2000 Story

 

The Mázindarán Upheaval

Karbilá, Persia
1264 A.H. / 1848 A.D.

            Under the branches of a thin crooked tree, I lay on my back, enjoying the few moments I had to rest in that hot and dusty afternoon.  The gravel roads were silent, empty.  The inhabitants of the city lay resting in their homes, with their windows closed to keep the sand of the desert from being blown inside with the dry wind.  Only a few small children played outside.  They kicked an empty basket around with their bare feet, skipping and grunting because of the burning hot sand.  I wanted to drink, but if I were to open my mouth it would be filled with sand in a matter of seconds.
            “Brother, why do you not pray?”  the voice of Nima pierced my ears suddenly.  I almost tipped over, but gripped the side of the tree.
            “Oh, Nima, I have told you before not to approach me from behind!” I said as I tried to relax my tightened muscles.  “Had I heard your footsteps earlier, I would have mistaken you for a thief, unsheathed my sword and split you in two!”
            “You speak nonsense, Ahmad.  I would have had my dagger under your chin and your sack of coins in my pocket before you could take a breath to utter your girlish cries of help!”
            “The nonsense now leaves your lips.  For I am a man of acute stealth,” I sat up and began to untie my laces.  “I leave my coins not in my sack, but in my boot.”  I pulled it off my foot and turned it over.  To my surprise, the coins did not drop out.  Nima’s eyes widened in mocking despair.
            “A man of truly acute stealth,” he then said with a smirk, “never sleeps on duty.”  He held out a closed fist, and slowly uncurled his fingers, taunting me.
            Of course, Nima had taken the coins early in the morning before we left for the city, because if he were to untie my laces, pull off my boot, take the coins, fit my boot back onto my foot and tie the laces, I would have awoken.  Besides, I was quite sure I had not drifted off into sleep.  I was merely resting me eyes.
            “Not only that,” Nima finally said after he had finished laughing, “you have forgotten to say your afternoon prayers.”
            “You deceive me again.  The mosque has not yet chanted the Adhán.” (1)
            “It has indeed, I heard it, therefore I prayed.”
            “Nima, I am older of age, I would know of these things.  You heard nothing but the whistling wind or the birds in the sky, perhaps.”
            “Believe what you wish, you have slept on duty, Ahmad, and missed your prayers, and lost your coins,” he dropped them into my boots, “If you trust your own self more than my words, let Alláh deal with the absence of your praise to Him this afternoon.  I shall say no more if you will not listen.”
            “And I will trust my own judgment as I have always.”
            He walked away into the cloud of flying sand.  I looked around.  It did seem quite late.  I waited until Nima was farther away, then I lay the curved blade of my sword beside me, knelt down and prayed.

            I wished we had not argued.  It was the last time I was to see him.  Later that night he did not return home with me.  His horse was gone, and he was nowhere to be seen.  I did not sleep for nights after, for I had heard rumors that a young man had been killed by the Sháh’s (2) guards in the streets, that same afternoon my brother had disappeared.  I spent many more weeks in search of him, without success.  One night, as I was walking along the streets calling out for my brother, I found the empty sheath of his sword, thrown into a dark alley.  Soon later, I found the body dumped into a sewer.  His face had been slashed beyond recognition, and his garments were torn into rags, but the body stature was his, as were the clothes.  I took his body with me and buried it the same night.  I prayed for him and swore I would revenge his death, even if it meant risking my own demise.

