R.W. III - The Dark Design
"Be that as it may, it is up to you to decide if you will be disheartened by my refusing you at this time. Try me later. When you know that you are at least a fit candidate."
Frigate was silent for a long while. Nur put the flute to his lips and presently a weird wailing, rising and falling, issued. Nur was never without the instrument when off duty. Sometimes he would content himself with short pieces, lyrics, presumably. Other times, he would sit cross-legged on top of the forecastle for hours, the flute silent, his eyes closed. At such time, his request that he not be interrupted was honored. Frigate knew that Nur was putting himself into some sort of trance then. But so far he had not asked him more than one question about it.
Nur had said, "You need not know. As yet."
Nur-ed-din ibn Ali el-Hallaq (Light-of-the-faith, son of Ali the barber) fascinated Frigate. Nur had been born in 1164 A.D. in Cordoba, held by the Moslems since 711 A.D. Moorish Iberia was then near the apotheosis of Saracenic civilization, which Nur had beheld in all its glory. Christian Europe, compared to the brilliant culture of the Moslems, was still in the Dark Ages. Art, science, philosophy, medicine, literature, poetry flourished in the great centers of population of Islam. The Western cities: Iberian Cordoba, Seville, and Granada, and the Eastern cities: Baghdad and Alexandria, had no rivals, except in faraway China.
The wealthy Christians sent their sons to the Iberian universities to get an education unobtainable in London, Paris, and Rome. The sons of the poor went there to beg for bread while they learned. And from these schools the Christians went back to transmit what they had imbibed at the feet of the robed masters.
Moorish Iberia was a strange and splendid country, ruled by men who differed in degree of faith and dogmatism. Some were intolerant and harsh. Others were broadminded, tolerant enough to appoint Christians and Jews as their viziers, inclined to the arts and the sciences, welcoming all foreigners, eager to learn from them, soft on matters of religion.
Nur's father plied his trade in the vast palace outside Cordoba, the near city of Medinat az-Zahra. In Nur's time this had been fabled throughout the world, but in Frigate's there was scarcely a trace left. Nur was born there and teamed his father's craft. He desired to be something else, and, since he was bright, his father used his connections with his wealthy patrons to advance his son. Having demonstrated his aptitude for literature, music, mathematics, alchemy, and theology, Nur went to the best school in Cordoba. There he mingled with the rich and the poor, the important and the insignificant, the Northern Christian and the Nubian black.
It was also there that he met Muyid-ed-din ibn el-Arabi. This young man was to become the greatest love poet of his times, and echoes of his songs would be found in those of the Provencal and German troubadours. The rich and handsome youth, liking the poor and ugly son of a barber, invited him in 1202 to accompany him to a pilgrimage to Mecca. During the journey through North Africa, they met a group of Persian immigrants, Sufis. Nur had encountered this discipline before, but talking to the Persians decided him to be a disciple. However, at the moment, he found no master who would accept his petition for candidacy. Nur continued with el-Arabi to Egypt, where both were accused of heresy by fanatics and narrowly escaped being murdered.
After completing their hajj in Mecca, they journeyed to Palestine, Syria, Persia, and, India. This took four years, at the end of which they returned to their native city, spending a year on the voyage. In Cordoba both were, for a time, the pupils of the Sufi woman, Fatima bint Waliyya. The Sufis regarded men and women as being equal and so scandalized the orthodox. These were sure that if men and women mingled socially, it could only be for sexual purposes.
Fatima sent Nur to Baghdad to study under a famous master there. After some months, his master sent him back to Cordoba to another great teacher. But when the Christians took Cordoba after a savage war, Nur went with his master to Granada.
After several years there, Nur started on the series of wanderings that earned him his lackab, his nickname, el-Musafir, the Traveler. After Rome, where letters of introduction from el-Arabi and Fatima gave him safe conduct, he journeyed to Greece, to Turkey, Persia again, Afghanistan, India again, Ceylon, Indonesia, China, and Japan.
