A Poet of the Invisible World (24 page)

Still, no one connected these things to the frail child who arrived one late-summer morning. Neither did they connect them to the strange bluish cast to his skin, which caused the midwife to cross the village to alert her cousin, who carved headstones, to the prospect of new business. As the day was quite warm, it was clear that the child wasn't cold. And though his mother feared she'd eaten too many of the deep purple figs her husband had filched from their neighbor's tree, she knew the moment she held her new child in her arms that something was wrong with the inner workings of his body.

It was therefore almost a relief—after an hour of thumping and poking and pressing his ear against the child's springy chest—when the doctor who'd come to inspect him explained that the architecture of his infant heart was reversed, that the slick tubes and soft, spongy chambers were transposed, that his blood was shuttled along a different pathway to the lungs, depleting it of its rich, reddening color. All Ryka's mother knew was that her impulses toward the child were not what she had expected. When he cried, rather than scoop him up, she would move farther away. When she held him to her breast, rather than swoon, she would cringe. And since his father had no use for a boy who was fragile and vaguely blue, Ryka's childhood was lonely, his heart marked less by its strange design than by having a mother and father who disliked having him around.

As time passed, the child grew into a delicate youth with a faraway look in his eyes. The other children in the village kept their distance—partly because he couldn't join in their games and partly because they were confused by his strange, distant manner. There was nothing sinister about him, like Sharoud, yet not a single person in the village had ever seen him smile. On top of this was the issue of his spells: at various intervals he would become light-headed and dizzy and have to squat down low to the ground. The bluish tint to his skin increased, and by the time he rose back to his feet, he'd scarred the surface of the day.

One morning, around the time of his eighth birthday, he scarred more than that. He was heading to the pump to fetch water for the baking. It was a gray day and his mother had decided to make some
khabisa,
whose nutty fragrance always cheered her up. As Ryka walked along, there wasn't a sign of trouble. But a few paces from the well he felt the constriction in his chest and the spinning in his head and, before he could squat down, he toppled to the ground. Had the rake been just a few fingers to the left, it would have gouged out his eye. Instead, one of its tines tore a small patch of flesh from his right cheekbone. When he stumbled back to the house, his face streaming with blood, his mother was so shaken she poured vinegar, instead of rosewater, into the
khabisa
. But she salved and bandaged the wound and when the cloth was removed, a week later, Ryka was graced with a tiny square just beneath his left eye.

Although the spells continued, there was no pattern to their coming. Sometimes he had two or three in the same week. Other times, months would pass without an occurrence. Since he was not made for running or jumping or climbing, he devoted himself to books. And the more he read, the more he felt sure that another life waited for him, away from the heat and the crushing disinterest of his parents.

One afternoon, when he was fourteen, he was sent to market, and as he was standing at the cheese sellers' stall he overheard a pair of men talking about the small band of Sufis who made their home in the clouds. Their description of the simple lodge and the ascetic brothers was enthralling to Ryka. So he decided that when he turned eighteen he would go to join them. He spent the intervening years reading book after book about the spiritual path. Yet he sensed no words could ever convey what real practice was like.

On the morning of his eighteenth birthday, he awoke early and told his parents of his plans. And though time and the sun had tempered the bluish cast of his skin to a muted gray, they were happy to let him go. So he gathered a few things into a satchel and headed off to climb the long, dusty path to the mountain lodge.

It was almost dusk when he finally reached the Sufi dwelling. The door was open, so he stepped inside and wandered down the long corridor until he reached the kitchen, where Sheikh al-Khammas was seated at the table shelling beans. When their eyes met, a look of recognition passed between them. And even before he could say why he was there, Sheikh al-Khammas made a gesture for him to sit.

“It's a long walk,” he said. “Even the most devoted of Allah's servants can flag from the exertion.”

Ryka stepped into the room and sat down on the bench opposite Sheikh al-Khammas. The Sufi master reached for an empty bowl and filled it with half of the remaining beans. Then they worked together in silence as the light slowly faded from the sky.