            “His name is Mullá Husayn,” the old man retorted with a hint of disgust.  “There was a wave of tumult in his house recently… around the time you said your brother was killed.  People going in and out of the house, some crying, some… furious,” he said, shoving a Shierny (3) into his mouth.  I had to wait for him to chew down the whole thing and spit out each nut at a time.  I looked out the window of the tavern we were in.  The house he spoke of could be seen across the street.  The alley right beside it was where I had found my brother.
            “So,” I said, trying to make my voice rise above the munching of his jaw.  “Did he have any followers, this Mullá, when he left the house?”
            “Mm!… Indeed, hundreds.  They all gathered around the park that morning and left, marching towards the city of Bárfurúsh.  Very mysterious, I say.  They left so early not to call attention of the guards.”
            “They have killed my brother!” I slammed my fist on the counter and a jar of spices was knocked down.  “I am sure of it now!”
            “What makes you so certain, doostam?”(4)
            “His body,” I replied, staring away at a corner, “They mutilated his body and threw it over the surrounding wall of the house.  That is where I found it.  In the alleys, right next to the house of this Mullá Husayn.  It is all too evident!”
            “Visit the Sháh of Bárfurúsh,” the man told me suddenly, a gleam in his eyes, as though his idea were great and full of wisdom, “He shall give you permission to slay the murderer of your Nima.”
            “Are you not sane?” I rubbed my eyebrows to send away a headache which had appeared in the middle of that conversation.  “I will be murdered for merely approaching the Sháh with such conceited requests.”
            “Not if such man you wish to kill is a… traitor… of Islám.”
            “What did you say?”
            “That is right.  That is where he was taking all those men,” the man paused, getting ready to tell me more.  “He claimed to have seen the lost Imám (5), and to those who wished to follow him there, he delivered a speech… I was listening from the window of my house…”  he cleared his throat, and attempted to reproduce the speech as accurately as he could.
            “He said:  ‘Whoever is unprepared for the great trials that lie before us, let him now repair to his home and give up the journey.  I, together with seventy-two of my companions, shall suffer death for the sake of the Well-Beloved Imám.  Whoso is unable to renounce the world, let him now, at this very moment, depart, for later on he will be unable to escape.’”
            “I shall go,” I groaned in rage at those ridiculous words.  “I shall go to the Sháh, and I will tell him what I have heard, that this suicidal clan of bandits has murdered my brother for refusing to follow them in their voyage of defying principles.  The Sháh will give me consent to do what I wish to this man.”  I gripped the handle of my sword and the veins in my hands pulsated under my strength.
            “You need not bring that,” he said, looking at my sword, “The man in no stronger than a woman.  I have seen him.  He is a scholar, not a warrior.”

            I departed, mounted on my horse, traveling on the dusty road to Bárfurúsh.  Right ahead of me was the setting sun, its size magnified immensely through the thick layers of dust reaching deep into the far horizon.  Its perfect roundness, the red edges wavering like steam, bending the skies around it.  The golden light diffused into the dunes of the desert, dressing the roof tops with a quivering luminescent blanket, streaming above the city as if it were submerged in an ocean of red lava.
            Along the voyage, I forced my horse to climb a hill in the outskirts of Bárfurúsh, in attempts to catch sight of their small troop.  From up high, I observed what appeared to be about two hundred men, riding horses on a pathway parallel to my own.  They were now arriving at a small town called Míyámay.  Assuming they would be spending the night to take the food and money from the people, I decided to go on ahead, to gain the advantage.  Stopping only for a little water, I proceeded towards Bárfurúsh, traveling through the night, and reached it without any rest or sleep.  My quest for revenge of my brother’s death had made me more stubborn.
            The city was blue, frozen into a silent break of dawn, as the far away light of the sun dimly lit the sky into a pale gray, and the buildings seemed ugly and fragile.  My horse swayed weakly, in need of rest.  At the end of a brick avenue, I could see a great mansion with green metal gates.  Upon reaching the front, I clapped my hands at a guard who slept at the front doorsteps.  He woke with a startled look, and stood up pointing his musket at me, demanding my identity.
            “I am Ahmad Shayani.  I come to speak to Muhammad Sháh.”

            The Sháh had accentuated thick eyebrows, hiding two eyes squeezed into black round beads.  His mouth was twisted in one side and his lower lip stuck out into a permanent frown.  His beard hung down covering his stomach.  A very tall turban lay on his head.  I suddenly felt intimidated, standing below his cold figure.  There was a tone of impatience and dismissal in his voice.
            “What come you here to do, man of the city?” the shadowy interiors of the house allowed me to see little of his face while he spoke.
            “I have come to warn thee.  There are unholy men coming the way of Bárfurúsh.  When the sun is straight above, they shall be but a farsakh away.”(6)
            “Who is their leader?”
            “I believe it is the man Mullá Husayn.  He has killed my brother and – “
            “What wretched misfortune!  Speak to the mujtahid (7) Sa‘ídu’l-‘Ulamá’.”  He turned around and left me in the room, my jaw still open ready to continue speaking.  I sat on that rug for a very long time, awaiting in silence, not knowing whether to storm out of the place or continue waiting.  When the sun started pouring in through the green stain on the glass window, a short man with an angry look walked in.  I sat up straight and greeted him.  This man’s eyes were stretched wide open with a piercing expression, numerous moles and dark bags contoured his traits, and his massive curly hair overflowed from under the turban on his head.  Neither of us spoke for a lasting moment.
            “He who is the leader of that band you speak of,” he started slowly with a voice that crackled like fire, “I have met him.  He came alone, one day, and attended my classes.  He utterly ignored me and treated me with marked disdain in the presence of my disciples.  As I refused to accord him the honors which he expected, he angrily arose and flung me his challenge.  Now he approaches me again, I see.  He threatens the law of man and of God.”
            I wished to speak of my brother, but the hatred held within his words kept me silent. He paced across the room and stood in front of the glass window.
            “I will bid the crier summon the people of Bárfurúsh to the masjid and announce that a sermon of such momentous consequence is to be delivered by me that no loyal adherent of Islám in this city can afford to ignore it.”

