Ollie's Cloud (56 page)

Chapter 25

The grand vizier paces furiously, his face a boil of rage. The young shah rubs his eyes. Ali fears that the boy-king, unaccustomed to successive humiliations, may begin weeping.

“Considering this latest defeat, perhaps it is time to consider my latest recommendation,” Ali says to the grand vizier. “This band of God-intoxicated rebels cannot be beaten militarily.”

Suddenly the shah leaps to his feet, his face contorted with fury. “I will not be humiliated again! If I am, both of you will pay, am I understood?”

Ali and the grand vizier both nod meekly.

“That is why I beg you to entertain my recommendation,” Ali interjects. “It eliminates the risk of another military defeat.”

“All right, I can agree to a negotiated settlement,” the grand vizier replies, “but will the Rasulis? Right now, I’m sure they are feeling invincible.”

“What do you have in mind?” the shah asks.

The grand vizier paces, thinking as he speaks. “First, a siege. No attack, just total isolation. With no food and water, the Rasulis will soon agree to anything.”

“And you think the Rasulis will not attack us, as they have done before?”

“We will double the size of the army. Half the men will visibly perform maneuvers by night, the other half by day. There will be no period of vulnerability. We have learned the Rasuli tactics. If they are as smart as you say, they will not attack if they cannot surprise us.”

“And when they have been softened up, what will be our offer?” Ali asks.

“If they lay down their arms and leave the fort, we will escort them to safety. They will be allowed to return home. Compared to starving, this will be an irresistible offer, I assure you.”

“And we will honor our word?” Ali asks.

The grand vizier looks sharply at the shah, sighs, and then nods agreement.

“Thank you,” Ali says, then leaves the room.

The shah, still standing, walks thoughtfully to the grand vizier. In a hushed voice he asks, “Do you really intend to let our enemies go free?”

The grand vizier smiles for the first time in this conversation and says, simply, “Of course not.”

The first two regiments to arrive at Fort Hujjat are under the command of Prince Mihdi, who had been soundly beaten in a previous battle led by Mihdi’s princely rival. Seeing an opportunity to regain his reputation and take revenge on the Rasulis, the prince decides to abandon the idea of a siege in favor of an all-out attack on the fort. If he can overcome these legendary Rasuli warriors, he is sure that his honor will be restored.

For two days the prince bombards the fort to dishearten the Rasulis, but it is he that grows dispirited as the incessant cannon fire fails to silence the voices of prayer and joyous chanting that emanate from the fort.

At last, exasperated by such unquenchable fervor, the prince erects a large tower. At its top he stations his largest cannon. With earth-shaking explosions, the cannon fires directly into the heart of the fort.

Finally the terrorized Rasulis are silenced.

The prince laughs heartily and congratulates his engineers and officers, but their celebration is short-lived. As they gather to toast the minor victory—the first triumph in the long campaign against these stubborn heretics—the gates of Fort Hujjat fly open and nineteen Rasulis on horseback charge the prince’s army with the chilling cry of
Ya Sahibu’z-Zaman!

Prince Mihdi’s soldiers, shocked at such a daring daylight attack, immediately begin to flee. Like wildfire, panic blazes throughout the camp as the terrified troops, many of whom had lived through the previous horrifying rout, expect another unavoidable catastrophe. The small band of Rasulis quickly topples the tower, demolishes the new barricades, and returns to the fort with a number of the army’s stoutest and best-fed horses.

The next morning, Ali and the grand vizier arrive at the encampment with several more regiments. Finding the prince’s demoralized army in total disarray, and hearing Rasuli chants echoing victoriously through the frigid air, the grand vizier strips Prince Mihdi of his command and angrily threatens exile.

It is clear that Ali was right. These Rasulis, despite their small numbers, cannot be defeated militarily. The grand vizier places Sulayman in charge of the army and orders the siege to begin.

For months the siege goes as planned. All supply lines to Fort Hujjat are severed. The wells outside the fort are heavily guarded. Maneuvers day and night discourage the Rasulis from attacking the shah’s army, which continues to grow.

Inside the fort, the Rasulis are forced to consume the flesh of their horses. They boil and devour the small amount of grass they can harvest at night outside the walls of the fort. Meager rainfalls leave most of the men dehydrated. Toward the end they are eating the leather of their saddles and handfuls of dirt to fill their aching bellies.

And then one sunny morning, when starvation seems inevitable, an emissary of Sulayman approaches Fort Hujjat. As the gate opens, Danush recognizes Jalal’s friend Ali.

“You are Danush,” Ali says. “I bear a message from Prince Sulayman. May we speak confidentially?”