There were words, of course, that would need to be exchanged.

“Where have you come from?”

“What do you seek?”

“What will I have to give up?”

But Ryka knew that at last he'd found a place where the rules of life, like his fragile heart, were reversed. And Sheikh al-Khammas knew that Nouri's pupil had finally arrived.

*   *   *

WHILE RYKA WAS GETTING READY
to climb the mountain, Nouri was deeply immersed in his writing. Day after day he gave birth to new poems—refining each image, sculpting each phrase, stilling the random chatter in his head, and drawing nearer to God. He waited for nothing and nothing waited for him. The silence engulfed him. Consumed him. Protected him. He ate and he wrote and he prayed and he wrote and he watered the roses and he sat in the garden and he went to the hospice to bandage the wounded and cool the feverish brows of the infirm. And he wrote.

Sharoud, on the other hand, writhed. For despite his long years of penance, he could not free himself from the dark thoughts he harbored toward Nouri. He'd tried to keep them hidden away, like a patch of brindled skin beneath his tunic. He'd refrained from telling the brothers about Nouri's ears, convinced that his efforts to remain silent were proof that he'd mastered his ill feelings. He told himself that the distance he kept from Nouri was a sign of respect. He told himself that he was pleased—even grateful—that the winds of fate had blown him to the lodge. When the explosion at the workshop occurred, however, it brought Sharoud's antipathy to the surface. Nouri's beauty—which had only deepened over the years—made Sharoud feel enraged at the thought of his own sunken cheeks and small, beady eyes. Nouri's grace—which was now counterbalanced by a gentle wisdom—made his own awkward movements seem grotesque. And the beatific state that Nouri seemed to have entered when the clatter of the world had been removed evoked a deep feeling of envy. So what began as disgust, and fanned into outrage, and was covered over by a grudging acceptance, finally burst into full-blown hatred. Which Sharoud knew was utterly intolerable in a servant of Allah.

He could not say where the needle had come from. Perhaps it had fallen from Abbas al-Kumar's lap as he sat in the garden mending his tunic. Perhaps it had dropped from the hem of Omar al-Hamid's robe. He only knew that when he saw it—glinting in the grass like the dagger of a tiny
djinn
—it offered a pathway to redemption. So he slipped it into the folds of his cloak and carried it to his cell.

That night, when the brothers had retired to their separate chambers, Sharoud placed the needle in the flame of the squat taper beside his bed and jabbed it into the sole of his foot. The following night, he inserted it into the palm of his hand. The night after that, he pierced the tender flesh between his hip bone and ribs.

For his spiritual salvation hung in the balance.

And he knew that his time was running out.

*   *   *

WHEN SHEIKH AL-KHAMMAS
gathered the brothers in the meeting hall to introduce Ryka, they each had a different response. Since Abbas al-Kumar now found it hard to crouch down to the ground, he hoped the youth might take over the weeding. Since no one had appeared at their door since Nouri's arrival in a basket of laundry, Omar al-Hamid was relieved that the order would continue on after his death.

“He's not very strong—” said Abbas al-Kumar.

“But he's stronger than we are—” said Omar al-Hamid.

“And he's young—”

“Which is refreshing—”

“And which may attract others—”

“If it's the will—”

“Of Allah.”

Sharoud felt the youth lacked the vigor and strength that were required of a true Sufi. Yet he could not deny that his arrival brought new life to the mountain lodge. Only Nouri had no thoughts when he gazed upon the new aspirant. For the tender glance and the slender frame and the unusual color of his skin—was it slate?—was it ash?—brought a perfect stillness to his mind. He could only stand there and listen as Sheikh al-Khammas explained that, while Ryka was not ready to be inducted into the order, he was to be treated as a fellow traveler on the path. He would wash the floors. He would weed the garden. He would help Abbas al-Kumar and Sheikh al-Khammas prepare the meals. And he would study with Nouri the basic tenets and principles of Sufism.

