The Fire
Less known is the fact that our friend Jabir was also the dedicated disciple of another resident of Kufa, Ja’far al-Sadiq, the sixth imam of the Shi’a branch of Islam since the death of the Prophet and a direct descendant of Muhammad, through the Prophet’s daughter, Fatima.
The Shi’as of that sect did not then accept any more than they do today the legitimacy of the line of caliphs forming the Sunni Islamic sect – that is, those who were friends, companions, or relatives, but not direct descendants, of the Prophet.
The town of Kufa itself had remained, for hundreds of years since the Prophet’s death, a hotbed of unrest and rebellion against the two successive Sunni dynasties that had meanwhile conquered much of the world.
Despite the fact that the caliphs of nearby Baghdad themselves were all Sunnis, al-Jabir openly and fearlessly – some say foolishly – dedicated his mystical alchemical treatise, The Books of the Balance, to his famous guide: the sixth imam, Ja’far al-Sadiq. Jabir went even further than that! In the book’s dedication, he expressed that he was only a spokesperson for al-Sadiq’s wisdom – that he had learned from his Mürsit all the ta’wil – the spiritual hermeneutics involved in the symbolic interpretation of hidden meaning within the Qur’an.
This admission in itself was enough to have destroyed Jabir, in the eyes of the established orthodoxy of his day. But ten years later, in AD 765, something even more dangerous happened: the sixth imam, al-Sadiq, died. Jabir, as a noted scientist, was brought to the court at Baghdad to be official court chemist – first under the caliph al-Mansur, then his successors, al-Mahdi and Harun al-Rashid, famous for the role he played in The Thousand and One Nights.
The orthodox Sunni caliphate was noted for rounding up and destroying all texts of any sort that might ever suggest to anyone that there was another interpretation of the law – that there might be a separate, mystical descent of meaning or interpretation of the sayings of the Prophet and of the Qur’an.
As a scientist and Sufi, al-Jabir ibn Hayyan, from the moment of his arrival at Baghdad, lived in fear that his secret knowledge would vanish once he was no longer alive to protect and share it. He thrashed about for a more permanent solution – some impermeable way to pass on the ancient wisdom in a form that could neither be easily interpreted by the uninitiated nor easily destroyed.
The famous scientist soon found exactly what he was seeking – in a most uncanny and unexpected fashion.
The caliph al-Mansur had a favorite pastime: something that had been brought to the Arab world during the Islamic conquest of Persia a century earlier. It was the game of chess.
Al-Mansur called for his noted alchemist to create a chess service forged from uniquely created metals and compounds that could only be produced through the mysteries of alchemical science, and to fill this set with stones and symbols that would be meaningful to those acquainted with his art.
This command was like a gift to al-Jabir, directly from the archangel Gabriel himself – for it would permit him to fulfill the request of his caliph and at the same time to pass on the ancient and forbidden wisdom – right beneath the noses of the caliphate.
The chess service – which took ten years and the help of hundreds of skilled artisans to produce – was completed and presented to the caliph at the Festival of Bairam, in AH 158 – or AD 775, ten years after the death of the imam who had inspired its meaning.
The service was magnificent: It measured a full meter on each side, the squares comprised of what appeared to be a shimmering, untarnishable gold and silver, all studded with jewels, some the size of quails’ eggs. All those in the court of the ’Abbasid dynasty at Baghdad were astonished by the marvels before their eyes. But unknown to them, their court chemist had encoded a great secret – one that would remain secret, even down until today.
Among these mysteries that al-Jabir had encoded into the chess set, for example, were the sacred numbers thirty-two and twenty-eight.
Thirty-two represents the number of letters in the Persian alphabet – these were codes that Jabir had embedded in the thirty-two silver and gold pawns and pieces of the service. Twenty-eight, the number of letters in the Arabic alphabet, was represented by codes that were carved into the twenty-eight squares around the circumference of the board. These were two of the many keys used by the father of alchemy, to pass on to initiates in every subsequent age. And each such clue represented a key to a part of the mystery.