Danush ushers Ali into the fort.

“The prince believes that the hostilities between you and the shah have been unduly prolonged,” Ali says softly. “Both sides have fought long and suffered grievously. The prince, on behalf of the shah, fervently wishes to achieve an amicable conclusion to this violent conflict.”

Ali hands Danush a Qu’ran and turns to the opening Súrih. There, in the margin, is a scribbled note.

“The prince wrote these words in the Qu’ran.” Ali reads the prince’s writing aloud. “‘I swear by this most holy Book that I cherish no other purpose than to promote peace and friendliness between us. Come forth from your stronghold and rest assured that no hand will be stretched forth against you. You and your companions, I solemnly declare, are under the sheltering protection of the Almighty, of Muhammad, His Prophet, and of Nasir-al Din Shah, our sovereign.’”

Danush takes the Qu’ran and kisses it. He inspects the handwriting and finds the prince’s seal on the page. He then peers intently into the eyes of Ali.

“Do you believe that Sulayman and the shah will honor their word?”

Remembering his palace conversation with the grand vizier and the shah, Ali says with conviction, “I do.”

Within an hour the Rasulís march from their fortress under the protection of the shah. Sulayman has pitched a tent for Danush near the public bath of the village of Dízva overlooking the encampment. This tent is not far from Ali’s.

By late afternoon Ali has fallen into a deep sleep. Content with the results of the day, he sleeps soundly through the night, his first uninterrupted sleep in months.

A windy morning brings with it a new horror. As Ali emerges from his flapping tent, he surveys the army encampment and notices that none of the Rasulis are out of their tents.

Thinking this odd, he finds a soldier and asks, “Have the Rasulis already left for their homes?”

The soldier laughs and replies, “They have left, all right. Some have already arrived in hell, and the others in chains.”

“I don’t understand,” Ali says. “They were to be safely escorted home.”

“A change in plans. The prince ordered them captured. Some resisted and had to be killed.”

Sulayman’s betrayal knocks the wind out of Ali.

How could he be such a fool?

Sulayman’s action, of course, could only have been ordered by the grand vizier, the true betrayer. Sulayman would never have dared to do this on his own.

“What about Zarrin—the
girl
?” Ali asks the soldier.

“In chains, along with Danush. By now they are in Barfurush.”

Furious, Ali runs to the encampment and finds Sulayman jovially having breakfast under a canopy. Ali storms over and flings the prince’s table into the air. Food flies. The prince bolts to his feet. Ali grabs him by his military jacket. Three soldiers rush to protect their prince, but Sulayman gestures them away.

“You swore on the Qu’ran!” Ali shouts, spit spraying onto Sulayman’s red face. “May you go to hell!”

Ali lets Sulayman go. The prince sighs, then smiles wickedly. “My orders come directly from the grand vizier. It is out of my hands. I suggest you go back to Tehran and take up the matter with him. Now if you don’t mind, I would like to finish my breakfast.”

Sulayman’s attendants have already reset the table.

“What do you intend to do with them?” Ali asks.

“Some of them are men of means. They will fetch a nice ransom from their families. The others—sold into slavery, I imagine. Or executed.”

Ali steps closer to Sulayman again, but this time the three guards close in on him. Physical intimidation is futile, he knows. He must get control of his anger and think clearly.

In a calmer voice, Ali asks, “What about Zarrin?”

“What an interesting question,” Sulayman replies as fresh quail eggs and oranges are deposited on the table in front of him. “She has violated many of Islam’s holiest precepts by impersonating a man and appearing in public without a veil. God knows what other sins she may have committed while in the company of these immoral Rasuli savages. I’m afraid she will be punished rather severely.”

Traveling immediately to save Zarrin in Barfurush, Ali confronts another obstacle. The torrential rage of Sa’id, the mujtahid—inflamed by the humiliations heaped upon him by Jalal and Danush—sweeps aside Ali’s impotent attempts at argument. As if he were swatting a fly, the mujtahid flicks Ali to the sidelines and immediately tries Danush and Zarrin for blasphemy and a host of other charges.

Finding them guilty, the mujtahid and the prince move the bound captives to the courtyard of the mosque where a large and angry throng has assembled. In fiery rhetoric, Sa’id catalogs the offenses of his prisoners. The bloodlust of the crowd boils hotter with each word he speaks.

“Despite the irredeemable nature of these despicable heretics,” he concludes, “I wash my hands of all responsibility for any harm that may befall them. I leave God’s justice to you.”

