The King's Scribe 3

The King’s Scribe and the Lamp Maker

The Fourth Adventure

Rafi al Kateb abd al-Malik, the King’s Scribe, was journeying back to the little village on the crossroads. His task for the King was completed and he wanted very much to return to his little house. When he arrived he set about putting the house in order. With his housekeeper, he swept the courtyard and pruned the plants. Outside the courtyard was a large tree, and its trunk was covered with small scrolls announcing festivals and events. Rafi carefully cleaned the trunk of old announcements and swept debris from the walkway that led to the courtyard gate. He reopened his private library, and renewed his invitation to the villagers to submit their writings.

Soon, the little library and courtyard had attracted a small group of regular visitors. Amin came whenever he could to visit his friend, and they passed those evenings in pleasant conversation. Others came as well, and they discussed many things including, on occasion, Wasim Yasir and his cousin Boutros. It was a quiet, pleasant life, and Rafi was satisfied with it.

Rafi also walked about the village, often passing by the marketplace of Wasim Yasir. He noticed the marketplace looked worn and tattered, and he wondered that the gatekeeper had not seen to its upkeep. Most of the old, familiar shopkeepers had left and new ones had taken their place. More often than not, raucous arguments could be heard. Whenever Rafi entered the marketplace he was very careful with his words. It was plain that some of the new shopkeepers wanted nothing more than to argue.

Then one day, the unexpected happened. Rafi walked past the marketplace and saw that it was closed! The gate was locked and no sign of the gatekeeper. The shopkeepers gathered about in confusion, uncertain if the marketplace was closed for a day, or more. There was no notice, only some graffiti pointing to the house of Wasim Yasir. Rafi could hardly believe his eyes. Before the day ended he found himself in conversation with many who once visited the marketplace and wondered, as he did, as to what happened. Even Amin wondered about it and suggested Wasim Yasir had finally realized how unhappy the marketplace had become and closed it down.

Rafi wrote down what he thought about it all and put the scroll in his library, which was now being visited by some who once went to the marketplace, including some of the shopkeepers. Rafi thought it quite strange that the marketplace had closed so suddenly, with no word to the shopkeepers. He watched as the gate was replaced with a new one, and it was rumored a new gatekeeper had been hired. One shopkeeper even proposed a petition to Wasim to reopen it. But many days passed, and the marketplace did not reopen.

The courtyard and library became a place for much discussion over the unusual events and many ideas and rumors were heard there. One day a friend of the gatekeeper appeared, angry with Rafi for discussing the rumors. Rafi was astounded. He encouraged conversation and had expected speculation. So he was taken aback by the upbraiding. In a moment, the gatekeeper himself appeared, and the two harangued Rafi. He was accused of creating lies, and saying cruel things about Wasim. The scribe was furious. He remembered the stoning of Amin, and the abuse heaped on his own head when he defended the little lamp maker.

“If Wasim Yasir finds fault with my library and the conversations in my courtyard, let him come here and tell me himself!” Rafi said angrily, and the gatekeeper laughed.

“That is what you always intended, to get the attention of Wasim!” he shouted.

Rafi stood still and silent, his eyes narrowing into small slits, a coldness settling all around him. He took a deep breath and turned away. The fool! Wasim Yasir was unlikely to bother himself about an argument over a closed marketplace. If he wanted Wasim’s attention there were many other ways to obtain it. Rafi went inside his house and closed the door.

The discussions and arguments continued in the courtyard. As the days moved on Rafi expected the discussions to end, for there was still no sign that the marketplace would reopen, and new marketplaces were springing up. Then one afternoon, as he rode up to the stable with his good horse Uri, his housekeeper came running out to greet him, her veil billowing like a great sail.

“O Master!” she cried. “You will not believe what has happened!”

“It must be very important if you are so upset,” Rafi said, his left eyebrow arching upward, wondering what occurred.

“You will see Master, you will see,” and she took him by the hand and pulled him around the house to the courtyard gate. There, tacked on to the trunk of the tree standing outside the courtyard was a fresh scroll.

“Look at it!” the housekeeper said, her excitement rising.

Rafi walked slowly up to the tree and carefully removed the scroll. It was written in a neat script, and was signed ‘Wasim Yasir.’ Rafi carefully unrolled the scroll and read it as he walked into the courtyard. Inside were several villagers including shopkeepers.

“Well,” said one shopkeeper in a demanding tone. “Did Wasim write it?”

Rafi read the scroll again, and looked at it very carefully. Then he rolled it up and reaching both hands behind him, still holding the scroll, he looked at no one in particular and sighed.

“Did anyone see who put the scroll on the tree?” he asked the little group. They shook their heads, for none had seen the deed.

“But did he write it?” the shopkeeper demanded.

“Yes, I think Wasim did write it,” Rafi finally said.

“There, you see!” said the shopkeeper, as he wagged his finger in Rafi’s face. “Foolish one, you thought to insult the great Wasim Yasir, and look, he has told you what is what.”

“Wait,” said another. “Why do you think Wasim wrote this?”

“Because for anyone to create such a forgery is unthinkable,” said Rafi. He could not imagine Wasim Yasir allowing anyone to use his name without permission.