Al-Jabir gave his masterful creation a name: he called it the Service of the Tarik’at – that is, it was the key to the Secret Way.
The Baba seemed weary when he completed his story, but he was unbowed.
‘The chess set I have spoken of still exists today. The caliph al-Mansur soon realized that it contained some sort of mysterious power, for many battles broke out surrounding the service – some within the ’Abbasid court itself, at Baghdad. Over the next twenty years, it changed hands several times – but that is another, and longer, story. Its secret was at last protected – for until recent times, it had lain buried for one thousand years.
‘Then, only thirty years ago, at the dawn of the French Revolution, the service surfaced in the Basque Pyrenees. It has now been scattered abroad in the world, and its secrets are exposed. It is our mission, my children, to return this great masterpiece of initiation to its rightful owners: to those for whom it was initially designed, and for whom its secrets were intended. This service was designed for the Sufis, for we alone are the keepers of the flame.’
Ali Pasha stood and helped the Baba to his seat in the deep cushions.
‘The Baba has spoken, but he is weary,’ the pasha told the group. Then he held out his hands, for little Haidée and for Kauri, who sat beside her. The two young people came to stand before the Baba, who motioned them to kneel. Then he blew upon their heads, one after the other: ’Hu-Hu-Hu.’ The üfürük cülük – the blessing of the breath.
‘In Jabir’s day,’ said the Baba, ‘those who were engaged in alchemical research called themselves the Blowers and the Charcoal Burners, for these were secret parts of their sacred art. That is where many of our terms come from, in our sacred art today. We are sending you, by a secret route, to our friends in another land – they are also known as the Charcoal Burners. But now, time is of the essence, and we have something of value to send with you, which Ali Pasha has protected for thirty years—’
He paused, for there were shouts from above, coming from the sealed upper rooms of the monastery. General Vaya and the soldiers raced toward the door to the steps.
‘But I see,’ said the Baba, ‘that we have no more time.’
The pasha had reached within his robes in haste, and now he handed the Baba something that looked like a large, heavy black lump of coal. The Baba handed this to Haidée, but he addressed himself to Kauri, his young disciple.
‘There is an underground route out of this building, which will deliver you near to your skiff,’ the Baba told him. ‘You may be detected by others, but as children you will be unlikely to be apprehended. You are going to cross the mountains by a special route, to the coast, where a ship will be awaiting your arrival. You will travel north by directions I give you – you will seek a man who will lead you to those who will protect you. He knows the pasha well, from many years past, and he will trust you – that is, once you have given him the secret code that he alone will understand.’
‘And what is the code?’ asked Kauri, anxious to take off quickly, as the sounds of hammering and splintering wood proceeded from the floors above.
But the pasha interrupted. He had pulled Vasiliki to his side, with one arm protectively around her shoulders. Vasiliki had tears in her eyes.
‘Haidée must reveal to this man who she really is,’ the pasha told them.
‘Who I am?’ said Haidée, glancing in confusion at her parents.
Vasiliki spoke for the first time – she seemed in some sort of pain. She now took both of her daughter’s hands in her own, as they still held the large lump of coal.
‘My child,’ she addressed Haidée, ‘we have kept this secret for many years, but now, as the Baba has explained, it is our only hope, as well as yours.’ She paused, for her throat had choked on the final words. It seemed she could not go on, so the pasha intervened once more.
‘What Vasia means, my darling, is that I am not your true father.’ When he saw the look of horror on Haidée’s face, he added quickly, ‘I married your mother out of my great love for her, almost as a daughter, for I am greatly her senior in years. But when we married, Vasia was already expecting you – by another man. It was impossible for him to marry her, as it still remains. I know this man. I love him and trust him, and so does your mother, as well as the Baba. It has been a secret, kept in agreement by all of us – against this day when it might be necessary to reveal it at last.’
Kauri had grasped Haidée’s arm with great strength, for it appeared that she might faint.
‘Your true father is a man who possesses both wealth and power,’ the pasha went on. ‘He will protect you – and will protect this as well, when you show him what you bring.’
