“A sutra from the Book of Reconciliation.” Which was not a book at al but a long letter El Murid had written to persecuted converts when he was stil young and visionary.
It was included in the greater col ection of the Disciple’s Inspired Writings—cynical y assembled by Yasmid to help guide and shape the Faith.
“Oh. Yes. Where he tel s us to endure our trials. If we live our lives righteously and tend to our gardens, God wil tend to us.”
“Very good.”
“My father was there, in that camp, when he wrote that letter.”
Tangled lives, Yasmid thought, with some entanglements going back decades and generations.
She had her women ready her for the public passage across the mile to her father’s tent. Though the hard line imams had been tamed for now she did not want to provoke them. Publicly, she would conform to the standards expected of an important woman.
Those were the unwritten terms of a tacit truce.
It was another in a long parade of fine days. The sky was a brighter blue than in most years. There were clouds up there, stately cumulus caravels like immense, gnarly snowbal s edged with silver, numerous enough to be worthy of note. They were uncommon in most summers.
The fakir from Matayanga claimed that the unusual and favorable weather was a consequence of the great war between his homeland and Shinsan.
Yasmid cared only that the weather brought more moisture than usual.
“It’s almost cool today.”
Habibul ah misinterpreted. “Getting cold feet?”
“No. I started thinking about Haroun.”
Habibul ah sighed.
“I’m sorry. The Evil One has that hold on me. I can’t get the man out of my head.” She took four steps. “I never could.” Several more steps. “He would be away for years. And I would spend most of that time watching the door, waiting for him to come through.” She managed another ten steps.
“Habibul ah, I could have come home any time I wanted.
There was no one to stop me. There was just one old woman with me. But I stayed and watched the door.” Habibul ah faced the mountains behind them. He thought he might shed a tear. He did not want his goddess to see that.
As they approached El Murid’s tent Yasmid halted yet again. “I’m watching the door again. God, have mercy on your weak child.”
“He’s dead, Yasmid. Accept that. The rumors al result from one fevered imagination.”
“I can’t accept that.”
...
Elwas al-Souki met the Lady Yasmid at the entrance to the Disciple’s tent—that being a sprawl of canvas and poles covering several acres.
El Murid had a philosophical resistance to residing in structures built of timber or stone. He would live in tents whenever he could.
This sprawl was a ghost of the canvas palaces he had occupied in his glory days.
Al-Souki said, “Lady, you are punctual. Sadly, we have not been your equal. We have run late al day, getting farther behind by the hour.”
“What are you up to, Elwas?”
The man did not dissemble. “I hoped to show you how your father is progressing while we wait.”
“Why?” She did not want to be here. Whatever prolonged her torment was sure to irk her.
“Because you need to know. Because your wretch of a father is also the Disciple, a shining star to mil ions. You need to see what we’ve done to resurrect the visionary from the ashes of the man.”
Habibul ah averred, “That’s interesting talk, Elwas. Now make it mean something.”
Elwas flashed a happy face and beckoned them to fol ow.
They reached an open area fifty feet by a hundred with the canvas twenty feet above, supported by an orchard of poles. There were few furnishings. The floor was sawdust and wood chips mixed with strained sand and shredded clay in a groomed flat, soft surface. Thin, creamy light coming through the canvas revealed several men engaged in calisthenics. Swami Phogedatvitsu and his smarmy interpreter walked around them. The swami occasional y swatted one with a switch. No one wore anything but a loincloth. None of those bodies were worthy of flaunting.
Yasmid did not recognize her father.
When Habibul ah brought her home—subjective ages ago
—Micah al Rhami had been a fat slug, half blind, barely aware that he was alive. His caretakers kept him fat, drugged, and out of sight so he would not interfere in what they did in his name.
Most of those parasites abided with the Evil One now. The Invincibles and Harish had helped clean them out.
“Lady? Are you al right?” Elwas asked. He sounded genuinely concerned.
“I’m fine. I was remembering my return from exile, when I first saw what had become of my father. It was beyond belief.”
“I have heard tel .”
Yasmid glanced his way, unhappy. He was not feeling generous toward her, perhaps because of her profound disgust. That never won favor among men who considered her father the Right Hand of God, however far he had fal en.
Elwas told her, “He is free of the poppy. Heavy exercise is one of Swami Phogedatvitsu’s sharpest tools.”
“Wouldn’t that just aggravate his pain?”
“That is emotion expressed as pain, not actual pain. He feels the loss of your mother physical y instead of emotional y.”
Yasmid nodded. An odd way of thinking but it did sound plausible.
“The swami also teaches skil s for managing both the need for the poppy and the pain that excuses the need.” Yasmid sucked in a deep breath, released it in a long sigh.
Her father had suffered chronic pain forever. He had sustained severe injuries during his early ministry. Some never healed right. The pain, and the opium he used to control it, clouded his judgment later. Countless needless deaths resulted.
“I do hope that he conquers the poppy, Elwas. I pray for that regularly. But he has beaten it before, only to backslide when life disappointed him.”
“This time wil be different. I hope you wil let the swami manage your father’s health permanently.” Habibul ah snorted in disdain but did control his tongue.
Yasmid understood. It would be outrageous to hand the Disciple’s health and spiritual wel -being over to a heathen mystic. The most coveted treasure a vil ain could win would be control of the Disciple’s person.
Elwas bin Farout al-Souki, though young, was cunning and had grown up in circumstances that made reading people a useful survival skil . “Lady, I have no interest in control ing your father. I am involved because my other duties make slight claim upon my time. We have no wars. We have no threats of war. Only a few young, green men want to train for the next war.”
Elwas had more to say. He did not get the chance. Swami Phogedatvitsu finished and sent his patients on to whatever they would do next. He donned a wrap of orange that concealed his flab, approached the observers wearing an agile, gleaming, sweat-shiny smile.
He appeared to be pleased with himself.
That was fine with Yasmid. “I am impressed. You have my father more active than I can ever remember.” Phogedatvitsu’s smile turned condescending. “Thank you, Lady.” He was making excel ent progress with the language. He inclined his head just enough.
Elwas said, “The meal isn’t ready. Swami, can you show the lady how you help our lord cope with pain?” Phogedatvitsu turned to his interpreter. The smal man rattled something in a language with odd rhythms. Yasmid believed the swami was buying time to think.
