The Winding Ascent

Chapter 3

Abdullah found himself in an ever familiar position: standing with his head low, his insides shrivelling with humiliation as Mina scolded him, her words cracking the air like a whip.

The mistress of the kitchens glared down at him, her hands on her hips. "Late!" she snapped. "Not once today, but thrice! Three times!"

Behind her, set into the wall, a fire crackled, tendrils of flame licking the blackened stone as the other maids and scullions watched, silent as the pyre cloaked their faces with flickering honeyed light, while they hid their smiles behind their hands. Abdullah felt his ears burn as resentment rose like a tide, engulfing his heart. His clothes clung to him and he had to bite down, resisting the urge to scratch his skin.

Mina's blue eyes blazed out from under her hijab. "And, as usual, you neglected to watch where you were going when you decided to leave the kitchens in a huff. Broken crockery everywhere!" She paused for breath. "That is your punishment for this afternoon- you'll be clearing all that up just before you start on cleaning duty at the stables."

His instinctive reaction to grimace vanished as a jolt of alarm hit his heart. Abdullah snapped his head up quickly. "Not this afternoon!" he pleaded. "I was going to go the Amphitheatre today; I saved up for weeks, you know that. Please!"

Seeing the lines around Mina's eyes soften slightly, he pressed home his advantage. "I'll clean the stables today, tomorrow and the day after – if you'd just let me go to the Amphitheatre this afternoon." It was a tremendous sacrifice, he knew, and he wasn't looking forward to being knee-deep in filth for all that time, but he equally wasn't about to let go of this chance that he'd been waiting so very long for.

A flicker of doubt crossed Mina's face then, with a shake of her head in resignation, she said, "Very well. Be off you, then. But if you break your promise, you'll be in the stables for the rest of your life, clear?"

Abdullah grinned. "I won't break it!" he said. "Thank you, Mina."

She waved him away, turning back to the others and barking out, "And what are you all looking at? Back to work!" She clapped her hands, once, twice. "Chop chop!"

Abdullah bounded down the spiralling staircase that led to the lower levels of the palace, his footsteps ringing out against the stone, the cool air a sharp reflection to the smothering heat he'd just endured.

It had been months since his visit to the Shaykh in the Library and his initial enthusiasm had been snuffed out by the whirl and humdrum of everyday life. The words he'd absorbed, then fresh with a piercing clarity, had now become dull and indistinct, like watching the faint traces of a mountaintop in the distance, as though the mountain itself were a painting.

Painting. The thought prodded at a memory and, like a flood of pent-up water released from a dam, some of the words returned. Prodded on by the Ustadha, the Shaykh had, somewhat reluctantly, continued to read for a little while longer after they'd performed the sunset prayer, and Abdullah remembered that the text had expounded further on the matter of Allah Names and the universe.

"When you see a painter creating a painting of a landscape know that this is only happening through Allah's Name, the Creator. When you see a wind tearing apart fields well-tended, uprooting orchards planted with care, know that this is only happening through Allah's Name, the Powerful and, depending on the state of the owners of those plantations, it may even have occurred through His Name, the Avenger. Everything is existing through one or more of Allah's Names, if you would but look."

Abdullah paused mid-step to gaze through another slit of a window. He was still high up and could see the tips of the forest beyond the city's gates, could see them stroke the sky as they swayed gently in the breeze, silent sentinels to the bustle of life all that surrounded them.

If he squinted hard enough, he could just make out the shimmering crystal blue form of Lake Zaytun as the sun beat down on it, waves lapping the shore in lazy strokes. Tipped with a halo of sparkling haze through which birds were soaring, the lake seemed as remote as the idea of ever finding a Friend.

More words dropped into Abdullah's memories: "Time is short! The universe reflects His Names, and you were created to decipher those Names, so that you would come to know Him. The trail is dangerous, filled with thorns, but a safe path has already been made – the way of the Prophet, upon him be blessings and peace."

