The Desert of Souls, page 32
“Not as he told it, Excellency. They were killed when the conflict raged on.”
“It is difficult to govern without the spill of blood,” the caliph mused. His voice took on a sad, wistful quality. “Someone starts a fire smoldering and I must send men to stamp it out. Sometimes the fire rages too far; sometimes those sent to quell it know not how to stop, or lack the wisdom, or have aims of their own. God alone knows, and will judge them by their deeds.” He looked long at Dabir. “You are wise, I think, to leave this, for a simpler place. I have no choice but to stay.”
Now I had known many men who envied the caliph, but I had never guessed that the caliph might envy the station of someone beneath him, and I sometimes think upon that moment even today, for the young and thoughtful caliph was to age swiftly and die before his time.
We left him late in that evening, and as we made our way down the dark hall, we heard the rush of footsteps behind us. Jaffar called out to us. “Dabir, Asim, wait!”
We obliged him at the top of a stair, the little slave boy holding our lantern waiting discreetly to one side. Jaffar had been in such a hurry he’d come with no servant of his own.
He reached us, panting a bit, then stretched out a hand to support himself against a wall, none too steadily. Jaffar had been drinking. His shadow, thrown upon the wall from the lantern, shook as Jaffar himself panted.
“I wanted to … to give you my thanks,” he said, “and personally congratulate you.” He spoke slowly, and the struggle to find the proper words was writ large upon his face.
“Thank you, Master.”
“You faced many obstacles.” He stared at us, glassy-eyed as drunk men do, so it was hard to tell if he was intent upon a point, or ready to throw up. The grape makes fools of the wisest men. “I had my hand in setting some before you,” he said finally, sounding almost sober as he did so, “and I deeply regret it.”
“It is already forgotten,” Dabir managed evenly.
Jaffar grinned. “You are a good man.” He clutched suddenly at Dabir’s arm. “Do you think it’s true?”
It took Dabir a moment to decipher the meaning of the question. “The wise woman’s prophecy? Is that what you’re asking about?”
“Yes—do you think it was true? Do you think she mixed up the cups?”
“Oh, surely so,” Dabir said compassionately.
Jaffar beamed like an imbecile.
“Clearly,” Dabir added, “I was the one doomed by desiring someone beyond my station.”
Jaffar’s brow creased, and he waggled a finger. “But no man may avoid his fate.”
“I did not avoid it—Asim altered it without my asking.”
“Ah! That makes sense! I’m so glad he did.” He put his hands together, beaming. “It has all worked out! There are no hard feelings, are there? You both have riches and honors. Sabirah is well, and married to a good man. And you, Dabir, can marry any woman you want!”
“Yes,” Dabir said, though he did not laugh when Jaffar did so, nor did he respond as Jaffar wished us well and told us to go with God. He waved us away and turned into the darkness.
“He’s still desperate,” Dabir confided softly to me as we fell back in step.
“What do you mean?”
“He knows that the fortune-teller spoke truly, and that the cups were not confused, yet has twisted all his reasoning to convince himself they were.”
“Who is above him?”
“Did you not mark the screen directly behind the caliph?”
In fact I had—a fine cedar panel had stood behind him, with latticework above head level—but I saw no connection to the subject at hand. “What has that to do with anything?”
“Above all others, perhaps even Jaffar, the caliph prizes his sister, Abbasah. She sometimes attends banquets thus, behind the screen, so that she can hear but not be seen. Did you harken how sometimes the caliph or Jaffar would lean close to the screen and smile or nod?”
“I did not.”
“Doubtless she spoke to one or the other of them then.”
“You think—”
“Shh,” Dabir said quickly, adding softly, “I accuse him of nothing. I merely observe.”
A fine observer he was, too, given what was to befall Jaffar in later days.
We passed that night in the sumptuous chambers given over to us in the caliph’s halls, then rose after morning prayers to find a baggage train prepared for us, loaded down with gifts. No less than a dozen soldiers and as many servants and bearers were detailed to ride with us, so that such riches would arrive at our new lodgings unmolested. It was more than I had ever thought to see, and even Dabir, grim and tired-looking as he was, managed a smile.