Settling down in holy Damascus, he earned his living as a musician and, as a tasawwuf or Sufi master, accepted a number of disciples. After seven years, he set out once more. He went up the Volga and across Finland and Sweden, then across the Baltic Sea to the land of the idol worshippers, the savage Prussians. Here, after escaping sacrifice to a wooden statue of a god, he made his way westward through Germany. Northern France and men England and Ireland became part of his itinerary.
At the time Nur was in London, Richard I, surnamed Coeur de Lion, was king. Richard was not in England then, being engaged in the siege of the Castle of Chalus in the Limousin, France. Richard was killed by an arrow from the castle the following month, and his brother John was crowned in May. Nur witnessed the ceremonies in the city. Some time after, he actually succeeded in gaining an audience with King John. He found him to be a charming and witty man, interested in Islam culture and in Sufism. John was especially fascinated by Nur's reports of far-off lands.
"Traveling in those days was at best arduous and dangerous," Frigate said. "Even the so-called civilized countries were no picnic. Religious hatred was prevalent. How could you, a Moslem, alone, without protection or money, travel safely in the Christian lands? Especially when the Crusades were going on then and religious hatred was endemic?"
Nur had shrugged. "Usually I put myself under the protection of the dignitaries of the state religions of those countries. And these got me civil protection. The church leaders were more concerned with heretics in their own faith than in infidels. In their own provinces, anyway.
"At other times, my very poverty was my safeguard. Robbers were not interested in me. When I traveled in rural areas, I would earn my keep and provide amusement by my flute playing and by my skill as a juggler, acrobat, and magician. Also, I am a great linguist, and I could pick up the language or the dialect of a place very quickly. I also told stories and jokes. You see, people everywhere were crazy for novelty, for entertainment. They welcomed me most places, though I did have a number of hostile receptions here and mere. What did they care if I was a Moslem? I was harmless, and I gave them joy.
"Besides, I radiated an assurance of friendliness. That is something that we can do."
Returning to Granada, and finding the atmosphere there changed, not friendly to Sufis, he had gone to Khorasan. After teaching there for several years, he made another trip to Mecca. From southern Arabia he had traveled on a trading ship to the shores of Zanzibar and then to southeast Africa. Returning to Baghdad, he lived there until his death at the age of ninety-four.
The Mongols under Hulagu, Jenghiz Khan's grandson, stormed into Baghdad, slaughtering and plundering. Within forty days, hundreds of thousands of its citizens were slain. Nur was one of them. He was sitting in his little room playing on the flute when a squat, slant-eyed, blood-drenched soldier burst in. Nur continued his song until the Mongol brought his sword down upon his neck.
"The Mongols devastated the Mideast, "Frigate had said. "Never in history has such desolation been wrought in such a short time. Before the Mongols left, they murdered half the population, and they had destroyed everything from canals to buildings. In my time, six hundred years later, the Mideast still had not recovered."
"They were indeed the Scourge of Allah," Nur had said. "Yet there were good men and women among them."
Now, sitting by the little man, watching the dark-skinned betel-nut chewers on shore, Frigate was thinking about chance. What destiny had crossed the paths of a man born in midwestern America in 1918 and of one born in Moslem Spain in 1164? Was destiny anything but chance? Probably. But the odds against this happening on Earth were infinity to one. Then the Riverworld had changed the odds, and here they were.
It was that evening, after his conversation with Nur, that all sat i
n the captain's cabin. The ship was anchored near the shore, and fish-oil lamps lit their poker game. After Tom Rider had cleaned up the final big pot – cigarettes were the stakes – they had a bull session. Nur told them two tales of the Mullah Nasruddin. Nasruddin (Eagle-of-the-Faith) was a figure of Moslem folktales, a mad dervish, a simpleton whose adventures were really lessons in wisdom.
Nur sipped on his scotch whiskey – he never drank more than two ounces a day – and said, "Captain, you've told the tale about Pat and Mike, the priest, rabbi, and minister. It's a funny story, but it does tell a person something about patterns of thinking. Pat and Mike are figures of Western folklore. Let me tell you about one from the East.
