R.B.R. Barreto
Intention, my dear boy, is our signature in the universe. It is the ever-present testimony in every prayer or action.
Kadir found Hamad in one of the long corridors that connected the bedrooms to the dining room. The Tuareg had also woken up later. Something unusual for his pace of life. His features were agitated, as if sleep had not brought him peace. As soon as he saw the young man, he quickened his pace, approached him and spoke in a slightly excited tone.
–I dreamed of Balam, prince. And he told me he was on his way. He said something about Aisha.
Kadir stopped, still a little dazed by the previous day's experience. He stared at the Tuareg, andaround as if he expected to find the one the other had referred to. Then he spoke in a whisper.
–I also had a very strange dream, my friend. About the Simorgh. I suspect he transported Balam to this palace. It was a very real dream and I was able to communicate with the bird, or rather, with Lady Zahira, into whom he had transformed himself.
– Lady Zahira? – Hamad asked, not understanding.
–Yes,– Kadir confirmed. – I was going to tell everything last night when I came back from the garden, but I couldn't find anyone. All of you had already gone to bed.
Then, as they headed to their first meal of the morning, the young prince told the whole story of his encounter with the strange woman in the garden.
When they reached the dining room, they learned from Yusuf that Julio Meirinho had just go out. He had also had a restless night, amidst incomprehensible dreams and sudden awakenings. So, he got up early and had already gone to find out news from the geographer. Unlike the others, and given his condition, Vladmir Ladslav was the one who had the best night. Without restless dreams, without incomprehensible words, probably sedated by some drink prepared by the hakim women who were watching over him.
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Meirinho went to the hall where he accepted a quick meal and then continued to a wing further east along a wide corridor. The day before, when he was passing by, he had seen a huge library. This time he entered without any ceremony. Books were his weakness. They had the power to change his mood, dispel tiredness and alleviate the effects of a sleepless night.
Upon entering the room, the Portuguese man was astonished. He was in front of the largest library he had ever seen in his life, even though he was an erudite European, accustomed to visiting the main libraries of the world. The corridors were wide, interspersed with reading nooks equipped with cushions, comfortable armchairs, small tables for taking notes and appropriate lighting. The shelves were made of rustic wood and went from the ceiling to the floor. The spiral staircases that connected the corridors at the top were also made of wood and allowed him to reach the last shelves without much effort. After a quick search, he realized that there were books on the most diverse subjects and written not only in Arabic, but in several languages including Portuguese. Meirinho had many interests, but the recent events had thrown him into a kind of obsession with local legends, the Mountain of Káf, symbols and secret orders, the Simorgh bird, and other mythical beings he had no idea about before. Somewhere in that enormous library he would certainly find references to all of this. He began to rummage through the shelves, letting his instincts guide him. He was beginning to believe that he was in a kind of Wonderland where anything was possible.
In fact, it didn't take long for him to find a huge volume on a table that must have been recently leafed through. When he opened the page marked by a silk ribbon, he came face to face with an engraving of the Simorgh bird drawn in arabesques and worked in soft colors on a blue background. On the next page, there was an extensive description written in archaic Arabic, which prevented him from fully understanding what was written. He adjusted his glasses and leaned over the text. There was paper and a fountain pen next to it with some notes. Someone had already been researching there before him. He noticed that among the scribbles there was a sketch of a female figure standing, still faceless, with wings coming out from behind her shoulders. Beside her was another figure, also female, sitting on the ground and holding a feather almost as big as her own arm. Meirinho examined the writings and drawings with redoubled attention in the hope that they would help him decipher the unknown text.
— Não irá conseguir – falou uma voz atrás dele – é um texto sigiloso.
The Portuguese turned his head in the direction of the voice, expecting to find Sheikh Sayad, Yusuf or even the master of the knights, but he came face to face with another face that was not so familiar, but that he had learned to recognize.
— Mister Balam?— he said in a surprised tone as he stood up.
— Salam Aleikum!—Balam greeted
—Aleikum Salam,— Meirinho replied with a deep bow. — Good God, Sir! How good it is that you are here.
— I don't usually come here often, — Balam said in an evasive gesture, — but I needed to check on a few things.
—There is someone who will be very happy with your presence.
— The young prince? Young Kadir?— Balam asked with an amused smile.
— He himself,— Meirinho replied emphatically, — has been looking for you for a long time.
