The Fire (3 page)

‘I fear not,’ said Mehmet Effendi, handing his spyglass to the general. ‘I cannot explain it, but something seems to have happened. There has been no explosion. The dawn is nearly here. And a small bonfire is burning, like a beacon, across the lake.’

‘Arslan’ Ali Pasha, the Lion of Janina, paced the cold, tiled floor of his monastery chambers. He’d never been so terrified in all his life – though not for himself, of course. He had no illusions about what would soon become of him. After all, there were Turks at the other side of the lake. He knew their methods all too well.

Well, he knew what would happen – his head on a pike, like his two poor sons who’d been foolish enough to trust the sultan. His head would be packed in salt for the long sea voyage, then brought to Constantinople, as a warning to other pashas who’d got themselves too far above their station. His head, like theirs, would be stuck on the iron prongs, high on the gates of the Topkapi Palace – the High Gate, the ‘Sublime Porte’ – to dissuade other infidels from rebellion.

But he was no infidel. Far from it, though his wife was a Christian. He was terrified for his beloved Vasiliki, and for little Haidée. He could not even bring himself to think of what would happen to them the very moment that he was dead. His favorite wife and her daughter – now there
was something the Turks could torture him with – perhaps even in the afterlife.

He remembered the day he and Vasiliki had met – it was the subject of many a legend. She had been the same age then as Haidée was now – twelve years old. The pasha had ridden into her town that day, years ago, on his prancing, caparisoned Albanian stallion, Dervish. Ali had been surrounded by his broad-chested, long-haired, gray-eyed Palikhari troops from the mountains, in their colorful embroidered waistcoats, shaggy sheepskin capotes, armed with daggers and inlaid pistols tucked in their waist sashes. They were there for a punitive mission against the village, under orders from the Porte.

The sixty-four-year-old pasha himself had cut a dashing figure, with his ruby-studded scimitar in hand and, slung on his back, that famous musket inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver – a gift of the emperor Napoleon. That was the day – was it seventeen years ago already? – when young Vasiliki had begged the pasha to spare her life and her family’s. He’d adopted her and brought her here to Janina.

She’d grown up in splendor in his many palaces, their courtyards replete with splashing marble fountains, shady parks of plane trees, oranges, pomegranates, lemons, and figs, luxurious rooms filled with Gobelin carpets, Sevres porcelains, and Venetian glass chandeliers. He’d raised Vasiliki as his own daughter and loved her better than any of his own children. When Vasiliki was eighteen, and already pregnant with Haidée, Ali Pasha had married her. He’d never regretted that choice – until today.

But today, at last, he would have to tell the truth.

Vasia. Vasia. How could he have made such a mistake? It must be his age that explained it. What was he? He didn’t even know. Eighty something? His leonine days were over.
He would not live to be much older. Of that, he was sure. It was too late to save himself, or even his beloved wife.

But there was something else – something that must not fall into the clutches of the Turks, something critical: something more important than life and death. That was why the Baba had come all this long, long way.

And that was why Ali Pasha had sent the boy to the
hamam
to collect Haidée. The young boy Kauri, the Janissary – a πεµπτoσ, a
pemptos,
a ‘fifth’ – one of those boys of the
Devishirme,
those one in every five Christian boys who’d been collected each year, over these past five hundred years, to replenish the Janissary ranks.

But Kauri was no Christian: He was Islamic from birth. Indeed, according to Mehmet Effendi, Kauri himself might be a part of the omen – perhaps the only one upon whom they could rely to complete this desperate and dangerous mission.

Ali Pasha only hoped to Allah that they were not too late.

Kauri, in a panic, hoped precisely the same.

He lashed the great black stallion ahead along the darkened lake shore, as Haidée clung to him tightly from behind. His instructions had been to bring her to the isle with as little fanfare as possible, under cover of darkness.

But when the pasha’s young daughter and her frightened maidservants arrived at the
hamam
and told him of the ships that were already rowing across the lake – Turkish ships – Kauri threw such precautions to the wind. He quickly understood, regardless of what his orders might have been, that as of this moment the rules had certainly changed.

