Forty Rules of Love(62)

And what happened to those who took the plunge?





Sultan Walad





KONYA, SEPTEMBER 4, 1245

Being his older brother, I have always worried for Aladdin, but never as much as I do now. He has always had a quick temper, even as a toddler, but lately he is more quarrelsome and easily incensed. Ready to squabble over almost anything, no matter how senseless or small, he is so petulant these days that even the children on the street take fright when they see him coming. Only seventeen, he has creases around his eyes from frowning and squinting too much. Just this morning I noticed a new wrinkle next to his mouth from holding it in a tight line all the time.

I was busy writing on sheepskin parchment when I heard a faint rattling sound behind me. It was Aladdin, his lips set in a tense scowl. God knows how long he had been standing there like that, watching me with a strained look in his brown eyes. He asked me what I was doing.

“I’m copying an old lecture of our father’s,” I said. “It’s good to have an extra copy of every one of them.”

“What’s the use of it?” Aladdin exhaled loudly. “Father has stopped giving lectures or sermons. In case you haven’t noticed, he doesn’t teach at the madrassa either. Don’t you see he has thrust aside all his responsibilities?”

“This is a temporary situation,” I said. “He’ll soon start teaching again.”

“You are only fooling yourself. Don’t you see that our father doesn’t have time for anything or anyone other than Shams? Isn’t that funny? The man is supposed to be a wandering dervish, but he has taken root in our house.”

Aladdin emitted a chuckle, waiting for me to agree with him, but when I said nothing, he started pacing the room. Even without looking at him, I could feel the angry blaze in his eyes.

“People are gossiping,” Aladdin went on morosely. “They are all asking the same question: How can a respected scholar let himself be manipulated by a heretic? Our father’s reputation is like ice melting under the sun. If he doesn’t get a hold of himself soon, he might never be able to find students again in this town. Nobody would want him as a teacher. And I wouldn’t blame them.”

I placed the parchment aside and looked at my brother. He was only a boy, really, although his every gesture and expression said he felt on the edge of manhood. He had changed a lot since last year, and I was beginning to suspect he could be in love. Just who the girl could be, I didn’t know, and his close friends wouldn’t tell me.

“Brother, I realize you don’t like Shams, but he is a guest in our house and we ought to respect him. Don’t listen to what others say. Honestly, we shouldn’t make a mountain out of a molehill.”

As soon as these words came from my mouth, I regretted my patronizing tone. But it was too late. Like bone-dry wood, Aladdin easily catches fire.

“A molehill?!” Aladdin snorted. “Is that what you call this calamity that has befallen us? How can you be so blind?”

I took out another parchment, caressing its delicate surface. It always gave me tremendous pleasure to reproduce my father’s words and to think that in doing so I was helping them to last longer. Even after a hundred years passed, people could read my father’s teachings and be inspired by them. To play a role in this transmission, however small a role it might be, made me proud.

Still complaining, Aladdin stood next to me and glanced at my work, his eyes brooding and bitter. For a fleeting moment, I saw a longing in his eyes and recognized the face of a boy in need of his father’s love. With a plunging heart, I realized it wasn’t Shams he was truly angry at. It was my father.

Aladdin was angry at my father for not loving him enough and for being who he was. My father could be distinguished and famous, but he had also been utterly helpless in the face of the death that had taken our mother at such a tender age.

“They say Shams put a spell on our father,” Aladdin said. “They say he was sent by the Assassins.”

“The Assassins!” I protested. “That is nonsense.”

The Assassins were a sect famous for their meticulous killing methods and extensive use of poisonous substances. Targeting influential people, they murdered their victims in public, so as to plant fear and panic in people’s hearts. They had gone as far as leaving a poisoned cake in Saladin’s tent with a note that said You are in our hands. And Saladin, this great commandeer of Islam who had fought bravely against the Christian Crusaders and recaptured Jerusalem, had not dared to fight against the Assassins, preferring to make peace with them. How could people think Shams could be linked with this sect of terror?