— I will go to him soon,— the dervish said. — I need to finish this first. And with a gesture he indicated the material on the table, on which Meirinho was still resting one of his hands.
— Ahh! Forgive me! – exclaimed the Portuguese man, standing up again – how indiscreet of me. These notes are yours and here I am snooping.
— There is no way to reveal much – said Balam with an understanding gesture – They are veiled texts. They only tell us what we are able to understand.
Then he approached the table and caressed the picture of the bird drawing in the book.
— This beautiful bird has many secrets. It will never reveal them all.
He continued leafing through the book until he found a huge map on one of the folded pages, all written in color and full of details.
— Your friend, the "mapmaker" would like this one here – he commented with a smile.
— He certainly would – said Meirinho – poor Vladmir. Surely you know what happened to him?
— Yes, — Balam confirmed, nodding his head affirmatively. — Don't worry, "storyteller". He'll be fine. He's in very good hands. The old Mullah and the hakim women know what they're doing. Soon he'll be back making his maps and revealing the paths and secrets of the desert to the world.
The Portuguese man made a gesture that revealed the discomfort these words caused him.
— Neither my friend nor I have any intention of revealing any secrets, sir. We are paid by a magazine, yes, but to describe the place and the culture we visited. A scientific journalistic work. That's all.
Balam looked at the foreigner with a timeless and uncritical gaze, but one that seemed to look to a future far beyond what they could imagine.
— Don't worry, sir. I'm not accusing them. Everything will be as it should be. The history of the world has already been written by the "great feather". We're just confirming the signs.
As he said this, he leafed through the book back to the engraving of the bird.
— However, there are secrets that must remain as they are. Buried in the desert sands.
— Like the Simorgh bird?
Balan made an evasive gesture and continued:
— We have no control over it. The Simorgh flies wherever it wants. There is no time, place, person or even portals between the invisible worlds that can stop it. I speak of places like this palace, of caves like the ones they entered inadvertently and of the sigils that were built to seal these entrances and paths. It is not wise to talk about them. As for the rest, wealth, culture, beliefs, peoples and nations, these things belong to the realm of men, to the flow of their history. They are at the mercy of the force of expansion of humanity that can be governed as much by loving and fraternal bonds as by the thirst for power, greed and lust. Misguided feelings that pit people against people, men against men, making some believe they are superior to others.
Meirinho listened to him attentively:
— And how do we know whether or not we are at the service of these latter?
— At various moments in life – Balam continued – we will be instruments, sometimes on one side and sometimes on the other. Like a dance. That is what keeps the universe in balance.
— So there is not much we can do about it. What is the use of free will then? – argued the Portuguese
— Free will is the power of choice that was given to human beings, but it is relative to the expansion of their consciousness. If your consciousness resides in a box of matches, what choice will you have when another match starts a fire?
Noticing that the Portuguese was lowering his head with a confused expression, the dervish gave him a friendly slap on the back and said:
— Calm down, "storyteller"! You and your friend have been out of the box for a long time. Otherwise, why would you be here? You are certainly here doing this work because, consciously or not, you were invited to conduct some chords of the future. The wisdom and riches of the desert will reach the rest of the world, but the rest of the world will also reach us. That is certain.
— And how are we going to redeem ourselves from the evils that will occur because of this? — asked Meirinho as if pondering himself.
— By making the best choices within our reach, I believe — insisted Balam — and always maintaining a firm and correct intention. Intention, my dear, is our signature in the universe. It is the ever-present testimony in every prayer or action we send to Allah or God, if you prefer, may He always be praised.
— I have faith — murmured Meirinho as if to himself — but I am aware that it does not equal yours or even that of young Kadir. I admire your devotion, the way you put Allah before everything in your lives. But even Kadir, with all his faith, sometimes collapses. I witnessed his pain when he lost the young servant woman who followed him. At that moment he almost succumbed to feelings of guilt.
— But you and your friends were there. Like Allah's arms to give him strength. Guilt, like any other sin, only defeats us when we give it too much power. A bad act can be corrected with a good act, of equal potential. The young man will have the opportunity to make amends for his guilt regarding Aisha. He, like the tuareg man, they buried her too soon. With that, they placed guilt above all hope. That's why they're still suffering.