To Ryka, it was like stepping into a strange and wonderful new world. He was given the room next to Nouri's, which, though smaller, had the same majestic views of the open sky. And while it was true that he lacked the robustness of a typical boy of eighteen, he made up for it with the strength of his devotion to his tasks. He washed the floors until they gleamed. He removed each weed the very moment that it appeared. And though he curdled his first batch of yogurt and charred a week's worth of
naan,
he was soon indispensable to Abbas al-Kumar.

It wasn't until a fortnight had passed that the youth had his first lesson with Nouri. He was a bit nervous about it. He'd been told that Nouri had lost his hearing and that he conversed with the others by reading lips. But the rest of the brothers were so old, it seemed to Ryka that they might have studied with the Prophet himself. So he knew that if he was going to have a friend in the order, it would be Nouri.

For Nouri's part, he'd tried not to think too much about the task Sheikh al-Khammas had set before him. He assumed that the youth needed time to settle into his new life, and that he'd come knocking at his door when he was ready to begin his studies. He felt utterly unprepared, however, when he turned to find him standing in the doorway.

“I've come for my first lesson,” said Ryka.

Nouri studied the young fellow's lips as he formed the words. “Let's go outside,” he said. “We can sit on the terrace.”

He rose from his desk, crossed the room, and led Ryka down the hallway and out to the small bench that was carved into the side of the mountain. As they sat, he could feel that the boy was no more ready to learn the secrets of the Sufi life than he was ready to teach them. So they'd have to find their way forward together.

“What brings you to us?”

Ryka thought carefully before answering. “Absence.”

“Absence?”

“From others. From myself.” He brushed a few strands of hair from his forehead. “I'm tired of feeling I don't belong.”

“In your village? In your family?”

He paused. Then he shook his head. “In the world.”

A hawk flew by and they both turned to follow it as it vanished into the distance. When they turned back to face each other, Nouri noticed the small scar beneath Ryka's left eye.

“Where have you studied?”

“I haven't,” said Ryka. “I've read a lot. But I have no formal training.”

Nouri nodded. “Then you'll have to begin now.”

He told Ryka to return to his chores and then meet him again the same time the following day. Then he went to his room to consider the complex of feelings that stirred inside him. He knew he could explain the rules of the Sufi path. The question was whether he could impart their inner meaning to Ryka. So much of what he'd come to understand had been revealed through pain. What did the words really mean without the struggle that had etched them into his heart? But perhaps it was his role to lay down a foundation for the youth, as Sheikh Bailiri had done for him. And perhaps Ryka had already suffered in ways he was unaware of.

The following morning, Ryka was seated on the bench when Nouri arrived. Nouri was now nearly forty, but when he looked at the youth he could not help but picture himself at that age: lost in the haze of Abdallah's pipe and the whirling madness of the seaside town. The boy who sat before him seemed a good deal wiser. So Nouri shook the thoughts from his head and joined him on the bench.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” said Ryka.

“Did you rest well?”

Ryka shrugged. “Not really.”

“It's the altitude. The air is thinner. It takes a while to adjust.”

“I don't sleep very well,” said Ryka. “But then I never have. I'm used to it by now.”

“Perhaps you need a more strenuous task,” said Nouri. “When I work very hard during the day, I sleep like a baby at night.”

Ryka paused a moment. “I have a problem with my heart.”

“Is it serious?”

Ryka shrugged again. Then he turned his head to look out at the mountains, and Nouri fixed his eyes upon him. He had the grace of a panther. He was alert, yet at the same time he seemed fiercely attuned to another world. Before Nouri could study him any further, however, the youth turned back.

“How did you lose your hearing?” said Ryka.

“There was an explosion,” said Nouri.

“When?”

Nouri closed his eyes and thought back. “It's been almost a year now.”

“And you hear nothing?” said Ryka.

Nouri shook his head. “Not a sound.”

Ryka tried to imagine what it would be like to hear nothing. Not the patter of the rain upon the roof. Not the rustling of a leaf.