The Winding Ascent

Chapter 2

Morning found Abdullah and Ali back at their errands; the sun, pale and watery, looked down on them through the windows of the farmhouse as they approached a pair of brown cows. Wrapped in an extra thick cloak, Abdullah perched himself upon a rickety stool, kicking a dented tin bucket under one of the animals and began milking away with easy familiarity. He shifted his seat, making sure a wedge of light fell upon him, tickling his skin.

"He said I should find a 'Friend'," Abdullah was saying as the cow eyed him with mild disinterest. "Ajeeb! I don't even know what means, but he frightened me half to death."

"I could tell!" Ali said, another bucket in his hand. Water sloshed over the edge as he spoke. "You were groaning and turning in your sleep – kept me awake while you were at it, too."

Abdullah flicked him a sour glance. "Well, I do apologise for disturbing the high-and-mighty Ali."

His friend grinned, falling into the joke. "And so you should." He yawned in mock exaggeration. "Now I'm too tired to work. I'll blame you if Mina asks why I couldn't get anything done."

Finished with the milk, Abdullah next went to the water pump, rusted and dented as it was. "Here," he said. "Put the bucket under." Ali did so – the bucket only being half full – and then pushed down on the lever, the pump groaning in protest in response. A few drops teased their appearance from the spout then, a moment later, a steady stream followed, splattering against the mud and tinkling into the bucket.

"You shouldn't yawn," Abdullah said.

Ali raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Because…" Abdullah frowned, struggling to give voice to his thoughts. "You just shouldn't. That's all."

Licking his lips, Ali scooped up the pail by its handle, then stared at his friend. "He really affected you, didn't he?"

Abdullah kept his gaze fixed elsewhere. "Who?"

"You know who." Ali kicked a clod of soil out of his path as he drew level with his friend. "He's just a madman. Why listen to him?"

Staring into the distance, Abdullah tried to sort out the myriad thoughts whirling around his head. "He just…sounded so certain." Sighing, he sank to the ground in a crouch. "He seemed to imply that the pious ones had it all wrong. That there was more to the deen than…than that." The thought prickled at his heart. If the pious ones that he admired and respected so much were not true, then who were?

Ali crouched, too. "But what did he mean then, by finding a 'Friend'? How would a friend help you?"

Glancing up, Abdullah saw the concern flooding his friend's eyes and hated it. He didn't need to be treated like a jinn-possessed child. Fear stabbed at his heart. Is that what was happening to him? Was he going mad, too? "It doesn't matter," he said, his voice rough. "He wasn't speaking any sense." Something caught his eye up ahead. "Tell me…" he said, his smile returning. "Do you think you could reach…oh, that door there before I could? And…carrying one of these buckets, too?"

Ali grinned in response, peering ahead with theatrical flourish. He set the pail at his feet, then folded his arms. "You want a race, is that it?"

Abdullah nodded.

"I'll beat you like I always do."

Abdullah's eyebrows arched. "I don't remember you ever beating me." You need a Friend. The voice blazed through his mind like a raging fire. The deen…is a means to know Him. Ah…how many have never realised it? Abdullah felt his breathing grow ragged, felt tears – how he hated those tears – blur his vision. What was this? He'd never experienced anything so vivid before in his entire life. He kept his smile in place as he turned to Ali. "Confident as always." He hopes his voice didn't come across as too strained. "And misguided."

"I let you win last time," Ali said. "Not this time."

Friend. Know Him. "What if we race…and make sure we don't spill either the milk or the water?" Friend. Abdullah felt something in the core of his heart, a tugging that made him want to…turn back? He shook his head. It made no sense. And, more importantly – what did it matter? He'd still be kicked around and ordered, no matter what the solution to the madman's riddle was. After all, that's all that mattered, the only constant in his life.

Ali frowned, glancing down at the buckets. "I'd forgotten about these," he moaned. "Mina would kill us if we lost anything."

Abdullah grinned. "We could get some more."

"It'll take too much time. I don't want to be la-"

"Ikhwan!" They turned as another kitchen boy, his face flushed and his clothes in disarray, bounded over to them. A gust of wind blew through the farmhouse, scattering dust and unsettling the broken stalks of straw left strewn across the ground."Have you heard the news?"