Meirinho stroked his beard and immersed himself in his own thoughts for a few moments. Then he flipped through the book again at random form and spoke almost in a whisper:
— A secret text! Are we then surrounded by secrecy? Like the ones we found in the cave? The seals we shouldn't break?
— Certainly — agreed Balam.
— And this palace? Is it also a secret?
— Yes. Almost as old as the beginning of the world.
— That old? But the Templars knew of its existence. Or their marks wouldn't be here.
Balam smiled with a slight movement of his head that could either confirm or deny what Meirinho was saying.
— At some point in the past, both the Templars and other groups took refuge in this place. But you're wrong if you think they're still here today. The Order that owns this palace and all the knowledge found here is much older. In it, there is no distinction of race, language, creed, sex, age, social status or any other trait by which humanity fragments itself. It probably follows the tradition of the Nine.
— Of the Nine?
— Yes, the Nine Unknowns of Hanin. – Balam explained – Some think it's a legend... but if it is a legend, it has transcended time and space and is alive to this day. It will probably continue long beyond this generation.
Meirinho knew that Hanin was the name that the ancients gave to the Island of Crete. However, he had never heard of the "nine unknowns". Neither as a legend nor as a story. He shook his head, as if he wanted to gather his thoughts, and spoke with a smile that indicated a certain degree of incredulity.
— It seems, Mr. Balam, that I will have to go back to the books, review everything I have learned. Or, who knows, will you accept me as a disciple with young Kadir? That way you can teach me what the books do not say.
— Who knows? — said Balam with a wink as he closed the book and gathered his notes and writing implements. — In a way, we are always teaching and learning. Let time do its work. Every wish is a seed thrown into the wind. Let's see where your seed-wish will fall. — And turning toward the exit, he said:
— I need to find the others before I leave. Shall we go, or would you prefer to stay here a little longer?
— I will stay here a little longer, — replied the Portuguese man. — I will take advantage of my stay and relearn history. Only God knows what I will be allowed to find here.
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Kadir and Hamad finally found Balam when, after the meal, they were heading to the rooms where the Russian geographer was being treated. They bumped into each other at the intersection of the corridors that led from the library and the dining room to the infirmary wing. Kadir, with his absent-minded manner, apologized and was about to pass by without recognizing the master. It was Hamad, always attentive, who stopped in a reverent greeting before the old dervish.
— Balam! Salam Aleikum, my old friend. If it weren't for my recent dream I wouldn't recognize you. It's been so long since we've seen each other… — he said in a cheerful and familiar tone.
Kadir, who was a little further ahead, stopped and turned abruptly, exclaiming with surprise and joy:
— Balam!?
He walked towards his friend, his eyes fixed on the old dervish to make sure it was really him.
— Master? Master!? – he repeated, overcome with emotion, sometimes bowing in reverence, sometimes straightening up again until finally kissing Balam's hand and bringing it to his forehead as a sign of respect.
—Get up, boy!— said Balam, smiling and helping him to stand up. —As always, you are still exaggerating.
— And again I almost didn't recognize you, — lamented the young man, annoyed by his own carelessness. — I almost let you pass, once again.
— Hmm! I wasn't going to let you, — said the dervish with an ironic smile. — I got your message, young man. They told me it was a matter of life or death.
Then, turning to Hamad, he said:
— I got yours too, my brave warrior.
— I didn't send you any message, you crazy old man,— replied the Tuareg, frowning. — Not that I remember.
Balam gave him a light slap on the back and said:
— You'll remember... You'll remember... So? – he said next – let's see how our friend, the "mapmaker" is doing?
Kadir was too emotional to say anything and surprised by the visible intimacy between Hamad and Balam. They seemed to have known each other for decades.
In the infirmary, they were greeted by Sheikh Sayad who welcomed Balam with a large smile and a big hug.
— Already here again, my friend? – said the Sheikh, pretending to be surprised – I thought I'd only see you again in a decade. Salam Aleikum!!
— Aleikum Salam!! Hail "precious Mullah"! – said Balam
— When did you arrive?
— During the night. I was in the Library looking for some books.
— You? Among books? – asked the old Sheikh, smiling ironically – what can those old volumes teach you that you don't already know?
— That I don't know anything I thought I knew!! – answered Balam promptly.
They both laughed and then Balam continued:
— I came to see how my young future hakim girl is doing and also the young foreigner, the "mapmaker".