A large maid, a quivering mountain of dirty laundry in her arms, came into view, breaking Abdullah out of his musings. He shifted to one side, casting his gaze upon the floor, and let her pass. As her footsteps faded behind him, he picked up the thread of thoughts.

"The Prophet!" the Shaykh had read. "He knew Allah, he was the true khalifah of Allah, but he also knew how to reach the Lord, and that's what he had been charged to deliver to us. Whatever he bid you do will help you in your aim, whatever he forbade you is a poison to the heart that will make you lose true sight – do not underestimate any wrong action! Do not be content to be of those still in islam – their actions conditioned only by reward and punishment and nothing more – but be the people of ihsan, of excellence. The former are blessed as are the latter, but if the former think that what they have is all there is of the deen, that there is nothing higher than what they've reached – ah, then they have truly underestimated Allah! The Friends of Allah have inherited from the Prophet, upon him be blessings and peace, and can show you the way…"

Abdullah let out a breath. He'd tried, subhanAllah, how he had tried! Fasting for three days in a row, he'd asked Allah in every single prayer to bring him one of His Friends. Each day Abdullah waited in eager anticipation, as though the Friend would appear in a puff of smoke, and each day he'd been disappointed.

In the distance, Abdullah watched a bird swoop down through the sky, disappear into the haze, then peck the water, gliding back up gracefully, a silver fish wriggling in its beak. What did it all mean? He couldn't see the Names of Allah anywhere around him – so why should anyone else be able to?

And besides, he was barely a true worshipper, how could someone like him become a Knower? No, it had been a silly idea altogether- he felt the familiar burn of foolish shame tighten around his insides – and he was better off without it.

The words, the whole notion of finding a Friend, all of it now seemed like a distant dream, smouldering ashes glowing on a dead fire. He had, he mused, as he finally made his way down then out into the streets, far more pressing matters at hand.

The sting of Mina's rebuke still bit at him, and Abdullah dragged his feet, kicking stones, all thoughts of Friends lost. Fractured sunlight stroked his face as the spicy scent of the town floated in the air towards them – musk and incense twining with the tang of rotted fruit and the mouthwatering aroma of roasted meat.

A steady hum of buzzing voices - irritated shouts mixed with the eager cries of the traders, honey pouring from their tongues as they tried to coax people to buy their wares – drenched the air. It had rained the previous night and water dripped from the rooftops in torrents, tapping rhythmically against the ground, the occasional droplet catching the glint of the sun.

There was one constant in every person and place Abdullah's eyes rested upon – the Ivory Horn. He wasn't quite sure what it did exactly, but all he knew was it was everywhere. People hung it from their belts like a trophy, or displayed it in their shop windows or in the centre of their homes; some, daringly, used it to play music on, entertaining all around them.

City Criers, newly appointed by the Caliph, spoke through it, the Horn amplifying their voices almost a hundred times louder than usual, telling the hushed crowds about the latest Outlander raid upon the Believers, the number died, and sometimes even the horrible manner of their death. A chill washed over the youngster as he recalled each announcement; remembering how the listening women had drawn their children close to them, fear dancing their eyes.

The grumbling protests of those that found the Horn a remarkably silly thing had been silenced as people pointed out that without it, how could they learn of what was going on in the world in such a short time?

And what a world it was. Listening to the Criers always filled Abdullah with despair, tarring his heart with a darkness that shut out any shaft of light. How, he mused, could this sick, twisted world be any reflection of the Names of Allah if such ugliness occurred each and every day?

But that, again, was the least of Abdullah's worries. The only thing that mattered to him now was that everyone else had an Ivory Horn and he did not. Envy fought with hope in his heart, and he remembered that a visit to the Amphitheatre wasn't the only thing he was saving his hard earned coin for. As soon as he had enough money, he would buy the best Horn ever – then, he concluded, people wouldn't look down on him anymore. Joy plumed in his heart like a fountain, an intoxicating sensation that almost made him giddy. Yes, as soon as he had the Horn, life would be so much better.