"No," said Abdullah.

"What news?" asked Ali.

The boy turned from one to the other, his face a mix of joy and grief, as though he was bursting to set free a secret, but was ashamed at feeling so happy for doing so. "The majnun!" he gasped. "The old man has finally died!"

*

The crack of wood careening into wood rang out in the practice chamber as a group of soldiers sat watching two swordsmen circle the other. AbdurRahman flexed his fingers against the hilt of his wooden blade, his eyes tunnelling in on his opponent, his breathing short but kept steady under his icy control. Tensing his muscles, he peered through his visor, the world revealing itself to him from within metal bars. He feinted left, twitched to the right, then pounced, lunging in with a thrust. His opponent, eyes widening a fraction, responded with liquid speed, knocking the blow aside at the very last minute. The Caliph's Honour Guard rode with the momentum, twirling gracefully before swinging in with another strike. The other man flung his arm up to block, droplets of sweat flying as wood smashed against wood. Pushing forward, he hit back with a riposte that AbdurRahman easily parried, before finding himself driven back as the Honour Guard thrust once more. Another parry, another stalemate, and then the Honour Guard stepped back, a smile peeking out from beneath his steel visor.

"Good," AbdurRahman breathed, lowering his weapon. He nodded at the others. "That's all for today." He blinked as slanted beams of sunlight, pouring in from the tall windows set high in the walls, fell into his eyes, dazzling him for a heartbeat. When his vision he returned he saw one of the servants slip into the chamber, a large basket of fruits in his arms. "It seems we have some refreshments." All eyes turned to the newcomer. "Eat."

The other soldiers, normally the most fiercest of men, stood awkwardly, casting furtive glances at each other as the servant set the basket on the floor. AbdurRahman lifted his visor, flecks of rust coming off under his touch, then dabbed his face with a rag. He knew very well what had given them pause. "Eat," he said softly. "There's plenty for everyone."

"But," one soldier replied, "you should take the first-"

The Caliph's Honour Guard held up a hand. "Don't worry about me," he said. "Eat, in the name of Allah."

After another heartbeat of hesitation, they crowded around the basket, easy conversation flying from their lips once more. AbdurRahman felt his heart warm at the sight. Not only were his men adept at the art of fencing, but adab – the proper manners – had been drilled into their hearts so that it flowed easily from their actions. He was, he mused, old-fashioned in that respect. No matter how well-trained an army was, AbdurRahman believed that without honour, without adab and discipline, then the blessings of victory would not rain down upon them from Allah.

He waited until everyone had taken a fruit, then peered into the basket. One solitary apple, slashed with an ugly brown scar, stared back at him, a wholly unappealing prospect indeed. Next to it sat a small bunch of grapes, drops of water glistening on their ripe, olive skins. Glancing around, AbdurRahman saw that his 'opponent' – a young solider named Munir – had yet to take any food. "Eat, Munir," he called, gesturing to the young man.

AbdurRahman, watching as the soldier approached, reached in, took the apple in his hand, then bit into it, smiling all the while.

The door opened again and the Honour Guard glanced up to see the Vizier, Umair, come inside, a larger man at his heels. AbdurRahman suppressed a grimace. Even though both were intimates of the Caliph, AbdurRahman felt a coldness towards the Vizier he couldn't quite put his finger on. There was always something calculating behind the man's eyes. He pushed the unworthy thoughts away as the pair approached and greetings of peace were exchanged.

"I trust," Umair said with an affable smile, "everything is going well here?"

"Alhamdulilah," the Honour Guard replied. He glanced at the bigger man. "Is there something you needed me for?"

The Vizier smiled again. "To the point as always," he said. "No wasting pleasantries with you, is there?"

The Honour Guard kept his expression neutral. "I have other things to attend to," he said, as calmly as possible. "But if I've caused you offence, please accept my apologies."

"None are necessary," Umair replied with a dismissive wave. "I do have a request, actually." He gestured to the big man at his side. "I hope you can accommodate my friend Junaid here into your mujahideen. Excellent archer and tracker – we hope that he will join you as an Honour Guard to the Amir himself."

AbdurRahman gave Juniad a quick look over. "I don't need any more men," he explained. "And there are others who are more ready to step into the role of Honour Guard."