— Both are fine. The foreigner is reacting in an amazing way. He couldn't be better.
— What a blessing, precious Mullah!! What a blessing is your art of healing those who fall in the desert.
— Is Mr. Ladslav better?? – asked Hamad – Mr. Meirinho will be pleased to know that.
— He came by earlier, but our patient hadn't woken up yet. Then he hurriedly left.
— Ah! – exclaimed Balam – I found him in the Library. He was also in doubt between what he knows, what he doesn't know and what he thinks he knows.
The two old friends laughed once more as Kadir stared at them, trying to make sense of what he saw and heard. Hamad then insisted:
— You say that Ladslav has awakened, Sheikh Sayad? Can we see him?
—Yes,— said the old Sheikh, turning to the tuareg, — let's go. He will be pleased to see you.
When they entered the adjoining room, it seemed larger and brighter. A window, which they had not noticed before, was open and let in the sunlight and the cool morning breeze. Ladslav was sitting on the bed, leaning back on cushions and drinking tea offered by one of the women who sat beside him on a leather stool. They seemed to be talking amicably. The foreigner's face was calm and very interested in what the young woman was saying. When the group entered, the woman quickly stood up and stood in front of Sheikh Sayad and then, appearing surprised, made an indecisive bow in the direction of Balam before retreating to the anteroom.
The Russian, upon seeing Hamad and Kadir, felt so happy that he wanted to get up. Sheikh Sayad had to hurry to stop him.
— Take it easy, my boy!! You've only just come out of your coma. You don't want a relapse, do you?
— My dear sir, I feel better than ever. – he said as he greeted his friends who were also approaching, showing joy and relief.
— Do you remember what happened to you? – asked the Sheikh.
Ladslav put his hand to his neck where he had suffered the attack and his expression darkened for a moment.
— Just a few things – he replied after a while – I was just talking about it with the young woman who brought me the tea. I can't remember everything. She said it's just like that. That it could be the shock. She told me that something similar happened to her and...
— Very perceptive young lady, that little hakeem. – interrupted Balam – as soon as I get out of here I'll seek advice from her – he added in an ironic tone.
After old dervish's deliberate intervention, Ladslav turned to his friends and continued:
— You must know better what happened. I try, but all I remember is the burning on my neck. – he put his hand back to the wound and continued. Although I don't feel anything now.
— And soon you will be as strong as before – assured Sayad – you just have to continue being obedient. You were poisoned and we had to clean your blood. Now we have to restore your body. As for your memories, they will return faster than you think. When you are ready. The important thing is that they prevent you from making the same mistake.
Balam also approached the foreigner, placing his hand on his shoulder.
— That's it, young "mapmaker". Follow the advice of our wise mullah and you will soon return to your routine. Sooner than you think, you will be on the trail, exploring and revealing new lands. Talk to your friends.
— When will he be ready to leave? – asked Hamad – I feel that I must return to the lands of my tribe, on the of the Sahara. But I will only leave when I leave them safe.
— Why now, Hamad? – asked Kadir in surprise
— I must return, prince!! I feel a siege closing in. The tribes in the north are more vulnerable. They need to be ready.
— Vulnerable to what? — Kadir insisted. — What are you feeling? What could be wrong?
— Never doubt the premonition of a desert guardian, young prince! — Balam said. — He is right. The world is advancing towards the desert. Sooner or later, nations will control the routes that we now freely travel.
— War is a monster much greater than any other we could fear — Ladslav said with a lost and somewhat melancholic look — It swallows everything. It destroys everything. Yes, the nations of the world are warlike. The great empires always want to accumulate more and more. I have no doubt that they want to advance in these lands. They will fight over everything from wealth to interests and influence.
Kadir could not even imagine what a war would be like. He knew the disputes between tribes, most of which were resolved diplomatically, with the exchange of favors, goods, alliances and marriages. He had always distanced himself from these things. They were not part of his world. But the news that Hamad intended to leave had left him very sad. It was yet another loss. He had learned to admire the strength and fearlessness of the brave warrior. He would not be alive if it were not for him. If something was worrying him, it must be very serious.
In the meantime, Meirinho entered in the infirmary. He greeted everyone and ran to his friend, whom he greeted with great enthusiasm.
— How good to see you in such good spirits, my friend!! - he exclaimed, shaking the hand that Ladslav had extended to him – I feared many times that we might lose you.
