The Architect's Apprentice (8 page)

‘You brat,’ Gurab said.

Jahan pushed him. Caught unawares, Gurab tumbled down, soiling his jacket. He stood up and hissed, ‘I’ll kill you.’

Jahan dodged the blows with ease, savvy about how to protect himself – thanks to the training of his uncle, who was watching the brawl from one side, amused. Being taller and older, Gurab could have roughed him up, but he didn’t. He had seen the madness in the boy’s eyes, that brittle savagery. For him, Chota was but one elephant among many. For Jahan, he was like no other – his best friend, his milk brother.

‘Plague upon thee,’ Gurab said, but he had already stopped fighting.

Still shaking, Jahan went to Chota. Just standing beside him
deepened the sadness creeping into his heart. He said, ‘Fare you well, my brother.’

The elephant, now shackled, swung his trunk.

‘You’re going to be fine. The Sultan will welcome you and the Sultana will adore you, by my troth.’

And with those words the boy strode away, wiping his tears, though he could not go far. On impulse he hid behind a wall to spy. After a while, Gurab returned, having cleaned his jacket. Confident that he had got rid of his rival, he scoffed, ‘Ay, big beast. From now on it’s you and me. If you don’t obey me, I’ll starve you to death.’

Getting the elephant on to the vessel would be no mean feat. Chota had not even glanced at his cage. When the moment came, Gurab instructed the elephant to move – a command that went ignored. He smacked the elephant with his cane. Chota didn’t budge. Gurab hit him again. Jahan’s mind began churning. If he entrusted his milk brother to this ogre, the elephant might not make it alive to the Ottoman lands.

By now, the
khalasi
had finished loading the freight into the ship. Chota and his cage were among the last items on the dock. Upon Gurab’s call, four men appeared and tied ropes around Chota’s torso. Not liking this at all, the elephant trumpeted and rumbled. Though not yet a year old he was strong. The four men became ten, half pushing half pulling in unison. As soon as the elephant was shoved into the cage, the iron door was shut and bolted. Chota turned back, slowly, a painful look in his eyes, only now understanding that he was trapped. The cage was fastened with chains from above and hoisted with the help of a tackle. Chota, already in mid-air, stared about, not at anyone in particular but towards the distant lush forests and the misty valleys where elephants plodded along, free and reckless.

It was then that something caught Jahan’s eye. Ahead of him a crate lay on the ground; some of its planks had peeled off, leaving an opening through which he could see its contents: parcels wrapped in cloth. They would carry this to the ship at the end. He glanced at the elephant; he glanced at the crate. Making sure no one was watching, Jahan sneaked into the half-filled crate. His lips curved into a smile at
the thought of his uncle searching everywhere for him. He waited, still as a stone. After an eternity, he felt a jolt, a bounce that jarred every bone in his body. The porters were carrying him, and not as gently as he had hoped. As the crate was thrust aside with a thump, he knocked his head against the timber. He was on board.

The carrack in which he found himself was named
The Glowing Sun
. She had four masts, and large castles fore and aft. On the main mast, where some sunburned sailor sat inside the crow’s nest, were bonnets that could be added depending on the wind’s whim. There were seventy-eight seamen. In addition there were a small number of missionaries, pilgrims, emissaries, merchants and gadabouts.

Jahan was careful not to go out in broad daylight. As soon as the rays of light on the floorboards receded, he crept out and searched for the elephant. It didn’t take him long to find him: he was on the other side of the hold, which was horribly dark and damp. The mahout was nowhere to be seen. When he noticed the boy, Chota made a sweet, chirping noise. Jahan sat next to the animal, telling him he would make sure he arrived in Istanbul safe and sound, and that only then would he return to his sisters.

The next morning, his stomach empty as a dry well, Jahan was up on the deck. From a sailor who had no idea who he was and didn’t much care, he managed to get some water and bread. On the way back he visited Chota. He was alone, again. Gurab, apparently, had no intention of spending time inside the hold. Emboldened, Jahan began to visit Chota more often – until he was caught.

‘You!’ a familiar voice roared.

Jahan turned around to find Gurab by the entrance, his eyebrows arched into the middle of his forehead. ‘Damn you! Why’re you here?’

‘Why are you not here? Every time I come Chota is alone.’

‘Hang thee! What is it to you? It’s the Sultan’s damn beast. Not yours.’

They kept shouting at each other, though neither seemed willing to come to blows. The sailors came running at the commotion and
took them to the Captain – a swarthy man with a penchant for opium and high-heeled leather boots, which clattered as he paced about.