Another one of those smiles flashed on the Vizier's face. AbdurRahman was beginning to tire of them. "I don't think I've made myself quite clear," Umair went on. "It is the Caliph's wish."

The Honour Guard held the Vizier's gaze for a moment, a wall of silence between them. "In that case," he said slowly, "I accept."

"Good," Umair said. "I'll leave you two to get acquainted." He lifted a small ornament in one hand – AbdurRahman recognised it as the gift that the Outlander emissary had brought. "I have things to do. The Ivory Horn," he nodded at the ornament, "has a great future ahead of it."

"But what," AbdurRahman asked, echoing the Caliph's earlier sentiments, "does it do?"

"Never you mind. You do what you have to do, and I will do what I have to do. Peace."

The Honour Guard watched him leave, the Vizier's sandals slapping against the floor. He noticed that his men had huddled over at the far side of the chamber, whispering amongst themselves. Pursing his lips, he glanced up at Junaid, but before he could say anything, the big man spoke.

"Have they left then?"

"Who?"

"Our visitors. The People of the Book. It was making my skin itch to know that they were in the palace."

AbdurRahman raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more than, "They've gone, yes."

"Alhamdulilah." Junaid's face sagged with relief. "They shouldn't even be allowed here in the first place. Doesn't it make your stomach churn to know what these filthy people did to our brothers and sisters? Does it not make you wish you could cut them down with your blade?"

The Honour Guard pondered this for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "I only do what Allah and the Commander of the Faithful bid me to do," he said softly.

There was a hint of a scowl on the Junaid's face. "If I were in command of our armies I would drive them headlong into the enemy and make them taste of that which they gave us. It's a good thing the Haramain are still safe, or else I don't know what I would do." His eyes widened, his voice almost growling. "Our brothers and sisters are suffering – suffering!" AbdurRahman flinched as flecks of spittle landed on his face. "And so it's only fair that those who oppose us should suffer, too. That would be justice."

"And would you have us be destroyed?" AbdurRahman replied, a hard edge in his voice. "They outnumber us."

Junaid let out a breath through his lips, a dismissive gesture. "Remember the Battle of Badr! The Believers were outnumbered then and they were granted victory."

"They were fighting for Allah."

"And what do you think I'm fighting for?"

AbdurRahman gazed at the other, taking in the man's heaving chest and reddened cheeks. "I don't think you know."

Junaid twitched, opening his mouth as if to say something, then snapping his jaws shut as he thought better of it. His expression softened, a smile on his face. "Forgive me," he said, his voice light. "It seems we've begun on the wrong foot. I apology…ignore my words as frustrated babbling, nothing more."

"Understandable," the Honour Guard replied. He held out his hand. "Peace."

"And upon you peace," Junaid replied, wrapping his hand around AbdurRahman's. "Let's talk of other matters."

"Yes, let's." They walked back towards the other men, but the Honour Guard couldn't help but notice that there was a trace of a smirk still lining Junaid's face. He would, he knew, have to keep a very close eye on proceedings from here on in.

*

The double doors to the Library shook as Abdullah rapped upon them, dust flying free from the veins and cracks of the wood.

"Why do you think the Shaykh will know anything about it?" Ali asked, standing by his side.

"I don't," Abdullah admitted. "But maybe's he's read all the scrolls and books in here. Maybe he knows something."

He could feel Ali's eyes upon him, but didn't bother to turn. Finally, his friend said, "I really don't think he's read everything."

Abdullah said nothing. It was true, he knew, that the Shaykh wasn't an alim, one of the doctors of law, but the old man did have a lot of knowledge on other, more mundane, matters. Indeed, it was mostly because of his age that he was referred to as a 'Shaykh', but perhaps he could help Abdullah puzzle out the issues of these 'Friends.'

The door swung open with a creak and the Shaykh – old and thin, a gray beard hanging down to his chest – shuffled into view. "Peace," he said. "And if it isn't Abdullah."

"And upon you peace," the two friends replied in unison.

"The day has passed, you know," the Shaykh went on in a kindly tone. "The day you were waiting for, remember? The one you kept asking about every single hour, even though it would have been much easier for you to just count down each morning from the time I had said there were only ten days to go."