The geographer smiled and shook his head.
— I can't remember ever being so ill. But, if that's what they say!! Now, however, I feel very well. If I don't get up, it's because the doctor here doesn't allow it – said Ladslav, indicating Sheikh Sayad who was approaching.
The old Sheikh smiled in return and addressed the Portuguese:
— More relaxed now, Mr. Meirinho? Did you hear that you visited our Library?
— Yes – confirmed the historian – I was there until now. Among the blessed poets of this land. Discovering with them what I couldn't discover in any other book.
— You mean Rumi, probably? – observed the Russian.
— Yes, him and others. Attar, Al Hallaj, Ibn Arabi, Ansari. All of them were bearers of great wisdom.
Kadir listened in silence. His mind wondered what connection there could be between the poets of the past and the knowledge they were seeking. He remembered the volume of Rumi in his room and how just one verse had awakened him to so many other mysteries. He timidly approached Balam and spoke very quietly, so that only he could hear.
— Master, I really need to talk to you...
Balam turned to him and replied:
— Right now, my young man. Let's go to the gardens.
Then everyone said goodbye, except for Meirinho, who wanted to stay with his friend longer. Hamad asked where Knight Zaruh. He wanted to seek advice from him and to o talk about what they would do in the event of a war approaching. As for Sheikh Sayad and the hakim women, they continued their daily routines while also preparing to leave.
Kadir led Balam along the sloping path that led from the extensive garden to the small clearing where he had found Lady Zahira. As they walked, he summarized the mishaps of his adventure until the encounter with the strange woman in that same garden. He also recounted the dream he had had afterwards in which one of the secrets of the Simorgh was revealed to him.
— I discovered that Lady Zahira is the Simorgh bird. I don't know what magic this is, but I'm sure it is, — he said, sitting at the feet of Balam who had just settled down on the stone bench.
— The Simorgh can take any form it wants, my young man. And since you was been face to face to him for so long, it's surprising that you didn't realize it. But I don't blame you. I probably wouldn't have realized it either... — he observed, remaining silent for a while.
Kadir, however, wanted to make the most of his time with the Master. He was afraid he might disappear at any moment.
— Master?— he asked next. — I had so many things to ask you, I spent so much time trying to find you, and now that you're here, it seems like nothing mattered. All I can think about is the pain I caused to the others.
This last remark came out in a whisper. However Kadir managed to control his emotions. He didn't burst into tears like he had with Mrs. Zahira. He now felt a mature, palpable pain that had no remedy, but which gave him another purpose.
—Will I ever be able to make amends for the harm I did?
Balam looked at the boy almost tenderly. He thought about how young and innocent he was. His transparency touched the dervish's heart. What is a mistake before a sincere heart capable of not only recognizing it, but wanting to make amends? There are mistakes that may seem greater than others, but repentance, like forgiveness, is a sacrament in all languages and creeds. In all kingdoms and worlds. Kadir didn't know this yet, but he would soon find out.
— The Master of Christians, the Mashiah, said that when you forgive others, you end up forgiving yourself. Trying to compensate for the evil with a good of same size is a wise resource. Here is a path to rediscovering balance and returning to your main mission. The one that the angels whispered to you when you were born.
— It is very difficult to know our true mission! — Kadir said as if he were reflecting — My father said that my destiny was to be the chief of the tribe. But, later, not even he believed in this anymore. My grandfather knew me better and encouraged me to study the Holy Book to become a Sheikh and spiritual guide of our people. But I thought I could follow in your footsteps, Balam. Become a saint, a wanderer.
Balam smiled amusedly and intervened:
— Wait a minute, prince. I am not a saint, nor have I ever intended to be. A wanderer, yes. Few know the hardships and pleasures of a wanderer's life. Some people think that having nothing is the height of misery. Others, like you, imagine that it is the height of freedom. Neither one nor the other, my friend. Deep down, everyone has a purpose, and having nothing can hide the purpose of having everything.
— You're right, Balam, — the boy agreed. — I know nothing about many things. I was crazy. Really crazy to the point of dreaming about Paradise. Now I know that Jannah doesn't give itself away for free. It demands a price. Sometimes, it's wiser to leave it there, wherever it is.
— However, you found the Simorgh. Don't you think that might be a good sign?
