The Will of the Saint: A Story

by DHU NUN AYYUB

1

EVEN the most wicked devil would not dare harm Sayyid Ibrahim, the son of Sayyid Ismail.” In my fear I clung to my father’s youngest wife, hiding my head between her little breasts. The weather was bitterly cold, and we were on our own, for my father had left us to go out to visit another of his wives, saying he would be back within an hour. However, an unexpected downpour came on, and the wind blew up a gale, howling and moaning like some prisoner in torment. The door of our little hut quaked under the blast, and almost blew wide open.

My childish fear did not disappear until Father’s youngest wife calmed me by saying, “Abu Hasan, God’S blessed saint, will guard you from all evil, for the whole village is under his protection. But your father is in his special favor, for were it not for him, our shrine would still be a patch of ground like any other, for the people to make water on and defile, all unaware that under the earth lay a mighty saint to intercede for us. Your father had been living here in this village for four years when the saint came to him in his dreams, and said, ‘O Sheikh Ismail, it was God that sent you to this village to show the people my resting place, and to save them from the punishment that will overcome them for their present sinful course of action, even t hough what they do is done unwittingly. For once one of them made water on my grave, and so now I have afflicted the village with a drought, so that the corn is withered, and the milk runs dry.'

“The next day your father went and took his stand in the middle of the village, and raised his voice among the people to warn them of the punishments of this life, and of the life to come. I saw him myself in the middle of the market place, with the people all round him looking penitent, and he shouting at the top of his voice, ‘O worshipers of God, here in your ow n village is a saint, though you are all unmindful of this honor. He came to me in a dream to complain that animals pass over his grave, and no one pays respect to the soil where he lies.’ The people all shouted, ‘Show us the place, and we will build a shrine over his bones, so that we may be protected by him from misfortunes.’ Your father replied, ‘This night I shall wrestle in prayer, to see whether God will direct us to him.'

“That night the whole village spent waiting for the first rays of the sun. Your father prayed. He went out into the fields at midnight, stopping here and there to say, ‘There is no God but God’ and ‘God is most great.’ The next morning everyone came crowding to his house to inquire how the affair of the patron saint had turned out, and whether he had led your father to his tomb. ‘Let every one of you who is descended from the Prophet come out with me, raising his voice in praise,’said your father, ‘so that we may go together to uncover the grave, for I have found it. But have care, for should any come forward who are not of holy descent from the Prophet Mohammed, their sight will be taken from them, and then hands withered. Now, let us see, who is of holy descent here?' But it so happened that in the whole village, the only man of the family of the Prophet was your father, so he had to go out all on his own to a plot of land a hundred yards from the village; there he stopped and raised his spade. He began digging, reciting all the time, ‘There is no God but God.’

“After he had dug down a few feet, he raised his hand, holding in it a lance that flashed in the sun, and with the lance, something green — a turban cloth. At the sight of these objects in the light of day, the whole crowd raised a shout. Everyone rushed out to the field as soon as your father had pushed some earth back over the relics, for fear they would dazzle the sight, of any that looked on them, and turn them blind. In no time they had the dome you now see built over the shrine. On the very next day the rain came pouring down, just when the people had given up hope of ever seeing it fall again. The rivers filled, the corn grew, it was a year of years, one of bounty and blessings. Your father became the keeper of the shrine, the shrine a name to swear by, and our village a center to which people came in pilgrimage from all the villages round about, bringing sacrifices and offerings to the saint. Indeed one of them dedicated his most beautiful daughter to the saint if he would grant him a son. This man’s wife had up till then given birth only to daughters, and she was now expecting once more. After a night spent by the tomb, she gave birth to a son, and the man brought his daughter as a thank-offering to the saint. She became your father’s second wife. By a year before the time when you were born, the population of the village had doubled, and more and more people began to move here, till it became as big as you know it today, though before your father it was no more than a desert, with hardly a soul living here.”

