Raga Six (A Doctor Orient Occult Novel) (27 page)

Orient was momentarily confused by the question. He understood that beyond the ceremony of recognition Ahmehmet genuinely wasn’t sure of Orient’s candidacy. Then he remembered the tarot card Joker had left with his ticket. "The card called the Fool," Orient answered.
 

Ahmehmet’s beaming smile returned. "So be it," he said.
 

Orient picked up his glass and sipped his mint tea. It was warm and sweet and soothing. He was very tired from the jumble of events that had begun when Raga received Doctor Six’s telegram. But then he had a quick doubt.
 

"The man who gave me this card," Orient said, looking into his glass, "was he sent by you?"
 

Ahmehmet didn’t answer for a moment. "No," he said. "The man who gave the card was acting in accord with his own fate. He is but a die cast by Allah. The man who gave you the card knows nothing of the path—or of the Nine Unknown Men."
 

Orient’s manner remained calm but his mind leaped as Ahmehmet spoke. Now there remained only one question. "And you know the Nine?" he asked.
 

Ahmehmet nodded. "It was Ku who sent you to me."
 

Orient relaxed on the pillow as Ahmehmet uttered the name of his teacher. No one except the followers of the Serene Knowledge knew that the venerable Ku had been his initiator. And no one except Ku could send him to another master. "I am of the fifth level," Ahmehmet was saying. "The youngest of the Nine." Orient said nothing but the feeling that he’d seen Ahmehmct before returned. "You have seen me once before," Ahmehmet said, picking out the thought. "This morning. Before you reached Marrakesh." Orient smiled as he recalled Ahmehmet as the button-blazoned juggler in his dream. He was sure of everything now.
 

As all his confusions, doubts, and anxieties dissolved into the clear liquid of calm flowing into his consciousness, Orient could hear the distant throbbing of drums from the marketplace somewhere outside.

CHAPTER 15

The first thing Orient was aware of when he awoke the next morning was the same faint, insistent pulse of the drums.
 

He peered through the dim light, adjusting himself to his new surroundings after a heavy sleep. He was in Ahmehmet’s house. He was alone in a small bedroom behind the inner room in back of the shop. The bed was a large pillow on the floor near the wall, and Orient was covered by heavy, brocaded silk spreads. His suitcase was on the floor near the bed. Ahmehmet had told Orient that Yousef would make arrangements with Orient’s hotel and secure his luggage. Orient had agreed immediately. As he would agree to anything Ahmehmet suggested.
 

Orient understood that he’d been led to Ahmehmet’s shop to undergo another phase of his psychic development. Years ago Orient had taken the path to Ku in Tibet as a neophyte, not even knowing if such a man as Ku existed, or if he was just another mountain legend. And when he had scaled the steep, frozen trail around the face of the low peak, after discharging his guides before the last ascent, he found Ku waiting for him. Waiting to guide him to the warm, fertile valley where he dwelled. A tiny valley that was a pocket of constant springtime amid the freezing tumult of the Himalayas.
 

There Orient had learned how to open the body and mind to the energies of the universe. He learned to manipulate the possibilities of his consciousness; to transmit thoughts, receive images, merge minds, and pierce dimensions of existence. He discovered the reality and purpose of his fate through a score of lifetimes. And he learned of the awesome power of the Nine Unknown Men.
 

Their power had never been spoken of directly, but Orient knew that each of the Nine Men held a facet of a science that encompassed the nature of the entire structure and purpose of the universe, including man’s function in the whole of existence.
 

Orient knew that his advanced powers of concentration were weak compared to the radiance of Ku’s mind, becoming an infinitesimally small microcosm when measured against the weight of Ku’s consciousness merged with eight others of similar capacity. If Orient could connect energy pulses with a glass of water and use the leverage to move the glass across a table with his will, then the combined energy from the merged wills of the Nine Unknown Men could change the position of the earth itself. What he had learned from Ku didn’t negate anything he’d ever learned before. Rather it had given all his knowledge a harmony as he came to understand his past studies as reflections of a single truth, beyond all possible existences.
 