            A relentless cry sounded across the streets, opening the doors and windows of houses, where little boys peeped about and rushed inside to wake their parents.  In a matter of minutes, the whole quarter was filling with men and women, barging in from all directions in great anxiety.  They started circling the temple and gathering into an insufficient amount space, and were soon thronging together to form a tight and noisy crowd.  I climbed onto my horse so I could see the Sa‘ídu’l-‘Ulamá’ speak.  The people began to quiet down, and I saw the mujtahid ascend to the pulpit.  He paused, with his hands extended as if to embrace the entire population.  Suddenly, with great violence he ripped the turban off his head and flung it to the ground, then grabbed the neck of his shirt and tore it open.  As his face began to redden, he began his speech.
            “Awaken,” he stormed from the pulpit, “for our enemies stand at our very doors, ready to wipe out all that we cherish as pure and holy in Islám!  Should we fail to resist them, none will be left to survive their onslaught.  The leader of these men, had the temerity to assail me with so much bitterness… What excess this stirrer-up of mischief, who is now advancing at the head of his savage band, will not commit now?  It is the duty of all the inhabitants of Bárfurúsh, both young and old, both men and women, to arm themselves against these contemptible wreckers of Islám, and by every means in their power to resist their onset.  Let all of you arise and march out to exterminate their forces!”
            The entire congregation arose in response to his call.  I watched them arm themselves with every weapon they could possibly find, or assemble.  By noon they would set out, fully determined to face and slay the enemies of their Faith.  I pushed my way through the crowd, desperate to reach Sa‘ídu’l-‘Ulamá’.  He must know that I intended to kill the leader with my own hands.  Perhaps he would even assist me in my killing.

            “But, sir, this is poison,” I extended my arm to hand him back the glass container.  “It is a coward’s weapon.”
            “Oh, but the greater coward here is him,” he uttered through his clenched teeth.  “He is the one who killed you brother mercilessly, he is the one who must live for years incarcerated in his own home, and he must do it with the trembling hands of a leper and the agility of an old blind mule!”
            I remained in silence looking down at the clear flask.  His eyes traveled all over me, searching for a place to penetrate my soul.
            “I have devised a plan for you,” he said in a coarse whisper, “You shall leave immediately back to Míyámay, where you have sighted them resting the night before.  You will travel through the trees, where you shall go unseen.” His hands moved frantically in gesture, sweat ran down his red face.  “Then, as swiftly as a snake, you will merge in with the group.  They will be so submerged in their own savagery and thirst for blood that your coming will go completely unnoticed.  Then,” he grinned, taking the poison from my hands, “you will approach the leader as if giving him praise and kissing his hands.  Brush the tip of this flask subtly against his wrist.  The venom will seep into his veins and before he even reaches our city, he will be convulsing so violently that he will be unable to fight or even stand on his feet.”
            I made an attempt to look into his eyes but quickly glanced away.  I could not think of a worthy reply.
            “Then your blade will traverse his spine with such ease as one splashes his hand through a cascade of water.”
            “And yet,” my face suddenly rushed with hot blood for thinking of such a response, “does water indeed part when one splashes his hand through it?”
            I managed to look at his reaction.  A grin of uneasy amusement curled at the corner of his lips.

