The Sleeper in the Sands (20 page)

And when Haroun al-Vakhel had finished this story, he bowed his head and lapsed into silence. But the Caliph al-Hakim, who had been listening with a rapt and motionless attention, seized him by the arms. ‘O Master of wise words,’ he exclaimed, ‘this Tale of the Sage of the Mountains of Kaf is indeed a remarkable one! But tell me - after the great Queen Isis had spoken the sacred word and brought her royal husband back to life, was there nowhere in Egypt where the word was written down?’

‘O Prince,’ Haroun replied, ‘even if there had been, I have told you the warning I was given, that it would be a danger and a blasphemy to seek the secret out.’

‘Even so, if it could be found, I would read it. For am I not the Appointed of Allah? And are there not stones left blank in my mosque, to receive the imprint of His holy name?’

But Haroun shook his head. ‘It is true,’ he answered, ‘that the Sage of the Mountains of Kaf told me of a strange and ancient tradition. For it is said that there were priests in Egypt who guarded the Secret Name, but that at length they grew proud and fell into evil. And so they built a temple to the Secret Name, and they worshipped it as a god - yes, and Isis and Osiris too, although there is only one God, and His name is Allah.’

The Caliph stood frozen a long while, gazing out at where his sister sat, the Princess Sitt al-Mulq. ‘And this temple,’ he whispered at last, ‘where might it be found?’

‘It was destroyed.’

The Caliph gazed at him in disbelief. ‘By whom?’

‘By the prophet Joseph, may peace be forever on his name. For when he rose to be the counsellor to Pharaoh -- so I heard it in the Mountains of Kaf - he taught the way of the one true God. And though the priests were his enemies, Allah was his guide. And so it was that the evil of the temple was destroyed -- for all man’s ambitions are nothing but dust. Allah alone is great!’

Still the Caliph remained by the window, perfectly frozen save for the faintest tremor which passed across his face. ‘Yes,’ he hissed at last, ‘Allah alone is great.’ He turned to Haroun; his cheeks appeared exceedingly pale, like the knuckles on a fist which is very tightly clenched.

But Haroun was nothing daunted and, seeing that the audience had come to an end, he bowed low before the Caliph, then turned away and left.

For a long while he did not see the Caliph again, nor did he pursue any further the mysteries of the past. As gold was said to gleam within the ancient pagans’ tombs, so their learning too still seemed to beckon him onwards; yet both, Haroun feared, might be guarded by fearful enchantments. So it was that he sought to banish the very thought of them from his mind -- for he dreaded to think otherwise where his fascination might not lead.

Yet it was his good fortune that he had little time to dwell on anything save his work amongst the sick, for his reputation was very great and his knowledge and his skills were always in demand. Nor did he ever refuse a patient’s summons; for whenever one came, it was then that Haroun would recall his former life, the many men he had slain and the many towns he had burned. Through every quarter of Cairo he would move, from the splendid palaces and gardens of the rich to the hovels of the poor who dwelt amidst the cemeteries, or by the black midden pools beside the city gates and walls, and he would treat all who asked for him regardless of their poverty or wealth, as though they were a part of his own family. For although happy in all other things, and content with his life, Haroun was childless; and this caused him great grief.

But then it happened, one evening, that he had a strange dream. He imagined that a girl was whispering in his ear, yet when he turned around there was no one to be seen. But still the voice spoke to him, and it struck him dumb with wonder, as he thought how he had never heard anything more sweet, nor more alluring to the senses, for it seemed touched by the perfume of the gardens of Paradise. ‘Very soon,’ said this voice, ‘you will be awoken from your sleep by a knocking at your door. It will be a Jew, in tears because his son has fallen sick in the night and appears very close to death. Go with him to his house. If you do so, you will not be much longer without a child!’ And then the voice began to fade, and when Haroun woke up he could hear a knocking at his door.

All fell out as the voice had said, for Haroun was led by the Jew to his house, and to a room where his son lay very sick. The boy appeared deathly pale, and troubled by bad dreams, and Haroun was unable to wake him from his sleep. He frowned as he sought to treat the boy, for the sickness seemed very strange and, though he was wise in the arts of healing, he had never seen such symptoms before. He listened to the boy’s heart, how it fluttered weakly, and then as he did so he suddenly froze, for he could see across the chest a thin, vivid scar. It was still bleeding, and the boy began suddenly to scratch at it and to moan.