My father’s youngest wife carried on, telling me stories about the sheikh my father was until a good part of the night had gone by; then she blew out the lamp, and put me in the only bed there was in that hut, so I slept in my father’s place on the hard mattress, with her at my side. I snuggled to her soft body, in search of warmth, and felt her arms pressing me to her breast. It was then for the first time that I realized that I loved this woman who had failed to have any children of her own more than I did my own mother.

It was not long before disagreements arose between the two women, and my brothers took sides against me. Life became hard for me, and I clung all the more to that soft body, and wished she really could be my mother. If my father would make no distinctions in favor of any one of his wives, then I would, and would prefer this woman to my mother, for was she not prettier than she, not so fat, and far kinder to me? I do not know how many kicks and cuffs from my brothers, and harsh words from my mother, I endured in the course of this devotion of mine. Once they hatched a little plot against me, trying to get me sent out to work in the fields, saying I was quite old enough, and that other boys in the village of my own age worked gladly. At this my father stormed in their faces, “What he does is my concern, and my concern alone! It is not you who are responsible for feeding him, and bringing him up. By God’s bounty I have been made capable of supporting five like him, so do not go poking into his affairs after this!” How glad I was to hear these words of my father’s! I felt I wanted to kiss his beard for them. My father was very fond of me, because I was the youngest, and because I loved his youngest wife, who had no children of her own. And this was how the three of us, I, and he, and his youngest wife lived in complete concord.

2

I WAS eight before I saw one of the gendarmerie for the first time. That was when our village had attained such notoriety that the Ottoman government was obliged to carry out an investigation. So they sent an inspector and three gendarmes. When the news reached the village, everyone in the vicinity turned out to rejoice at the unusual mark of honor, and anyone with any case to bring up, and all the important people came along. My father led the way, dressed in his best, looking most imposing in his green turban, with his white beard. The official rose to kiss his hand as he approached. I was with all the other village children, gaping at all these people squatting on the carpets that had been spread for the occasion.

One man among the visitors particularly attracted my attention: he was dressed in the same way as my father, even excelling him in his clean white robe, his turban, milky white, and his ravenblack beard. The expression of this man struck me by its sternness. I could hear him questioning my father: “Where do you teach the children of the village the Word of God? Who teaches them how to perform their prayers?” My father amazed him by saying that the children learned to pray from their parents, and that they had no need to learn to read; he taught them the poems in praise of the Prophet, because the saint Abu Hasan had instructed him to do so, but he had not instructed him to do anything else, and to disobey Abu Hasan was to cause drought.

Everyone in the village looked at my father obediently when he spoke. His authority over them was more than spiritual, lor half the land around the village had been made over to him, and constituted as an inalienable estate, a quarter being in the name of the saint, and a quarter in Father’s own name. One could see that the black-bearded man had realized the state of affairs from the outset, for he hurriedly added, “There can be no doubt that Abu Hasan is one of the most powerful of God’s saints may God s blessing and peace rest upon him. He has chosen you out to be heir to his property, and to speak in his name. My first object is to acquire sanctity by approaching his grave, presenting my homage to him, and to you who speak in his name. You know well that. Abu Hasan is not pleased if any pay reverence to him with impure intentions. I have been filled with the thought that the saint desires someone to be your servant in the village, and to teach the children to read the scriptures, and so here I am, blessing the bounty of Abu Hasan.”

The man stood up when he had finished speaking, and humbly kissed my father’s hand, quoting, “God has appointed servants for his saints, and for those of his elders who are righteous.”

I watched the frown on my father’s brow relax, and heard him say, “No doubt. Before asking the guidance of the saint, I shall fast tomorrow. I shall pray to Abu Hasan to communicate his will to me.”

Soon after they all got up to go to the shrine, my father leading, followed by the man with the black beard. As they entered the shadowy building, they kissed the saint’s green turban now hanging over the tomb, then, after reciting the opening chapter of the Koran, they all left again, except my father and the man with the while turban. I heard my father addressing him by the title of Mullah Mohammed.

