Ollie's Cloud (11 page)

Chapter 7

Awaking. Drenched with sweat. Gasping for air. The nightmare clings to him. Even as his eyes dart from wall to floor to sleeping mat, Jalal cannot shake the feeling that he has fallen from heaven and landed back in the madrisih.

Taqi, his roommate, watches him struggle for breath. “Are you all right?”

“No,” Jalal replies. “I am without hope. I don’t know how to escape this prison.”

“You mean the school?”

“I am suffocating here. They give me no room to breathe.”

“They are just trying to give us a pattern for thinking.”

“No, Taqi, they are trying to get us to repeat
their
thoughts without thinking for ourselves.”

“Is that so bad? Your thinking may be flawed.”

“How would
they
know? They don’t listen!”

“You believe they are wrong?”

“I believe they are giving us answers to questions that don’t matter, and I believe they have forgotten the important questions.”

Jalal remembers the Shaykhi—the old man named Kujiri—and the memory comforts him. He revisits that memorable day—the day he learned about the ideas of the Shaykhis and backed down Mulla Ibrahim in the caravanserai. And then he understands what he must do to escape. Somehow, he must find a Shaykhi in Mashhad. Such a person could be the antidote for the anesthesia of the madrisih.

Just then a large man enters the room, startling both of the boys. The man is about the same age as Jalal’s father but wears a green turban, the symbol of a Siyyid—a direct descendent of the Prophet Muhammad. His face is long and lean with many creases like the rays of the sun emanating from each of his eyes.
Those eyes!
Jalal can see an inner light illuminating them—no, probably just his own imagination. The man smiles, and when he speaks his voice is soft and gentle. “Jalal?”

“Yes.”

The man stands, uncoiling his frame, which is much larger than Jalal had imagined. “My name is Siyyid Mahmud of Mashhad. I have a message for you.”

Jalal has been holding his breath. Now he lets it out. “From my father?” he asks expectantly.

“When I told the mullas I was delivering a message to you, they assumed it was from your father. I’m afraid I did not correct them.”

“But—if the message is not from my father…”

“It is from someone you have not met but who knows of you. I was asked to deliver it in person to be certain that you received it.” He hands a sealed envelope to Jalal who eagerly takes it.

“I do not recognize the seal,” the boy says.

“It is the seal of Siyyid Kazim.” Mahmud can see that the boy does not recognize this name so he explains. “For many years Siyyid Kazim was a disciple of Shaykh Ahmad. Now that the Shaykh has begun a Pilgrimage—perhaps his final journey—Kazim is in charge of the Shaykhi school in Karbala.”

“And he knows of me? But how?”

Mahmud shrugs. “Perhaps the answer is in the message.”

Jalal breaks open the seal and removes the message. Crouching by a candle, he reads it carefully and silently, except for one word that escapes his lips: “Kujiri!” When he is finished, he sits down as if stunned. After a few moments, he looks up at Siyyid Mahmud and says, “You are a Shaykhi.”

“I am.”

“Kazim and I have a mutual friend by the name of Kujiri, who is now serving as the school’s gardener. He told Kazim about me, and now I’ve been invited to attend the school when I am finished with my studies here.”

The boy furrows his brow.

“You are not pleased with the invitation?”

“I am not pleased with the madrisih. I wish I could go now.

“All in good time.”

“The message also said that you might be willing to tutor me in the Shaykhi beliefs.”

“That is up to you. But to be honest, I am no authority. Just a seeker of truth—like yourself. But there are other Shaykhis in Mashhad as well. Not many, but a few.”

“Can we start now? There are so many questions that didn’t occur to me when I was with Kujiri. The ideas were all so new.”

“Then let’s take a walk.”

Jalal jumps to his feet. As the the two walk down the dark corridor they approach Mulla Jani, one of the instructors to whom Siyyid Mahmud had spoken earlier. The mulla turns to Jalal and says, “I hope the message brought you good news.”

“Oh yes,” Jalal replies. “Very good news.”