As we wound our way through the city, riding for the northern gate, I bethought myself of all that had transpired, and how much my life had changed because of a parrot’s death and my own injudicious laughter.
I considered many things, but one thing most especially, and thus I bade Dabir ride on, telling him there was a final stop that I must make; I would meet him on the road. Dabir looked curiously after me, but said nothing.
I found the little marketplace easily enough, then turned down the alley. The beggars and common folk stared at me as I dropped from the gleaming white mare that had been Jaffar’s gift, doubtless wondering why someone attired in such fine raiment would venture here, for I wore my robe of honor and my boots were of new shagreen.
One of the fortune-teller’s grandchildren answered the door, his eyes wide at my splendid garments, then called for the woman.
Old she was, but she smiled in recognition after she squinted for a moment. “You have come to know more?”
“Nay.” I held up my hand. “I did not wish to know God’s plan for me from the first.”
“Then what is it you wish?”
“When you read our fates, is it possible that you confused them?”
She smiled crookedly.
“I am no writer,” I said, “only a swordsman.”
“Sometimes we choose our paths; sometimes we stumble upon them. Sometimes we must stride forward and seek them out, though the way is obscured by mist.”
“That does not help me. Can a man change his fate, or another man change it for him?”
“I have seldom met a man who so feared taking up a pen.”
I shook my head. “I do not ask any of this for myself, but worry for another of my companions.”
She stepped closer to me. “All our lives are webs of choices, intersecting with other webs. But I think you know this.”
I scratched my head, reasoning that I understood her, although I wished that she’d spoken more plainly. In any wise, I was not comforted, and I think she sensed this. To her I gave over the robe, which was altogether too fine a garment for a simple swordsman like myself.
She took it wonderingly as I stretched. Already the thing had made me overwarm, there in the street.
“Whatever is this for?” she asked.
“I think you shall put it to better use than I,” I answered, and vaulted onto the horse.
“I shall tell you one thing more,” she said, stepping after me and putting her hand to the bridle. “Cleave close to your friend. He will need you, and the world shall have need of you both.”
I shook my head, knowing she was wrong. “I ride off to the hinterlands, where I shall grow fat and lazy guarding a man who will moon over books.”
She only smiled, and bade me to go with God.
Once I rejoined him, Dabir said nothing to me until we stopped for a midday meal upon the road.
“Where were you?”
“Giving alms,” I said, which was true in a way.
Dabir grunted. “Did she say anything more to you about our fates?”
“Bismallah!” How had he known? “Only that we were stronger together than apart.”
“It takes no magic to see that,” he said.
“Also she foretold that you would leave off book reading for basket weaving, and grow hugely fat.”
“She did?” His eyes widened and I could not hold back my laughter.
Ah, I might say more, about our journey to Mosul, and the finding of our lodgings, indeed, of the many events which followed thereafter, but all of that must wait for another time, for this tale is done.
Afterword
Most of the characters in this novel are my own invention, with the exception of Haroun al-Rashid, Jaffar, much of Jaffar’s extended family, and a few incidental characters like Masrur (Sabirah is purely fictional). It may be that I have been more generous with my depiction of Haroun al-Rashid than the historical record strictly bears out, but I have written him as the calm and wise ruler he was so often portrayed to be in story and verse. Surely there must be some truth behind tales that made him popular in his own day and for many generations thereafter.
In his lifetime Jaffar seems to have been just as popular as the beloved caliph, and was famed for his diligent work ethic and intelligence. He may well have been far more clever in real life than I have shown him.
I strove to portray the people, places, and customs of the eighth century Abbasid caliphate accurately, but the story’s course and my own whim resulted in a variety of changes—referring to the Byzantine Romans (Roumi, to folk of the caliphate) as Greeks, moving the foundation of The House of Wisdom forward a generation or two simply because I knew how much Dabir would have loved to have studied there, and other matters besides. I tried always to make these changes in the spirit of the same unknown storytellers who spun tales for the The Arabian Nights, who seemed to know that while authenticity is important, it should never fetter the course of an adventure.