"One day a man came by the house of the Mullah Nasruddin and observed him walking around it, throwing bread crumbs on the ground.
" 'Why in the world are you doing that, Mullah?′ " the man said.
" 'I'm keeping the tigers away.'
" 'But,' the man said, 'there are no tigers around here.'
" 'Exactly. It works, doesn't it?' "
They laughed, and then Frigate said, "Nur, how old is that story?"
"It was at least two thousand years old when I was born. It originated among the Sufis as a teaching tale. Why?"
"Because," Frigate said, "I heard the same story, in a different form, in the 1950's or thereabouts. There was this Englishman, and he was kneeling in the street, chalking a line on the curb. A friend, coining along, said, 'Why are you doing that?'
" 'To keep the lions away.'
" 'But there are no lions in England.'
" 'See?' "
"By God, I heard the same story when I was a kid in Frisco," Farrington bellowed. "Only it was an Irishman then."
"Many of the instructive Nasruddin stories have become mere jokes," Nur said. "The populace tells them for fun, but they were originally meant to be taken seriously. Here's another.
"Nasruddin crossed the border from Persia to India on his donkey many times. Each time, the donkey carried large bundles of straw on his back. But when Nasruddin returned, the donkey carried nothing. Each time, the customs guard searched Nasruddin, but he could not find any contraband.
"The guard would always ask Nasruddin what he was carrying. The Mullah would always reply, 'I am smuggling,' and he would smile.
"After many years, Nasruddin retired to Egypt. The customs man went to him and said, 'Very well, Nasruddin. Tell me, now it's safe for you. What were you smuggling?'
" 'Donkeys..' "
They laughed again, and Frigate said, "I heard the same story in Arizona. Only this time the smuggler was Pancho, and he was crossing the border from Mexico to the United States."
"I suppose every story is an old one," Tom Rider drawled. "Probably started with the cave man."
"Perhaps," Nur said. "But it is a tradition that these stories were originated by the Sufis long before Mohammed was born. They are designed to teach people how to change their patterns of thinking, though they are amusing in themselves. Of course, they are used in the simplest, the first, stage of teaching by the masters.
"However, since then these tales have spread throughout East and West. I was amused to find some of them, in altered form, told in Ireland in Gaelic. By word of mouth, over thousands of leagues and two millennia of time, Nasruddin had passed from Persia to Hibernia."
"If the Sufis originated them before Mohammed," Frigate said, "then the Sufis must have been Zoroastrians in the beginning."
"Sufism is not a monopoly of Islamism," Nur said. "It was highly developed by the Moslems, but anyone who believes in God can be a Sufi candidate. However, the Sufis modify their method of teaching to conform to the local cultures. What will work for Persian Moslems in Khorasan won't necessarily work for black Moslems in the Sudan. And the difference in effective methods would be even greater for Parisian Christians. The place and the time determine the teaching."
Later, Nur and Frigate stretched their legs on land, walking around a huge bonfire through a crowd of chattering Dravidians. Frigate said, "How can you adapt your medieval Iberian-Moorish methods to teaching in this world? The people are so mixed, from everywhere and every time. There are no monolithic cultures. Besides, those that do exist are always changing."
"I am working on that," Nur said.
"Then, one of the reasons you won't take me as a disciple is that you are not ready as a teacher?"
"You can console yourself with that," Nur said, and he laughed. "But, yes, that is one reason. You see, the teacher must always be teaching himself."
Chapter 49
* * *
The grey clouds moved through the boat, filling every room.
Sam Clemens said, "Oh, no, not again!" though he did not know why he said that. The fog not only pressed against the bulkheads and seeped into everything that could absorb moisture, it rolled down his throat and enveloped his heart. The water soaked it, and drops fell off of it, dripping into his belly, gurgling down inside his groin, running over, spilling down into his legs, water-logging his feet.
He was sodden with a nameless fear which he had experienced before.