Abdullah felt his cheeks burn. Perhaps he should just go, perhaps he was too stupid to learn about anything more important than how to milk a cow.

Noticing the young man's discomfort, the Shaykh smiled. "But what does it matter? It was always nice to have a young one come to the Library. Sometimes I feel it's only ever a refuge for two elites – those steeped in knowledge, and those seeking to escape their lives through words."

Abdullah blinked, confused.

"Forgive my rambling," the Shaykh went on. "What is it I can do for you today?"

Shuffling uncomfortably, the carpet brushing against the soles of his sandals, Abdullah smiled, then said, "I need to find a 'Friend.'"

The Shaykh raised an eyebrow. "In the Library?"

"No, no," Abdullah explained quickly, shaking his head. "Not that type. You know the majnun? The madman from the masjid?"

A dark shadow fell over the Shaykh's eyes. "I know of him, yes," he said, his voice strained. "I heard he passed away this morning. To Allah we belong and to Him we return."

"He told me I had to find a 'Friend',"

"Did he now?" The Shaykh's voice was flat.

Abdullah began wringing his hands together, the blunt edge of doubt nudging against his heart. "I was wondering if you knew what he meant."

The Shaykh stroked his beard, his eyes narrowed in thought. A torch crackled in a niche in the wall, popping and spitting, throwing dancing crimson shadows onto the old man's face. "I may be able to help you, insha'Allah," he said at last, his voice measured. "Though you may not like what I have to say. First, though…there's a small matter that I wish to discuss."

Happiness and relief bubbling in his heart, Abdullah said boldly, "Name it!"

"Well," the Shaykh explained. "It would seem that yesterday I had to spend most of my time rearranging all the scrolls in the Library." He peered down at the two youngsters. "Do you know why?"

Abdullah felt shame burn him once more. He hung his head low. Ali, idly scuffing his foot against the ground, began to take an intense interest in the wall.

"No?" the Shaykh teased. "Hmm…well, it would seem that a pair of young men decided to take a trip through the Library. Not only that, they attacked my person and overturned one of the tables. Shocking, isn't it?"

His jaw slack, Abdullah could only nod in glum melancholy. That was it. There was no way he would find any help here. Tears stung his eyes again, and he winced at himself angrily. Why was he so weak?

"But, of course," the Shaykh added, a twinkle in his voice. "If another pair of young men would help me undo the damage, then perhaps I will forget all about the little incident." He smiled broadly. "And perhaps I could help those young men with their little endeavour, too? Hmm?"

Closing his eyes, his body sagging with relief, Abdullah could do nothing but agree wholeheartedly. The task took them all most of the day from the noon prayer to the mid-afternoon one. Ali, as per usual, complained, pointing out that their absence would be noticed. Abdullah tried to reassure him, but found the whole matter heavy going himself. Neither he nor Ali had been taught to read so the Shaykh careful instructions on how and where the scrolls should be placed did nothing more than bewilder him. Parchments rustled against each other, scroll handles clicking as they were slid into place, and the air was filled with a musty scent, dust tickling their eyes, firelight stroking their cheeks.

Finally they finished, and Abdullah and Ali collapsed into a heap, their muscles weary, hunger gnawing at their stomachs. The Shaykh, a thin smile on his face, wandered around the room, inspecting everything with a sharp eye. Abdullah felt a vice pinch his heart whenever the Shaykh stopped to peer up at a scroll – what if he'd made a mistake? What if they had to do it all again? In the end, though, his fears melted when the Shaykh turned to them and said, "A good job, my friends. Masha'Allah, a very good job indeed!"

Whereas the day before the Library had been plunged in darkness, today the blinds had been raised from the windows, and the two friends saw that sunset was fast approaching, the sky outside blurred scarlet, the clouds haloed with a lining of gold. At the far end of a room, hidden behind a curtain, they could hear the chant of the Qur'an reciters - soft,feminine, but crisp, too -the faint sound floating in the air.

"The Ustadha is holding a class," the Shaykh explained when he noticed their glances. "We would do well not to disturb them." Turning to the rows of books and scrolls, his eyes scanned the titles, the ink of the stylised handwriting now dry, tapping his chin with one finger as he searched. "Now then…the 'Friends'…ah!" He slid a leather bound tome from the shelf, the books parallel falling against each other with a soft thud, then sank into a chair, drawing a table close to him.

