At first Nouri thought that Ryka’s damaged heart had been swapped for his: the pain was so great he could barely breathe. He cradled the dead body in his arms and carried it back to the lodge, but by the time he reached the gates he was on fire. He paced the hallways. He wept. But there was no escaping the torment.
When the time came for the cleansing of the body and its placement in the ground, Nouri could not take part. But once the shrouded vessel had been interred—just beside the remains of Sheikh al-Khammas—he could not tear himself away. He seated himself on the grass between the two graves and there he remained. Abbas al-Kumar brought him food and Omar al-Hamid knelt before him from time to time and intoned the salah. The rest of the time he sat alone—eyes closed, arms folded tightly across his body—and burned.
The days passed. The nights passed. And Nouri’s grief continued on. Whether the sun blazed or the rain pelted down, he sat on the grass and mourned. One morning, however, he heard a voice. And when he opened his eyes, he found Sharoud standing before him.
“You were chosen to be our leader,” said Sharoud. “Well, it’s time to lead.”
Nouri looked into Sharoud’s eyes and felt a hatred so deep he did not recognize himself. He wanted to leap up and throttle the life from his body. But he closed his eyes and bore down against it, and Sharoud went away.
Another day passed. And another. And another. And then, one night, he remembered the curative power of words. He went to his room, lit a taper, found some paper and a pen, and sat down at his desk. He reached for the pen and his thoughts and feelings began to flow. He wrote about Ryka’s eyes. Ryka’s smile. About life. About love. About loss. But the words, no matter how graceful, seemed false.
He threw down the pen and raised his head to the rafters.
“You take everything I care about!”
He reached for one of the pages on which he’d written the pointless words.
“Then take it all!”
He placed the edge of the page in the flame of the taper and watched as it began to darken and curl. Bit by bit it became particles of crackling ash that flew up into the darkness. He prayed that it would combust into a blaze that would ignite the room and consume his grief. But it burned quite slowly, until he held a singed scrap between his fingers, and the flame died out.
He sat there a moment. Alive. Awake. He went to the trunk and scooped up the written pages that lay inside. He removed one of the blankets from his bed, spread it out upon the floor, piled the pages on top, and tied the corners up into a heavy bundle. Then he lit an oil lamp, hoisted the bundle over his shoulder, and headed out into the night.
He moved like a wraith through the gates and out over the path that led to where he and Ryka had gone walking. The night was cold and the stars glittered like signposts overhead. When he reached the place where they’d stopped and talked, he lowered the lamp and the bundle to the ground. Then he knelt down, untied the corners of the blanket, and exposed the pages to the night. For a moment, he was still: a soldier in the Prophet’s army before a battle, Abraham with Isaac before the knife was raised. Then he slid open the cover of the oil lamp, touched one of the pages to its flame, and set fire to the entire stack.
He remained there until the flames died out, and the first streaks of light traced the horizon. Then he blew out the lamp, rose to his feet, and headed off down the mountain.
* * *
HE WANDERED FOR DAYS, moving out past the farms and the villages into the river valley that skirted the northern edge of the desert. The land billowed before him like a wave he implored to carry him away from the lodge, from the world, from himself. At times he would pass a small band of pilgrims or a cluster of nomads, but for the most part he was alone. The fire inside him still raged, but the constant movement seemed to keep it at bay.
He walked for days, resting only when his body could go no farther, scooping water from the river only when his head became so light he was afraid he’d collapse. One day, however, he could walk no more. So he found a small cave near the river where he could take refuge. It was oddly shaped, with a trio of walls that rose to a dome overhead and a jagged entrance that let in the morning sun. But it gave shelter from the wind and Nouri knew that he could be alone there with God.
It did not take long for him to establish a daily routine. He awoke as the sun streamed in and went out to wash in the river. Then he gathered some dates and nuts and returned to the cave. At first his mind was blank, but soon the thoughts began to come. So he reached for prayer. The repetition of the ninety-nine names of Allah. The recitation of verses from the Qur’an. Eventually, however, he settled on the six words There is no god but God. Day after day, they trickled out in a gentle stream, over and over and over. And as they did, the memories rose up.