Haidée felt a dozen emotions warring within her. The pasha not her father? How could this be? She wanted to scream, tear her hair, cry – but her mother, weeping over her hands, was also shaking her head.
‘The pasha is right. You must go,’ Vasiliki told her daughter. ‘Your life is at risk if you remain longer – and it is too dangerous for any but the boy to go with you.’
‘But if the pasha is not – then who is my father? And where is he? And what is this object we are bringing to him?’ Sudden anger was helping her to recover a bit of her strength.
‘Your father is a great English lord,’ said Vasiliki. ‘I knew him well, and I loved him – he lived here with us at Janina, in the year before your birth.’
She could not go on, so the pasha continued.
‘As the Baba said, he is our friend and is connected with those who are our friends. He lives on the great canal at Venice. You can reach him by boat within a few days. You can easily find his palazzo – his name is George Gordon, Lord Byron.
‘You will bring him the object you hold in your hands, and he will protect it with his life, if necessary. It is disguised in carbon, but beneath is the most valuable chess piece from the ancient Service of the Tarik’at created by al-Jabir ibn Hayyan. This special piece is the veritable key to the Secret Path. It is the piece we know today as the Black Queen.’
The Black Land
Wyrd oft nereth unfaegne eorl, ponne his ellen deah. (Unless he is already doomed, fortune is apt to favor the man who keeps his nerve.)
– Beowulf
Mesa Verde, Colorado
Spring 2003
Before I’d even reached the house, i knew something was wrong. Very wrong. Even though on the surface it all seemed picture-perfect.
The steep, sweeping curve of drive was blanketed deep in snow and lined with stately rows of towering Colorado blue spruce. Their snow-covered branches sparkled like rose quartz in the early-morning light. Atop the hill, where the driveway flattened and spread out for parking, I pulled up my rented Land Rover in front of the lodge.
A lazy curl of blue-gray smoke rose from the moss rock chimney that formed the center of the building. The rich scent of pine smoke pervaded the air, which meant that – although I might not be warmly welcomed after all this time – at least I was expected.
To confirm this, I saw that my mother’s truck and jeep were sitting side by side in the former horse stable at the edge of the parking area. I did find it odd, though, that the drive had not yet been plowed and there were no tracks. If I were expected, wouldn’t someone have cleared a path?
Now that I was here at last, in the only place I’d ever called home, you would think I could finally relax. But I couldn’t shake the sense that something was wrong.
Our family lodge had been built at about this same period in the prior century by neighboring tribes, for my great-great-grandmother, a pioneering mountain lass. Constructed of hand-hewn rock and massive tree trunks chinked together, it was a huge log cabin that was shaped like an octagon – patterned after a hogan or sweat lodge – with many-paned windows facing in each cardinal direction, like a vast, architectural compass rose.
Each female descendant had lived here at one time or another, including my mother and me. So what was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I ever come here without this sense of impending doom? I knew why, of course. And so did my mother. It was the thing we never spoke about. That’s why – when I had finally left home for good – my mother understood. She’d never insisted, like other mothers, that I come back for familial visits.
That is, not until today.
But then, my presence today hadn’t exactly been by invitation – it was more of a summons, a cryptic message that Mother had left on my home phone back in Washington, D.C., when she knew very well I’d be off at work.
She was inviting me, she said, to her birthday party. And that, of course, was a big part of the problem.
You see, my mother didn’t have birthdays. She’d never had birthdays.
I don’t mean she was concerned about her youth or appearance or wished to lie about her age – in fact, she looked more youthful each year.
But the strange truth was, she didn’t want anyone outside our family even to know when her birthday was.
This secrecy, combined with a few other idiosyncrasies – like the fact that she’d been in hermetic retreat up on top of this mountain for the past ten years – ever since…the thing we never spoke about – all went far to explain why there were those who may have perceived my mother, Catherine Velis, as a pretty eccentric duck.
The other part of my current problem was that I hadn’t been able to contact my mother for an explanation of her sudden revelation. She’d answered neither her phone nor the messages I’d left for her here at the lodge. The alternate number she’d given me was clearly not right – it was missing some final digits.
