Free A Poet of the Invisible World by Michael Golding Page B

something specific. And after he’d been searching for it for months, one hot summer morning, out by the woodshed, it finally appeared.
    He’d spent the morning in Sheikh Bailiri’s cell, where the Sufi master was explaining that God keeps the hearts of the faithful moving between contraction and expansion.
    â€œWhen the heart contracts, the aspirant’s sensual experiences are extracted from it. Then, when it expands, the veil lifts and he flashes with light.”
    As Nouri sat on the blue-and-gold kilim, he tried to fathom the Sufi master’s words. But with the heat bearing down, and no breeze blowing through the open window, the only thing that he could feel contracting was his throat and the only thing that he could feel expanding was his head and he began to worry that he might pass out. Fortunately, Sheikh Bailiri could see this. So he reached for the clay pitcher on his desk and suggested that Nouri fetch some water from the well.
    As Nouri left the cell, his head began to lighten, and as he crossed the courtyard to the well, the tightness in his throat began to release. But when he reached the woodshed, he saw Vishpar chopping wood. He’d removed his tunic, and his torso, covered in sweat, glistened in the blazing sun. Nouri was spellbound by the play of the muscles across his back and the tautness of his skin. When Vishpar raised the ax up into the air, however, the morning light brought his sculpted arms into relief. And as he felt his heart both contract and expand, Nouri knew that he’d found the theme of his poem.
    *   *   *
    WHILE NOURI COMMENCED WORK on his ode to Vishpar’s arms, Habbib began having violent dreams. He’d be walking through the streets of Tan-Arzhan when there’d be an explosion and bodies would start flying through the air. He’d be sitting in his cell when the roof would suddenly cave in. It was strange, for Habbib generally slept like a newborn babe. So when he dreamed that a large bearded man removed Piran Nazuder’s head with a gleaming blade, he knew that it was time to pay a visit to Sheikh Bailiri.
    In all the time he’d lived at the lodge, Habbib had hardly spoken to Sheikh Bailiri. Except for the warm “hello” he received when he swept his cell and the occasional “good morning,” they’d barely exchanged a word. So it was not without a trace of fear that he made his way to his cell on that late-summer morning.
    He knocked on the door. There was a brief silence. Then the door opened and the Sufi master stood before him.
    â€œI’m sorry to disturb you,” said Habbib. “But I need to speak with you.”
    Sheikh Bailiri gazed at the small, kind-faced man standing in the doorway, and he realized that it had been years since he’d really noticed him. He always remained in the background, never complaining, never asking for a thing. So Sheikh Bailiri knew that there must be a good reason for him to come knocking at his door.
    â€œCome in,” he said.
    Habbib entered the simple room he’d swept thousands of times and waited for Sheikh Bailiri to close the door. Sheikh Bailiri gestured to him to sit on one of the pillows that lay strewn across the floor. Then the Sufi master lifted his woolen robe and sat down beside him.
    â€œI’ve been having dreams.”
    â€œWhat kind of dreams?”
    Habbib shuddered. “Terrible dreams.” Then he described the shouts and the blasts and the blood that filled his head each night when he relinquished himself to sleep. “Last night all I could see was a pair of eyes peering through the smoke. And the air was filled with groans.”
    Sheikh Bailiri was silent as he listened to Habbib speak. For the most part, he considered the dream life to be meaningless—a catch pot of random impressions, a tale stitched together from the fragments of the day. Yet he knew that sometimes a dream was a chalice into which a