On the terrace of the humble mosque, a cube of beaten mud like all the others, Sheik Jamaluddin al-Ghumuqi was distracted from his instruction of the imam’s heir. See the Russians? Should he give in to Jamal Eddin? The sheik, who had not always known the infidels to be as cruel as they had become today, could fully understand the boy’s desire. The repulsion of those close to him for these beasts who lurked in the shadows, the look of horror on his mother’s face at the very mention of their name had turned his curiosity into fascination. And with good reason. Even Shamil’s voice trembled with disgust when he spoke of the giaours.
See the Russians? Why not? But certain precautions were necessary. The presence of Shamil’s son should not give them any ideas. But there was little risk of this tomorrow, since the entire army would be there, and the one-on-one meeting would be transformed into field maneuvers. No one would notice the child among all the other horsemen.
Of all Shamil’s advisors, the sheik was the only one who had not totally disapproved of Shamil’s decision to meet with Klugenau. He shared the conviction of the naïbs that a holy war was inevitable, a necessity to which he must devote his intelligence and knowledge. But he did not like the idea. If the infidels, finally enlightened, could allow the Montagnards to govern themselves freely in their own territory and worship their God as they chose, Jamaluddin al-Ghumuqi would be favorable to negotiation. Peace for the Muslims of the Caucasus was his deepest desire. And his greatest hope.
The others, like Yunus, were wary of an ambush. Shaken by their conviction, Shamil prepared for that eventuality. The Russians could only reach the fountain by the narrow gorge of Ghimri; in the event of a problem, Shamil’s men could cut off their retreat. The naïbs could retreat to Akulgo, which was naturally defended by its location at the summit of the peak. The plan was to move in there for the winter. Whatever happened, the army would evacuate Chirquata, which was too accessible to reprisal, and the population would follow. See the Russians? Well, Jamal Eddin would see them soon enough.
The teacher was touched by the small boy, with his dark eyes and long lashes, his alert, mischievous expression, and a child’s body that he tried hard to control. The scratches on his cherkeska, whose sleeves only reached his elbows, and his scraped-up arms and legs were proof that the child was growing up too fast, trying too hard to emulate his father.
Jamal Eddin was by nature less sensitive, less somber and tormented, than Shamil, but he shared his father’s thirst for the absolute and his strong will. When he decided to do something, he would go on trying until he had overcome his fears and obtained his objective. Or been proven right. At seven, he could be as tenacious as he could be tiring.
Squatting oriental-style on the terrace, the old teacher tried to pick up the thread of the lesson.
“Sit down here in front of me, and answer. What is Islam made of?”
The boy tried to escape his quizzing by asking another question, but the mullah persisted.
“What are the three distinct, interrelated elements that make up the chain of the Naqshbandi order? I’m listening!”
His teacher’s tone was adamant. Jamal Eddin settled down, crossing his legs obediently. It was in his interest to be patient. Apart from the fact that he liked the old man, he needed his support. It would be no easy task to obtain it, since he rarely had occasion to be alone with him. Usually he studied at the madrassa, the Islamic school, with his little brother and the other boys of the village. Shamil intended to interrogate his son about al-Fatiha, the first surat, or chapter, of the Koran, and the sheik was going over the lesson with him.
Jamal Eddin knew that despite his long white beard the sheik was scarcely a decade older than his father, and that he also had several wives, who were said to be very attractive. But Shamil worshipped the wisdom so evident in his words. His voice could be patient and kind, but it could also cut to the quick, like Bahou-Messadou’s. Jamal Eddin wiggled with discomfort thinking of his grandmother. She had forbidden him to go to the fountain to see the Russians. Usually Bahou was kind and good to him, acceding to all he asked. But she was a woman, and she was frightened.
If the sheik was in favor, his father would take him to the fountain.
He recited docilely, “The three elements are the Sharia, the law; the Tariqa, the way; and the Hakika, the truth.”
“And what is the Tariqa?”
“The direct relation between the source of the river and its tributaries.”
“That is to say?”
“The relation between the teachings of the prophet and the teachings of his followers, the Sufi masters who enrich the river.”
“And the Hakika?”
The child was a bit less sure about this element. He fidgeted again, searching for the answer.
“Be still! What is the Hakika?”
“The truth. Union with the divine spirit.”
“And?”
Jamal Eddin hesitated. “The capacity to know the infinite.”
“And what is the name for this state of meditation that liberates the mind?”
This time Jamal Eddin could no longer resist. Abruptly changing the subject, he returned to the problem that preoccupied him.
“Why did Hamzat disappear with the Russians?”
Jamal Eddin had only a vague memory of his sole encounter with the Russians, of white caps, golden objects, and rocks sticky with blood. But now that he was big, he no longer rode pillion like Mohammed Ghazi. He rode his own pony and he carried a kinjal. What should he think of his cousin being held captive by the infidels?
“My aunt Patimat says that even if they give Hamzat back, she doesn’t want him anymore.”
“Your aunt doesn’t really believe what she says.”
“Yes, she does! She says that since the Russians have touched him, Hamzat is impure. He stinks.”
“Allah is much more merciful than your aunt Patimat.”
“She says it’s the same thing as for the birds. When an eaglet falls from the nest, you mustn’t touch him or his mother won’t recognize his smell any more. She says Hamzat has been sullied by contact with them. That he should accept nothing from their hands, not a raisin, not a scrap of bread, not pilaf, no food. She says he should let himself starve to death.”
The sheik frowned.
“For Hamzat, there are many other choices besides death.”
“She says no, there’s no other way.”
“Neither Patimat nor anyone else on this earth can presume the ways of the Lord. As for the dishonor of Hamzat’s captivity, the infidel your father plans to meet tomorrow has always been loyal and courageous in combat. If his integrity deserves Shamil’s trust, contact with him cannot dishonor your cousin.”
Jamal Eddin looked doubtful as he digested the sheik’s words, then he said mischievously, enunciating his words one by one, “That I’d like to see.”
The imam and his naïbs rode at the head. Now there were thirty of them instead of ten. Behind them was a unit of monk-soldiers dressed in black, who had renounced conjugal ties and chosen a life of abstinence. They were followed by most of the army, dressed in brown; the murids carried banners, a forest of flags and lances all crowned with the same metal ornament, the crescent of Islam. The rest of the troops were composed of murtaghazets, village fighters. One out of every ten families in each hamlet had contributed a horse, a warrior, and his arms. Shamil had transformed this obligation into a glorious privilege, and all had sworn on the Koran to die for their imam. All of them wore the white turban of Shamil. Those who had made the pilgrimage to Mecca wore green, the others brown. Only the youngsters, who, like Jamal Eddin, were not yet knowledgeable enough in religious science, wore no drape of white on their sheepskin hats.