Ollie's Cloud (52 page)

Chapter 15

Men of God are the same everywhere. mullas and priests drenched in selfish imaginings proudly parade in pomp and arrogance, murdering and torturing the disagreeable ones with knife-sharp edicts, and wresting power and wealth from the ignorant masses while a mute God blesses their corruption with His silence. Religion, Ali sees clearly, is God’s infernal side-show, a Surrey production with harlequins, man-monkeys, smoke-smudged apparitions, and dusty curtains cleverly concealing painted props wheeled out by drunken stagehands for the next dazzling fantasy. Religion is a shimmering entertainment, a raucous melodrama with suffering messiahs and smirking devils. It is a divinely staged sleight-of-hand diverting audience attention as pockets are picked and parents are plucked from their children and God-fearing wives with unborn children are merrily slaughtered for sport.

Ali knows that he cannot win his war against the Almighty. He knows that he is damned. But on his sure descent to hell he intends to inflict the utmost pain on God’s manifestation, and if that figure is the Rasul, then Ali will torture and humiliate this Emissary and His followers so that God will finally appreciate the depth of Ali’s rage and pain.

Sustaining such intense hatred is difficult. Ali fears that he will falter, and so he has adopted the proven rituals of religion to nurture his passion. Every evening he reads the scripture of his mother’s letters, the tender and troubled notes of Mary Rogers, and the endearing but deluded sermons so lovingly written out by his wife. The holy verses, whispering to him from the graves of these wronged ones, feed his passion. Every morning he gazes on his angels, who stare back at him from silvery metal plates and the bravado of a solitary book illustration. As long as these precious faces are rooted in his mind, the way that images of Christ on the cross are fixed in the consciousness of Christians, he is sure that he will not forget the suffering of these beautiful wronged ones.

It is in prayer, however, that Ali finds the most exquisite whetstone for the blade of his rage. He prays not to God but to the spirits of Anisa and Mary and Alice, begging their forgiveness, invoking their assistance. As he prays, he feels their sweet breaths on his face and their gentle fingers stroking his cheeks. He speaks to them through stinging tears. In their pained silence he hears the faint sobbing of grief—is it his own? No, he is sure it is theirs—and he knows that their agony won’t stop until his vengeance is complete. He will sacrifice his soul for them. He must be relentless in his persecution.

The news that Ali has just received from Mazandaran is mixed, causing his gut to growl like a lion. As directed, his agents had stirred up fear and anger in the villages surrounding Badasht, and the less fearful and angry were paid to be more so. As the Rasulis had finally left their lengthy conference, many were attacked by villagers and were forced to scatter. Unfortunately, the wealthy and influential Mirza Ramin somehow had helped the other ringleaders escape. Tara and Danush had eluded the mobs, and as if this were not enough bad news, Jalal had been released by Prince Hamzih, who had become so enamored of his prisoner that he had refused to confine the man any longer.

Now Ali will have to order the arrest of Tara and Danush to prevent their malignancy from spreading. It would have been so much easier if they had been killed by the mobs as planned.

News among the scattered Rasulis flies on winged horses, and often the news is disheartening. Several weeks ago Jalal had learned that Danush had been captured and is now in the custody of the cruel mujtahid of Sari. And Tara, who had sought protection in a farmhouse on the outskirts of Vaz, has also been seized by government agents. But today a messenger brings sunshine, a package from the Rasul, who is incarcerated in the mountain fortress of Chiriq. Jalal wonders at the monumental effort of smuggling this package out of that remote castle.

With tender hands he opens the package, finding a green turban and a letter in the Rasul’s exquisite hand. Tears moisten his eyes as he reads: “Adorn your head with my green turban and with the Black Standard unfurled before you hasten to assist My beloved Danush.” And then, near the end, “…the appointed Day of God will indeed be at hand in less than the twinkling of an eye.”

He shivers with the import of these words. His new mission, perhaps his
final
mission, which will be carried out beneath the mythic Black Standard, will help to usher in the Day of God. His mind leaps to a heart-quickening mirage observed long ago when in the shade of the mulberries he and Ali, his cherished Ali, had first glimpsed the quivering shapes in the desert heat—the Black Standards, they had believed—and with boundless enthusiasm had galloped toward them as the Islamic prophecy had urged:
Should your eyes behold the Black Standards proceeding from Khurasan, hasten toward them, even should ye have to crawl over snow, inasmuch as they proclaim the advent of the Promised One, the vice-regent of God.