Readers interested in learning more about an ancient caliphate sadly bereft of djinn, sorcerers, and mighty wyrms have several excellent sources at their disposal. I have turned time and again to John Howe’s translation of Harun al-Rashid and the World of the Thousand and One Nights by André Clot (New Amsterdam Books, 1989), Daily Life in the Medieval Islamic World by James E. Lindsay (Greenwood Press, 2005), and Arab Seafaring in the Indian Ocean in Ancient and Early Medieval Times by George F. Hourani and John Carswell (Princeton University Press, 1995). While the time period is centuries different, two volumes were of particular use in better understanding the outlook, mindset, and even tone of the people who lived in the region long ago: The Travels of ibn Jubayr, translated by Ronald Broadhurst (Goodword books, 2004) and Philip K. Hitti’s translation of Usamah Ibn Munquidh’s An Arab-Syrian Gentleman and Warrior in the Period of the Crusades (Columbia University Press, 2000). Though he wrote of an entirely different desert, William Langewiesche’s excellent Sahara Unveiled (Vintage Departures, 1997) was a huge inspiration to me in bringing the desert quarter to life. Numerous other books and articles have been of use to me throughout the years, but I would be remiss if I did not mention two role-playing supplements, GURPS Arabian Nights, by Phil Masters (Steve Jackson Games 1993) and James L. Cambias’ Arabian Nights (Iron Crown Enterprises, 1994) as good starting points for someone wishing to have a better sense of daily life in nineth century Baghdad as well as the caliphate’s relation to nearby regions. The blog Laputan Logic introduced me to a number of books about the Marsh Arabs and showcased some fine photographs of the region, and an article by Brainerd S. Bates titled “Camping in the Empty Quarter” (Saudi Aramco World, Nov/Dec 1967) helped further my understanding of the desert environment.
In the realm of fantastic, there are of course many fine editions of The Arabian Nights, suited for many different tastes. I think a lot of preferences come down to what people are familiar with from their youth. I hope one day to read them in Arabic, but for now I have been enjoying the recent translations by Jack Zipes, collected in two thick Signet Classic paperbacks (Penguin Putnam 1991, 1999). Then, of course, there is the incomparable Shanameh, Ferdowsi’s classic, which should really be read by any who love fable and myth. It belongs on the bookshelf next to your favorite volume of Greek mythology.
Neil Gaiman brought Haroun, Jaffar, and even Masrur to life in one of my favorite Sandman issues, “Ramadan,” (DC Comics, Sandman, issue 50), illustrated with stunning clarity by P. Craig Russell, and that issue may well be the reason Dabir and Asim are adventuring when they are, as opposed to a generation or two or hundreds of years later. Or it may be that Gaiman’s work served as a gateway drug for my interest, for once I began to read more deeply into the time period and realized Haroun himself figured in some of the Arabian Nights, the appeal of tales set at the same time was undeniable.
Probably my greatest inspiration came from Harold Lamb and Robert E. Howard. Lamb wrote with astonishing vigor whenever he drafted historical fiction, and his ancient Moslems were brought vividly to life, be they heroes or villains. It was my honor to collect most of those tales in Swords from the West and Swords from the Desert (Bison Books, 2009) so that more readers could treasure these undeservedly forgotten stories. Robert E. Howard is famous for creating the sword-and-sorcery genre with Kull and Conan, not to mention writing a whole host of amazing adventure yarns. Some of his best work, though, are his historicals, never as popular probably because there are so few recurring characters in them. One of my favorites of his, indeed, one of my all-time favorite short stories of any kind, is “The Road of Azrael” with its witty, flawed, and dangerous narrator, Kosru Malik. If you can take the same kind of delight in the exploits of Dabir and Asim as I have found in the tales of my own favorite writers, I will count myself successful.
Howard Andrew Jones
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
THE DESERT OF SOULS. Copyright © 2011 by Howard Andrew Jones. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jones, Howard A.
