Chapter 7

Tired and hungry, we took the wind-swept mountain path that led up to the residence of one Ali the Merchant, the last person on our list that we were due to visit. The path wound its way through the granite, loose scree crunching under out boots, daggers of broken tree-trunk, twisted by the wind, sprouting up from the ground making our climb all the more difficult. Already I could feel the soreness in my limbs, and I was sure I'd twisted my ankle some time ago, so swollen did it appear to me. The trail was cracked with a spider-web of thin fissures, tendrils of mist curling up from the gaps. I began to wonder at what kind of person would build their house in a place such as this. Glancing up, my hand shielding my eyes from the sharp glint of the sun, I saw the house in the distance, thin like a fingernail and wrapped in a cloak of fog, its features faint as though it were a painting.

In between our little visits to the notables of the city, I had finally managed to find the time to take the tariqa, finally managed to connect myself to a spiritual flow that led all the way back to the Prophet (upon him be blessings and peace) himself. Somehow I'd expected a massive change instantly, that the person I became after I took the oath would be completely different to the person I was before I took it.

Musa had laughed gently at my folly. "It doesn’t quite work like that," he had said, his expression kind and his voice soft. "It takes a time, a lot of time. And effort-"

"-a lot of effort," I had chimed in, smiling.

He'd taught me the wird, the daily recitations I had to undertake in order for my heart to shed the scaly skin of dunya, in order for the seed of my ruh to sprout into what it was always meant to be. At least, that's how Musa had described it to me.

The wird went like this: first, I had to recite 'astaghfirulah', 'I seek the forgiveness of Allah', a hundred times. "This you do," Musa had explained, "to rid yourself of yourself. That your nafs believes it has some sort of independent existence is a sin in itself."

Then came the blessings upon the Prophet (upon him be blessings and peace), a hundred times, too. "So that you connect yourself to him," Musa had said. "So that you see the potential that every human being has, the perfection that they can come near to if they but try. We were created to be Allah's khilafah, and it is the Prophet (upon him be blessings and peace) who is the very embodiment of that."

Finally, I had to recite la ilaha ilAllah, a hundred times as well. "And by this," Musa explained, a twinkle in his eyes, "you enter into the Presence of Allah. Or, at least, your heart does - for you’re always in the Presence, whether you realise it or not. Keep this up, hold on to it, hold on to what He has commanded you, keep away from He has forbidden you, and then you will see reality as it truly is, not as the delusion your nafs thinks it is."

"As it truly is?"

"Yes," he said. "So that you see that everything around; indeed, see your own self - see that everything is under the shadow of Allah’s power. The tree, the path we step upon, the sun in the sky, the words on my lips, the sounds that you hear - everything is being created and sustained by Allah now, as we speak." He turned to me. "It is not me who is speaking, it is Allah who is creating these words on my tongue. It is not you who is hearing, it is Allah who is creating those sounds in your ear. Once you realise that everything has submitted itself to Allah's power, then it is sheer foolishness to be afraid of anything save Him - nothing has independent action from Him, in reality everything is His action. Everything you see around, including your own self, is nothing more than Allah saying 'Be, and it is.' When you see with your ruh that everything is being created and sustained by Him now, with no separation from His power, that's when you truly realise that there is no god save Allah." Noticing the bewildered look on my face, he added. "But, my boy, there’s still a lot of time for that to enter your heart. Just stick to the wird for now."

It grew colder as we went higher, a chill that bit into my skin, the winds snapping at my face, cracking the air like a whip. Bizarrely enough, we entered a small clump of trees, looking distinctly out of place on the trail. The foliage above shielded us for a moment, the sun trying to burst through, but doing nothing more than filling our sight with an emerald hue. The oval shadows of the leaves trembled on the ground before us, occasional drops of water, collected no doubt from a past sprinkle of rain, breaking through and splashing into the piles of perfumed blossom that lay strewn across the undergrowth.

And then it was gone, and we found ourselves back on the featureless, craggy path. Musa looked over his shoulder. "Cheer up," he said. "We’re going to visit the sick, and in that is tremendous blessing."