Never had it occurred to him that he might be the bearer of the Black Standard; that he, Jalal, wearing the green turban of the Rasul, the emblem of the direct lineage of Muhammad, would lead the long-prophesied march announcing the imminent Day of God.

He drops to his knees, trembling and humbled, and then falteringly places the turban on his head. He feels that he is unworthy of this honor, that he is too weak to lead such an important mission. His tremors have been worsening. His body has been convulsing more frequently. He is worn down and his strength is sapped. He had been so sure that his days of travel were over. His body sags beneath the weight of responsibility but his spirit is buoyed by the promise that the appointed Day of God will be manifest
in less than the twinkling of an eye
.

Certainly God will give him the strength that he needs for one last sprint.

Chapter 16

Ishaq enters the home of Zarrin and is greeted by her parents. Zarrin sits in the corner by herself.

“What is it?” Ishaq asks Zarrin’s father. “Your message said it was urgent that I come.” He looks around at the worried faces.

Zarrin’s father stands and embraces Ishaq. “Have you heard that Jalal has begun a march with over two hundred men beneath the Black Standard? My son Zakaria left yesterday to join him.”

“I’m sorry about Zakaria,” Ishaq replies.

“No, no, we are very proud of Zakaria. If I were not so old and feeble I would join him.”

“Then what is the urgency?”

“It is Zarrin.”

Zarrin glances fiercely at Ishaq. Their eyes meet.

“I had hoped that she would become your wife some day,” Zarrin’s father says. “I know that love binds you together, and you have our blessing.”

Ishaq blushes. He is caught off guard to have such an unexpectedly candid discussion played out in front of Zarrin’s parents.

“However, Zarrin is intent on joining Jalal,” Zarrin’s father adds. “We have told her that such a dangerous mission is no place for a woman, even a Rasuli woman, but she will not listen to us.”

Ishaq looks at Zarrin, who turns away. “Is this true, Zarrin?” he asks.

“If I were Tara, my family would cheer my decision,” she replies. ”But I am only little Zarrin. It seems that old prejudices die hard, even in Rasuli families. I wish that my father would understand that I am not a woman—I am a Rasuli. Why am I prevented from serving my Faith like my brother?”

“She talks like a madwoman,” her father says. “We cannot reason with her. I thought that maybe you could talk some sense into her.”

Ishaq sits down next to Zarrin. “If you were to join the march of the Black Standard unveiled, it would most certainly stir up the villagers and endanger the other Rasulis.”

“Then I will veil myself.”

“If you travel with them veiled—a lone woman among hundreds of Rasuli men—rumors of immorality will fly. It will play into the hands of the agitators. And many Rasulis are not yet ready, I think, for a woman to march with them into certain adversity. It could undermine their confidence.”

“My confidence comes from God,” Zarrin says, then leaps to her feet and races from the room.

Zarrin’s father sighs, slaps his thigh, and asks his wife to serve their guest some tea. “My thanks to you, Ishaq. She is a strong-willed girl, but your arguments were irrefutable. She will sulk for a while—perhaps a long while—but I’m sure she understands the wisdom of staying home. Now then, I hope that Zarrin’s zealous behavior has not lessened your interest in having her as your wife.”

“In my culture, such matters are first addressed between the man and woman themselves, and then the family. Zarrin and I have never discussed marriage.”

“In our culture, these matters are arranged by cooler heads.”

“I understand that she rebuffed such an arrangement before.”

Zarrin’s father lowers his eyes and says, “She is a
very
strong-willed girl.” He looks up at Ishaq with glistening eyes. “But I know that her heart burns for you. So what is your answer?”

Before Ishaq can reply, a slender young man appears beneath the arch that leads to the sleeping rooms. At first Ishaq does not identify this person, but then sees that it is Zarrin. She wears a man’s turban and her brother’s tunic and sandals. She could easily pass for a frail boy of sixteen.

“Zarrin!” her father bellows.

“As a boy, I will raise no eyebrows on either side,” she calmly replies. And then, looking straight at Ishaq, she asks, “What is your argument now?”

Zarrin’s father storms out of the room. Her mother enters with a steaming samovar. She nearly drops the tray when she sees her daughter, and then leaves with a disgusted huff.

Ishaq stares at the glowering, determined face of Zarrin. “Do you love God this much, or is this just defiance?”

