A Singular Hostage, page 9
Why had she not met Fitzgerald earlier? She dropped onto her bed and reached to unbutton her boots, remembering that only days ago she had bristled with impatience to reach Firozpur. How wrong she had been. The journey must last as long as possible. Let there be a disaster of some kind, a month-long downpour or, if necessary, a plague among the camels or the bullocks. Yes, a plague would be acceptable, as long as there was no danger to the elephants.
Would there be time enough for courtship, even marriage, before it was too late? Her brain whirling with possibilities, Mariana dropped her second boot, lay down, and pulled the covers to her chin.
Ablacksmith's son recognized Yusuf Bhatti and raced off, a small barefoot figure in filthy clothes, to bring the news of their arrival to the Shaikh's house. As he ran, his treble shouts pierced the din of the crowded streets so successfully that by the time the three men reached the haveli, the carved doors had already been thrown open.
Handed down from his mare, Shafi Sahib shuffied toward the inner courtyard, waving away solicitous strangers. “Yar Mohammad will help me,” he told them, his impatient voice echoing around him in the vaulted entranceway. “Someone else can look after the horses.”
Yar Mohammad's heart filled. He glanced upward at the carved balconies overlooking the main courtyard, and the arabesques painted high on the courtyard walls. He had come here only once, years ago, but he had never forgotten this house. Now, as he led Shafi Sahib through the seated crowd, Yar Mohammad could see that like his house, Shaikh Waliullah was unchanged. He still wore his tall, starched headdress, and his expression was still as deceptively calm as a banked fire.
The seated men fell silent as the Shaikh and Shafi Sahib embraced. Weak-kneed from excitement, Yar Mohammad took his place against a wall. The Shaikh had not seemed to notice him.
A young man, too, embraced Shafi Sahib. Yar Mohammad nudged his neighbor. “Who is that?” he asked.
“That is Hassan Ali Khan,” the man replied, “husband of the dead lady, and father of the baby Saboor.”
Hassan was as tall and lean as his father but his face told a different story. While the Shaikh was as dark and wrinkled as a raisin, his face all liveliness and sharp points, Hassan was fair and smooth-faced above his beard. As they sat together, the son on a straw stool beside his father's platform, the Shaikh's gaze moved slowly through the crowd, fixing on one man at a time, while Hassan's eyes darted from face to face, gathering nods of recognition and half smiles of greeting.
Yusuf Bhatti pushed his way to Hassan's side. Yar Mohammad watched the Shaikh's son stand and wrap his arms about his friend. For all his grace, Hassan looked ill. His lips were cracked; his hair looked dull and dry. He seemed like a man with more than one tragedy to bear.
“Your prayers have already been answered,” Shafi Sahib had assured Yusuf as they rode for Lahore. If prayers for the child's safety had been answered, Yar Mohammad thought, the child's father had not yet been told. Catching Hassan's traveling red-eyed gaze, Yar Mohammad thought he felt something leap from Hassan's heart into his own. Before he could guess what it was, the Shaikh put his feet over the side of his platform and felt for his slippers.
“If I am not mistaken,” he said, addressing the crowd as he stood up, “the Call to Prayer is about to come. So come, my friend,” he added, holding out a hand to Shafi Sahib. “You and I will offer our prayers in my room.”
As he strode off, with Shafi Sahib wobbling slightly beside him, Shaikh Waliullah's voice carried across the courtyard. “Speak, Shafi,” Yar Mohammad heard him say. “Tell me what knowledge has come to you. Teach me that which I do not know.”
Shafi Sahib's reply fioated behind them as the two old men began to climb a fiight of stairs. “Wali, I have no knowledge. I am as ignorant as the buffalo that turns the water wheel on the roof of this house. But I have brought with me a groom whose name is Yar Mohammad—”
“Allah-hu-Akbar, Allah-hu-Akbar, God is Great, God is Great,” cried the muezzin, leaning from a high minaret of Wazir Khan's Mosque, cupping his hands over his mouth to be heard in the streets below. “Come to prayer, come to prayer!”
