Then he launched into lavish praise of Nouri.

“It's not often that a child is so perceptive,” he said. “He's a prodigy. A wonder.”

Sheikh Bailiri, who by now was as aware as the others of Nouri's gift, nodded. “I agree.”

“His seventh birthday is next week. I think we should honor it with a celebration.”

The Sufi master shifted his awareness to the geometric patterns in the prayer rug, the weight of the majestic bird upon his arm, the rising and falling of his breath. He did not need Sharoud, or anyone else, to tell him that Nouri was special. Yet he could feel that, despite his dark impulses, Sharoud was making an effort to reach out to the boy.

“It's a fine idea,” he said. “Let's make a celebration for Nouri.”

As he said this, Kavan turned his head to Sharoud and shouted:

“Kaw! Kaw!”

And though Sheikh Bailiri did not speak a word of peregrine falcon, he knew that he would have to keep on the alert.

*   *   *

WITHIN DAYS OF SHAROUD'S
conversation with Sheikh Bailiri, preparations for Nouri's birthday celebration were under way. The brothers did not have the means to take the festivities too far. But Piran Nazuder erected a tent over the courtyard, Jamal al-Jani got down on his knees and scrubbed the stones, and with the help of Ali Majid—who had sprouted into a loose-limbed lad of seventeen—Salim Rasa spent hours drawing
kashk
out of the yogurt, pounding walnuts and almonds, steaming huge pots of fragrant rice. By the average standards of the people of Tan-Arzhan, it would be a humble meal. But to the brothers, it would be a feast.

On the morning of the celebration, Nouri lay on his bed in Habbib's cell thinking about the dream he'd had the night before. He was wandering through the streets of Tan-Arzhan, yet it was the city and not the city, familiar and yet utterly strange. As he made his way along, he took note of the girl carrying the large clay jug upon her head, the pure white horse drawing the bright green cart, the haggard woman beating the rug. It was a bright day, full of smiles and good cheer. Wherever he looked, there was a sense of purpose. As he approached the town square, however, he felt something dark and sinister dogging his heels. And when he turned he saw a ferocious-looking creature following behind him. He quickened his pace, but he could not seem to lose it. He broke into a run, but the creature did too. Before it could reach him, however, he awoke, heart pounding, in Habbib's cell.

It took a while for Nouri to shake off the dark dream. But eventually he rose and, with the help of Habbib, began to prepare for the celebration. He put on a fresh tunic and trousers and tied a bright blue sash around his waist. Habbib removed his head garment, brushed his hair, and neatly rewound it. Then they went out to the courtyard, where Sheikh Bailiri and the others were waiting.

When Sheikh Bailiri saw Nouri, he led him to a long wooden table laden with food. He gestured to the boy to sit; then he and Habbib took their places on either side. Then the other brothers joined them and the Sufi master raised his cup.

“We celebrate your birth, Nouri! May you live to be ten times seven. And more!”

The brothers raised their cups. “To Nouri!” they cried. Then Salim Rasa leaned forward and shouted, “Say something, Nouri!”

Nouri looked around at the expectant faces. He feared that the brothers endowed his words with a greater wisdom than they possessed. But he closed his eyes and murmured:

“I am the bell on the collar of the cow.

Tinkling. Tinkling.

And I am the breeze that blows the bell.”

The brothers were silent. Then Sheikh Bailiri reached for one of the bowls and the feast began.

“You're a poet, Nouri!” said Salim Rasa, as he ladled some of the
mirza ghasemi
onto his plate.

Nouri said nothing. He simply grasped the four withered fingers of Habbib's hand and turned his attention to the meal. No one, in fact, said anything more. Instead, they slipped into a communal trance as the savory tastes danced upon their tongues. Only when the last grain of rice had been devoured did Piran Nazuder suddenly cry out, “We mustn't forget the
sema
!”

The others turned to him, their eyes glazed over.

“Do we have to?” said Jamal al-Jani.

“I'm too stuffed,” said Hajid al-Hallal, “to rise up to heaven!”

“One is never too heavy to strive toward God,” said Sheikh Bailiri. “And never too humble to perform the
sema.”

Centered on the chanting of litanies and accompanied by the playing of music, the
sema
was deep at the heart of Sufi practice. Some, overcome by the words, would begin to weep. Others, inflamed with joy, would throw their heads back and fall to their knees. But the most sublime response to the chanted words—which had been introduced to the order by Piran Nazuder, who had learned it on a visit to Anatolia—was to spread one's arms on either side and begin to whirl. There were differing theories as to how the practice had begun. Some claimed a Sufi had been so shattered by the loss of his teacher he'd found that only whirling could ease his pain. Some claimed a bowl of oversalted stew had caused a Sufi to start spinning, and when his comrades followed suit they found the movement to be a tonic for the soul. There were rules to observe: one must never move in an affected manner; one must never cry out while one turned. But for those who sought a true union with God, it was an ecstatic form. So the brothers cleared away the cups and the plates and the bowls and removed the table. Then they donned their woolen hats and dark mantles and spread out across the floor. When all were in place, Sheikh Bailiri began reciting verses from the Qur'an, which the others repeated in unison. Then Ali Majid stepped forward with his
ney.

The brothers would never have thought that Ali Majid would become a musician. He seemed too scattered—too dim—to coax prayer from a simple flute. One morning, however, he saw a
ney
lying in the assembly hall and when he raised it to his lips a perfect note rose into the air. He quickly returned it to where he'd found it, fearful that he'd be punished for touching it. But Hajid al-Hallal heard the clear, sweet sound, received permission from Sheikh Bailiri to give him lessons, and in no time the boy's gift was revealed. He still washed the pots and the pans and sharpened the knives. But his playing became the pulse of the brothers' dance.