“Have you learned nothing at all about me? My heart is as full of love for God as my brother’s. I am as willing as he to give my life for the Promised One. I do not think that God favors the love of a man over a woman’s. I do not think that God prefers the prayers of a man or rejects the devout service of a woman in any endeavor. The Rasul made a woman one of his Living Letters. Is there any clearer sign that this new dispensation is open to men and women equally?”

Ishaq goes to Zarrin and takes her hands. He is trembling with fear, but also with pride. “This march of the Black Standard,” he says softly, “it’s very dangerous, you know. It goes through the heart of a dark land. You will be surrounded by ignorant Muslims and hostile mullas. The government will be nipping at your heels and provoking aggression everywhere. You will be attacked and many of you will die. How can I let you go? I cannot bear to lose you.”

“Then come with me.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. I know that you are not afraid of death, and that you love God as I do. Join us!”

“You don’t understand.”

Zarrin backs away, feeling rejected. “I have no right to expect this of you. If it is not in your heart…”

“No, that’s not it. I do believe in what you wish to do. But I can’t be with you. Eventually you will take up arms and fight the villagers, and then if you survive, you will fight the army. I can see it coming.”

“So you do fear death.”

“I don’t know… maybe. But that is not why I can’t go with you.”

Zarrin looks at him, sensing that he wants to explain but can’t find the words.

A silence engulfs them. And then she speaks up, saying, “You are afraid that you may witness my death.”

This thought chills Ishaq to the bone. “Yes, I am afraid of that, but would it be worse than waiting for news of it? I’m not sure. No, the reason I can’t be with you… the reason is…”

She waits. He licks his lips and swallows air, searching for the courage to explain. At last he speaks, so softly she can hardly hear him. “”It’s my father.”

Confused, Zarrin says, “Your father? You’ve never spoken of him.”

“My father is… he’s in the Qajar government. He’s the architect of the persecution of the Rasulis.”

“That can’t be. The evil man you speak of is Aqasi, and he has no children.”

“Aqasi is a feeble old man. My father is Ali Qasim of Bushruyih, the power behind Aqasi.”

Zarrin struggles to reconcile such evil with the kind young man that she loves. The sincerity in Ishaq’s eyes convinces her of the truth of his claim.

“Then you must go to your father and persuade him to stop his persecution. Surely he will listen to you. When he understands that his own son is a Rasuli, I’m sure he will—”

Ishaq turns away.

“So this is why you cannot join us. You can’t fight against your own father.”

Ishaq turns again to face Zarrin. “My father is a brilliant and kind man in many ways, but he is tormented by the demons of hatred. He found me on the streets and saved my life, gave me a home, protected me. I owe him everything. I despise what he is doing, but I just can’t declare war on him. I can’t betray his love.”

“Can you betray God’s love for you?”

“That’s not fair. It’s not the same thing.”

“All right, then do what I ask. Find your father and reason with him.”

“He is beyond reason.”

“You are his
son
! Show him your love. Then show him the love of God reflected in you. He will understand.”

Ishaq desperately clutches Zarrin to him. He knows that he cannot prevent her from going to join Jalal. “When are you leaving?” he asks.

“At dawn… with three others. I’ll be safe.”

“I’ll leave for Tehran at dawn as well. I will speak to my father, I promise. I will make him understand.”

As he holds Zarrin tightly, he knows it is for the last time.

Chapter 17

On the march out of Mashhad they number two hundred and two men, including Assaf, the local physician, who had accompanied Jalal’s mortally wounded father into the city more than twenty years ago. The ragtag army is a mix of the young and the aged. Many are recently converted mullas or students of religion. Others are carpenters, merchants, artisans, masons, blacksmiths, and peasants. They march not as uniformed soldiers in disciplined formation, but as a swarm of bees clustered around the honeyed comb of the Black Standard. They carry provisions on their own bent backs, in horse-drawn wagons, and on the backs of braying mules. Most carry weapons—swords and spears and old muskets—for defense against thieves and angry mobs. Some ride saddled horses, but most walk, as Jalal does, on their departure through the city gate.

An hour from the city, Jalal is confronted by Prince Hamzih, who had previously held him captive in a military encampment outside the city. The prince had been won over by Jalal and in releasing his captive had defied orders directly from Aqasi’s office and offered his own white stallion to Jalal.

“Do you believe in the Rasul?” Jalal had asked the prince.

The prince had replied, “I believe in
you
.”