The mujtahid gestures to the prince, who unchains Danush and Zarrin and pushes them into the cheering crowd. Like ravening wolves, the mob, guided by stern-faced mullas, strip Danush naked. With a hatchet, a sneering man hacks off his ears. A group of men urinates on his green turban and places it back on his head. A child smears human excrement on his face and body.

In horror, Ali watches as the stooped, bleeding body of Danush is entombed in heavy chains and then paraded, stumbling, around the courtyard. When at last he falls, a group of cackling women pounce upon him with knives and axes, dismembering his still quivering body.

And then the crowd turns to Zarrin. She, too, is stripped before the jeering mob and forced to kneel. A muscular man grabs her hair with one hand and pulls her knees off the ground. A bleeding chunk of scalp tears free. With his other hand the man swings a knife, carving off both breasts.

“She wanted to be a man!” he shouts.

The crowd howls gleefully.

Ali is sick. He vomits on the pavement, but no one notices.

Three men lift Zarrin to her feet. Somehow she is still conscious. Hands with daggers slice open wounds in her belly, her buttocks, her thighs. Burning candles are inserted into the gaping holes, sizzling in the bloody sockets. A blacksmith with a sharp spike pierces her nose and threads a chain through the hole. The children take turns leading her like an animal across the courtyard.

Through it all Zarrin remains silent—not a whimper, not a cry. And then a long-bearded mulla with a heavy axe approaches the pitiful girl now stooped on the bricks. With a thick grunt he beheads her.

On his hands and knees, Ali sees two rivers of blood converging.

And he remembers why he hates God.

Chapter 26

During the weeks that follow, the grand vizier launches a major campaign of persecution leading up to the trial and execution of the Rasul. Anyone professing allegiance to the heretic is arrested and tortured. Many are killed. The remaining Rasulis are forced underground.

On a warm July morning, the day before the Rasul’s execution, Ali leaves the palace in Tabriz to visit the house in which the condemned young man awaits the firing squad. Already the city is teeming with residents excited about the coming event. It becomes clear to Ali that the Rasul must be moved at once to the army barracks, the most secure location for containing possible disturbances.

At the house, Ali orders that the young man’s green turban and sash—the twin emblems of noble lineage—be removed before he is marched barefoot to the barracks. Walking several paces behind the armed guard, Ali is astonished at the hundreds of people who crowd around the captive, jeering and throwing stones.

At the barracks, the Rasul is placed in a cell with three other Rasulis, including the Rasul’s amanuensis, Siyyid Husayn. Throughout the day, Ali silently observes the Rasul from a distance, wondering if this man of small stature and mild face can possibly be a Manifestation of God. He no obvious physical gifts. He seems to have no unusual powers except emotional detachment from his fate; his face seems to glow with joy, not fear. Perhaps he is delusional!

At dawn, Ali arrives at the barracks where thousands of agitated residents already are gathered in the streets. The city’s population is convulsing under the expectation of this “Day of Judgment,” which Tabriz seems honored to host.

At the barracks, Ali orders the head footman to escort the Rasul to the city’s leading mujtahids, who will issue the death warrants. Accompanying a contingent of soldiers to the condemned man’s cell, Ali finds the Rasul speaking with his amanuensis.

The footman enters the cell and rudely pulls Siyyid Husayn aside so that the Rasul may be more easily removed. But the Rasul turns to the footman with a warning: “Not until I have said to him all those things that I wish to say can any earthly power silence me.”

So stern is this warning that the footman takes a step backward. He turns to Ali, who nods encouragement to take charge.

“You must come with me now,” the footman instructs the Rasul. “The mujtahids are waiting for you.”

The Rasul follows the footman out of the cell as if this were only a brief interruption.

Ali has arranged for the Rasul to be paraded around the city quarters and through the bazaar until the signed death warrants have been collected. In this way the government will demonstrate its total domination of the accused.

Thousands line the streets to watch the “imposter” pass by. And when he is brought at last to the large courtyard for execution, over ten thousand eager spectators are present. They fill the back half of the courtyard, crowd the roof of the barracks, and line the tops of nearby buildings.

Ali has staged a marvelous spectacle for them. Under the command of Sam Khan, a Russian, seven hundred and fifty musket-carrying members of the Bahahudran regiment march into the quadrangle and align into three ranks. The regiment is comprised chiefly of the remnants of Russian deserters, most of them Christians, who had defected to Persia during the second Russo-Persian war. Ali had feared that Muslim regiments may have balked at killing a direct descendant of Muhammad.

The crowd cheers enthusiastically as the firing squad assembles.

Ali looks up and watches Jonathon Fury race across the quadrangle with his boxes. Upon reaching Ali, Jonathon begins to set up his camera.