            I departed from Bárfurúsh, again facing the sun as it now rose from the horizon in its blinding, white effulgence, reflecting and becoming even brighter upon the fine sand of the desert.  I closed my eyes to its overwhelming radiance and let my horse guide me through the rest of the path.
            Soon enough, the rising heat of the ground, which for such long hours only displayed a sea of nonexistent water, began to envelop around small emerging structures, in the distance.  The town of Míyámay was near.  I put my hand on my belt and felt for the little flask.  It was still there, as was my dagger and my sword.  A quick reflection of myself on my metal armlet revealed a face burned brick red by the sun.  When I came close enough to the town, I detoured into the range of dense bushes which grew alongside the road.  I could already see the band of insane warriors, gathered in troops not nearly a quarter as large as the one which awaited them in Bárfurúsh.  Their faces were also brick red, but theirs must have resulted from being so miserably washed into drunken, raving lunacy all through the night.
            I rested behind the bushes, where I could see the gates of the small city.  They seemed to be gathering to leave soon.  One man on a black horse began to speak, waving a black banner above his head.  The others listened to him in such reverence that I assumed it be Mullá Husayn.  I wandered closer to try and hear what he was saying.
            “… Leave behind all your belongings, and content yourselves only with your steeds (8) and swords, that all may witness your renunciation of all earthly things, and may realize that this little band of God’s chosen companions has no desire to safeguard its own property, much less to covet the property of others.”
            I did not understand what he had meant, but all the men who surrounded him immediately began to drop objects from their bags, unloading the backs of their horses, and tossing coins wildly into the air.  They were now preparing to embark in a suicidal voyage, where their primal objective was to slaughter all people in their path.  For such mission they necessitated no more possessions, the likes of which would only interfere in their fighting.
            That being said, they charged forth with their horses.  I sprung to my feet and climbed quickly on my horse, emerging from the bushes and blending in with the crowd without a struggle.  Trying to ride a little faster than the others, I sought to reach the head of the group in order to proceed with the mission which Sa‘ídu’l-‘Ulamá’ had so astutely laid out for me.  My chin was raised in search of the leader, and I had not been paying much attention to the ones around me.
            “Are you not going to obey our master’s orders?” a thin voice sounded from my right.  I turned into the squinting face of a young boy, not much older than Nima.  For a moment I just stared at him, then I glanced at my belongings and simply shrugged, not knowing what to say.
            “Perhaps you were not listening when he spoke.  He bids us leave all our material possessions behind.”  I still did not respond, for I did not wish to throw away my things.              “Are you a newcomer?  I thought I spotted you coming from behind the bushes.  Have you also been touched by his message?  I wish you luck in our voyage.  You know, I have heard that Bahá’u’lláh himself will join us at the fort of Shaykh Tabarsí… I am much--"
            Someone called for him from behind.  He finally moved away and dropped back a little.  I could not stand his brainwashed discourse any longer.  I moved up, farther ahead as fast as I could.  It took me quite a while to reach the flank of Mullá Husayn.  I stared at his skinny figure without blinking, following every move of his body, from the tips of his worn boots to the ends of his wavy hair caught in the wind.  There, standing beside me, at last, was the assassin of my young brother.  I started to get nervous, and decided to get over it as fast as possible.  I forced the hatred to spur inside of me again, and moved closer, taking the little flask of venom into my fingers.
            “L-let me—ghg...” my voice stuttered weakly and then choked in nervousness.
            “Yes?” the man turned his face toward me, a determined expression accumulating in the wrinkles of his broad forehead.
            “I… Allow me to— to kiss your hands, my master, for I am… unworthy merely of your sight.”  I reached out, the small flask concealed in my palm.
            He seemed to hesitate for some time, during which his eyes examined my face with obvious concern.  I knew then, that his next move would consist of decapitating me, for my intentions were far too obvious.
            “Worry not, I am your equal,” a smile broke through his squinting face, “Look at me with the eyes of a brother, yet my words… follow them reverently, as they are of the Master Himself.”
            Unable to reply, I began to drop back, as other horsemen were passing me from the sides.  My chance slipped away, I know I could have persisted and managed to at least shake his hand and spill the contents on him, then knock him off his horse.  I would only have to wait for another chance.  Yet what I suddenly realized, was that I was being unwillingly dragged towards Bárfurúsh, where I would be forced into a battle which I did not wish to fight.