The desert of souls / Howard Andrew Jones. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-64674-5
1. Iran—History—640-1500—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3610.O62535D47 2011
813’.6—dc22
2010039301
First Edition: February 2011
eISBN 978-1-4299-9481-1
First Thomas Dunne Books eBook Edition: February 2011
Howard Andrew Jones, The Desert of Souls
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“It is difficult to govern without the spill of blood,” the caliph mused. His voice took on a sad, wistful quality. “Someone starts a fire smoldering and I must send men to stamp it out. Sometimes the fire rages too far; sometimes those sent to quell it know not how to stop, or lack the wisdom, or have aims of their own. God alone knows, and will judge them by their deeds.” He looked long at Dabir. “You are wise, I think, to leave this, for a simpler place. I have no choice but to stay.”
Now I had known many men who envied the caliph, but I had never guessed that the caliph might envy the station of someone beneath him, and I sometimes think upon that moment even today, for the young and thoughtful caliph was to age swiftly and die before his time.
We left him late in that evening, and as we made our way down the dark hall, we heard the rush of footsteps behind us. Jaffar called out to us. “Dabir, Asim, wait!”
We obliged him at the top of a stair, the little slave boy holding our lantern waiting discreetly to one side. Jaffar had been in such a hurry he’d come with no servant of his own.
He reached us, panting a bit, then stretched out a hand to support himself against a wall, none too steadily. Jaffar had been drinking. His shadow, thrown upon the wall from the lantern, shook as Jaffar himself panted.
“I wanted to … to give you my thanks,” he said, “and personally congratulate you.” He spoke slowly, and the struggle to find the proper words was writ large upon his face.
“Thank you, Master.”
“You faced many obstacles.” He stared at us, glassy-eyed as drunk men do, so it was hard to tell if he was intent upon a point, or ready to throw up. The grape makes fools of the wisest men. “I had my hand in setting some before you,” he said finally, sounding almost sober as he did so, “and I deeply regret it.”
“It is already forgotten,” Dabir managed evenly.
Jaffar grinned. “You are a good man.” He clutched suddenly at Dabir’s arm. “Do you think it’s true?”
It took Dabir a moment to decipher the meaning of the question. “The wise woman’s prophecy? Is that what you’re asking about?”
“Yes—do you think it was true? Do you think she mixed up the cups?”
“Oh, surely so,” Dabir said compassionately.
Jaffar beamed like an imbecile.
“Clearly,” Dabir added, “I was the one doomed by desiring someone beyond my station.”
Jaffar’s brow creased, and he waggled a finger. “But no man may avoid his fate.”
“I did not avoid it—Asim altered it without my asking.”
“Ah! That makes sense! I’m so glad he did.” He put his hands together, beaming. “It has all worked out! There are no hard feelings, are there? You both have riches and honors. Sabirah is well, and married to a good man. And you, Dabir, can marry any woman you want!”
“Yes,” Dabir said, though he did not laugh when Jaffar did so, nor did he respond as Jaffar wished us well and told us to go with God. He waved us away and turned into the darkness.
“He’s still desperate,” Dabir confided softly to me as we fell back in step.
“What do you mean?”
“He knows that the fortune-teller spoke truly, and that the cups were not confused, yet has twisted all his reasoning to convince himself they were.”
“Who is above him?”
“Did you not mark the screen directly behind the caliph?”
In fact I had—a fine cedar panel had stood behind him, with latticework above head level—but I saw no connection to the subject at hand. “What has that to do with anything?”
“Above all others, perhaps even Jaffar, the caliph prizes his sister, Abbasah. She sometimes attends banquets thus, behind the screen, so that she can hear but not be seen. Did you harken how sometimes the caliph or Jaffar would lean close to the screen and smile or nod?”
“I did not.”
“Doubtless she spoke to one or the other of them then.”
“You think—”
“Shh,” Dabir said quickly, adding softly, “I accuse him of nothing. I merely observe.”
A fine observer he was, too, given what was to befall Jaffar in later days.
We passed that night in the sumptuous chambers given over to us in the caliph’s halls, then rose after morning prayers to find a baggage train prepared for us, loaded down with gifts. No less than a dozen soldiers and as many servants and bearers were detailed to ride with us, so that such riches would arrive at our new lodgings unmolested. It was more than I had ever thought to see, and even Dabir, grim and tired-looking as he was, managed a smile.