The whole of that day they spent in retreat, and on the following day my father announced the will of the saint that Mullah Mohammed was to be a servant of the saint’s mosque, to teach the children of the village the Koran, Holy Tradition, and religious knowledge. Everyone rejoiced at this news. The next day we all came flocking to see the mullah, anxious to see what he would do. After we had all kissed his hand, and he had seated us round him, he gave each one of us a sort of book on which were black signs. I was quicker than all the others in opening mine, and I saw inside what looked like a lot of little insects crawling about. Some of them were curled up, and some of them stood up straight. The mullah told us to do as he did. “We will open the first page of the book,”so we opened it. He pointed to the first of the little insects, and said, “Alif" (the letter A) and asked us to repeat t lie word after him. So we repeated the word, at which we remained awe-stricken and overjoyed. We spent hours on this lesson, and I was the best in the class. The mullah was pleased.

I hurried off to my father, with the mullah, who asked me in my father’s presence to repeat the letters of the alphabet, and I repeated them, with a great flourish. “Bless my soul,”said my father patting my back in his pride, “this is one of the miracles of Abu Hasan. I have seen in a dream that this lad is going to be a very important man, who will glorify the religion of God; he will raise aloft the banner of Abu Hasan.” The news soon got round the whole village, and my mother rushed up all excited. That day my brothers did not dare try to annoy me. Once again I was free to enjoy the peace that I found so sweet.

One afternoon, while we were playing, I heard one of the village boys say, “Hashim can too. He has learned to say the alphabet, right up to the end.” And indeed Hashim had learned to recite his letters, even quicker than I, and to read off the whole lesson from beginning to end without the slightest difficulty. I flew into a rage, and went off crying to my father. When he had heard my tale, he said in a consoling tone, “The Devil must have taught him, to rouse the wrath of Abu Hasan. Mullah Mohammed must know the way that the Devil is setting about ensnaring these boys.”

The next day I noticed that the mullah had a big stick. After seating me beside him, he addressed my little companions. “The Devil has taken up his abode in the hearts of some of you, and has driven you to be enemies of our saint. Anyone who gets the stick from me will cry out, ‘God save me from Satan.’" He made a start with Hashim, the one who could recite quicker than I, and belabored him with the stick while the poor boy repeated ‘God save me from Satan’ over and over with tears in his eyes. The mullah then proceeded to the others, and after completing the expulsion of the Devil, he said, “Learn this once and for all, if any of you master the lesson before Sheikh Ismail’s son, it must be because the Devil has taught it to you, to trouble our saint.”

From that day on, the others were no longer anxious to show off. Indeed, if, by the intermediation of the Devil, one of them had learned faster than I, he would make sure that one or two mistakes should slip in, as if by chance, out of fear of the big stick, and of hell-fire.

3

BY THE end of the first year, we were reading a few verses from the Koran; after three years, the mullah announced that I had learned the Koran. He requested the present that was his customary due, and people were invited to the celebration. I remember the village children gathered together with their best clothes on; the mullah lined them up, and went in front, between two green banners, banging a little drum, and reciting prayers to which the children gave the responses. I walked beside the mullah, wearing a new robe that had been specially ordered for me from Mosul, covered with gold braiding and fine designs. After a circuit of the village we returned to my mother’s house. As we drew near, I saw that one of my brothers was waiting with a fatted lamb that he slaughtered at my feet. We went indoors where glasses of sugar-water were handed round. My father then Stepped up to the mullah and placed in his hand a full purse; presents were distributed among the children; they ate their fill and the party broke up.

That day was the first time I saw my mother and my father’s youngest wife really at peace. There they sat, side by side, in the perfect contentment that my attainment to such a degree of knowledge had brought them, all secret hates and rivalry banished from their minds by it. My mother went out of her way to be nice to the youngest wife, who in her turn made a great show of happiness, and smothered her with servility. My eldest brother said to my father, by way of a joke, “He will succeed you as sheikh of the shrine, and servant of the saint.” My father shook his head, and said, “He is meant for greater things than that. This village will be no place for him. He will go to visit the big cities, and will be a mighty man. That is what the holy saint has told me. In any case the saint has chosen Abdu Sami as my successor.”This Abdu Sami was my half-brother by my father’s third wife, a stupid lad, better at fasting and prayer than reading. He had already learned by heart the texts my father used, and how to conduct the ceremonies and affairs of the shrine, He did not go to the mullah’s lessons because he thought it might lower him in our estimation.