A flicker of a frown crossed my face. "Ali the Merchant is sick?"

"Not physically," Musa murmured, a wry smile on his lips.

Running around after the nobles had been a very time-consuming experience. At the back of my mind, I knew that we hadn't even begun to Musa's journey yet, hadn't even begun our quest to find that which is the most beloved to the Lord of the Worlds. I still had little inkling what that could be.

I'd been most impressed with Musa’s skill in diplomacy. Pushing, prodding, and putting our hosts into positions where they'd be shamed if they'd disagreed, Musa had managed to cajole most of the nobles to acquiesce to the Governor’s wishes. And he'd done all this without ever having to ask them outright even once, without ever having it seem that he was criticising them. In fact, all those who had been present had remarked on what a simply wonderful idea it was for the host to join in the Governor's war effort. I shook my head, still not believing how Musa had managed to rein them in so easily.

"Those with the biggest nafs," he said, after we'd departed from our last call, "are the easiest to bend. You just have to pander to their egos."

What I'd been less impressed with was the sheer opulence these people lived in. I'd sat silently as Musa had worked magic with his tongue, the hard wooden spheres of my misbaha running through my fingers, clicking as they slipped down the string. Everything around me was either incredibly expensive or ridiculously exaggerated. I noticed, with a sneer that I had kept well-hidden, that when the call to prayer came, not one of them had moved an inch. It wasn't surprising, either - their massive forms wrapped in flabby flesh would have found it a challenge to have pulled themselves upright just to make the oh-so-lengthy journey to the masjid around the corner.

It sickened me. The lavish amount of food they bestowed upon us - second only to the lavish amount of hollow, false praise they poured onto Musa's lineage - the uncovered women, their modesty torn from them, and the constant reminders of their wealth; all of it made my heart quiver with anger. Completely worthless that's what they were. And yet, I felt a sense of elation surge from within my soul, too. There I was, sitting amongst all this dunya, and I was the only one whose tongue was moist with the Remembrance of Allah. These people were nothing compared to me. I imagined the angels reporting back to the Lord of the Worlds, and I was certain that Allah would be proud of me, certain that Allah would see how special I was because I was worshipping Him, while those around me indulged in wrong actions.

Musa came to a sudden stop, dust and gravel puffing up from under his sandals. I almost careened into his back, and had to spin away at the last moment. His sudden motion broke me out of my thoughts.

"What is it?" I asked.

He looked at me, his lips pursed in a thin smile. "You're not listening to me," he said, sunlight dancing on his face. "What did I say?"

"What do you mean?" I replied. A knot tightened in my stomach, my brow creasing in a frown. Our relationship had changed now that I'd taken the tariqa. In the absence of the Shaykh, the muqaddam - Musa - was the Shaykh, and I was obliged to listen and obey, both the good he commanded me to, and the criticisms he charged at me. Somehow I got the impression this would be from amongst the latter.

Musa let out a breath, his features softening, an easy smile coming to his face. "Allah is creating and sustaining everything, I said, you remember?"

"Yes," I replied, my voice stumbling. "I know that-"

"No, you don’t." There was no edge to his voice, only a soft sense of melancholy. "I told you this morning. Allah is creating your actions; He is the one who is creating your deeds, too -your 'good' deeds. He's not creating them for you, He's not creating them so you're special, He's creating them for Him, because He wished to be worshipped, and because through them He is known." He paused, resting a hand on my shoulder. "Haven't you heard of the one condemned because his wealth made him arrogant, made him feel better than others?"

"Yes," I replied. It was a child's fable, one that I'd heard for many years.

"What was his error?"

"He had no right to laud himself over others. His wealth was from Allah."

"Exactly." Musa began to stride on, gesturing to me to follow. "And your good deeds, your ibadah is all from Allah; it was created by Allah. It isn't from you, it isn't by you - you simply choose it, and Allah creates it.” He flashed me one last smile. "So how can you possibly feel any hint of pride, how can you feel unique, over something that doesn't even belong to you at all?"