And now he was here to learn another dimension of that truth. From a Berber shopkeeper who wore velvet bell-bottoms.
 

The sense of sure calm that had welled up within Orient’s troubled thoughts when he had recognized Ahmehmet as a colleague and emissary of Ku was still with him. His mind vibrated reassuring ripples of contentment. Orient was still aware of his love for Raga and the danger that surrounded Presto, but he felt secure in the presence of Ahmehmet, one of the Nine Unknown Men.
 

He got out of bed and began the Yang series of his meditation exercises. There on the floor, next to his bed, Orient’s consciousness retraced its evolution, going back around its spirals of time until it reached the beginning of all time, and all consciousness.
 

His mind remained fixed on that point even after he was roused from his meditation by Yousef.
 

The boy rolled in a large marble bathtub mounted on brass wheels and filled with steaming water that gave off the scent of orange blossom.
 

"Good morning," Yousef said stiffly. The boy seemed ill at ease in the presence of his teacher’s guest.
 

"Good morning, Yousef," Orient responded cheerfully. He added in Arabic, "I can speak your language, you know."
 

"Ahmehmet has asked me to speak English with you," Yousef murmured. "To improve speaking." He bowed. "Must go now. Ahmehmet is waiting."
 

Orient was finished with his bath but still hadn’t finished dressing when two veiled women entered the room, rolled away the bathtub, then returned to straighten up the room. He threw on a shirt and went into the next room.
 

Ahmehrnet was sitting on a pillow next to a low table set with various bowls of food and a pot of tea. When he saw Orient he smiled and nodded. "Come, Doctor. Eat. You must be hungry after your sleep."
 

"Thank you," Orient said as he sat down on the other side of the table. He was hungry. He hadn’t eaten anything since leaving Tangier. He reached for one of the tall glasses of orange juice on the table.
 

"Your friend in the hospital is still unconscious."
 

Orient looked at Ahmehmet. "Do you know him?"
 

Ahmehmet’s smile became regretful. "No. About your friend I know no more than any performer in the square. His condition is the cause of much gossip here in Marrakesh." Orient picked up a steaming bowl of thick brown soup in both hands and took a sip. It was delicious.
 

"I know only that you were sent to me for expansion to the second level." Ahmehmet took a long, gold-tinged wooden pipe from the table and dipped the curved clay head into a smooth leather pouch dangling from his belt. He filled the bowl, then struck a match and lit it, sharply scenting the air. "Your fate and mine coincide. But we both have many fates, and many choices. Your friend is but one path of your choice. And my concern is only for your choice here."
 

Orient finished the soup and poured himself a glass of tea. "My choice is to remain until it is clear that I must leave."
 

Ahmehmet nodded and puffed his pipe. He inhaled and held the pipe out to Orient who politely refused, taking instead one of his own hand-wrapped cigarettes from his silver case. He placed the case on the table in front of Ahmehmet.
 

The small shopkeeper picked up the cigarette case and studied the mandala design on its surface.
 

Orient felt a nudge at the base of his brain and understood that Ahmehmet was establishing a rapport with the mandala design and entering a state of empathy with Orient’s consciousness.
 

"You have been standing at the crossroads of your fate for a long time," Ahmehmet said softly. "Your karma and your work are intertwined. You must choose a path carefully or lose your direction. The choice will be yours. I can only give you tools to use for your quest. But you must choose the direction yourself." With a sharp whiff he blew the hard, round ash of kif from the bowl of his pipe, sending the gray chunk rolling onto a plate. Then he took the clay bowl off the gold-circled wooden stem and cleaned it carefully. "This morning I have business in my shop," he said slowly. "Yousef will take you to Djemma el Fna. You should get to know the marketplace during your time with us." He picked up the silver cigarette case and handed it to Orient. "Do you know what Djemma el Fna means in the Berber tongue?"
 