Laying the book flat on the table, he pushed it forward slightly, then peered down at it. "I think this may help." He then reached for the floor, his hand rummaging around in a small sack, then pulled free a blue bottle, liquid sloshing inside. "Where are my manners? A drink? Pomegranate juice… from the finest yield."

The two young men sat patiently. "No, thank you," Ali ventured, "may Allah reward you well, oh Shaykh."

The Shaykh shrugged, then opened the book. "The Friends…" he murmured. Abdullah noticed that the Shaykh's face was now half-hidden in shadow thanks to the failing light. Somehow, though he didn't know why, this chilled his heart, and he almost would have shivered if the Library itself wasn't already so warm; a warmth that pulled at his eye-lids, making him feel drowsy. The Shaykh trailed a finger down one page, dust trailing behind it, then stopped suddenly. He jabbed his finger at the relevant sentence. "Here we are…tassawuf. Hmm…" He began to read: "Have you seen the one who speaks like so: Islam says this and Islam says that, but never speaks about Allah this and Allah that? What a wonder!"

Brow creasing, the Shaykh shook his head. Abdullah leaned forward, rapt with attention.

The Shaykh read on: "Have you seen the one who says 'Islam is beautiful' but his heart hasn't yet beheld the beauty of Allah? A marvel!" Chewing his lip, the Shaykh said, "Ajeeb!" He tapped his finger on the page, then continued to read: "And have you seen the one whose heart blossoms with love when he performs an act of obedience, but does not reflect on the meaning of it? For the love he feels is created by Allah and tells us of Allah's love for Himself. Creation is full of meanings; meanings that tells us something about our Lord, if you would but polish your heart and look!"

Glancing up, the Shaykh looked from Abdullah to Ali. "Nonsense." He sniffed, shuffling in his chest. "Are you sure you want me to continue?"

"Please," Abdullah replied. For some reason his heart thudded in his chest.

"Hmm." The Shaykh was almost growling now. Abdullah briefly wondered where the kindly old man that had met them at the door had gone to. He glanced surreptitiously at Ali, who gave the briefest of shrugs in response. Taking in a deep breath, the Shaykh reached forward, swiped the bottle from the table, unplugged the cork, and then took a quick sip. He peered down at the waxy yellow page, crackling as he touched it. He read on: "Know this! We were created to worship because through worship we know Allah. Everything in our deen is designed to help us in this aim. Following the Law to the letter with complete sincerity opens up the paths of the heart. The meaning of His words 'I have created men and jinn only to worship me' means "only to know Me." This interpretation has reached us through a chain from Ibn Abbas himself, may Allah be pleased with him – only the hard of heart can deny it."

The Shaykh coughed as dust caught in his chest. Abdullah glanced once more at his friend, saw that his eyes were wide with excitement as much as his own.

The Shaykh went on as the shadows lengthened. "Our father Adam, Allah grant him peace, knew all the Names of Allah – And He taught Adam the Names, all of them – and so he could see His Names reflected in Creation and in His own self, thus he became the khilafah – the very representative – of Allah on the Earth, and thus he earned Jannah."

Pausing briefly for another sip, the Shaykh continued: "The universe reflects the Names, and the human being was created to decipher the Names, but the Names are only revealed to and reflected in a polished heart, one that has subdued his nafs, his very ego. This has reached us from the shuyukh of the Path, this is what the Shaykh al-Akbar and Rumi taught. We shall show them Our signs on the horizon and within their own selves until they know that He is the Truth. That we have this potential to know Him and to be His representatives is why He loves us so – melancholy is not our lot, our existence is continuous joy, praise and gratitude. How could it not, when every day there is always something to learn about the Eternal, when everything in Creation has a meaning related to Him? Time is short! Find yourself a Friend of Allah who can show you how to find Him. The Prophets donned the robes of this khilafate, as did the Companions of the Chosen One, as did the Friends-"

The Shaykh snapped the book shut, a puff of dust pluming into the air. Abdullah blinked, dazed, the world coming back to him in a rush. An eerie scarlet cloak hooded the Shaykh's face now, and outside the window Abdullah could see the clouds churning in twilight's purple light, candles and lanterns from the city winking into life with a soft glow. "Why did you stop?" the young man asked.