Chapter 8

In the weeks that follow his caning, Ollie begins to fit into the rhythms of Charterhouse. He has made two good friends at school: William Threader, who has proven to be a patient, masterful tutor of Latin, and Charles Dickens, a bright boy with a wizardly English vocabulary that Ollie admires. The once-cheerless environment of Charterhouse is becoming quite comfortable—except for the hauntings of Dr. Russell. (Just yesterday the fearsome headmaster slammed a boy’s head between two books until his nose bled; the particular crime was unclear.)

Now it is nearly Christmas, three months since Ollie arrived, and the once-opaque “society” of Charterhouse is no longer such an enigma. In fact, Ollie finds a certain messy orderliness to the way that allegiances and alliances are drawn. On this bright December morning, Ollie is awakened by the clanging house-bell at 6:45, dressed in ten minutes, and in Goodworthy’s room brushing the Upper’s gown before the second bell at 7:00. One minute before 7:30 he is in his place at Chapel; he has learned the hard way not to be late, for God apparently has ordained a harsh punishment for tardiness, ranging from an extra hour’s recitation of the Catechism to copying the entire Iliad with a worn quill.

This morning a special guest, Reginald Pennick—the rotund cleric who had helped Ollie gain admittance to Charterhouse—leads the service. Many years ago, before multiple promotions within the church hierarchy, Reginald served a full-time post at the school. During prayers, Ollie sneaks a glance at this stuffed-sausage of a man but quickly closes his eyes when he sees Reginald staring at him. After Chapel, Reginald catches Ollie’s eye with a discrete wave, beckoning him to stay for a minute.

“Oliver, my boy, it’s so good to see you again,” says Reginald, smiling broadly. Ollie notices that the man’s teeth are crooked and yellow. “I don’t think we’ve seen each other since dinner at your great grandmother’s home, am I right?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Son, you don’t have to call me sir. We’re family friends. Please call me Reginald.”

“Very good, sir—I mean,
Reginald
.” Ollie doesn’t like using this familiar name with a man he scarcely knows. And he doesn’t like being called
son
.

“Much better. I do hope things are going well for you here.”

“Very well, yes.”

“Excellent. You know, I had many happy years serving the boys here at Charterhouse. I miss it, I certainly do. That’s why I’ve asked to come here and lead Chapel now and then.”

“I hope this will make you happy.”

“Oh yes, just being around the boys makes me feel—well, very
alive
. The spirit of youth!”

Ollie looks at his shoes, embarrassed that he can’t think of anything to say.

“Oliver, I want you to know that I promised Emily—your great grandmother—that I would look out for you.”

“I’m doing quite well, really.”

“Yes, I’m sure. But from time to time you may need someone to… to whom you can turn. I have been given a small office on the grounds, and while I won’t be here every day, I want you to know that my door will always be open to you when I am at school. I want to protect you from any, shall we say
unfortunate consequences
of life in a boarding school.”

“’Unfortunate consequences?’ I’m not sure—”

“Let’s just leave it at that for now. I want to be your protector, if that’s all right with you.” Reginald doesn’t wait for Ollie to answer before he says: “In return, I would ask a favor of you.”

“A favor—yes, certainly… of course.”

“I am preparing a manuscript that I hope to have published next year on the meaning of the resurrection of Jesus Christ. As I am going over my work, I’m afraid I find it necessary to make numerous small changes, and this means I need my revisions incorporated into a new manuscript. Would you be willing to do this for me? I can certainly pay you something for your time.”

“I’m not sure, actually—“

“It would make your great grandmother very proud to know that you are helping with such a worthy work. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to disappoint both of us by refusing.”

Ollie wants to refuse, but he can’t find the words. Maybe he should agree. Certainly it would make Mum proud. Before he can answer, Reginald fills the silence. “Very good. I know that Christmas holiday begins tomorrow and you’re anxious to go home. But I’d like you to stop by my office behind the Chapel this evening so I can better explain the scope of this project. I’d very much like you to be thinking about it during the holiday.”

“I suppose so, yes—“

Reginald looks up and sees Mr. Tubbs, the butler of Ollie’s House, in the Chapel doorway. The two exchange icy looks, and then Tubbs is gone.