He was alone in the pilothouse. Alone in the boat. He stood by the control panel, looking out of the window. Fog shoved against it. He could see no more than an arm's length through the plastic. Yet, somehow, he knew that the banks of The River were empty of life. There was no one out there. And here he was in this gigantic vessel, the only one aboard. It didn't even need him, since the controls were set for automatic navigation.
Alone and lonely as he was, he at least could not be stopped from reaching the headwaters of The River. There was no one left in the world to oppose him.
He turned and began pacing back and forth from bulkhead to bulkhead of the pilothouse. How long was this journey going to take? When would the fog lift and the sun shine brightly and the mountains surrounding the polar sea be revealed? And when would he hear another human voice, see another face?
"Now!" someone bellowed.
Sam jumped straight up as if springs had been unsnapped beneath his feet. His heart opened and closed as swiftly as the beating of a hummingbird's wings. It pumped out water and fear, forming a puddle around his feet. Somehow, without being aware of it, he had spun around and was facing the owner of the voice. It was a shadowy figure in the clouds swirling in the pilothouse. It moved toward him, stopped, and reached out a vague arm. A pseudopod flicked a switch on the panel.
Sam tried to cry out, "No! No!" The words ran into each other in his throat and shattered as if they were made of thin glass.
Though it was too dim to see which control the figure had touched, he knew that the boat was now set on a course which would send it full speed into the left bank.
Finally, the words came . . . screeching.
"You can't do that!"
Silently, the shadowy mass advanced. Now he could see that it was a man. It was the same height as he, but its shoulders were much broader. And on one shoulder was a long wooden shaft. At its end was a truncated triangle of steel.
"Erik Bloodaxe!" he cried.
Now began the terrible chase. He fled through the boat, through every room of the three-tiered pilothouse, across the flight deck, down the ladder into the hangar deck and through every one of its rooms, down a ladder and through every room of the hurricane deck, down a ladder and through every room of the main deck, down a ladder and into the vast boiler deck.
Here, aware of the waters pressing against the hull, aware that he was below the surface of The River, he ran through the many rooms, large and small. He passed between the giant electric motors turning the paddlewheels which were driving the vessel toward destruction. Desperately, he tried to get into the large compartment holding the two launches. He would rip the wires out of the motor of one and take the other out into The River and so leave his sinister pursuer behind. But someone had locked the door.
Now he was crouching in a tiny compartment, trying to slow his rasping breath. Then, the hatch
opened. Erik Bloodaxe's figure loomed in the greyness. It moved slowly toward him, the great axe held in both hands.
"I told you,'' Erik said, and he lifted the axe. Sam was powerless to move, to protest. After all, this was his own fault. He deserved it.
Chapter 50
* * *
He awoke moaning. The cabin lights were on, and Gwenafra's beautiful face and long honey-blonde hair were above him.
"Sam! Wake up! You've been having another nightmare!"
"He almost got me that time," he mumbled.
He sat up. Whistles were shrilling on the decks. A minute later, the intercom unit shrilled. The boat would soon be heading for a grailstone and breakfast. Sam liked to sleep late, and he would just as soon have missed breakfast. But as captain it was his duty to rise with the others.
He got out of bed and shambled into the head. After a shower and tooth-brushing, he came out. Gwenafra was already in her early-morning outfit, looking like an eskimo who had traded her furs for towels. Sam got into a similar suit but left his hood down to put on his captain's cap. He lit a corona and blew smoke while he paced back and forth.
Gwenafra said, "Did you have another nightmare about Bloodaxe?"
"Yes," he said. "Give me some coffee, will you?"
Gwenafra dropped a teaspoonful of dark crystals into a grey metal cup. The water boiled as the crystals released both heat and caffeine. He took the cup, saying, "Thanks."
She sipped her coffee, then said,' "There's no reason to feel guilty about him."
"That's what I've told myself a thousand times," Sam said. "It's irrational, but when did knowing that ever make a fellow feel better? It's the irrational in us that drives us. The Master of Dreams has about as much brains as a hedgehog. But he's a great artist, witless though he is, like many an artist I've known. Perhaps including yours truly."