Over the next days, in the villages of Sabzavar and Mazinan more recruits join the march, and in Miyamay the villagers are so moved by Jalal’s call that over thirty villagers join them. As they camp outside the village of
A
stanih they are joined by Rasulis from many other parts of Persia. One of them is a slender youth with dark eyes and hollow cheeks. Jalal is intent on greeting each of the new enlistees, but as he approaches this frail boy, the youth turns away.

“What is your name, my son?” Jalal asks.

A thin, reedy voice replies, “Hasan.”

Jalal hesitates for a moment and then says, “Followers of the Rasul must, above all things, be truthful, and so I ask again—what is your name?”

The figure turns slowly to stare into the eyes of Jalal, who is struck by the sudden ferocity of the youth’s gaze. “My name is Zarrin,” she replies.

Jalal stares at the young woman. “You wish to march with us?”

“I’ve come very far to be with you.”

“It will be dangerous. Many of us will not survive.”

“I am not afraid of death. And if we must fight, I will hold my own in any battle. I am not a poet like Tara, but I long to prove that I have her courage. I trust you agree that the Cause of the Rasul is open to both men and women equally.”

Jalal smiles, then looks down and sees a scabbard hanging from Zarrin’s belt. The hilt of a sword protrudes from it.

“Do you know how to use a sword?”

“My brother taught me.”

“We use our weapons only in defense, is that clear?”

“Of course.”

Zarrin suddenly realizes that she has just been accepted into the ranks of the Rasulis. She will be allowed to march beneath the Black Standard.

“Thank you!” she shouts.

“
You may dress as a woman,” Jalal says. “There is no shame in being a woman.”

“I have only men’s clothing with me. And I choose not to wear the chador any longer, unless you insist.”

Jalal replies, “Tara removed her veil, and so may you. Dress as you wish.”

“
Zarrin!”

Another voice intrudes, and Zarrin’s brother pushes his way up to her. “Zarrin, what are you doing here?”

“Hamid, what do you think?” Zarrin replies. “I have joined the march.”

Embarrassed, Hamid turns to Jalal and says, “I apologize for my sister. I will hire an escort to see her home.”

“Hamid, I am staying,” Zarrin says. “Jalal has given me permission to join you and the others. It is settled.”

“Is that true?” Hamid asks Jalal.

“I
have no authority to refuse anyone whom God has called. Do you see the man over there?”

Jalal points to an elderly man who is seated beneath a tree.

“Abbas is eighty-three years old,” he continues. “Both he and his son have joined us. And though I ride a horse, Abbas refuses. Instead, he walks alongside my horse all day. I have never seen him without a smile. It is not my right to deprive him of this joy in serving the cause of the Rasul simply because he is old. And it is not my right to deprive your sister of the joy of service because she is a woman.”

Hamid accepts this. Looking at Zarrin, he asks, “Does our father know what you have done?”

“Yes.”

“And Ishaq. Does he know?”

“He knows.” She turns to Jalal and explains: “Ishaq and I are to be married. He is from England—and America—but his father is from Persia.”

She looks down at her sandals. “Hamid, there is something you should know about Ishaq.”

“What is it?”

Zarrin looks up at Hamid. “Ishaq’s father is a very powerful man in the Qajar government. He is the true power behind Aqasi.”

The name Aqasi invokes a sudden horror.

“Aqasi is our worst enemy!” Hamid says.

Jalal interjects, “Zarrin, do you know the name of Ishaq’s father?”

“His name is Ali Qasim. Ishaq has gone to reason with him—to persuade him to stop persecuting us.”

Jalal’s gut rumbles. He feels dizzy with possibilities.
Ali Qasim
—surely there are many men with that name in Persia.

“Do you know where Ali Qasim is from?” Jalal asks.

“Yes, I think—Ishaq told me, if I can just remember. Yes—Ali Qasim of Bushruyih.”

The blood rushes from Jalal’s head. There can be no doubt! Jalal’s most cherished childhood friend, Ali, has become his arch enemy. What kind of tortured journey could turn such a righteous youth from piety to persecution?

A tremendous sadness envelopes Jalal. He stammers a vague excuse to leave Zarrin and Hamid. He walks briskly to the far side of the Rasuli encampment. He sits down next to a large rock. He glances up at the sky and tries to imagine the face of Muhammad in the clouds, as he and Ali had seen so many years before—a comforting sign for two best friends who had pledged themselves to finding the Promised One. Jalal never could have imagined that their searches would be for completely different reasons—one to serve, and the other to destroy.

Beside the rock, beneath the blank sky, Jalal cries.