‘One elephant, two tamers,’ the Captain said. ‘One of you is too many.’

‘I was chosen for this task,’ Gurab said. ‘He’s only a boy.’

‘I care for the animal. He doesn’t!’ Jahan inveighed.

‘Quiet!’ the Captain said. ‘I’ll decide who goes, who stays.’

He never did. Day after day, Gurab and Jahan waited in suspense, avoiding each other, watching over the elephant in shifts. They were treated well, surviving on contributions of salted meat, biscuits, hard-tack and beans. Chota, however, unhappy with his diet and with the atmosphere in the hold, lost weight day by day.

The sailors were a superstitious lot. There were words you should never utter, for they invited bad luck. ‘Sink’, for instance, or ‘rocks’ or ‘disaster’. You should not say ‘storm’, even if you found yourself in the midst of one. If you heard the chant of mermaids, you ought to throw a pinch of salt behind your left shoulder, because it was the devil calling. The crew had incantations, which they repeated often; they whistled, though never at night; and whenever they heard something they disliked, they spat and stomped their feet. Certain things they regarded as harbingers of doom – upside-down buckets, tangled ropes, bent nails and pregnant women on board.

Jahan was surprised to learn they were fond of rats. Since the rodents were known to abandon a ship bound to go down, their presence was a warm assurance that everything was fine. Yet when a crow landed on one of the masts, it was cursed and chased away. One of the sailors explained to the boy that he had gone to a sorcerer before they raised anchor and had bought three auspicious winds for the journey. He would have liked to purchase more, he said, but this was all he could get for his silver coin.

Nonetheless one afternoon the rats disappeared. The sky, a blameless blue, turned black. Shortly afterwards came that which should never be said out loud. Rain pelted down in buckets; cloudbursts hit them full in the face; and the waves, getting higher every passing minute, began to
spill on to the deck. The storm-sails could not be raised. The rudder, broken down, was swept away. It is the end, Jahan thought. Little did he know that it was, though only for him and the elephant.

On the third day of the storm a group of sailors descended the stairs to the hold. One glance at their grim faces and Jahan felt his blood chill.

‘Ay, the beast must go,’ said one man through half-closed lips.

‘We should never have had him on board,’ butted in his chum. ‘White elephant! Dark omen. It’s all his doing.’

‘You think we brought on the storm? Are you out of your minds?’ Jahan said, but his words were muffled by the sailors’ grumbling. No one was listening to him. Helpless, the boy turned to Gurab. ‘Why don’t you do something?’

‘What can I do?’ Gurab answered with a shrug. ‘Go talk to the Captain.’

Out and up dashed Jahan. It was hell on the deck. Seething, swelling, the sea slapped them from all directions. Drenched and dizzy, holding on to the rails so as not to be swept away, Jahan found the Captain barking orders. Grabbing him by the arm, he begged him to come downstairs and appease his men before they harmed the elephant.

‘The boys’re rattled,’ the Captain said. ‘They don’t want a white elephant on board. Don’t blame ’em.’

‘So you’re going to throw us into the water?’

The Captain gawked at the boy as though the possibility had never occurred to him. ‘You can stay,’ he said. ‘The creature goes.’

‘I can’t let Chota drown.’

‘He can swim.’

‘In this weather?’ Jahan shouted on the verge of crying. A new thought came to him, a glimmer of hope. ‘What do you think Sultan Suleiman will say when he learns what you’ve done to his gift?’

‘Better the wrath of the Sultan than the sea’s.’

‘You say it’s bad luck to have a white elephant on board. What will happen if you kill it? That’s bigger bad luck!’

Chewing his moustache, the Captain said, ‘I’ll give you a boat. There’s an island not far off. You’ll be fine.’

A rowboat was lowered. Gurab and Jahan stared at it wide-eyed.

‘Jump in,’ said the Captain.

‘Hey, I got nothing to do with the elephant,’ said Gurab. ‘It’s not mine.’

‘Well …’ The Captain turned to Jahan. ‘How about you?’

The boy did not feel he was making a decision so much as accepting a decision that had already been made for him. Without a word he stepped into the rowboat, scared witless.

‘It’s like the story of the Prophet Solomon,’ said the Captain before another wave smashed on to the deck. ‘Two women claim to be mother to the same baby. The fake one says, split him into two. But the true mother won’t agree to that. See, now we know who is the real mahout, and who is the impostor.’

Chota was brought up to the deck; wild with fear, his feet kept slipping on the wet boards. After a few attempts they gave up trying to move him into the boat and shoved him into the sea. He fell down with an ear-splitting squeal. The water, dark and furious, opened its mouth and swallowed the animal as if he were a mere empty shell.