"Deviants." The Shaykh spat the word as though he had something bitter on his tongue. "This isn't the way. All you need to do is to obey Allah."

Abdullah felt molten anger run through his veins. He bit down – it would be a severe breach of adab to speak back. Controlling his breathing, he said, "But they mentioned the Qur'an. And Rumi-"

"-was mistaken," the Shaykh said. "He was just a man. He can err."

Abdullah sat back, shocked. His mother, before her death, had always regaled him with tales from Rumi's Mathnawi, tales that had delighted a long buried part of his heart, and to hear of him spoken of in such a cold matter cut into his soul. But, more urgently, was the question that had risen to the front of this thoughts - was Rumi a Friend?

"Is something the matter?" The new voice was gentle, feminine. The trio turned to the curtain, saw it flutter slightly from the draught.

"It's nothing, Ustadha," the Shaykh replied. "I was just answering some queries."

"And who is asking?"

"Abdullah…a kitchen boy…I was merely," here he twitched, "merely humouring him."

"He won't learn that way," the Ustadha replied. Her voice was clipped, formal, but still gentle. "Bring him here."

The trio walked over to the curtain, then sat on the ground. The Shaykh glanced at the two boys, then pointed at the floor. Understanding instantly, Ali and Abdullah lowered their gaze, keeping their eyes fixed, their heads low.

"What is it," the Ustadha asked, "that you wish to know?"

Abdullah swallowed, his throat tight. "Mother," he said, his voice hushed. "I wish to know of the Friends of Allah."

There was the slightest of gasps from behind the curtain. "An immense matter," she replied. There was a pause, then, "Do you know that mankind is split into three? Those of the Left Hand; their fate is clear. Those of the Right – and these, if Allah wills, is ourselves. The righteous who wish for reward and fear punishment. Perhaps you've met many."

Blinking, Abdullah felt a weight lift from his chest, felt a tight knot unravel, leaving only sweet relief. This was certainly who the pious ones of the masjid where. He was glad that they were not so lost after all. "I have," he whispered.

"And the last group - those Foremost, Nearest to Allah."

Abdullah picked at the carpet. "Who are they?"

There was a smile in the Ustadha's voice when she replied. "They are the ones who know Allah, who worship Him for Him to know Him and to seek Him. They know the meaning of His words 'Allah created you and all you do' and they know the secret of His words 'It was not you who threw when you threw, but Allah who threw when you threw.'"

"What is it that they know?"

"They know that their actions belong not to them, that Allah creates their acts of ibadah for them, simply out of His concern for them." Another pause, then, "They know they are not in control, the veil of illusion lifting from them. They know that Allah, out of His pure Generosity, created their acts of ibadah only so that He would be worshipped and so He could become known." Another silence, as though she were reflecting. "Once this is realised in their hearts, once they melted in gratitude because of what Allah was doing for them, they could do nothing but fall in love with their Lord." Her voice seemed to break, but she quickly recovered. "Do you know how to escape Wrath, oh Abdullah?"

"No, mother."

"It's when you no longer see yourself in your good actions, that you only see, with the eye of your heart, Allah Himself creating your good actions even as you perform them. It is that you worship Him as if you see Him. Others, whose tawhid is on their lips and not in their hearts, they are the ones who suffer Wrath – in reality, Rahma – because they need to be purified before they return to Allah." There was a shift in her voice. "Oh Shaykh! Read from the page in front of you."

The Shaykh cleared his throat. The darkness was thick now, and his body a mere outline. "True freedom," he read, "is when you are a slave to no created thing – especially your own nafs."

"And again!"

"There is no islam until both your inward and your outward have submitted."

A sob escaped from behind the curtain. "We should never be content to just be those of the Right, and we certainly must not be content for us to be of the Left – we should aim to be of the Foremost, then let the Mercy of Allah speed us to our destiny."

The call to prayer pierced the air like a speeding arrow, faint and strong at the same time. "Mother," Abdullah asked quickly. "How do I find a Friend?"

"Oh, Shaykh!" the Ustadha replied, her voice so light that Abdullah thought it may even float. "Read again!"

"All you have to do to find the one you seek," the Shaykh read, " is but ask."