I was very happy to hear my father say these words, for I was consumed with longing to see the cities that the peasants talked about so much, saying how great were the caravanseries there, and how large the taverns, how long the streets of covered markets, where you could walk for half an hour without seeing the sun, and about the things to eat and drink. . . .

And so I went on to college, where I spent two years. It was a troubling time for me because almost every day the religious principles that I had kept in my heart from childhood suffered some shock at their very foundations. A bitter war raged between these principles and the new scientific truths that swept away everything in their path, obliterating many an old wives’ tale from my brain. And often it seemed that part of my life was being swept away with them. I suffered terrible spiritual torments. If only I had been given a true religious upbringing, instead of one mixed with all sorts of fantastic tales and fancies, this bitter conflict would never have occurred, for religious truths, and the general sense of the Koran do not contradict scientific truths, or conflict with them. But when religious beliefs based on ridiculous fantasies are instilled right from the beginning, they will be rejected as man’s intellect develops, sometimes destroying the entire foundation for true religious belief.

I spent those years between doubt and certainty, hounded by my thoughts and preoccupations. Then one day I perceived that my reverence for the saint and his shrine at home had ebbed away. I was on my way back to the village, and the saint with his tiny dome-shaped tomb and its ridiculous decorations suddenly seemed to me like a cat that puffs himself up in his attack to look like a lion. Yet when the shady sanctuary came into sight I felt again the pull of its power, as strong as ever. Before the familiar place, knowledge seemed to fade away. Something compelled me to go to the saint as soon as I arrived, even before I went home. On entering the shrine, I found myself kissing the turban over the tomb and saying the opening chapter of the Koran. I left amid the gazes of the villagers, to the astonishment of the mullah, and my father’s great joy. In this way I showed that the city and the college do not destroy faith, as the mullah had warned.

But all this did not mean that my doubts were gone; rather they were strengthened. I was impelled to the tomb again to see if I could find something either to dispel or confirm my doubts. I walked round the shrine to examine the surroundings. The lance caught my attention. My father claimed that it had belonged to the saint, and that wearing the green blood-spattered turban the saint had fought for the true religion with it against unbelievers in this very region. But the lance had already gone rusty. The turban had faded after the passing of what was nearly twenty years.

I began to wonder, with my new-found knowledge, why the turban and the lance had not deteriorated if they were buried in the earth for so many years? How was it possible that the turban was bright green, and the lance shining when my father found them? If they had survived in the ground why did the saint allow them to decay after their discovery? Then again, nobody had seen the saint’s remains except my father, who feared their splendor would blind others, so he said. This wave of doubt shook my faith, and I took refuge at once in prayer, to drive off the Devil. I resolved to sleep at the tomb, to pray there that the saint would give me a sign. I chose for that purpose Friday night, our Muslim Sabbath. I told nobody about my plan for fear that the doubt behind it would be guessed, but after the evening prayer I simply slipped away. The way was deserted, the night pitch-black. Already the tomb seemed like some dreadful form standing guard by night over the village, to drive off anything that might disturb the peace and quiet of those that lived there.

4

As I DREW near the shrine’s gate I thought I heard the noise of whispering. Was the saint awaiting me? Fear spread through my body. I started to go back, then forced myself to go toward the voice. It was coming from the window of the room in which my brother slept, so that he could look after the shrine. As I came up to the window I recognized that it was my brother’s voice. It was quite clear, and I heard him say, “O Sada, I cannot sleep if you do not visit me, and close my eyes with your slender fingers.” And I heard the voice of Sada reply, “By the saint, O Abdu Sami, if I were not afraid of those who might spy on us, I should come to you on the days of the full moon as well.”

He replied to her, “The saint will protect us, so fear no evil.” But she answered, sighing, “I am afraid for you; my husband is a hard man. He loves me, and has little respect for the saint. Perhaps he would kill you if he should find out how we meet here.” After this snatch of conversation I could hear the murmur of kisses, and muffled laughter. Hardly believing my ears, I thought this must surely be the doing of Satan. I realized that I must not interfere for fear of the scandal. I went to the tomb to pray to the saint, to lift the veil from my eyes.