Haroun called the boy’s parents and pointed at the scar. ‘Tell me,’ he demanded, ‘what is that?’

The parents gazed at it and at once grew pale. The mother began to cry out until her sobs choked her, and the father bowed his head and muttered a prayer.

‘What is it?’ Haroun exclaimed. ‘What has made you so afraid?’

The Jew turned to him. He was wringing his hands. ‘Only a demon,’ he muttered, ‘could have made such a wound.’

‘A demon?’ Haroun shook his head. ‘What men call demons are mostly what they cannot understand.’

‘But this happened the night before to the daughter of our Rabbi; the same strange scar was found drawn across her chest. She went into a fever, just like our son, and by the afternoon,’ -- the Jew choked -- ‘the little girl was dead.’ He choked again, then swallowed and sought to compose himself. ‘According to our Rabbi,’ he explained, ‘it was most certainly a demon, for such a wound has ever been the mark of Lilith.’

‘Lilith?’

‘In our holy books,’ the Jew stammered, ‘it is told how she was the first wife of Adam in Paradise. But she grew greedy for the flesh of her own new-born - and so she was expelled to wander through the darkness of the night.’

Haroun stood frozen.

‘How,’ the Jew asked, ‘can we keep her from my son?’

Slowly, Haroun turned to meet his eye. ‘Lilith?’ he murmured softly. ‘No. It cannot be.’

‘But I tell you, our Rabbi . . .’ Then the Jew began to frown. ‘But of course, you are a Muslim. Can it be, then, that you have never heard of Lilith? Yet in your books as well, are there not tales of the desert-haunting ghools?’

Haroun nodded very slowly. ‘There are,’ he murmured. But he said no more, for his mind was dark with memories and nightmares, and he seemed suddenly to see, risen before him, the glittering walls of Lilatt-ah again.

The Jew gazed at him, hope intermingled with despair. ‘What then, O Master of knowledge, should we do?’

Haroun opened his mouth, to admit he did not know.

But at that very moment, from the street below there came a sudden knocking loud upon the door.

The Jew’s wife left the room to see who the visitor could be. She returned with a man who appeared to be a merchant and who seemed, from the style of his dress, to be a Christian from the Empire of the Greeks. But though his robes were rich, he was clearly very ill, for his face was pale and he leaned upon a stick. When he saw the gathering all about him, however, his gaunt face was suddenly illumined by a smile. ‘Praise be to God,’ he exclaimed, ‘this room is exactly how I saw it in my dream!’ He looked from face to face. ‘But which of you, pray tell me, is Haroun al-Vakhel?’

Haroun stepped forward. ‘I am that man. But tell me in turn, please, how you know my name, for I am certain that I have never met with you before.’

‘I was told by a strange voice in a vision to find you here. For you alone, it appears, possess the power to heal me.’

‘Allah willing, I shall certainly do my best. But first you must tell me what your symptoms are.’

‘Why,’ the Christian exclaimed, pointing to where the Jewish boy lay muttering on his bed, ‘the same as his!’ And so saying, he parted his cloak to reveal a thin, oozing scar which ran across his chest. ‘I can only thank God that I have reached you in time, for I have felt myself growing weaker from it with each successive day.’

But Haroun shook his head in perplexity. ‘I am sorry, but I fear I cannot help you.’

‘But my dream . . .’

‘I do not have the cure.’

The Christian closed his eyes in disappointment and despair. ‘But my dream . . .’ he muttered again. ‘I was told . . .’ Then suddenly he laughed, and clapped his hands. ‘Of course!’ he exclaimed. ‘I must show you the slave!’

‘Slave?’ frowned Haroun.

‘Is it not true, you are still without a child?’

Haroun stared at him strangely, for he remembered what the voice in his own dream had said. ‘What of it?’ he asked.