When Jahan stopped talking, he saw that Princess Mihrimah was staring at him in horror. She asked, ‘How did you survive?’

‘We were washed ashore on an island. From there we were saved by another ship,’ he replied. ‘
Behemoth
, was the name.’

She gave a smile of relief. ‘Were they nice to the elephant?’

‘No, your Highness. They were horrible. The sailors got sick midway. Scurvy, the worst kind. Someone said elephant flesh was the cure. They almost killed Chota. Captain Gareth saved us. We owe our lives to him. The rest, you already know. We arrived in Istanbul and were brought here.’

‘Pity, your tale has ended,’ said Mihrimah with a sigh. ‘If you had
kept talking for another thousand days, I would have listened without cease. I was fond of daydreaming about your feats.’

Jahan felt awful when he realized how stupid he had been to finish the story. He could have made it much longer. What if the Princess left now and never came back? He began to panic. Just as he was cudgelling his brains for another way to continue with the tale, he heard a sudden wheezing and hacking. Hesna Khatun was bending down, her face suffused with red, her breath coming out in ragged gasps. She was having an asthma attack. The Princess and the mahout, each giving her an arm, walked her to the tree and helped her to sit down. Deftly, Mihrimah pulled out a pouch tucked in the nursemaid’s sash, opened it and brought it to the woman’s nose. A sharp odour pervaded the air. So this was it, Jahan thought. The smell he had picked up on the Princess, time and again, was from the wild herbs the nursemaid carried with her everywhere. Meanwhile, the woman was inhaling deeply. Bit by bit, her breathing calmed.

‘Let’s go,
dada
,’ Mihrimah said. ‘We shouldn’t tire you.’

‘Yes, Serene Highness,’ the woman responded, as she arranged her headscarf and rose.

Mihrimah turned to the elephant and said, in a tone of tenderness, ‘So long, Chota. You’ve gone through so much, poor thing. Next time I shall bring you the best treats in the palace.’

She added with a swift sideways glance, ‘I am glad you did not leave the elephant alone, hyacinth boy. That was so kind of you.’

‘Your Majesty –’ Jahan said, but could not continue.

Just then she did something he could never have imagined her doing, not in a hundred years. She touched him. Placing a hand on his face, she pressed lightly on his cheek, as if searching for the single dimple that was now hiding behind a blush of embarrassment. ‘You have a good heart, mahout. I wish we could spend more afternoons together.’

Dazed and smitten by her affection, Jahan could not move, could not breathe, let alone utter a word of gratitude. There was no time to rejoice or to invent new stories. Once again all he could do was to watch her leave him and wonder if she would ever come back.

‘Hey, mahout, where the hell are you?’

Jahan went to see who was yelling outside his shed. It was the Chief White Eunuch, arms akimbo. ‘Where were you?’

‘I was cleaning –’

‘Go get ready. The Grand Mufti needs the beast.’

‘Wh … what for?’

Carnation Kamil Agha took a step forward and slapped him on the face. ‘What are you asking? Do as I say.’

With the help of the tamers, Jahan fastened the howdah on the elephant’s back. When Chota was ready, the eunuch gave them a look that bordered on contempt. ‘Off you go. Sangram will show you the way. A heretic is on trial!’

‘Yes,
effendi
,’ said Jahan, though he didn’t have a clue what that meant.

It was a drizzling, bustling Friday morning. Jahan and Sangram, sitting inside the howdah, plodded along through the hilly streets. What the Chief White Eunuch refused to reveal, Jahan was able to extract from Sangram. Their task was to collect the Grand Mufti and carry him to a square where he would question a Sufi preacher famed for his impious views. That a royal elephant had been assigned to the service of the Chief Religious Officer was the Sultan’s way of showing his support for the
ulema
.
*
The Sultan himself was not attending the court case – and had turned down the Grand Mufti’s invitation – an indication that he wished to give a wide berth to theological debates.

As they were passing by the ancient graveyard that overlooked the Golden Horn, the elephant stopped abruptly. Jahan prodded him with his cane, but the animal stood transfixed.

‘I heard a strange thing about these beasts,’ said Sangram. ‘They say they choose where they’d like to die. This one seems like he has found his place.’

‘What are you saying? Chota is an infant,’ Jahan objected, disturbed by the words he had heard.

Sangram shrugged. Thankfully, Chota began to walk again, and the subject was dropped as quickly as it had started.