Kadir shook his head as if he were thinking, but remained silent. The dervish then continued:
— Couldn't he have left some clue? Didn't the Simorgh tell you anything that could clarify your search and conflicts?
The young man tried , but all he could remember were trivialities. He was always so wrapped up in himself, in his pains and interests, that he no longer saw anything around him. Many things went unnoticed to him.
— Lady Zahira, — he said , — told some unimportant stories and after that she said that had to leave. I thought she lived in the palace, but she said no. That she only came to the palace of the nine doors from time to time.
— You should know, — Balam interrupted, — that Simorgh's stories are never unimportant. By the way? What did she tell you about the Palace of the Nine Doors?
— She didn't say anything. But she told me to ask you , Master. What's so special about a palace?
The dervish Master smiled. He examined the boy's face more carefully and continued:
— Not the Palace itself. It's just an allegory, like the temple, the mosque, the rock or the cave. What really matters is what it houses. What goes in and out through its doors.
—There are nine doors. – said the boy, seeming to think.
— Yes. – confirmed Balan – there are nine doors. Nine ways to enter and exit. Like the sun and its luminaries.
— But enter and exit from where, Master?
— From the center, obviously! – he said as if it were something very simple. – The center where all existence loses or gains meaning. The center, where any being finds itself.
He looked once more at the boy who was listening to him in a kind of silent ecstasy and added:
— Have you never noticed the dance of the dervishes?
— Yes, but... – stammered Kadir, not understanding the connection – what does the dance have to do with the nine doors?
The master laughed and continued:
— Then you never really noticed. The whirling dance is one of the doors to the Great Palace that is the Universe. Next time, take a look. Even if there are several practitioners at the same time, spinning and sharing the same site, none interfere with the movement of the other, none leave their axis. Each one spins according to their own center. The center of all is the universe.
— So this Palace is a representation of the universe? — concluded Kadir.
— What do you think? — replied Balam.
The young prince wasn't think about nothing. Mysteries were piling up around him and for a long time he felt he was losing the thread. He was not a scholar like Balam or Mr. Meirinho, to the point of delving into the scriptures and books of doctors and wise men. He was just a devotee who followed the path of faith. He knew the Quran well, recited the Dikhr and made an effort to memorize the Hadith and follow in the footsteps of the Prophet. For some time now he felt that his faith was being tested. He wondered if it was just a fragile seed, incapable of withstanding the fears and conflicts he was experiencing.
— However, you are here – insisted the dervish as if reading his thoughts – and the Simorgh, apparently, has shown some interest in you. It is not something common. Think about it. Think carefully before deciding which door you will return to the world through. What will you give the world as a bargaining chip for Paradise?
— Is that how it is? – interrupted Kadir in a rebellious tone – do we always have to give something in return?
The dervish shook his head and replied with a smile:
— Of course, since when Father Adam and Mother Eve were expelled. They gave up the privilege of living with the grace of Allah and brought the consequences of exile to all humanity. We are heirs to this challenge, even if it is also a metaphor.
— God is Merciful – he continued – He allows us to return to the essence of Paradise as long as we know how to find the doors of our inner palace and recognize our best gifts in it.
Seeing that Kadir remained silent, lost in his own thoughts, the dervish stood up, indicating that it was time to leave.
—If you still want Paradise, keep yourself from doubting. Why does giving something in return bother you? When we breathe, don't we give back a little air?
—It doesn't bother me—the young man replied vehemently—I just don't know where to start. And I don't know what good there is in me that I can give to the world.
Balam looked at him with an understanding look. The young man was sincere.
—Well—he concluded—you will still be staying in this palace for a few more days. Why don't you do as your friend, Mr. Meirinho, did and go camp among the poets?
The dervish was right. Because of Ladslav's recovery, they would still be staying in the Palace for a few more days. These days would also be necessary for the various preparations required for a new incursion into the desert. Prior Zaruh would accompany them with a group of gentlemen for part of the way. Sheikh Sayad with the group of healers and dervishes who followed him would also leave together.
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For the rest of the time they remained in the palace, Kadir never met Balam again, nor did he see or dream of the Simorgh. However, he followed his master's advice and immersed himself in the verses of the wandering poets and in the practice of their devotion, dedicating his thoughts and intentions to Allah, the Great. Every morning, before entering the Library, he would recite his masbahae and repeat it 99 times.