I opened the door gently, and entered the shrine, feeling the awe of the place stealing over me. In the middle of the room appeared the imposing form of the tomb. The shadows it cast moved on the floor as the flames of the lamps danced. I heard a noise of snoring which was soft, but which grew as I entered. I looked round the tomb, to find where it came from, and discovered my father stretched out on a mat on the far side. I saw no reason to wake him, so I spread my prayer mat, and began to go over all the prayers that I knew. I spent nearly an hour in this way, till my eyelids grew heavy with sleep. So I lifted the hangings over the tomb and kissed them time after time, asking the saint to grant; me guidance.

I then stretched out my mat on the damp sandy floor to ease my cramped legs. I rested my head on my arms, and began to think of my brother in Sada’s arms, kissing her near the saint, without the saint breaking my brother’s neck. I remembered hearing similar stories about Christian monks told by the boys at school, and how these stories had delighted me and made me laugh because they attacked unbelief, and the enemies of the true faith. But here was my own brother doing the same thing, “the distance of two bows’ lengths,” as the Koran has it, from the tomb of the saint. Would he be struck down for it? I imagined that the saint would rise from his tomb, take his lance, and fall upon the traitors. He would strike them through their filthy hearts.

While I was plunged in such fancies, I heard a noise at my side. On the wall I saw the shadow of a man slowly getting up. My blood froze in my veins from fear. I thought my fancies must have come true. I went on watching the shadow as if I were paralyzed, not daring to breathe. I saw his hands go to his middle. Then he squatted down. After scraping a hole in the ground with his hand, there gushed forth a stream. I could hear the noise in that silence quite clearly. Then he turned back the earth into the hole in which he had made water, went back, stretched himself out, and the interrupted snoring was soon resumed.

I slowly came back to possession of my rational faculties which had left me in my fear. I began to wonder how my father could have dared to make water near the tomb of the saint, who was capable of blinding one’s sight and breaking one’s neck. Then I knew that my perplexity was resolved, and my doubts had changed to certainty. I laughed out when I thought how my prayers and devotions had not been in vain. For the saint had answered my prayers, and all my doubts were cleared away by what I had seen. I thought how all the conclusive proofs that I had studied were none of them so effective as that.

I stole away after making sure my father was fast asleep. As I left I caught a glimpse in the light of the stars of the figure of a woman who had slipped away before me. When I came to my home, I saw my mother, anxiously looking out for me. I told her I had been to sleep at the saint’s tomb. I asked her about Sada, the wife of Abbas, and why she went out to the shrine. She answered that Sada had not had a child for seven years. My brother had told her to sleep near the grave of the saint for a week every month while the moon was on the wane. I told my mother I felt quite certain that God would accord Sada a fine son.

The morning after that night of miracles I went out to the saint’s tomb, and entered with firm steps. I smiled a wise experienced smile. After kissing my father’s hand and the hangings over the tomb, I turned my gaze on my father’s grave face — a gaze of respect and honor greater than I had ever accorded him before. I had found out that he and he alone was the saint and the divine power that ruled the minds of all those people and governed their souls and their means of livelihood. He was in this district of his more powerful than the Sultan’s government. He had risen in my estimation from the rank of a devotee to that of a god.

When the pilgrims and worshipers began to appear, I sat down and read the Koran. I hung back till the place was quite empty. Then I hastened to the lance and cast my eyes on the marks stamped on it. After much effort I succeeded in reading the strange inscription. On the middle of the pattern was engraved “Made in Mazenderan.”At this I felt sure that the green turban was “made in Mazenderan” too. I laughed and went to the tomb, and said humbly, “O mighty saint, if the villagers knew what I know, they would wake up once and for all, and would chase my father away, demanding their property back. So if it were not for you, I and all my family would be poor dervishes, getting our living by begging, as my father did. Indeed, perhaps I and my brothers would never have come into being.”

The time of my childhood had come to an end.

Translated and abridged by Pat Harvey