Before noon they arrived at the Grand Mufti’s house, a mansion with a dovecote carved in limestone, a pergola topped with a baldachin and cantilevered bay windows overseeing the Bosphorus. Jahan inspected the place with interest. He noticed that the windows mostly faced north and a few had stained glass, which he thought was a pity, since they did not capture the changing light. It occurred to him that if he could filch paper from somewhere, he could draw this place in the way he was imagining it.

Meanwhile the Grand Mufti appeared. Jahan saluted him under the eyes of his wives and children, who, having never seen an elephant before, were peeking from behind curtains and doors. With the help of a ladder and a dozen servants the old man took his seat inside the howdah. Jahan, as usual, sat on Chota’s neck. Sangram would walk.

‘Has anyone ever toppled down from up here?’ the Grand Mufti yelled when they set off.

‘
Chelebi
, I can assure you that has never happened.’

‘
Insha’Allah
, I won’t be the first.’

To Jahan’s surprise the aged man handled the ride well enough. They trudged along the wider streets, avoiding any alleyways too narrow for the elephant. Besides, Jahan had the impression that the Grand Mufti wanted to be seen by as many people as possible. One didn’t get a chance to mount Sultan Suleiman’s elephant every day.

They entered the square, where a crowd awaited them. Waving and hailing, people greeted them, although who was more heartily welcomed – Chota or the Grand Mufti – was hard to say. There was excitement in the wind. An anticipation for a remarkable spectacle. After being carried down, the Grand Mufti proceeded to lead the
Friday prayer, followed by the
ulema
and hundreds of townsmen. Jahan and Sangram waited by the elephant’s side, whispering. Every now and then they glanced furtively at the spot where four husky soldiers stood guard. Among them, praying on his own, now getting on his knees, now standing up, was a stranger – a tall, lithe figure with a delicate face and a few days of stubble.

Sangram said his name was Leyli, yet everyone called him Majnun Shaykh. He was the youngest of Sufi scholars, the youngest of Friday preachers. He had eyes the pale grey of autumn rain, freckles like dots of paint, hair fluffy and fair. He was a man of mesmerizing contrasts: a child’s curiosity in the inner workings of the world and a sage’s unruffled wisdom; brave to the point of recklessness but diffident; full of vigour yet surrounded by an air of melancholy. Good with words, proficient in
ma’rifa
,
*
his sermons were popular, attended by both believers and doubters from all over the empire. His voice, soft and soothing, gained a lisping lilt whenever he became particularly emotional. His teachings dazed, dismayed and disturbed the
ulema
. The dislike was mutual. Not a day passed without Majnun Shaykh needling or ridiculing religious officialdom. ‘When one reaches a higher awareness,’ he said, ‘one need not pay attention to
haram
and
halal
^†
as much as to the inner core of faith.’ The Sufis, having attained an upper level of understanding, were not bound by the decrees of the
ulema
. Those were invented for the masses, for those who did not want to think and who expected others to think for them.

Majnun Shaykh spoke about love – of God and of fellow human beings, of the universe in its entirety and of the tiniest particle. Prayer should be a declaration of love, and love should be stripped of all fear and expectation, he said. One ought not fear boiling in cauldrons or wish for virgin
houris
, since both hell and heaven, suffering and joy, were right here and right now. How long were you going to shrink from God, he asked, when you could, instead, start to love Him? His followers – a
motley collection of artisans, peasants and soldiers – listened to his oration spellbound. His ideas appealed to the impoverished, his manners to the rich. Even women, they said, even ignorant odalisques and resentful eunuchs, set great store by him; even Jews, Christians and the Zoroastrians, who had a book no one had yet seen.

The Friday prayer came to an end, the scholars settled down. Majnun Shaykh pressed on his eyes, like a kid rubbing the sleep out of them, and studied, one by one, his interrogators.

‘Do you know what you are being accused of?’ asked the Grand Mufti.

‘What you call heresy,’ he answered. ‘But the charge is unfounded.’

‘We’ll see about that. Is it true you’ve declared you are God and everyone is God?’

‘What I said was the Creator is present in each person. Whether a farrier or a pasha, we share the same lifeblood as of yore.’

‘How is that possible?’

‘We are made not only in His divine image but also with His divine essence.’

‘Is it true that you said you have no fear of God?’

‘Why should I fear my Beloved? Do you fear your loved ones?’

A murmur rose from the crowd. Someone shouted, ‘Silence!’

‘So you accept that you have claimed to resemble God.’

‘You think God is similar to you. Angry, rigid, eager for revenge … Whereas I say: instead of believing that the worst in humans can be found in God, believe that the best in God can be found in humans.’