With my first true inkling that something was really wrong, I took a few days off work, bought a ticket, caught the last flight into Cortez, Colorado, in a tizzy, and rented the last four-wheel-drive vehicle in the airport lot.
Now, I left the engine running as I sat here for a moment, letting my eyes graze over the breathtaking panoramic view. I hadn’t been home in more than four years. And each time I saw it afresh, it smacked the wind out of me.
I got out of the Rover in knee-deep snow and let the engine run.
From here on the mountaintop, fourteen thousand feet atop the Colorado Plateau, I could see the vast, billowing sea of three-mile-high mountain peaks, licked by the rosy morning light. On a clear day like this, I could see all the way to Mount Hesperus, which the Diné call Dibé Nitsaa: Black Mountain, one of the four sacred mountains created by ‘First Man’ and ‘First Woman.’
Together with Sisnaajinii (white mountain, or Mount Blanca) in the east, Tsoodzil (blue mountain, or Mount Taylor) in the south, and Dook’o’osliid (yellow mountain, or San Francisco Peaks) in the west, these four marked out the four corners of Dinétah – ‘Home of the Diné,’ as the Navajo call themselves.
And they pointed as well to the high plateau I was standing on: ‘Four Corners,’ the only place in the United States where four states – Colorado, Utah, New Mexico, and Arizona – come together at right angles to form a cross.
Long before anyone ever thought to draw dotted lines on a map, this land was sacred to everyone who ever walked across it. If my mother was going to have her first-ever birthday party in the nearly twenty-two years I had known her, I could understand why she wanted to have it here. Regardless of how many years she had lived abroad or away, like all the women in our family she was part of this land.
For some reason, I knew that this connection with the land was somehow important. I knew that was why she had left a message so strange to bring me to this spot.
And I knew something else, even if no one else did. I knew why she’d insisted I come here today. For today – April fourth – actually was my mother, Cat Velis’s, birthday.
I yanked my keys from the ignition, grabbed my hastily packed duffel bag from the passenger seat, and plowed my way through the snow to our hundred-year-old front doors. These huge doors – two massive slabs of heart pine ten feet high, cut from ancient trees – were carved in bas-relief with two animals that seemed to be coming right at you. On the left, a golden eagle soared straight at your face. And from the right door burst an angry, upright female bear.
Despite the weathering of these carvings, they were fairly realistic-looking – with glass eyes and real talons and claws. The early twentieth century had loved clever inventions, and this one was a doozy: If you pulled the bear’s paw, her jaw dropped open to reveal very real and frightening teeth. If you had the nerve to stick your hand into her mouth, you could twist the old-fashioned door chime, to alert those within.
I did both, and waited. But even after a few moments, there was no response. Someone must have been inside – the chimney was active. And I knew from practice that stoking that fire pit took hours of tending and a Herculean effort to haul the wood. But with our hearth, which was capable of receiving a log of fifty caliper inches, a fire could have been laid days ago and still be burning.
My situation suddenly dawned upon me: Having flown and driven a few thousand miles, I was standing in the snow on top of a mountain, trying to get access to my own house, desperate to know if anyone was inside. But I didn’t have a key.
My alternative – wading through acres of deep snow to peep through a window – seemed a poor idea. What would I do if I got wetter than I already was and still couldn’t get inside? What if I got inside and no one was there? There were no car tracks, ski tracks – not even deer tracks – anywhere near the house.
So I did the only intelligent thing I could think of: I yanked my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed Mother’s number, right here at the lodge. I was relieved when her message machine picked up after six rings, thinking she might have left some clue as to her whereabouts. But when her recorded voice came on, my heart sank:
‘I can be reached at…’ and she rattled off the same number she’d left on my D.C. phone – still missing the very last digits! I stood before the door, wet and cold, and fuming with confusion and frustration. Where did one go from here?
And then I remembered the game.