Now, as he began to play, Sheikh Bailiri stepped back and the brothers bowed low to the floor. They turned and began to walk in a circle, pausing to bow to one another when they reached the place where the Sufi master stood. When they'd made three rounds, they removed their mantles. Then they folded their arms across their chests and began to whirl. It started slowly, a gentle turning that expressed their longing to be released from their bodies. As the pace quickened, their arms rose up over their heads. Then they spread them wide—their right hands turned upward to receive the grace of heaven, their left dangling down to release their passions to the earth.

Nouri was not permitted to join in the dance like a true dervish, for despite his gifts he was only seven years old. In honor of his birthday, however, Sheikh Bailiri agreed that he could do a bit of turning. So as the music of Ali Majid's
ney
dizzied his ever-sensitive ears, he took his place at the edge of the circle and, in his own simple fashion, began to whirl.

Sharoud whirled too. Inspired by the fever of the festivities
,
he spun like a giddy top. He was aware of the others as he moved through the space, but he was mostly aware of Nouri. He felt his pulse quicken and his heart pound each time they drew near. And on the tenth revolution—as his taut body floated past the child—he suddenly reached out and grabbed the slender tail of his tightly wrapped head garment.

It was like a spool of white ribbon unfurling. A cocoon being unraveled. A present being unwrapped. But it was only when the music stopped—and the brothers, shaken from their trance, suddenly turned and gaped at him—that Nouri understood that his secret had been revealed.

 

Four

Nouri sat quietly on the blue-and-gold kilim, his legs crossed under him, his hands in his lap, waiting for Sheikh Bailiri to speak. He'd been sitting in the Sufi master's cell for nearly an hour, but when the dervish entered he seemed to take no notice of him, turning instead to the weathered book on his desk, the goose-quill pen and the crisp sheet of paper, the small bowl of lemongrass tea. He would read for a moment. Then sip the tea. Then write a few lines. And then sip some more. Only after the longest while did he rise from the desk and go to the wooden cage by the window that housed the gray falcon.

He opened the door and placed his arm inside.

The falcon stepped onto it.

Then Sheikh Bailiri drew the bird from the cage and spoke.

“When he dives for prey, he's the fastest creature in the world. But look how calm he is in repose!”

Nouri hesitated, uncertain if he should speak to the Sufi master or simply remain quiet. He'd been aware of the bird from the moment he'd entered the room, however. And Sheikh Bailiri seemed to be waiting for him to respond. So he put aside his fear and cleared his throat.

“What does he eat?” he asked.

“Bats,” said Sheikh Bailiri. “And squirrels. And mice.”

He moved across the room until the bird was only inches from Nouri, its dark feathers gleaming, its obsidian eyes boring into him.

“I take him out each morning at dawn,” said Sheikh Bailiri. “You're welcome to join me if you like.”

Nouri nodded. Then Sheikh Bailiri knelt down.

“Would you like to pet him?”

Nouri nodded again. So Sheikh Bailiri extended his arm and the boy reached out and stroked the bird from his head down to his tail.

“His name is Kavan.”

Nouri looked at Kavan and Kavan looked at Nouri. Then Sheikh Bailiri carried him back to his cage and placed him inside. He paused a moment, as if he and the elegant bird were exchanging a few words. Then he returned to where Nouri sat and lowered himself beside him.

For seven years, Sheikh Bailiri had been closely watching Nouri. He'd observed his grace, his tenderness, his beauty, aware of the potential for spiritual growth that was lodged in him like a seed beneath the earth. He knew, however, that the first seven years of a boy's life were for his mother and that, without a mother, that role fell to Habbib. So he allowed the simple groundskeeper to care for him, all the while hoping some sign would appear to announce that the next seven years should be his. Now, with perfect timing—indeed, on the child's seventh birthday—that sign had appeared. And Sheikh Bailiri understood what he had to do.

“God's creation is infinite. There are trees. Insects. Mountains. Rivers. Birds of prey like Kavan. There are flowers so fragrant they can make your head spin. There are creatures beneath the sea so strange they would leave you speechless if you saw them.”

The Sufi master was silent a moment and Nouri had to work hard not to tumble into his radiant eyes.

“You, my child, are an expression of God's diversity. His abundance. His playfulness. So you must never allow yourself to be ashamed of how he made you.”

Sheikh Bailiri paused again. Then a laugh bubbled up.

“Your ears, Nouri! Your ears! If ever there were ears created to hear the Word of God, yours are the ones!”

Nouri's ears, beneath his head cloth, grew hot.

“A seven-year-old is too young to become a dervish. And even after an aspirant has taken his vows, it takes many years to become a true servant of God.”

Sheikh Bailiri leaned forward.

“But a Sufi is born a Sufi. It only requires the right teacher to reveal him to himself.”

At these words the falcon suddenly cried out,
“Kaw! Kaw!”

“I'd like to be your teacher, Nouri.” He smiled. “Would you like to learn the secrets of the universe?”

Now, there are many things that are hard for a young boy to resist. Riding a camel. Holding a scimitar. Eating
sharbat-e limoo
. But nothing is more tempting than the chance to learn the secrets of the universe. And Nouri felt sure that if anyone knew them it was Sheikh Bailiri.