With a smile on his face, the kitchen boy trotted over to the Amphitheatre.

*

It had been an impressive feat. To house the now regular tournaments and games that drew the people of Castleton in droves, the Caliph had ordered the construction of a massive structure now known as the Amphitheatre. Named after a similar building the Outlanders had, the people now felt that they were on an equal footing with the People of the Book in at least one matter of the dunya.

His first visit to the cavernous building, Abdullah, jostled here and there in amongst the crowds, dearly wished Ali was here to share it with him. His friend, though, had not been lucky in his errands for the day and had had to decline.

Lips pursed, the throb of noise drilling into his very bones, Abdullah stood on the tips of his toes to get a better sight. And what a sight it was…

The Castleton Amphitheatre was awash with colour; curling ribbons of a myriad shade swooped through the air, cutting a path through the spinning rain of confetti and silk. Sharp sunlight, golden and twinkling, streaked through the flawlessly blue, cloudless sky as a wave of noise, eager and in merry spirits, rumbled from within the massive building.

It was, Abdullah mused as she took in a deep breath, an exhilarating sight, more so because it was such a pleasant day, too. A tingle of anticipation touched the small of his back, his fingers drumming against his thigh as we waited to see what would come.

"Is it a joust today?" he said to no-one in particular.

A pudgy man nearby, eyes twinkling with excitement, smiled at him. Abdullah had to strain to see him. "Not today, no," the man replied. "Today is a race. A horse race. Today we get to see Khubayb."

"Khubayb…" Abdullah tested the name out on his tongue. "Who's that?"

"One of the riders," the man said, rubbing his hands. "The best…ah, if I had a daughter I'd marry her off to him in an instant." His eyes seemed to spring open. "Here he comes now!"

Abdullah strained his neck to get a peek. It was difficult; at first, he saw nothing but a blurred patch of sand poking out from in front of the heaving mass of men in front of him. Then, finally, he saw him - an immaculately dressed rider, held aloft on a bier, entered the arena, beard glistening and turban almost glowing. Abdullah felt his breath catch in his heart - but more than that, he noticed the whispered awe that rippled around the crowd. That was it. He was enraptured. He wagered, with a twinge in his heart, that a person as grand as Khubayb would never shatter crockery or be forced to work in the stables.

Two other riders appeared – he quickly learned that their names were Amaar and Sayim – but Abdullah hopes were only set on Khubayb. Sitting astride his mare, Khubayb soaked in the adoration of the crowd, waving and smiling all the while. Abdullah almost melted – what a life that would be.

He licked his lips, trying to still the itch of impatience that thrummed through his body as the riders took their places. Abdullah felt tense, edgy. Anticipation churned in his stomach. The voice of the crowd became nothing more than a dull throb, the world falling away in his eyes. He swallowed but no moisture came to his mouth.

Khalifah of Allah…

Abdullah blinked. Where had that thought come? He tried to bat it, just as he swatted at a fly buzzing close to his face, but he found that no matter how hard he pushed, the thought had lodged in his heart. It was there at the back of his mind, tickling him with a sense of uneasiness that threatened to overshadow the happiness he was feeling. Abdullah, in a valiant effort, desperately tried to ignore it, tried to cling on to his more positive emotions.

I am happy. I am enjoying myself.

A man, an Ivory Horn at his lips, stood in the centre of the track.

"Three!" he called.

Abdullah wiped his sweaty palms on the front of his tunic.

"Two!"

He could hear the rush of his own blood pumping in his chest. He ignored it.

"One!"

Not for this were you created…

"Go!"

The crowd roared, all thoughts melted and, in an instant, Abdullah imagined himself in Khubayb's place, dust churning under galloping hooves and flecks of grit, riding the oncoming wind, flying into his face. The rhythmic thuds drummed into his mind and Abdullah could feel his face contort into a rigid scowl, teeth clenched as he willed his chosen one on to victory.