The bell at 1:15 warns the sweaty school boys to wash up for dinner. Time has flown too quickly, and with each tick of the clock Ollie feels increasing dread about this evening’s meeting with Reginald. The drudgery of copying pages of boring prose, the uneasiness he feels when he’s in Reginald’s presence—these things make Ollie nauseated.
Why such a strong reaction?
Maybe he should feel honored instead of unsettled! It is possible that Reginald Pennick’s manuscript will be a great theological work, and Ollie can be a part of it. Now that would be
something
.

Lunch begins promptly at 1:30. Ollie cannot eat. He is too stirred up by his thoughts. He walks the entire grounds, thinking and praying, asking God’s forgiveness for his selfishness and cynicism, dedicating himself to his new mission. The sense of foreboding that had surrounded the evening’s meeting with Reginald has been replaced with anticipation. He now looks forward to studying the manuscript for its deep insight and wisdom, to inserting with his quill Reginald’s most subtle purifications in a perfectly rendered manuscript.

Oliver Chadwick, the
Pen of God
!

At 7:30 Ollie runs to his room to change clothes. Fifteen minutes later he charges out of his room and down the stairs. He wants to walk slowly to Reginald’s office so he won’t be out of breath. A voice calls to him as he steps outside his residence, the Perry House.

“Ollie, a word please.”

Ollie recognizes the voice of Mr. Tubbs, the beloved butler of the Perry House.

“Ollie, I’m wondering if we could have a private chat—very important, or I wouldn’t suggest it.”

“Well, I’m actually—“

“My missus is visiting her sister tonight, so it turns out my place is available. I have a pitcher of fresh lemonade.”

“That’s a very kind offer, I’m sure, but—“

“It’s of a very personal nature, so I’d consider it a great favor if—“

“Really, Mr. Tubbs, I appreciate the invitation, but I have a meeting this evening—in ten minutes as a matter of fact.”

“Are you seeing Reginald Pennick this evening?”

“Why, yes, I am.” Ollie steps closer to Mr. Tubbs. “Reginald has asked me to be his personal assistant in preparing a manuscript for publication.”

“He’s
Reginald
to you now, is he?”

“He asked me to call him by a familiar name since we’ll be working so closely. Does it sound disrespectful?”

“That’s not the word I would use, no.”

“I really have to go. I’ll see you later this evening I’m sure.”

Ollie wheels and begins to canter across the school grounds, hoping he won’t be sweating and out of breath when he arrives.

Reginald opens the office door with a wide smile and the fragrance of wine on his breath. “My, you are punctual, aren’t you,” he says with a dramatic sweep of his hand and a childlike giggle. “I like that. Do come in.”

Ollie follows Reginald into the small office which contains a mahogany desk, a leather-inlaid table with four chairs, and a plush royal blue sofa. “Go on, have a seat over here on the sofa. It’s the most comfortable place.”

Ollie sits and sinks into the soft cushions.

“Here, let me pour you a glass of wine,” Reginald says, grasping a decanter. “It’s good for the digestion after a big meal. You can certainly put away the food for a boy your size.”

“You know what I had for supper?”

“I just happened to pass through the dining hall. Here, drink up.”

Ollie studies the wine glass, takes a small sip. It tastes quite good! He takes another sip and Reginald tops it off.

“I find that wine stimulates my spirituality,” Reginald says. “You grew up as a Muslim, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that Jesus turned water into wine? It’s in the Bible.”

“I’ve read it.” Ollie lets more of the sweet-tasting wine glide down his throat. It doesn’t burn like whiskey; it soothes.

“Ahh—then you must know that wine is a divine nectar,” Reginald continues. “Here, have a little more—nurture your spirit and draw nearer to God.” He pours more wine into Ollie’s glass. “God wants you to be close to him. Do you have any idea how I know that?” Ollie nods no. “Because He made you so attractive. The Persian people have a certain… a certain beauty that is undeniable. Your mother is extraordinary, of course, you know that.”

Ollie is listening, but he is confused.
What about the manuscript?

Reginald picks up a sheaf of papers from the desk and walks to the sofa, easing his plump body onto the cushions next to Ollie. His weight tilts the cushions and Ollie finds himself falling downhill toward the cleric, touching him. Embarrassed at the physical contact, he attempts to adjust his body so that it does not touch the old man, but he can’t.