            A piercing shout sounded from ahead.  Very quickly, the loud stomping of horseshoes faded down and the uncomfortable stillness of the desert surrounded us.  We heard only the low whistle of the dry wind.  I could not see up ahead, too many men were in the way now.  Gray clouds moved in front of the sun, causing shifting shadows to startle some of us, for any slight movement in that complete stillness would burst one’s adrenaline into a reflex movement and start off an imaginary battle.  There was more stillness and silence, for an infinite amount of time.  It was not until I heard Mulla Husayn’s voice that I realized what danger we had walked into.
            “Approach at sight!  Hold your positions!”
            The clinking sound of blades being pulled out of their sheaths spread all around the rows of soldiers, and across the entire battlefield.  The enemy was still out of sight for most of us.  I could hear the nervous breathing of dozens of men around me.  I could tell many of them had never been in battle before.  Just as the impulse for a sudden charge began to wind up inside of us, the loud voice of Mulla Husayn once again arose.
            “Not yet!” I heard him cry out, “put away your weapons!”
            Everyone obeyed, even me.  The apprehensiveness increased even more.  I heard men begin to chant prayers of “Alláh’u’Abhá” (9) to themselves.  If I could only see what I was facing, I thought, trying to move forward a little bit.  But that soon became unnecessary.  The next sign which slowly revealed itself to us was a faint sound… the sound of shouting.  As soon as we began to hear it, the men around me quieted down into absolute silence.  We concentrated on that sound, our heart rates already at their maximum, beginning to increase in intensity along with the approaching sound.  The shouting could now be heard as screaming, and wailing, mostly hollering.  I could not make out the words, yet they expressed a nature of distinct savagery, like I had never heard before.  The volume steadily increased.  I lowered my head and tried looking in between the men ahead of me.  I caught a quick glimpse of Mulla Husayn, and for a moment I though we were about to retreat, for what I saw ahead of him held proportions I had not even expected.  A multitude of people, fully equipped with arms and ammunition, had gathered, and blocked our way.  They marched in a propulsive manner, toppling over each other in a chaotic and disorderly fashion.  And now, we clearly heard a horrendous chorus of the foulest words reaching across the battlefield, in an uproar of unceasing anger.
            “Not yet!” commanded the leader once again, “not until the aggressor forces us to protect ourselves must our swords leave their scabbards!”
            He had scarcely uttered these words when a shattering bang echoed through the sky and a man ahead of me was hurled off his horse from a sudden explosion of red on his chest.  Before we could even react, five more muskets sounded, and the shriek of men and horses merged into one giant growth of tumult and panic.  My conscious mind was caught in fear, and I remember seeing a man try to pull out his sword, immediately after which a bullet shattered his skull completely.  Other men were turning in the air, being knocked to the ground on top of each other in a bloody mess, and their horses collapsing one at a time.  I managed to take control of my horse and skillfully leapt over the confusion.  I suddenly found myself staring at the back of Mullá Husayn amidst that deafening turbulence.  He still had his sword put away, and was screaming out in a thunderous voice, his neck straining in red veins of tremendous courage.
            “The time is not yet come!” he whirled around with his horse standing in two legs, “the number is as yet – incomplete!”
            He tried to warn someone for an instant.  Then there was a sudden explosion, and his body flew off the horse and slammed into mine.  We both sailed intertwined through the air and landed hard, scrambling to our feet as not to be trampled by the falling horses, feeling desperately for our limbs and neck and chest as we shielded behind a pile of corpses.  But we had not been the ones hit.  Right behind him lay the body of a man who had stood beside him during the whole voyage.  I had seen them together as true companions, and now Mulla Husayn knelt down beside him, eyes wide in despair, and tried to gather his limp body as though he was hugging him, but to his frustration his friend was already dead.
            Never in my life had I seen something like the following event.  With a grievous cry to the heavens, that man stood on his feet as an altered person, the entire weight of his lamentation bearing upon that one single blade which he unsheathed and held in front of him.  Turning towards the enemy, which now approached from all directions, he began a prayer in a most powerful voice, as he mounted his steed and spurred into the midst of the enemy.
            “Behold, O God, my God, the plight of Thy chosen companions, and witness the welcome which these people have accorded Thy loved ones!  Thou knowest that we cherish no other desire than to guide them to the way of Truth and to confer upon them the knowledge of Thy Revelation!  Thou hast Thyself commanded us to defend our lives against the assaults of the enemy!  Faithful to Thy command, I now arise with my companions to resist the attack which they have launched against us!!!”
            As if recognizing immediately the assailant of his fallen companion, I saw Mullá Husayn pursue the man across a distance, where his entire body was open to receive fire, where showers of bullets were fired towards him yet every single one missed.  The waves of chaos and violence seemed to flow around him, avoiding his body, leaving him and his horse unscathed all through the pursuit.  The soldier retrieved in terror of Mulla Husayn, and hid behind a tree, shrinking back and shielding himself with the barrel of his musket.  Yet, rushing forward fearlessly, swinging his sword in the air, above his head, I saw him deliver, in one single stroke, such a thunderous outbreak of force as I would never witnessed again.  Such was the potency of this swing, that it impacted the tree, splitting it, then the musket, then the man, in six pieces at once.
            I could not believe my eyes, when the trunk of the tree split with the crack of thunder and toppled on its side, and behind it, with scarcely a spill of blood so quickly had it come, the man fell in two directions, the musket gripped in his hands, the metal bent and clearly separated into two parts.
            I stood there in disbelief until I realized I was still in the middle of a fierce battle, and a bullet had taken away part of my shoulder.  I withstood the pain, and fought, only with my left arm, although not much heroism came from my efforts, for I knew not who to attack, and worried more about defending myself.  I lost sight of Mullá Husayn, and my motives and struggles were lost somewhere in that upheaval, bereft of significance or meaning.

