Katherine Neville - The Fire

But there was something else – something that must not fall into the clutches of the Turks, something critical: something more important than life and death. That was why the Baba had come all this long, long way.

And that was why Ali Pasha had sent the boy to the hamam to collect Haidée. The young boy Kauri, the Janissary – a πεµπτoσ, a pemptos, a ‘fifth’ – one of those boys of the Devishirme, those one in every five Christian boys who’d been collected each year, over these past five hundred years, to replenish the Janissary ranks.

But Kauri was no Christian: He was Islamic from birth. Indeed, according to Mehmet Effendi, Kauri himself might be a part of the omen – perhaps the only one upon whom they could rely to complete this desperate and dangerous mission.

Ali Pasha only hoped to Allah that they were not too late.

Kauri, in a panic, hoped precisely the same.

He lashed the great black stallion ahead along the darkened lake shore, as Haidée clung to him tightly from behind. His instructions had been to bring her to the isle with as little fanfare as possible, under cover of darkness.

But when the pasha’s young daughter and her frightened maidservants arrived at the hamam and told him of the ships that were already rowing across the lake – Turkish ships – Kauri threw such precautions to the wind. He quickly understood, regardless of what his orders might have been, that as of this moment the rules had certainly changed.

The intruders were moving slowly, trying to remain silent, the girls had told him. Just to reach the isle, the Turks would have to cross a good four miles of water, Kauri knew. By circumventing the lake on horseback himself, to where Kauri had lashed down the small boat among the rushes at the far end, it would cut their own travel time in half – just what they needed.

Kauri had to reach the monastery first, before the Turks, to warn Ali Pasha.

At the far end of the enormous monastery kitchens, the coals blazed in the oçak, the ritual hearth beneath the sacred soup cauldron of the order. On the altar to the right the twelve candles had been lit – and, at center, the secret candle. Each person who entered the room stepped across the sacred threshold without touching the pillars or the floor.

At the room’s center, Ali Pasha, the most powerful ruler in the Ottoman Empire, lay prostrate, facedown upon his prayer rug, spread upon the cold stone floor. Before him on a pile of cushions sat the great Shemimi Baba, who had initiated the pasha so many years ago: He was the Pirimugan, the Perfect Guide of all Bektashis throughout the world. The Baba’s wizened face, brown and wrinkled as a dried berry, was suffused with an ancient wisdom attained through years of following the Way. It was said that Shemimi Baba was more than one hundred years old.

The Baba, still swathed in his hirka for warmth, was plumped upon his pile of cushions like a frail, dry leaf that had just floated down from the skies. He wore the ancient elifi tac, the twelve-pleated headdress given to the order, it was said, by Haji Bektashi Veli himself, five hundred years ago. In his left hand, the Baba held his ritual staff of mulberry, topped with the palihenk, the sacred twelve-part stone. His right hand rested upon the recumbent pasha’s head.

The Baba looked about the room at those who were kneeling on the floor around him: General Vaya, Minister Effendi, and Vasiliki, the soldiers, shaikhs and Mürsits of the Bektashi Sufi order, as well as several monks of the Greek Orthodox Church, who were the pasha’s friends, Vasiliki’s spiritual guides – as well as their hosts, these many weeks, here upon the isle.

To one side sat the young boy, Kauri, and the pasha’s daughter, Haidée, who had brought the news that had prompted the Baba’s call for this meeting. They’d stripped off their muddy riding cloaks and, like the others, performed their ritual ablutions before entering the sacred space near the holy Baba.

The Baba removed his hand from Ali Pasha’s head, completing the blessing, and the pasha arose, bowed low, and kissed the hem of the Baba’s cloak. Then he knelt along with the others in the circle surrounding the great saint. Everyone understood the severity of their situation, and all strained to hear Shemimi Baba’s critical next words:

‘Nice sirlar vardir sirlardan içli,’ began the Baba. There are many mysteries, mysteries within mysteries.

This was the well-known Doctrine of the Mürsit – the concept that one must possess not just a shaikh or teacher of the law – but also a mürshid or human guide through the nasip, the initiation, and through the following ‘four gate-ways’ to Reality.

But Kauri thought in confusion, how could anyone imagine such things at this moment, with the Turks perhaps only moments away from the isle? Kauri glanced surreptitiously at Haidée, just beside him.

Then, as if the Baba had read these private thoughts, the old man suddenly laughed aloud: a cackle. All those in the circle looked up, surprised, but another surprise was just to come: The Baba, with much effort, had planted his mulberry stick in the pile of pillows and hoisted himself ably to his feet. Ali Pasha leapt up at once and was rushing to help his aged mentor, but he was whisked away with a flutter of the old man’s hand.

‘Perhaps you wonder why we are speaking of mysteries like this, when we have infidels and wolves nearly at our door!’ he exclaimed. ‘There is only one mystery we need speak of at this moment, just before dawn. It is the mystery that Ali Pasha has guarded for us so well for so long. It is the mystery that itself has now placed our pasha here on this rock, the very mystery that brings the wolfish ones here. It is my duty to tell you what it is – and why it must be defended by all of us here, at any cost. Though those of us in this room may find different fates before this day is over – some of us may fight to the death or be captured by the Turks for a fate that may prove worse than death – there is only one person, here in this room, who is in a position to rescue this mystery. And thanks to our young fighter, Kauri, she has arrived here just in time.’

The Baba nodded with a smile at Haidée, as the others all turned to look at her. All but her mother, Vasiliki, that is – who was looking across at Ali Pasha with an expression that seemed to mingle love, trepidation, and fear.

‘I have something to tell you all,’ Shemimi Baba went on. ‘It is a mystery that has been handed down and protected for centuries. I am the last guide in the long, long chain of guides who have passed this mystery on to their successors. I must tell the story swiftly and succinctly, but tell it I must – before the sultan’s assassins arrive. You must all understand the importance of what we are fighting for, and why it must be protected, even unto our deaths.

‘You all know one of the famous hadis or reputed sayings of Muhammad,’ the Baba told them. ‘These famous lines are carved above the threshold of many Bektashi halls – words that are attributed to Allah Himself:

I was a Hidden Treasure, therefore was I fain to be known, therefore I created creation, in order that I should be known…

‘The tale that I am about to tell you involves another hidden treasure, a treasure of great value, but also great danger – a treasure that has been sought for more than one thousand years. Only the guides, over the years, have known the true source and meaning of this treasure. Now I share this with you.’

Everyone in the room nodded: They understood the importance of the message that the Baba was about to impart to them, the very importance of his being here. No one spoke as the old man removed the sacred elifi tac from his head, set it down in the pillows, and shed his long sheepskin cloak. He stood there amid the cushions dressed only in his simple woolen kaftan. And leaning upon his mulberry staff, the Baba began his tale…