The intruders were moving slowly, trying to remain silent, the girls had told him. Just to reach the isle, the Turks would have to cross a good four miles of water, Kauri knew. By circumventing the lake on horseback himself, to where Kauri
had lashed down the small boat among the rushes at the far end, it would cut their own travel time in half – just what they needed.

Kauri had to reach the monastery first, before the Turks, to warn Ali Pasha.

At the far end of the enormous monastery kitchens, the coals blazed in the
oçak,
the ritual hearth beneath the sacred soup cauldron of the order. On the altar to the right the twelve candles had been lit – and, at center, the secret candle. Each person who entered the room stepped across the sacred threshold without touching the pillars or the floor.

At the room’s center, Ali Pasha, the most powerful ruler in the Ottoman Empire, lay prostrate, facedown upon his prayer rug, spread upon the cold stone floor. Before him on a pile of cushions sat the great Shemimi Baba, who had initiated the pasha so many years ago: He was the
Pirimugan,
the Perfect Guide of all Bektashis throughout the world. The Baba’s wizened face, brown and wrinkled as a dried berry, was suffused with an ancient wisdom attained through years of following the Way. It was said that Shemimi Baba was more than one hundred years old.

The Baba, still swathed in his
hirka
for warmth, was plumped upon his pile of cushions like a frail, dry leaf that had just floated down from the skies. He wore the ancient
elifi tac,
the twelve-pleated headdress given to the order, it was said, by Haji Bektashi Veli himself, five hundred years ago. In his left hand, the Baba held his ritual staff of mulberry, topped with the
palihenk,
the sacred twelve-part stone. His right hand rested upon the recumbent pasha’s head.

The Baba looked about the room at those who were kneeling on the floor around him: General Vaya, Minister Effendi, and Vasiliki, the soldiers, shaikhs and Mürsits of the
Bektashi Sufi order, as well as several monks of the Greek Orthodox Church, who were the pasha’s friends, Vasiliki’s spiritual guides – as well as their hosts, these many weeks, here upon the isle.

To one side sat the young boy, Kauri, and the pasha’s daughter, Haidée, who had brought the news that had prompted the Baba’s call for this meeting. They’d stripped off their muddy riding cloaks and, like the others, performed their ritual ablutions before entering the sacred space near the holy Baba.

The Baba removed his hand from Ali Pasha’s head, completing the blessing, and the pasha arose, bowed low, and kissed the hem of the Baba’s cloak. Then he knelt along with the others in the circle surrounding the great saint. Everyone understood the severity of their situation, and all strained to hear Shemimi Baba’s critical next words:

‘Nice sirlar vardir sirlardan içli,’
began the Baba. There are many mysteries, mysteries within mysteries.

This was the well-known Doctrine of the Mürsit – the concept that one must possess not just a shaikh or teacher of the law – but also a
mürshid
or human guide through the
nasip,
the initiation, and through the following ‘four gate-ways’ to Reality.

But Kauri thought in confusion, how could anyone imagine such things at this moment, with the Turks perhaps only moments away from the isle? Kauri glanced surreptitiously at Haidée, just beside him.

Then, as if the Baba had read these private thoughts, the old man suddenly laughed aloud: a cackle. All those in the circle looked up, surprised, but another surprise was just to come: The Baba, with much effort, had planted his mulberry stick in the pile of pillows and hoisted himself ably to his feet. Ali Pasha leapt up at once and was rushing to
help his aged mentor, but he was whisked away with a flutter of the old man’s hand.

‘Perhaps you wonder why we are speaking of mysteries like this, when we have infidels and wolves nearly at our door!’ he exclaimed. ‘There is only one
mystery
we need speak of at this moment, just before dawn. It is the mystery that Ali Pasha has guarded for us so well for so long. It is the mystery that itself has now placed our pasha here on this rock, the very mystery that brings the wolfish ones here. It is my duty to tell you what it is – and why it must be defended by all of us here, at any cost. Though those of us in this room may find different fates before this day is over – some of us may fight to the death or be captured by the Turks for a fate that may prove worse than death – there is only one person, here in this room, who is in a position to rescue this mystery. And thanks to our young fighter, Kauri, she has arrived here just in time.’