Yar Mohammad closed his eyes and was immediately transported to an empty plain far from the busy courtyard. Shaikh Waliullah stood in front of him, his gaze a silent question. In the palm of his hand, Yar Mohammad could feel the smooth weight of a small ceramic vial, the same vial that he had received years before, in his first vision. He opened his eyes and looked out at the scene before him. There were the high, frescoed walls of the Shaikh's house, the carved balconies, the eddying crowd. He opened his hand and found it empty. That was the reality. But what was the dream? He closed his eyes again and once more found himself standing in the same barren site of his vision. The Shaikh's eyes did not leave his face as Yar Mohammad began to open the small, flat bottle.
What had he been given? Was it a gift he could offer to others, even those as elevated as Shaikh Waliullah? The thought of actually helping the great man caused sweat to form on Yar Mohammad's forehead. He reached behind him for the tail of his turban and wiped his face. But perhaps the Shaikh did need help. For all his strength, how could he not weep for his murdered daughter-in-law? How could he not fear for his tiny grandson?
The crowd in the courtyard had begun to funnel slowly through the gate toward the mosque. Near Yar Mohammad, Yusuf Bhatti raised his voice over the muezzin's cry. “Surely they will have found someone to look after Saboor.”
Hassan smiled wanly at his friend. “Those courtiers care nothing for my son,” he replied. “And now, God help us, news has come that the Maharajah fell ill yesterday at his camp. All this must be causing trouble among the women here at the Citadel.”
“Trouble?” Yusuf raised his eyebrows.
“Who knows which queens will die on the Maharajah's pyre? The choice of suttees is the province of the senior queen. Some will want to die. Others will not. All will be trying to please her. No one will think of my son.” Hassan shook his head. “The pushing, the lying, the cruelty between people at court is beyond our imagining. We may be sure,” he added as he and Yusuf turned to follow the crowd, “that the Maharajah will now send for Saboor to cure him of his latest illness.”
Yusuf snorted. “What madness this is! How can the poor child cure anyone?” He rested a thick hand on Hassan's embroidered sleeve. “Do not worry, my friend. We will find a way to get Saboor away from the Maharajah. We will do it during the confusion of the durbar. If you and I and others are there, and we work together—”
“But, Yusuf,” Hassan interrupted, his eyes alight, pushing away
Yusuf's protecting arm, “how could I have forgotten your journey? Tell me of your visit to Faqeer Azizuddin at the Maharajah's camp. Surely you have some good news for me?”
Yar Mohammad had enough time to see the other man's face tighten grimly before his attention was caught by one of the Shaikh's servants who edged up beside him, a man whose henna-dyed hair was a fiaming red.
“You are to go to Shaikh Sahib's rooms as soon as you have offered your prayers,” the red-haired man told him. “When you are ready I will show you the way.”
A short while later, Yar Mohammad followed the man up the same stairs the Shaikh had climbed with Shafi Sahib, and found himself outside a curtained doorway. As he scuffed off his sandals, he heard a light voice coming from inside.
“Well, my dear Shafi,” the voice was saying, “I must confess that what you suggest seems unlikely. After all, the Maharajah and his people, too, style themselves as lions. Why should the rescuer be English and not one of their Sikh women? But it is you, not I, who are the interpreter of dreams.”
The red-headed servant gestured impatiently toward the threshold.
Yar Mohammad stepped nervously into the room.
As the room's two occupants looked up, Yar Mohammad noticed that the Shaikh had exchanged his tall, embroidered headdress for a fitted cap. Without the headdress he seemed sharper and more forceful than ever. Although they were the same height, he seemed to tower over Shafi Sahib.
How should Yar Mohammad greet his true murshid, his spiritual teacher? Should he touch the great man's knees, his feet? He started forward, but something in the narrow face caused him to stop and salute in the usual way, his head bowed, his cupped hand to the center of his forehead.
“As-Salaam-o-alaikum, Shaikh Sahib,” he said to the fioor.
“Wa'alaikum Salaam, and upon you, peace.” The Shaikh pointed downward. His heart pounding, Yar Mohammad sat a little distance from the Persian carpet where the other two men sat, their backs to the wall.
“Tell us,” ordered the Shaikh, “the five lucky signs of a horse.”
The question was so unexpected that Yar Mohammad did not grasp it at first.