مسب هللا نمحرلا ميحرلا , "bismi-llāhi r-raḥmāni r-raḥīm" – "In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful!"
Only then would he go to the book section and eagerly read various poems in his native language. He dedicated special time to Rumi, his master's master, and savored the intriguing poems of Khayyam and the devout ravings of Al Hallaj, who sought confirmation of his faith through martyrdom. In a day and a half, he devoured the work of the master Farid ud-Din Attar, entitled "The Language of Birds." In it, he savored the details of the conversation between the birds and the Hoopoe, the emissary of the Simorgh. Since the time of King Solomon, the Hoopoe has also been considered an invisible messenger and, like the Simorgh, has the Name of God inscribed on its beak. In the text that Kadir read, it meets with the other birds and tries to convince them to follow the sacred bird – the Simorgh – presented as a king bird, inhabitant of Mount Kaf. Each bird, however, offers an excuse for not answering this call, always linked to the way they saw the world and how they felt trapped in it. They allege that Mount Kaf is practically inaccessible, "and cannot be described in any language."
"— Surrounded by a mountain range that encircles the world and lies beyond the seven oceans? – thought Kadir – What impossible mystery is this?"
He remembered a comment by Ladslav about a circular mountain beyond the Gobi Desert. He also remembered Meirinho, when he said that it was possible that every mountain was a link that connected to Kaf. He had no answer to these questions.
"Seek knowledge, even if it is in China!" said the Prophet Mohammed in one of his Haddit. Master Attar was scribed that the first flight of the Simorgh took place over China, where it dropped one of its feathers, and from then on, its fame reached the world. With this feather, the master calligraphers wrote secret memories in texts, images and symbols.
Returning to his reading, Kadir realized that each excuse given by the birds was countered by a special virtue extolled by the Hoopoe. Thus, the birds are urged to abandon what they believe to be "their destiny" to embark on an adventure that would lead them to the understanding that, after all, they are part of the whole and that this whole, according to the poet, was Simorgh himself.
"Even in a small sparrow resides the shadow of Simorgh," Kadir wondered to himself. Could it be that the shadow of Káf resides in every mountain?
All these things forced him to think about his own destiny. About the weight of his choices. Did he wonder if, at some point in the past, these masters had also felt this way, lost, unconscious, clinging to the tablets that Allah's providence sent them in the midst of the ocean of uncertainty? He saw that in those days when he had visited the souls of the poets, many tablets of providence had been thrown to him. Many words and testimonies had touched the depths of his heart. But, among all the words that touched him, those attributed to the Saint of Basra, Rabiah Adawyia, stirred his soul even more and seemed to have been spoken to himself:
"You are a handful of earth, content to be the dust of the road. Since you are nothing more than a handful of earth, speak humbly, believe that everything is pure and speak according to the purity of the heart."
It was here in the desert, in the dust of the road that he would find his destiny and recover the purity of his faith and trust. He had no doubt about it, although many thorns still held him back from and the worldly decisions he had yet to make, regrets and unconscious desires that haunted his heart.
On the eve of his departure, when his friends and new companions gathered for a farewell dinner, Kadir realized that everyone had somehow been touched by that place. At that moment, a dervish dance number was being performed to an intoxicating music that made him want to dance and whirl to the same rhythm. He realized that the dervishes were performing a kind of protection ritual. He then gave intimate thanks for everything he had experienced during those days and asked Allah to allow him and his friends to take with them all the blessings they had received in that Palace of Nine Doors. They would resume their journey back to the desert, to the world of everyday reality where evils, conflicts, disputes, selfishness, pain and uncertainty take center stage as the main stars, leaving almost no room for goodness and all that manifests itself. He saw that the same lost look of reflection hung over his friends' faces, immersed in their questions, and their excuses. Had each of them already decided which door they could use to enter a new destiny? What was the mystery of the nine doors? "He had not even explained that to himself", the young man thought. He would carry that mystery with him until he gave his life to Allah. He would continue to seek the knowledge and answers he sought – even if he had to walk alone to China – he thought with a slight smile.
The next morning, Kadir, Ladslav and Meirinho met everyone who would travel with them in the same lower courtyard where they had arrived at the palace. They were blindfolded once again, as they had been when they arrived.
The gentlemen and some servants had gathered the animals and luggage, as well as provisions and water that would last until they reached an inn near Medina. From there, each group would take a different destination.