The Baba nodded with a smile at Haidée, as the others all turned to look at her. All but her mother, Vasiliki, that is – who was looking across at Ali Pasha with an expression that seemed to mingle love, trepidation, and fear.

‘I have something to tell you all,’ Shemimi Baba went on. ‘It is a mystery that has been handed down and protected for centuries. I am the last guide in the long, long chain of guides who have passed this mystery on to their successors. I must tell the story swiftly and succinctly, but tell it I
must
– before the sultan’s assassins arrive. You must all understand the importance of what we are fighting for, and why it must be protected, even unto our deaths.

‘You all know one of the famous
hadis
or reputed sayings of Muhammad,’ the Baba told them. ‘These famous lines are carved above the threshold of many Bektashi halls – words that are attributed to Allah Himself:

I was a Hidden Treasure, therefore was I fain to be known, therefore I created creation, in order that I should be known…

‘The tale that I am about to tell you involves another hidden treasure, a treasure of great value, but also great danger – a treasure that has been sought for more than one thousand years. Only the guides, over the years, have known the true source and meaning of this treasure. Now I share this with you.’

Everyone in the room nodded: They understood the importance of the message that the Baba was about to impart to them, the very importance of his being here. No one spoke as the old man removed the sacred
elifi tac
from his head, set it down in the pillows, and shed his long sheepskin cloak. He stood there amid the cushions dressed only in his simple woolen kaftan. And leaning upon his mulberry staff, the Baba began his tale…

The Tale of the Guide

In the year of the Hegira 138 – or by the Christian calendar, AD 755 – there lived, at Kufa, near Baghdad, the great Sufi mathematician and scientist, al-Jabir ibn Hayyan of Khurasan.

During Jabir’s long residence in Kufa, he wrote many scholarly scientific treatises. These included his work
The Books of the Balance,
the work that established Jabir’s great reputation as the father of Islamic alchemy.

Less known is the fact that our friend Jabir was also the dedicated disciple of another resident of Kufa, Ja’far al-Sadiq, the sixth imam of the Shi’a branch of Islam since the death of the Prophet and a direct descendant of Muhammad, through the Prophet’s daughter, Fatima.

The Shi’as of that sect did not then accept any more than they do today the legitimacy of the line of caliphs forming
the Sunni Islamic sect – that is, those who were friends, companions, or relatives, but not direct descendants, of the Prophet.

The town of Kufa itself had remained, for hundreds of years since the Prophet’s death, a hotbed of unrest and rebellion against the two successive Sunni dynasties that had meanwhile conquered much of the world.

Despite the fact that the caliphs of nearby Baghdad themselves were all Sunnis, al-Jabir openly and fearlessly – some say foolishly – dedicated his mystical alchemical treatise,
The Books of the Balance,
to his famous guide: the sixth imam, Ja’far al-Sadiq. Jabir went even further than that! In the book’s dedication, he expressed that he was only a spokesperson for al-Sadiq’s wisdom – that he had learned from his Mürsit all the
ta’wil
– the spiritual hermeneutics involved in the symbolic interpretation of hidden meaning within the Qur’an.

This admission in itself was enough to have destroyed Jabir, in the eyes of the established orthodoxy of his day. But ten years later, in AD 765, something even more dangerous happened: the sixth imam, al-Sadiq, died. Jabir, as a noted scientist, was brought to the court at Baghdad to be official court chemist – first under the caliph al-Mansur, then his successors, al-Mahdi and Harun al-Rashid, famous for the role he played in
The Thousand and One Nights.

The orthodox Sunni caliphate was noted for rounding up and destroying all texts of any sort that might ever suggest to anyone that there was another interpretation of the law – that there might be a separate, mystical descent of meaning or interpretation of the sayings of the Prophet and of the Qur’an.

As a scientist and Sufi, al-Jabir ibn Hayyan, from the moment of his arrival at Baghdad, lived in fear that his secret knowledge would vanish once he was no longer alive to
protect and share it. He thrashed about for a more permanent solution – some impermeable way to pass on the ancient wisdom in a form that could neither be easily interpreted by the uninitiated nor easily destroyed.