“Back to photographing corpses?” Ali says in English.

Photographing
history
,” Jonathon replies.

Sam Khan approaches the Rasul, who faces the vast display of muskets.

“I am a Christian,” Sam Khan explains to the Rasul. “I have no argument with you.” He appears frightened, as if his actions might call down the wrath of God. “If your cause is the cause of truth, enable me somehow to free myself from the obligation to shed your blood.”

The Rasul quietly replies, “Follow your instructions. If your intention is sincere, the Almighty will relieve you from your perplexity.”

From a distance of twenty paces, Ali watches this brief conversation without hearing. He is confused by the expression of serenity on the face of the Rasul, and the look of fear on the commander’s.

Sam Khan closes his eyes. A great sigh emanates from his lips. He turns and orders two men to drive a spike into a wooden column in the courtyard wall. Following Ali’s orders precisely, he instructs these men to fasten a rope to the spike and suspend from it the condemned man.

As the Rasul hangs between life and death, Ali finds his heart pounding. This is the moment that he has been longing for—
the punishment of God!
It is finally at hand, and Ali pants with anticipation.

Joining Ali to the side of the firing squad, Sam Khan gives the order for the regiment to raise and aim its weapons. Three ranks, each containing two hundred and fifty executioners, comply with his command.

Such an execution has never occurred in Persia. There has never been a firing squad. At the previous day’s practice, no victim had been suspended from the wall. No live ammunition had been fired.

Today, the nervous troops are perspiring heavily. No one knows what to expect.

And then Sam Khan gives the order to fire.

The troops do not fire by ranks, but all at once. The roar is deafening. Smoke from the muskets fills the quadrangle and billows into the air, eclipsing the sun and plunging the hellish scene into darkness. Many spectators cry out in fear.

Sam Khan grips Ali’s arm in the gathering gloom and begins reciting “The Lord is my Shepherd…”

Having ignited this turbulence with their volley of bullets, the troops now stagger into each other, eyes stinging and throats burning from the acrid discharge. A wind finally begins to whisk away the smoke.

A soldier in the first rank is the first to announce an even more astonishing sight. “The Rasul has disappeared!”

The Rasul is gone. The taut rope, having been severed by the bullets, now lies on the ground as limp as a dead serpent.

Bewildered and afraid, the spectators now begin to shout, “He has vanished! The Rasul has been taken from our sight!”

Rubbing his smarting eyes, Ali orders Sam Khan to launch a search of the barracks. He doesn’t know how the Rasul has accomplished this trick, but there will be no escape.

Ali races to the Rasul’s cell with the head footman, imagining that some clue to the matter may have been left behind. His mind is reeling and he is angry. Revenge has been plucked from his hands.

When the two men arrive at the Rasul’s moldering cell, they are shocked. Behind the open cell door, composed and unsullied, the Rasul sits next to his amanuensis. He has emerged unscathed from the shower of bullets and is calmly speaking to his friend.

An astonished footman enters the cell. The Rasul looks up and says, “I have finished my conversation with Siyyid Husayn. Now you may fulfill your intention.”

The trembling footman, certain that he has witnessed a miracle, wheels and runs from the cell.

Ali calls for the guards.

Sam Khan is the first to arrive. Upon seeing the Rasul in his cell, Sam Khan falls to his knees and says, “I have been relieved of my perplexity.”

“I don’t understand,” Ali replies.”

“You never will. My regiment will be leaving the barracks immediately. If you ask us to repeat this ungodly assignment, I will refuse.”

Guards rush in and frantically secure the door.

Ali follows Sam Khan into the quadrangle. “You believe in Him, don’t you?” Ali calls out.

“Under the penalty of death—I do.” Sam Khan pauses. “God saved Him from your predictable treachery.”

With a look of disgust, Sam Khan marches toward the remnant of his regiment.

Ali’s mind is a riot of conflicting thoughts. Perhaps the spectacle of the firing squad was not a miracle at all. The Christian troops may simply have shot to miss.

All of them?

Nothing has changed.

Yes, everything has changed!
God still betrays those who love Him, and the Rasul is still His stooge.

Yet God has protected the Rasul.

Ali tries to focus his thoughts. The entire barracks shudders in chaos. Spectators are still screaming and soldiers still aimlessly race back and forth.

In his mind, Ali can still see the smoke from the musket fire, the ropes rent into pieces by a hail of bullets, the Rasul peacefully completing his interrupted conversation.

Impossible!

And yet he and thousands of others have witnessed this implausible event. Who but God could be the author of such an audacious drama?