The Shaikh frowned at him. “You do not know the signs?”
So, Shaikh Waliullah and Shafi Sahib wanted only to understand the ravings of the madman who had jumped from the thorn bush. Why was Yar Mohammad disappointed? Had he really expected to be remembered after so many years?
“I do, Huzoor,” he said, recovering his voice. He would not have these great men believe him ignorant. “The five lucky signs are these: that a horse should be marked with four white stockings to the knee and a white muzzle rising to a blaze on the forehead.”
The two men on the carpet exchanged a glance. “And is there such an animal at the horse lines of the British camp?” the Shaikh asked.
Yar Mohammad nodded. “There are two such horses.”
“And are either of these horses ridden by the ladies?”
“No, Huzoor.” Forgetting his nerves, Yar Mohammad grew fiuent.
“The first of these is a stallion, very wild, unsuitable for women. Even his owner, a captain in the British army, is afraid of him. Each day he comes with a new reason why he cannot ride the horse.”
“And the other?”
“The other is an old mare, weak in her legs. She was included in a lot of animals we bought when the hot weather killed some of our riding mares. The ladies ride the better animals. I expect that this mare will be killed soon. She is not worth her feed.”
“Ah.” The Shaikh turned to his companion. “And there are three ladies attached to the British camp?”
“Yes, there are three.” Shafi Sahib helped himself to a handful of pomegranate seeds offered by a servant who had appeared silently through a curtained doorway. “The youngest I have already described. The other two are sisters of the Governor-General.”
The Shaikh nodded, waiting.
Shafi Sahib poked through the seeds in his hand, ruby-red juice staining his fingers. “What can one say about these foreigners? They have strange habits, to be sure, and an odd manner of dressing. They wear tight clothes, even in hot weather. But I believe both ladies are kindhearted. One of them,” he added, looking up from his seeds, “keeps a pair of spotted deer and several other animals in her tent.”
Yar Mohammad looked from the startled Shaikh to Shafi Sahib. Where had Shafi Sahib learned this? Surely the old man did not frequent the camp's cooking fires?
Shaikh Waliullah turned and stared at the wall, his face softening. For a moment, hunger and sadness seemed to pour out of him. Yar Mohammad dropped his eyes. Yes, the Shaikh did, indeed, fear for his grandson and grieve for his daughter-in-law.
“I have told Shaikh Sahib of your vision of a lioness,” Shafi Sahib said gently. “Tell us, are you a practitioner like us, a follower of the Path?”
At last they were to talk of spiritual matters. Yar Mohammad took a long breath. “I am, Huzoor.”
“And you perform the necessary spiritual exercises?”
“Yes, Sahib.” Yar Mohammad could not keep his voice from shaking with excitement. “To the best of my ability, I try to be honest and charitable. I offer my five daily prayers, and also one optional prayer. I perform Zikr, the repetition of the name of God. I invoke Allah's blessings on the Prophet Mohammad both night and day.”
“And what is the name of your Brotherhood? And your murshid— who gives you spiritual guidance?”
How could he meet his teacher's eyes? “I belong to this Brotherhood, to the Karakoyia, Huzoor.” Yar Mohammad stared down at his hands. Rough and callused, they were not the hands of a mystic. “It is you who are my true murshid. I came to that knowledge many years ago after meeting you for the first time.”
Shaikh Waliullah, spiritual leader of the vast Karakoyia Brotherhood, pushed a long finger under his embroidered cap. His eyes narrowed. “Tell us of your first visit to me.”
Yar Mohammad cleared his throat. If he did not say it now, he might never have another chance. “I came to you once, in the company of my cousin. We had traveled from our village to tell you of an event concerning me that had recently occurred.”
Shafi Sahib sat straighter. Shaikh Waliullah leaned forward on the Persian carpet.
“I had seen a vision of our Prophet,” Yar Mohammad went on, “upon whom be Allah's blessings and peace. In that vision, he had given into my hand a small ceramic vial which I took to be a container of perfume or of scented oil. Perhaps you do not remember.”
For a long moment, the Shaikh and Shafi Sahib stared wordlessly at each other. Disappointed, imagining his interview finished, Yar Mohammad moved to stand. The Shaikh's voice struck him like a blow.