“Oliver,” Reginald says firmly, “I want you to understand something.” He puts an arm around Ollie’s shoulders and his hand becomes a hook that keeps Ollie from separating his body from Reginald. “I want you to understand that God works in mysterious ways, and that whatever happens in this room is between us and God. I believe that God has drawn us together for a reason. You are going to be a source of great inspiration and joy for me, and this will enable me to decipher God’s message of the resurrection for the entire world to understand.”

Ollie can’t make any sense out of this conversation. The room, the walls, the desk—all begin to move. He can’t think of anything else to do, so he stands up, his legs rubbery. “The manuscript—the book that you are writing. Can I see it?”

“Of course you can.” Reginald smiles benignly and hands the sheaf of papers to Ollie who sets them on the table with the wine glass and sits down on one of the chairs.

“Go ahead, son. Read the manuscript.” Reginald stands and pours more wine into Ollie’s glass as the boy begins to read. A few minutes of silence pass. Ollie unconsciously sips the wine as if it were tea. The words, the concepts on these papers are so new to him, so… so strange and provocative. As Ollie reads, the words grow blurry and he squints to make them out, runs his fingers nervously through his hair, rubs his left arm to stop the tingling.

How is it possible, Ollie wonders, that this information was not known to others, that the secret code of New Testament symbolism never had been deciphered before. The revelations in these papers stun Ollie, shock him. Here he reads of a Jesus who loved men, and chose only men as Disciples so he could be near them, not just spiritually but physically. Here is a Jesus who shuns marriage and intimacy with women, and whose own father disappears from the record of His life because Joseph cannot bear the unconventional truth about his son. Here is a God who ordained only men as His Prophets and created women merely to propagate humankind. Ollie discovers a Jesus who was transparent to history until he was thirteen—Ollie’s age—the age of sexual awakening, when He became aware of his special message to man-kind. In these pages the crucifixion horrifyingly symbolizes the rejection and murder of God’s natural order for men and boys by a society that for thousands of years had rejected it. And His resurrection suggestively illustrates the re-awakening of God’s plan, the rising up of Truth over prejudice.

The underlying Truth, as Reginald reveals, is that God always intended men to love men, and boys of thirteen are especially blessed when introduced into the holy stream of man’s love. Physical intimacy between males is a Holy and Spiritual sacrament on the level of baptism or communion, but the Church for obvious political reasons has suppressed this essential message. The result has been a stunting of man-kind’s spiritual development.

Ollie’s eyes drink in these intoxicating, blasphemous ideas—and the intricate drawings illustrating the Messiah’s intimacy with his Disciples. Disgusting and arousing. Sacred. Profane. Ollie finds himself spinning while seated, his brain blunted by the wine, his feet prickly, his face slick with sweat. Reginald gently puts his hands on Ollie’s shoulders, feels the boy’s heat rising.

“From the time I first saw you, Oliver, I knew why God had brought you into my life. Your purpose is to reawaken my soul so I can continue my spiritual journey, and my greatest desire is to show you a window into another world that you cannot even imagine exists.” Reginald plunges his hand down Ollie’s shirt, touches the smooth skin of his chest, and sighs. “The world is not ready for what we have to share. That is why we must keep it a secret—between us—until the world is capable of understanding.”

Ollie is frozen in his chair. He can’t think, can’t move.
This is a man of God
, he thinks.
A man of great spiritual authority. A man who knows so much more than me.
But then he remembers Mulla Ibrahim in Bushruyih, a spiritual leader overtaken by blood lust, a teacher who could not defend his own arguments without help from his students, a cleric who had made up his own Truth out of convenience or self-deception or hunger for power. And then Ollie understands that Christianity must have its
Ibrahims
as well. If Ollie could stand up to Mulla Ibrahim, he can stand up to Reginald Pennick. The touch of this old man on his bare skin disgusts him—
this cannot be of God!
He will not allow this to happen!

Ollie shakily stands and turns to face Reginald, who misunderstands the boy’s intentions and pulls Ollie towards him, smothering him with a kiss, his mouth dry as a mummy, breath stale and wine-sour. Ollie suddenly stuns the old man with a sharp elbow in the chest. In pain, Reginald loosens his grip. Ollie twists his body, crumples to the floor, escaping to the desk.