"Oh, Allah," he whispered under his breath. "Let Khubayb win."

The riders veered around the first corner, close enough to the crowd that they could hear the spectators jeers, cheers and taunts. Abdullah saw Khubayb snap his head around, catching a glimpse of Amaar on his heels, then turning back instantly. To his left was Sayim, his horse snorting head as he inched into the lead.

A spike of icy fear stroked Abdullah’s heart, threatening to pierce through and let despair run free. He was going to lose the lead! With a cry of joy, he saw Khubayb kick his heels, and crushed the treacherous thought like a snuffed flame.

Another corner approached and Khubayb, the sun on his back, pulled to the left, hoping to cut across the Sayim’s path. Clods of baked mud flew into the air, scratching his skin, but the charismatic rider seemed to ignore it all.

Abdullah's heart froze once more as he saw Khubayb's mare draw level with Sayim's, saw him flex his knuckles as he prepared to pull ahead. Closer now – Abdullah imagined he could hear the panting of the two horses, the rumble of their hooves like thunder, the sand-stained ground beneath a blur.

Another jolt struck Abdullah, a gasp flying free from his lips, as he saw Khubayb slip, his horse careening dangerously, almost toppling over.

I'll weep! Abdullah vowed inwardly. I'll weep if he loses, and and…I'll never worship again! He shook his head instantly, the familiar heat of shame boiling in his cheeks. No…I'll just…I'll be bitterly unhappy, that's all.

Snarling, Khubayb righted himself, then gave chase. He took another corner, smoothly this time, and the final stretch of track, awash with sunlight, came into view. Onwards he pushed, his shoulders clearly aching from the effort. Sayim was in his line of sight, Amaar far behind. Like felled trees rising from the dead, the crowd rose to their feet, Abdullah amongst them, their cries at fever-pitch.

Khubayb's gasping ride reached Sayim’s horse, going level with its hind legs. The finish line was drawing nearer and nearer and…

“Rah!” Khubayb yelled, squeezing the last bit of strength into his efforts. Watching with wide eyes, the world spun in Abdullah's vision, sweat pouring down his face. Khubayb's horse veered slightly to the right. All that was needed was a little…extra…push…and…

…Abdullah erupted with pure joy as Khubayb crossed the finish line. A song burst from his lips, and he almost danced from sheer happiness. From the corner of his eye he saw the supporters of the other riders weep, and he grinned, satisfied.

At least for a moment, that is. His sense of well-being quickly began to evaporate, like the unravelling of a ball of string. A smile still on his face, he watched as Khubayb's right hand lifted a trophy, his other hand shaking a fat sack full brimming over with gold coins. For some reason, Abdullah felt compelled to look down at his own hands…and saw nothing but emptiness.

An emptiness that was now beginning to seep into his heart, a dark liquid that clouded soul. Abdullah ignored it. He was happy. He was content. As he began to walk away, working out exactly how he was going to taunt Ali for missing the spectacle, a part of him couldn't quite decide what to choose – a life adored as a rider, or a life saving up his meagre earnings to attend more of the same games. How was a lowly kitchen boy meant to choose?

People pushed past him, their faces reflecting the delight he himself felt. "I haven't cried like this since my mother died," one man was saying. "I didn't even weep as much as this when my mother died," another replied.

That struck Abdullah as odd, but he decided he didn't want to dwell on it. He wished he could capture the clouds of his joy in a bottle, then unplug them any time he wanted. He would need to, too, considering he was going to be spending most of his time in the stables for the next few days.

Sad, then, that those very feelings were fading fast, like the blunted edge of a once razor sharp sword. Somewhere deep inside of him, something gnawed at him, something that, if he had any insight, he would have expressed in the following words: Not for this were you created, Oh Khalifah of Allah!