Rafi walked into the house and went to the library. He set the scroll on the writing table, and then sat and thought for a very long time. The housekeeper lighted the lamps, and still Rafi sat and thought. A messenger came with news from another scribe, saying the gatekeeper was going about the village telling everyone about the scroll, and claiming Wasim wrote it. Rafi sent the messenger to Amin so his friend would know what had happened. Then he took new parchment and started to write. He wrote all the rest of the night and into the early morning. He folded up his scroll and put it in the library with Wasim’s. Then he put a notice on the tree; so all passersby would know where to find Wasim’s scroll and his response. After that, he went to bed.

For several days there was a stream of visitors to the library and the courtyard. The arguments were heated, and it was plain some believed the scroll was a forgery. Others insisted it was genuine and spoke of messages they received (always sent by messenger) from a grateful Wasim. Slowly, the number of visitors declined and the arguments grew fewer.

Amin was among those who believed the scroll was a forgery, and suggested the King’s opponent was behind it. Rafi did not agree. They argued a long time, never agreeing on who had written the scroll. Rafi finally decided it did not matter who wrote the scroll. Wasim had signed it, or so it seemed, and was thus responsible for all it contained.

A month later Rafi sat on the bench, alone in his courtyard. Darkness had fallen and the night insects could be heard buzzing in the trees and plants. He smoked his pipe and contemplated the stars, grateful for a quiet evening. There was a knock at the courtyard gate, and he went to answer, wondering that anyone would seek admittance so late. There he found the wife of Noor al Allah, a small lantern in her hand.

“Greetings scribe. May I come in and speak with you?” she asked.

“Why yes,” replied Rafi. She lived many days away, and he wondered what had brought her to the village.

“I have been to Wasim Yasir’s marketplace, and I have heard about the scroll,” she said as Rafi led her to the bench by the wall of the house. She sat heavily, putting the lantern on the ground, away from her feet. “Such excitement for you.” And she smiled.

“Ah, such excitement I never wanted,” said Rafi as he sat down next to her. And it was true. A quiet life, in service to the people or the Divine was all anyone really needed.

“I am told Wasim was quite harsh with you,” she said looking intently at him.

“Yes, he was,” admitted Rafi.

“Did he tell the truth?” she asked.

“He thought he did,” Rafi replied.

“And was it the truth?” she persisted.

“Not all of it,” and Rafi pulled long and hard on his pipe, the smoke floating up beyond his turban, and losing itself to the faint night breeze.

“What is the truth?”

Rafi paused before speaking. “I was wrong about the gatekeeper, for I believed he encouraged the stoning of my friend, the abuse heaped on my head, and all the unhappiness at the marketplace. What I did not know was that Wasim Yasir had long ago told the gatekeeper not to interfere in disputes. When I wrote to him about the stoning, he wrote back saying I should go away and leave him alone. I could not imagine Wasim being so uncaring, but now I know differently,” and Rafi shook his head as he remembered his surprise at what Wasim had written.

“And have you left him alone since then?” came the next question. Rafi was puzzled by the inquiries, but he answered all the same.

“I have spoken, as others have, about his public statements. But it seems criticism of Wasim is not permitted. And for that he speaks harshly about me, as do all who support him,” said Rafi.

Thinking again about the stoning of Amin and the matter with Boutros, Rafi turned to the wife of Noor al Allah, recalling her words. “You were right, his was the unseen hand. He has always known about everything, I daresay even when he claimed ignorance.”

She patted him on the arm. “Wasim is no prophet, even if others treat him as one. In time, his words and works will have their way with him, as they do with all. Remember that and remember too the pain you felt at his hands. Do not travel down that path in your dealings with others. For though it is a tempting path, it avails nothing.” And it seemed her smile was even brighter.

Rafi suddenly jerked, and found his housekeeper leaning over him, her face barely inches from his. “Master? Are you well? You have been sleeping here on the bench, please come in to your bed.”

The scribe looked all about himself. Yes, he was still in the courtyard, but where was the wife of Noor al Allah? He asked his housekeeper, who shrugged her shoulders. “Master I have seen no one here besides you,” she said.

Rafi stood up and started to walk towards the courtyard gate when his foot struck a hard object. He looked down and there was a small lantern, like the one Noor’s wife had carried. He bent down and picked it up. “Who brought this?” he asked the housekeeper. Again she shrugged her shoulders. “Truly Master, I do not know,” and she sounded very confused.

Looking at the lamp, still lit, Rafi began to smile. The smile grew bigger and he started to chuckle. Then the chuckle turned to laughter and there stood Rafi in the courtyard of his little house, laughing so hard that tears ran down the sides of his face. The housekeeper stood in open-mouthed amazement, wondering if he had suddenly gone mad.

Rafi flung his head back so hard his turban fell to the ground. “You!” he shouted at the sky. “This was your doing! Such a name, Noor al Allah! But what was her name?! Of course she had none! For what name shall I give you?” Wiping the tears from his eyes, still chuckling, he picked up his turban. He looked again at the sky. “Is it over yet? Or have you more for me?” He let out a deep sigh, and then grunted. “Hmmph. There is a great lesson here, and it is not about Wasim Yasir, or what he thinks, or what he likes or doesn’t like. No, there is another lesson here and I think I know what it is. For you told me yourself.” He looked once more at the sky. “I shall not forget, and we shall see to what purpose you would set me.” Rafi smiled again, and then gestured to his housekeeper. Together they walked into the little house.