As we wound our way through the city, riding for the northern gate, I bethought myself of all that had transpired, and how much my life had changed because of a parrot’s death and my own injudicious laughter.
I considered many things, but one thing most especially, and thus I bade Dabir ride on, telling him there was a final stop that I must make; I would meet him on the road. Dabir looked curiously after me, but said nothing.
I found the little marketplace easily enough, then turned down the alley. The beggars and common folk stared at me as I dropped from the gleaming white mare that had been Jaffar’s gift, doubtless wondering why someone attired in such fine raiment would venture here, for I wore my robe of honor and my boots were of new shagreen.
One of the fortune-teller’s grandchildren answered the door, his eyes wide at my splendid garments, then called for the woman.
Old she was, but she smiled in recognition after she squinted for a moment. “You have come to know more?”
“Nay.” I held up my hand. “I did not wish to know God’s plan for me from the first.”
“Then what is it you wish?”
“When you read our fates, is it possible that you confused them?”
She smiled crookedly.
“I am no writer,” I said, “only a swordsman.”
“Sometimes we choose our paths; sometimes we stumble upon them. Sometimes we must stride forward and seek them out, though the way is obscured by mist.”
“That does not help me. Can a man change his fate, or another man change it for him?”
“I have seldom met a man who so feared taking up a pen.”
I shook my head. “I do not ask any of this for myself, but worry for another of my companions.”
She stepped closer to me. “All our lives are webs of choices, intersecting with other webs. But I think you know this.”
I scratched my head, reasoning that I understood her, although I wished that she’d spoken more plainly. In any wise, I was not comforted, and I think she sensed this. To her I gave over the robe, which was altogether too fine a garment for a simple swordsman like myself.
She took it wonderingly as I stretched. Already the thing had made me overwarm, there in the street.
“Whatever is this for?” she asked.
“I think you shall put it to better use than I,” I answered, and vaulted onto the horse.
“I shall tell you one thing more,” she said, stepping after me and putting her hand to the bridle. “Cleave close to your friend. He will need you, and the world shall have need of you both.”
I shook my head, knowing she was wrong. “I ride off to the hinterlands, where I shall grow fat and lazy guarding a man who will moon over books.”
She only smiled, and bade me to go with God.
Once I rejoined him, Dabir said nothing to me until we stopped for a midday meal upon the road.
“Where were you?”
“Giving alms,” I said, which was true in a way.
Dabir grunted. “Did she say anything more to you about our fates?”
“Bismallah!” How had he known? “Only that we were stronger together than apart.”
“It takes no magic to see that,” he said.
“Also she foretold that you would leave off book reading for basket weaving, and grow hugely fat.”
“She did?” His eyes widened and I could not hold back my laughter.
Ah, I might say more, about our journey to Mosul, and the finding of our lodgings, indeed, of the many events which followed thereafter, but all of that must wait for another time, for this tale is done.
Afterword
Most of the characters in this novel are my own invention, with the exception of Haroun al-Rashid, Jaffar, much of Jaffar’s extended family, and a few incidental characters like Masrur (Sabirah is purely fictional). It may be that I have been more generous with my depiction of Haroun al-Rashid than the historical record strictly bears out, but I have written him as the calm and wise ruler he was so often portrayed to be in story and verse. Surely there must be some truth behind tales that made him popular in his own day and for many generations thereafter.
In his lifetime Jaffar seems to have been just as popular as the beloved caliph, and was famed for his diligent work ethic and intelligence. He may well have been far more clever in real life than I have shown him.
I strove to portray the people, places, and customs of the eighth century Abbasid caliphate accurately, but the story’s course and my own whim resulted in a variety of changes—referring to the Byzantine Romans (Roumi, to folk of the caliphate) as Greeks, moving the foundation of The House of Wisdom forward a generation or two simply because I knew how much Dabir would have loved to have studied there, and other matters besides. I tried always to make these changes in the spirit of the same unknown storytellers who spun tales for the The Arabian Nights, who seemed to know that while authenticity is important, it should never fetter the course of an adventure.