My favorite uncle, Slava, was famed throughout the world as the noted technocrat and author, Ladislaus Nim. He’d been my best friend in my childhood, and though I hadn’t seen him in years, I felt he still was. Slava hated telephones. He vowed he would never have one in his house. Telephones, no – but Uncle Slava loved puzzles. He’d written several books on the topic. Through my childhood, if anyone received a message from Slava with a phone number where you could reach him, they always knew it wasn’t real – it must be some kind of encrypted message. That was his delight.
It seemed unlikely, though, that my mother would use such a technique to communicate with me. For one thing, she wasn’t even good at deciphering such messages herself, and she couldn’t invent a puzzle if her life depended upon it.
More unlikely still was the idea that Slava had created a message for her. As far as I knew, she hadn’t talked to my uncle in years, not since…the thing we never spoke about.
Yet I was sure, somehow, that this was a message.
I jumped back up into the Land Rover and switched on the engine. Decrypting puzzles to locate my mother sure beat all hell out of the alternatives: breaking into an abandoned house, or flying back to D.C. and never learning where she’d gone.
I phoned her machine again: I jotted down the phone number she’d left there, for all the world to hear. If she was in real trouble of some kind and trying to contact only me, I prayed that I would decipher it first.
‘I can be reached at 615-263-94…’ my mother’s recorded voice said.
My hand was shaking as I wrote out the numbers on a pad.
I’d been provided eight numbers, rather than the ten numbers required to make a long-distance call. But as with Uncle Slava’s puzzles, I suspected this had nothing to do with phones. Here was a ten-digit code, of which the final two numbers were missing. Those two numbers themselves were my hidden message.
It took about ten minutes to figure it out – much longer than when I was running neck and neck with my crazy but wonderful uncle. If you divided the string of numbers into twos (hint: we were missing the last two digits), then you ended up with: 61–52–63–94.
If you reversed those numbers, as I quickly saw, you ended up with each two-digit square number, starting with the square of four. That is, the product of four, five, six, and seven, when multiplied by themselves, resulted as follows: 16–25–36–49.
The next number in the sequence – and the missing number – was 8. So the missing last two digits of the series were the square of 8 – that is, 64. In the real puzzle, of course, if you reversed the number, the answer would have been 46 – but that wasn’t it.
I knew – and so did my mother – that 64 had another meaning for me. It was the number of squares on a chessboard, with eight squares on each side.
In a nutshell – that was the thing we never talked about.
My distraught and intractable mother had refused ever to speak of the game of chess – even to permit it into her house. Since my father’s death (the other thing that we never talked about), I was forbidden to play the game – the only thing I’d ever known how to do, the only thing that helped me connect with the world around me. I might as well have been ordered, at the age of twelve, to become autistic.
My mother was so opposed, in every way imaginable, to the idea of chess. Though I’d never been able to follow her logic – if indeed, it was logic – to my mother’s mind, chess would prove as dangerous to me as it had been to my father.
But now it seemed that by bringing me here on her birthday, by leaving that cryptic phrase with its encrypted message, she was welcoming me back to the game.
I timed it: It took me twenty-seven minutes and – since I’d left the engine running – a gallon of hog-guzzling gas until I had figured out how to get inside.
By now, anyone with half a brain would have guessed that those two-digit numbers were also combinations on a tumbler. But there were no locks on the house. Except there was one in the barn. On a lockbox. The keys to the cars were kept there.
Would I be justified in saying ‘Duh’?
I switched off the Rover, plowed through the snow to the barn – and voilà! – a few tumblers dropped, the door to the lockbox opened, and the door key appeared on a chain. Back at the house, it took a moment to recall that the key was inserted into the eagle’s left claw. Then the ancient doors groaned open a crack.
I scraped my boots on the rusty old fireplace grille we kept beside the entrance, shoved open the heavy front doors of the lodge, and slammed them shut behind me, causing a flurry of sparkling snowflakes to sift through the slanted morning light.
Within the dim interior light of the mudroom – an entry not much bigger than a confessional that kept the cold winds out – I kicked off my dripping boots and pulled on a pair of the fuzzy sheepskin aprés-ski booties that always sat there atop our frozen-food locker. When I’d hung up my parka, I opened the inner doors and stepped into the vast octagon, warmed by the giant log that was burning in the central hearth.