“You are the man who received the vial? You? You fool!” The Shaikh's voice rose. “If you are the same man who was given the vial, why did you not tell this to Shafi Sahib when you first went to him at the British camp?”
Yar Mohammad felt each word as if it were a dagger. The Shaikh pointed at him. “What was wrong with you that you withheld this information?”
His bowels churning, Yar Mohammad stared at the tiled fioor in front of him, unable to reply.
“Shafi and I had assumed that the lioness dream was your first important vision. Now you tell me that it was you who received the ceramic vial. You should have told Shafi Sahib of this.” The Shaikh tugged a bolster toward him and leaned against it with an impatient sigh.
Yar Mohammad sat under the Shaikh's accusing gaze, tears of shame leaking from his eyes. There must have been a mistake. The vial must have been meant for another man, one who would know what to do, who would not make error after error in the telling of the story.
A small, comforting noise came from Shafi Sahib. A sigh. Yar Mohammad looked up to find Shaikh Waliullah peering at him in surprise.
“Did I frighten you?” The Shaikh's voice had returned to normal. “I should not have spoken so harshly, but you do not know how long we have searched for you.”
Searched? Yar Mohammad's brain emptied. Searched?
“You had received an important vision. I wanted to know who you were and where you lived. It never occurred to me on that day that your cousin was not still attached to this household. When I discovered that he had returned with you to an unknown village in the north, I sent people to look for you, but they failed to find you. Since then, we have waited for your return, hoping another vision would bring you back to seek my advice.” He sighed again. “Eleven years have passed since that time.
“In any case, do not worry,” he added, speaking directly to Yar Mohammad's fear, “there has been no mistake. It is Allah Most Gracious who sends visions. Unlike us, He is perfect.” The Shaikh's gaze seemed far away. “I have often thought of your vision,” he said absently. “I have wondered if my interpretation was correct.” His eyes shifting abruptly to the present, he waved an impatient hand. “And stop worrying about everything, Yar Mohammad. You still have much to learn. Remember that too much humility is a bad thing.”
Yar Mohammad, who had known only the simple tutelage of his cousin, buried his face in his sleeve. Air escaped him, hissing into his clothes.
“Shafi Sahib, here,” the Shaikh said, laying a hand on Shafi Sahib's knee, “is the foremost interpreter of dreams and visions among the five Brotherhoods.” His voice was almost tender. “Teach us, Shafi. Tell us the meaning of Yar Mohammad's dream of the vial.”
Us. Yar Mohammad's heart rose.
Shafi Sahib coughed delicately. “The vision of the vial,” he began, “means only one thing: that the recipient has been chosen to do a particular task, and that he has received all that he needs in order to accomplish it. This task most assuredly is of great importance and concerns the lives of many people.”
Yar Mohammad blinked. His work was to be of great importance? Was he dreaming?
“That is not my exact interpretation, but it is near enough.” The Shaikh sounded pleased. “Go on, Shafi.”
Shafi Sahib took another handful of pomegranate seeds and studied them, his mild face drawn in thought, as if there was wisdom to be found in the palm of his hand. “The second lioness vision shows an important rescue in which you, Yar Mohammad, will play a major part.”
“And the baby?” the Shaikh asked softly.
Shafi Sahib's eyes closed. “In a vision,” he said, “a baby signifies the future of the Brotherhood. I believe that Yar Mohammad's vision tells us two things: first, that Saboor is to be rescued, and second, that he is to be the next Shaikh of the Karakoyia Brotherhood.”
He looked up and turned his fingers over to indicate that he was finished.
The Shaikh let out a long breath.
Yar Mohammad could not move. His heart seemed to have stopped beating.
After a moment the Shaikh turned to Yar Mohammad. “Now do you understand the importance of your visions? You are an uneducated man and the goal is still very far distant, but you have traveled much farther than you realize on your journey toward God.”
He raised an admonitory finger. “Remember, each vision, no matter how small or how insignificant it may seem, must be reported immediately to me, your murshid.”
Your murshid. Yar Mohammad wanted to weep with relief, but there was more to be said. “Shaikh Sahib,” he said, fidgeting where he sat, “I have seen something else.”