But the Christian only smiled. ‘You will find her, I think, beautiful and elegant beyond every description.’ And so saying, he took Haroun by the arm and led him across to the window of the room. From there he pointed at a girl in the street and Haroun, as he inspected her, realised that the Christian had not been exaggerating. Never before had he seen such mortal beauty. The girl’s figure was perfect, as slender as a reed, her breasts seemed like twin fruit of ivory, and her feet and hands were deliciously small. Her hair was the colour of deepest night, and hung in seven tresses far below her waist. Her cheeks were rosy, her lips bright red, and her teeth like delicate and lustrous pearls. Beneath her long, silken lashes her almond eyes were black, and their gleam seemed as bright as that of an angel. To Haroun, indeed, it appeared that the girl would put the very sun and stars from their orbits, and he shuddered suddenly, for he thought how he had only once seen such a beauteous face before, upon the statue of the goddess of the temple in Lilatt-ah. But then he gazed upon the slave again, and his fears were set to rest, for her stare seemed languid with a tender and captivating passion; and he knew himself dazzled and overwhelmed by love.

He turned to the Christian. ‘Tell me, O Merchant, what is the price of that girl?’

But the Christian smiled. ‘I have told you, she is yours.’

‘But I cannot heal you.’

‘So you say, and yet I am certain that you can. For would my dream have been true on all other counts, and untrue to me on only this one single matter?’

‘Perhaps,’ suggested Haroun, ‘it would be best if you were first to tell me the story of your dream, and of how you came by this wondrous slave.’

‘Certainly,’ answered the Christian, ‘if you are willing to hear it.’ Then he eased himself down on to the floor and spoke as follows:

THE TALE TOLD BY THE CHRISTIAN MERCHANT

You must know, my noble hosts, that I have always borne in mind the words of King Solomon, who said how the grave is better than poverty. For this reason I have travelled the world, selling and bartering my goods, and seeking out rare supplies of luxuries. But I do not travel simply to make a profit, for I have also, ever since I was a child, had a desire to visit far countries and discover strange and remarkable things. It was for this reason that I travelled to Egypt and journeyed down the Nile, for I had read much of its wonders in the books of my own people. More than anything I wished to see the ancient town of Thebes, which was once, long ago, the capital of this land. It shelters nothing now, however, beyond the jackals and the owls, and its great halls of stone are half-sunk beneath the sands. But a man may still gaze upon its splendours, ruined as they are, and wonder at the power which must once have served to raise them -- and he may wonder as well at the wealth it must have owned.

Nor is that wealth wholly vanished even now. For there is a village on the opposite bank of the Nile -- very small and wretched in appearance -- where nevertheless, every once in a while, the villagers will produce strange and beautiful ornaments, made of gold or silver, and rich with precious stones. I fell into the habit of purchasing these treasures, for I realised that I could easily sell them for a profit, and so I soon became a regular visitor to Thebes. The villagers were reluctant to reveal the source of their discoveries, but at length, with the help of a bottle of wine, I was able to persuade one of them to betray the secret. It appeared there was a nearby valley where, in long-ago times, the ancients had chosen to bury their kings. These kings still lay there, deep within the rock, and all about them were piles of gold and jewels. But the valley was a dangerous place to visit, or so the villager maintained. It was haunted, he claimed, by ghools he named
‘udar’;
and even as he said this, he began to grow pale.

Nor was he the only one to be in terror of these demons. That same evening as the sun began to set, I marked how all the villagers came in from the fields, and no one would willingly remain abroad. Around two I was woken by a far-off scream, and I imagined, when I peered out from my tent, that I saw in the distance the glitter of silver eyes. For all that, I did not wholly believe in the story of ghools until I was shown, the next morning, the corpse of a wretch who had fallen their victim, and whose scream I had evidently heard the night before. His chest had been sliced open and his flesh gnawed upon -- but that was the very least of the horrors. For my guide pointed to a wound between the corpse’s legs, and then tapped at its stomach, and as he did so the flesh split apart, and I saw, writhing within the guts, an infinite quantity of worms. For this, it seemed, was how the
udar
could be known: worms and maggots were borne upon their discharge.

This was a great wonder to me of course, and a great horror as well, but I have often discovered, in the course of my travels, how dangers will frame the most precious rewards. Gold, I had discovered, was not the only prize which the valley contained: I had seen for myself, in the markets of Cairo, the withered corpses of ancient kings, and I knew the price that such things might bring.
‘Mummia’
they are called, and it is believed - may Christ watch over and preserve my soul! -- that their limbs, once melted and formed into a potion, may wondrously extend the span of mortal life. For should they be left in their tombs, these corpses will lie forever in unending silence, undisturbed by even the crawling of the worms, until the final Day of Judgement - and there are many here in Cairo who are eager to share in such a magic. But God and Christ His Son alone are great!