Ali will not play the scripted part of the defeated villain. This scene will not be the conclusion to this unfolding tale. He races through the scattering soldiers and finds Khamsih, the colonel of the body guard.

“Sam Khan and his Christians have fled in fear,” he explains. “I need a man of courage to lead a Muslim regiment in completing this execution.”

Khamsih, a portly man of immense ambition, bows to Ali and says, “You can trust me.”

News of the second attempt flows through the crowds. Within two hours, Khamsih has assembled in the quadrangle another regiment of seven hundred fifty men.

“We will not fail as the Christians did,” he explains to his men. “If even one of you misses your target, every one of you will become food for the bullets of another firing squad. Am I clear?”

Jonathon again is stationed with his camera next to Ali. “Maybe the real event will go better than the practice round,” he says.

Ali ignores him.

Khamsih angrily storms to the Rasul’s cell and removes the condemned man, striking the Rasul in the face before marching him to the execution spot.

Ali stands to the side, again watching the spectacle unfold.

A rope is slung over the spike. The victim is hoisted into the air and suspended from the rope.

As the troops prepare their muskets, the Rasul turns his face. Ali is certain that the Rasul is looking directly at him. The Rasul’s serene, almost loving gaze makes Ali shiver in the hot noon sun.

“The day will come when you will have recognized me,” the Rasul says to the crowd. “That day I shall have ceased to be with you.”

Ali cannot stop looking into the Rasul’s eyes. There is no fear or anger in them, but sadness. And love. This is not the countenance of a mocking God, nor the reflection of a betraying God. The kind face shimmers behind watery waves of heat that slowly ascend toward heaven.

Khamsih barks an order and the troops immediately stand at attention, muskets to their sides.

The Rasul’s face, through the mirage of the rising heat, wrinkles and shifts, and then becomes the beautiful face of Ali’s mother, who is smiling radiantly. Ali feels a tight knot growing in his chest. Anisa is not frightened or angry but seems delighted to see her son again. Ali wants to speak to her, even takes a step forward, but then the glimmering face transforms into the exquisite visage of Mary Rogers, with her penetrating gaze and coquettish grin. She is alert and happy and forgiving, as if her death had been the smallest of inconveniences.

The day will come…

Khamsih gives another order. With a rustling sound like a gust of wind in the forest, muskets are raised into position. The glare of the sun heats the bricks of the quadrangle pavement. Heat waves continue to rise in ripples.

The image unfolding before Ali shifts again, becoming the soft and lovely face of Ali’s cherished wife. She has tears in her eyes, and Ali believes they are from pain or sadness until Alice smiles and her face dissolves into the round red face of an infant. Ali knows immediately that this is his unborn daughter.

…when you will have recognized me.

Protected, all of these loved ones. Safe and waiting. Revealing their love and understanding and forgiveness. Inviting through their tears and smiles a joyous reunion.

Khamsih orders the firing squad to take aim.

The face revealed in the mirage changes again. Ali sees a fox he had hunted at Chillington-hall, the meek surrender of its face as Ali raised his weapon to kill the guiltless creature. He remembers the unexpected bloodlust during the chase, and the intensity of the confrontation.

A sudden and horrible revelation sweeps over him. Ali has been blaming the prey for the hardships of the forest and the hunt.

Like a ruptured kaleidoscope, a flurry of images bursts into his mind. Free at last of guilt and anger, Ali sees himself as a child with his mother. At the breakfast table with Mary and Phebe. In bed with his pregnant wife on a cold wintry night.

A sudden peace descends upon him like a gentle rain.

He can choose to spare the fox.

Ali finds that he has closed his eyes. When he opens them, he is flung back into the horror of the barracks square. The executioners are pointing their muskets at the Rasul.

That day I shall have ceased to be with you.

He watches Khamsih’s mouth beginning to open for the final order…

He desperately turns to the firing squad and shouts, “Nooooooo!” But his voice is drowned in the roar of musket fire.

Clouds of smoke rise again, but this time a swirling wind whisks away the gray mist, revealing the body shattered by hundreds of bullets.

Ali drops to his knees as the massive crowd begins to cheer. The applause masks his weeping.

The wind suddenly becomes a gale.

As the body is lowered, it is buffeted by the powerful wind that is stirring up the city. A dense whirlwind of dust begins to obscure the sun, plunging all of Tabriz into darkness. Ali imagines that this is God mourning the loss of his Promised One.

Moments ago, Ali would have rejoiced at inflicting on God such enormous pain, but now he prays for forgiveness.

The storm and the eerie darkness last from noon until night.