Orient smiled. "It means Mosque of Rebirth."
 

Ahmehmet’s bony face creased into a grin. "So be it," he said. "
Hamndullah
."
 

"
Hamndullah
." Orient replied in Arabic. "Thank the God."
 

For the rest of the afternoon Orient wandered through the bustling maze of tunnels behind the square. Yousef walked by his side, letting Orient go where he wished but always nearby in case he was needed. "How old are you?" Orient asked, trying to overcome the boy’s shyness.
 

"I will be ten years," Yousef said impassively.
 

"Can you show me the way to the square, where the acrobats are?"
 

"Of course." Yousef stepped up his pace and turned a corner. He led Orient through a series of narrow paths to Djemma el Fna Square.
 

As they crossed the large tented market, the sounds of bells, flutes, tambourines, and drums rose in proportion to the amount of people and activity in the area. Orient followed Yousef through the gap between the rows of wooden stalls and found himself in the square, standing at the edge of the swirl of movement and noise. He stopped to watch a group of dancers, their beaded coats flapping and their bodies weaving in time to the cymbals and tambourines in their jerking hands; all perfectly attuned to each other’s minute variations on the basic pulse of rhythm.
 

Yousef grew impatient and started moving away from the circle around the dancers. Orient went with him through the knots of people watching the various performers.
 

As he passed a large ring of people, he saw a trio of bare-chested men. One man was balanced high on the shoulders of the other two, standing above the heads of the spectators. The three were balanced on the shoulders of three other men who were invisible on the ground behind the crowd.
 

The acrobats reminded Orient of his own precarious balance. He had to help Presto and prevent anything from happening to Raga. He was at the bottom of an inverse pyramid. All alone. And he didn’t know what force was trying to send it all tumbling down.
 

Yousef led Orient past the acrobats to another group a short distance away. The boy’s indifferent manner was transformed into an expression of delight as he edged through the circle of people. It was obviously one of Yousef’s favorite acts.
 

It was a good one. A tall, black magician in a simple shirt and baggy pants was performing fluid feats of sleight of hand with four red balls. Orient watched the man take two balls in each hand, open his palms, and display eight balls. Four in each hand. The man waved his hands. The eight red balls became six large black balls. Three in each hand. The lean magician smiled. He looked down at his hands. The black balls had become a single silver ball in his left hand. It was larger than all the rest. The ball rose from the magician’s outstretched palm and stopped in midair next to his head.
 

The man pretended to be surprised and reached out to take the ball. It eluded his grasp. The magician looked exasperated, then lunged and plucked a ball out of the air. The crowd laughed and began throwing coins on the ground.
 

Orient saw Yousef crouching on the ground, picking up the coins and placing them at the magician’s bare feet. As Yousef left the arena and came back to join Orient at the outer edge of the spectators, the magician started juggling four silver balls that had suddenly appeared in his hands.
 

"He’s very good," Orient commented as they strolled away from the group.
 

Yousef smiled proudly, revealing the gap in his teeth. "Everyone says that. He is my father."
 

Yousef showed Orient through the quarter where the brightly painted tribal drums were made, as well as the silver souk, and a carpenter’s market. The boy did his best to keep Orient amused but he was clearly determined to remain aloof from his teacher’s guest. After a few hours he started guiding Orient back through the series of tunnels to Ahmehmet’s shop.
 

When Orient parted the curtained entrance, he saw that Ahmehmet was engaged in a serious conversation with an elderly gentleman who was seated at his desk. As Orient entered, the man rose and hurried out of the shop. Ahmehmet stood up and smiled at Orient. "Sit down, Doctor," he said pointing to a pillow on the floor. "Will you have a glass of tea?"
 

"Thank you." Orient eased himself down on the pillow.
 

Ahmehmet nodded and Yousef went through the curtains to the inner room.
 

"What is your impression of Djemma el Fna," Ahmehmet asked as he sat down next to Orient.
 

"I like it. Yousef took special care to show me every quarter."