He and Habbib planting crocuses in the garden.
He and Vishpar lying beside the fountain, beneath the stars.
The fear that gripped him as the marauder thrust the blindfold over his eyes.
The pain that seized him as The Right Hand defiled him.
The startling whiteness of the snow outside Enrico’s barn.
The numbing pleasure of Abdallah’s pipe.
The blissful encounters with the men in the dark alleys.
The thump of the laundry rod as it hit his head.
The boom of the explosion as he hit the ground.
The sweetness of Ryka’s embrace.
As each memory flashed and died away, Nouri grew emptier inside. Until even the words of prayer disappeared and there was only silence. He hovered in the tiny cave like prayer itself, humbled to find that the closeness to God he’d reached through his love for Ryka was surpassed by what he had received through its loss.
Nouri lost track of time. The days, the weeks, the months slipped by. But eventually, the pain began to diminish and one morning he awoke to find that the fire inside him had gone out. So he left the cave and started the long trek back to the lodge—finally ready to lead the order.
* * *
IN ALL THE TIME THAT ABBAS AL-KUMAR had been a member of the order, he’d never hung the laundry up to dry outside the entrance to the lodge. He usually strung a rope between the oaks that bordered the southern wall, which more than sufficed to drape the tunics and bedsheets and robes of the tiny gathering of brothers. When visitors came, he’d hang a few pieces over a ledge or place a line between the kitchen and one of the columns of the north portico. Now, however, there was so much to dry he had no choice but to string a rope from the front door to the grillwork of the gate and hang the items there.
“It looks like a market stall,” said Omar al-Hamid. “Or the inner courtyard of a harem.”
Abbas al-Kumar paid no attention to the comments. It was a lovely day and he could not help humming a little tune as he drew the clothes from the basket and hoisted them over the line. He was thinking about the fresh herring he’d found that morning at the market; if he hung out the laundry in time to roll out the crusts, he would bake a herring pie for the midday meal. As he squeezed the excess water from the tunics and smoothed out the creases from the sheets, he imagined the fishy fragrance rising from the hearth. His song was interrupted midnote, however, when he saw the stranger making his way up the mountain path.
He was as slender as the stamen of a hibiscus flower, his head tightly wrapped, his beard untrimmed, his body clothed in a tattered shift. Abbas al-Kumar couldn’t tell whether he was an aspirant or a mendicant, but he knew that after the long, arduous climb he would be hungry. So he went to the kitchen, fetched a piece of naan and a cup of water, and returned to the gate.
“It’s a long trip!” he called out.
The man said nothing. He simply continued walking until he reached the place where Abbas al-Kumar stood.
“It’s always good to refresh oneself after the climb,” said Abbas al-Kumar, as he approached.
He offered him the cup and he drank. Then he held out the naan and the fellow tore off a piece, placed it in his mouth, and began to chew.
“You always sustain us, Brother Abbas.”
The man raised his eyes to Abbas al-Kumar’s and only then did the corpulent Sufi realize that it was Nouri.
“You’ve come back!”
Nouri nodded. “I’ve come back.”
“We thought that you’d been eaten by a mountain lion! Or that you’d fallen from a cliff!”
“I should have come to see you before I left. But I didn’t know that I was leaving. I just started walking. And I couldn’t stop.”
“The heart is a bafflement,” said Abbas al-Kumar. “It can torment us even more than the stomach!”
Nouri wanted to explain that his heart had surrendered. But he could not find the words. “It’s been a battle,” he said. “But I’m back. And I have an order to lead.”
Before Abbas al-Kumar could respond, he heard a voice.
“Forgive me for interrupting, but I need your help.”
The two men turned to find a frizzy-haired youth standing before them.
“Brother Omar asked me to come find you.”
“What’s wrong?” said Abbas al-Kumar.
“One of the grates in the bathing chamber is clogged.”