Readers interested in learning more about an ancient caliphate sadly bereft of djinn, sorcerers, and mighty wyrms have several excellent sources at their disposal. I have turned time and again to John Howe’s translation of Harun al-Rashid and the World of the Thousand and One Nights by André Clot (New Amsterdam Books, 1989), Daily Life in the Medieval Islamic World by James E. Lindsay (Greenwood Press, 2005), and Arab Seafaring in the Indian Ocean in Ancient and Early Medieval Times by George F. Hourani and John Carswell (Princeton University Press, 1995). While the time period is centuries different, two volumes were of particular use in better understanding the outlook, mindset, and even tone of the people who lived in the region long ago: The Travels of ibn Jubayr, translated by Ronald Broadhurst (Goodword books, 2004) and Philip K. Hitti’s translation of Usamah Ibn Munquidh’s An Arab-Syrian Gentleman and Warrior in the Period of the Crusades (Columbia University Press, 2000). Though he wrote of an entirely different desert, William Langewiesche’s excellent Sahara Unveiled (Vintage Departures, 1997) was a huge inspiration to me in bringing the desert quarter to life. Numerous other books and articles have been of use to me throughout the years, but I would be remiss if I did not mention two role-playing supplements, GURPS Arabian Nights, by Phil Masters (Steve Jackson Games 1993) and James L. Cambias’ Arabian Nights (Iron Crown Enterprises, 1994) as good starting points for someone wishing to have a better sense of daily life in nineth century Baghdad as well as the caliphate’s relation to nearby regions. The blog Laputan Logic introduced me to a number of books about the Marsh Arabs and showcased some fine photographs of the region, and an article by Brainerd S. Bates titled “Camping in the Empty Quarter” (Saudi Aramco World, Nov/Dec 1967) helped further my understanding of the desert environment.
In the realm of fantastic, there are of course many fine editions of The Arabian Nights, suited for many different tastes. I think a lot of preferences come down to what people are familiar with from their youth. I hope one day to read them in Arabic, but for now I have been enjoying the recent translations by Jack Zipes, collected in two thick Signet Classic paperbacks (Penguin Putnam 1991, 1999). Then, of course, there is the incomparable Shanameh, Ferdowsi’s classic, which should really be read by any who love fable and myth. It belongs on the bookshelf next to your favorite volume of Greek mythology.
Neil Gaiman brought Haroun, Jaffar, and even Masrur to life in one of my favorite Sandman issues, “Ramadan,” (DC Comics, Sandman, issue 50), illustrated with stunning clarity by P. Craig Russell, and that issue may well be the reason Dabir and Asim are adventuring when they are, as opposed to a generation or two or hundreds of years later. Or it may be that Gaiman’s work served as a gateway drug for my interest, for once I began to read more deeply into the time period and realized Haroun himself figured in some of the Arabian Nights, the appeal of tales set at the same time was undeniable.
Probably my greatest inspiration came from Harold Lamb and Robert E. Howard. Lamb wrote with astonishing vigor whenever he drafted historical fiction, and his ancient Moslems were brought vividly to life, be they heroes or villains. It was my honor to collect most of those tales in Swords from the West and Swords from the Desert (Bison Books, 2009) so that more readers could treasure these undeservedly forgotten stories. Robert E. Howard is famous for creating the sword-and-sorcery genre with Kull and Conan, not to mention writing a whole host of amazing adventure yarns. Some of his best work, though, are his historicals, never as popular probably because there are so few recurring characters in them. One of my favorites of his, indeed, one of my all-time favorite short stories of any kind, is “The Road of Azrael” with its witty, flawed, and dangerous narrator, Kosru Malik. If you can take the same kind of delight in the exploits of Dabir and Asim as I have found in the tales of my own favorite writers, I will count myself successful.
Howard Andrew Jones
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
THE DESERT OF SOULS. Copyright © 2011 by Howard Andrew Jones. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jones, Howard A.
The desert of souls / Howard Andrew Jones. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-64674-5
1. Iran—History—640-1500—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3610.O62535D47 2011
813’.6—dc22
2010039301
First Edition: February 2011
eISBN 978-1-4299-9481-1
First Thomas Dunne Books eBook Edition: February 2011
Howard Andrew Jones, The Desert of Souls