            I was carried off by a citizen of Bárfurúsh, who had recognized me as being a friend of Sa‘ídu’l-‘Ulamá’.  The battle was hardly over, but I had passed out, and remembered only being buried under a pile of men and blood.  I thought I had heard screams in the voice of Nima as I was drifting off.  Now I was near the city again, and looking up from where I was lying in the street, I could see the mansion of the Sháh.  Galloping around that quarter was that brave man, Mullá Husayn, again.  He shouted fiercely at the gates of the mansion.
            “Let that contemptible coward, who has incited the inhabitants of this town to wage holy warfare against us and has ignominiously concealed himself behind the walls of his house, emerge from his inglorious retreat!  Let him, by his example, demonstrate the sincerity of his appeal and the righteousness of his cause.  Has he forgotten that he who preaches a holy war must needs himself march at the head of his followers, and by his own deeds kindle their devotion and sustain their enthusiasm?”
            “Is this not your companion, sir?” the boy who was treating my wounds stopped to ask me.  He pointed at a body which had been dragged along with me.  The two hands of this body were clinging to my arm, and I had not even felt them on me.  The young man had his face pressed against my side when he died.
            “No, I don’t know who he is,” I said, “just another dead man.  Take him.”
            “Don’t you want to look at the face?” the little boy had a witty and curious voice, “He was screaming your name, Ahmad, is it?… when he died.  He was hugging you.  You must know him.”
            “N-no, I don’t… know…” the pain was returning to my forehead.  I pressed it with my fingers, trying to send it away.  I knew I was going to cry.
            “O, God.  No, please,” I said as I reached for the young man’s head trying to pull it away from my side.  His muscles were tight, clutching me in his hands with all his might.  When I moved the head away, I saw his face was completely intact, pure and clean.  It was the face of my brother.

            Nima had not died that night after we argued.  The body I found in the alley was not his.  Without my approval, he had gone somewhere and learned of these men, followers of Mullá Husayn.  He believed in them, that they were heading to see the lost Imám, the bringer of this new Faith.  Nima devoted himself to this cause.  He had followed those men all those days, in their voyage to Míyámay and finally Barfurush.  Why, oh why hadn’t I run into him earlier?  I was right among them, so near…  Foolishly blinded to all reason, I judged those men corrupt assassins before I had even known them.  I had submitted myself to the evil manipulations of the Sa‘ídu’l-‘Ulamá’, and was almost responsible for the death of the most courageous man I had ever known.  It was my brother who I doubted even from the beginning.  It was my brother who had been right all along.
            And now, I saw the warriors emerging victorious from the battle, walking down that brick avenue towards the mansion of the Sháh.  They gathered around their beloved Mullá Husayn, and one by one knelt down to kiss the stirrups on which he lay his feet.  I followed them, tears were escaping my eyes incessantly.  As I approached that incomparable man to kiss his feet, I begged God for forgiveness, and prayed my brother be in good hands, for I knew that the trials which, us followers of Mullá Husayn, were still to face, were immensely more difficult than these.  Our search for the Beloved One still lay in the long and arduous path ahead of us.

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