“And what does Brother Omar think I can do about it?”
“He wants to borrow one of your cooking utensils to dislodge it.”
“One of my cooking utensils!” Abbas al-Kumar turned a bright crimson. “Tell him I’ll be right there! And don’t let him touch a thing!”
The youth bowed, and vanished into the lodge.
“It seems that we have a new initiate,” said Nouri.
“Oh, there’s more than just one!” said Abbas al-Kumar. “I’m afraid things have changed a great deal while you’ve been gone!”
Before Nouri could learn what he meant, Abbas al-Kumar hurried off. So he followed him into the lodge to find out for himself.
As he stepped over the threshold, he felt as if he was entering a place he’d never been. The floors were covered with rich woven rugs, the windows were draped with colored silks, and a strong smell of sandalwood filled the air. A series of lamps was strung from the ceiling and the walls were piled high with books. What startled Nouri the most, however, were the dozens of men moving to and fro. They were all ages. All shapes. All sizes. And they all seemed to be at home in the mountain lodge.
When Nouri reached the doors of the garden, he stepped outside. There was a youth trimming the hedges, another pruning the roses, a third edging the footpath that led to the pool. Nouri’s attention, however, was instantly drawn to the pair of graves. So he crossed the well-cared-for lawn and knelt down before them.
He closed his eyes and felt not pain, but communion. Gratitude. Love. Then—like the base note of an old, insistent song—he heard the familiar voice: “I knew you’d return. But I didn’t think it would take this long.”
Nouri was silent. Then he rose to his feet and greeted his friend and foe. “Assalamu alaikum, Sharoud.”
Sharoud bowed his head. “Alaikum assalam.”
The moment crackled. Then Sharoud spoke again.
“We have things to discuss. Follow me.”
He turned and headed into the lodge, and Nouri followed. They moved down the corridor to one of the small prayer rooms that flanked the meeting hall. When they entered, Nouri found that it had been transformed into a private chamber even more lavishly appointed than what he’d already seen. Glittering objects adorned every surface and—despite the enormous Qur’an that lay open on a silver stand—the room was devoid of grace.
“Please be seated,” said Sharoud, as he gestured to one of the velvet cushions that were scattered across the floor.
Nouri sat. Then Sharoud closed the door and sat beside him.
“You vanished,” he said. “Without a word.”
“I grew tired of words.”
“That’s commendable.” Sharoud paused. “Especially for you.”
Nouri felt something stir inside him. But he did not respond.
“The fact remains that you were chosen to be our murshid. And you abandoned us.” Sharoud paused a moment. Then he smiled. “But Allah always achieves what He desires. So it seems clear—from a more detached point of view—that you were removed so that we might prosper.”
Nouri knew that Sharoud’s words were meant to wound him. But they had no effect.
“We have twenty-three new members,” continued Sharoud. “Fourteen have come from other orders and nine are new initiates. We have a dozen new lay members. We’re growing. Thriving.”
“And you are the new murshid?”
“There are no rules about what to do when the head of an order disappears. Someone needed to grasp the reins.”
Nouri raised his eyes to the polished lamp that hung like an ill star over their heads. He hated the thought of so many brothers pledging their love and devotion to a master like Sharoud. Yet he knew even he could not stand in their way if their paths were true. It was clear to Nouri that he could not exert an authority he’d walked away from or use a voice he’d given up. He would not subject the order to a struggle for power. And he would not waste a single moment arguing with Sharoud.
“May Allah be with you,” he said.
Then he rose to his feet and left the room.
As he moved down the corridor, he saw how intently the new members of the order approached their tasks. He wanted to tell them that their bodies were too clenched—their words too emphatic—that what they yearned for was not in some distant future but right before their eyes. But he knew how much they would have to go through before they would understand. And how much had to fall away.
When he reached the entrance, he paused for a moment. The sun felt warm, and the world seemed perfectly still. As he crossed the threshold, he realized that once again he was setting out on a journey. This time, however, he knew his destination. So he passed through the gates for the last time and started off down the mountain.