One scholar, Ebussuud Efendi, asked permission to break in. ‘Are you aware that what just passed your lips is pure blasphemy?’

‘Was it?’ Majnun Shaykh paused, as if briefly considering the likelihood.

A shadow crossed Ebussuud’s face. ‘Instead of feeling remorse, you seem to be scoffing at the high court. Your mind is warped, clearly.’

‘I was not mocking. Besides we are not that different, you and I. Whatever you hate in me, does it not also exist in you?’

‘Certainly not! We couldn’t be more different,’ Ebussuud said. ‘And
your
God is surely not the same as mine.’

‘Oh, but are you not committing
shirk
, talking of my God and your God as if there could be more than one God?’

The crowd rippled with whispers.

Coughing, the Grand Mufti broke in, ‘Tell us more about God, then.’

Majnun Shaykh’s response to this was that Allah was not a king or rajah or padishah sitting on his celestial throne, watching from above, writing down every sin so that He could punish when the day arrived. ‘God is not a merchant – why should He calculate? God is not a clerk – why should He scribble?’

Not liking this answer, the court went on interrogating him from all sides. Each time they got similar responses. Finally they heard these words from the accused: ‘Where you draw a line and tell me to stop: that is only the beginning for me. What you call
haram
is to me pure
halal
. You say I have to shut my mouth, but how can I keep silent when God speaks through me?’

Dusk fell; the sky turned into a crimson mantle above the hills. Far in the distance the lantern of a passing boat shone dimly. Seagulls screeched, fighting over a piece of rotten meat. People got bored, as the excitement of the previous hours began to wear thin. They had tasks to complete, bellies to fill, wives to please. Gradually, the audience melted away. Only the adherents of the heretic remained, their devotion visible in their expressions.

‘We give you a last chance,’ said the Grand Mufti. ‘If you admit you have been speaking sacrilegiously about God and swear to never say such obscenities again, you might be forgiven. Now tell me, once and for ever, do you repent?’

‘What for?’ said Majnun Shaykh, his shoulders straightening as he seemed to take a decision. ‘I love the Beloved as the Beloved loves me. Why feel remorse for love? Surely there are other things to rue. Avarice. Ruthlessness. Deception. But love … ought not to be regretted.’

In his anxiety Jahan did not notice that he was pulling Chota’s
reins too tightly. The elephant made a sound of discomfort, which drew everyone’s attention.

‘This creature …’ said Majnun Shaykh, regarding Chota with something akin to admiration. ‘Is that not testimony to the beauty and variety of the universe? See how it reflects all existence, even though some may say it’s no more than a beast. When we die our soul passes from one body to another. There’s no death, therefore. No heaven to await, no hell to dread. I do not need to pray five times a day or fast the entire Ramadan. For those who have ascended high enough, the rules of the common people are of little account.’

Silence fell and lengthened into an awkward wait. Into this the Grand Mufti declared, ‘Let it be known that the accused was given a chance to see the error of his ways. He has decided his own end. He shall be put to death three sunsets hence. All his followers will be arrested. Those who repent of their sins will be spared. The rest will meet the same fate.’

Jahan lowered his gaze, unable to watch any more. He was startled when he heard the elephant being mentioned again.

‘Should the Grand Mufti allow me, I have an idea,’ said Ebussuud Efendi. ‘As you know, the people of Istanbul love our Sultan’s white elephant. Why not have the renegade die under the beast’s feet? No one would forget this.’

The Grand Mufti looked puzzled. ‘That has never been done before.’

‘My Lords, they exercise this punishment in the lands of Hindustan. Thieves, murderers, rapists are often trodden on by elephants. It has proved effective. Let the elephant trample on him and make of him an example for those who hold similar views.’

The Grand Mufti was pensive for a moment. He said, ‘I don’t see why not.’

With that, all heads turned towards Jahan and Chota. The mahout opened his mouth but could not speak for panic, at first. His heart thudding, he then managed to say, ‘I beg you, esteemed scholars. Chota has never done a thing like that. He wouldn’t know what to do.’

‘Don’t you come from the land of Hindustan?’ asked Ebussuud Efendi suspiciously.

Jahan paled. ‘Yes, I do,
effendi
.’

The Grand Mufti said the final word. ‘Well, then, teach him. You have three days.’

Three days after the trial, shaking like a leaf in a gust of wind, Jahan was sitting atop the elephant, staring down at the sea of spectators. His eyes flicked between them and the man lying supine on the ground, only an arm’s length away. Majnun Shaykh’s hands and feet were tied, as were his eyes. He was praying in soft tones that were swallowed by the clamour of the crowd.