Who are you, wondrous stranger?
You're nearer to me than all.
In eyes of yours — my mother's gaze,
In voice — my father's call...
You are the light that struck these eyes, first opened to the world.
Small fingers skimmed along the smooth weave encircling her slender wrist. Touching lightly, as though it were a fragile jewel. They paused at the little knotted charm — and a tremor rose within her young breast.
Morning sunlight poured in from the garden like the murmur of water, like the rustle of leaves. It softened the severe lines of the thin columns and the bulb-shaped curve of the window's crown. Within this living frame: the rings of a tightly bound turban, like a serpent biting its own tail; sharp features — tense, yet composed, as if carved in marble; a tall figure inclined, almost in prayer. His brow was broad and uncreased. Now it was his eyes that did the thinking — keen, gentle — and his hands — alert, careful. They listened to the body. And his lips, thin as if drawn with a single stroke, shaped what they heard into sound — a low, velvety note, at first indistinct.
«When the womb longs for what it has been denied, it rises — like a mist at midnight… And the body grows dim. Like a lamp without oil.»
His words, like longed-for moisture, soaked into the reed pens and spread across the paper in neat, slender streams. A few young men in simple robes stood gathered around the patient's cot. Their ears were turned toward their teacher, whose face and movements bore the mark not so much of years as of knowledge. Their gaze was fixed on the woman whose body, covered only by a thin dress, lay seized in spasms, her eyes — ringed with blue shadows — fastened to the distant arches of the ceiling. Beside her stood a low table with books and glass vessels.
«Suffocatio matricis. This is not madness. It is longing imprisoned in the body. And the mind cannot master it… What say you — cold or heat?»
One of the students bent lower, studying without bias her clenched hands and half-drawn legs with their splayed toes.
«Oleum rutae,» he said at last. «Rutae drives the cold from the womb.»
«That is the first step,» the teacher agreed, nodding with approval. «And the next?»
The student faltered. Amid the quiet laughter of his companions, he set down his writing board and reached, uncertainly, for one of the books, trying to recall in which chapter he should seek the answer. In the many-voiced silence of the hospital, the rustle of pages and the soft knock of glass against wood might have been lost — had they not been accompanied by a breath of jasmine that pierced, with its freshness, the heavy blend of wormwood, myrrh, and rosewater.
«Asa foetida,» the young man read, paused, and added, «to awaken the mind…»
Catching himself, he lifted his head to see who had offered him that hint — yet saw no one. Then he followed the direction of the others' gazes. A small, graceful figure was moving away from them with a smooth, if slightly restrained, shy gait. The hem of her pale dress, edged with turquoise waves, swayed lightly, revealing the ease of her step. Accompanied by two women — one in a brown, modest robe, the other carrying a box of remedies and whispering something into her ear — she walked past the hospital beds with her head lowered. Not like one frightened, nor guilty, but as someone deeply folded into herself.
Near the very exit the girl faltered — stopped, and turned back. The students returned to their notes and to the patient. Only the teacher watched her go. Without looking away. He did not avert his eyes even when she looked at him.
To awaken the mind… Jasmine…
A childlike face, yet touched by the shadow of maturity — like a full moon under which the most intricate riddles of the body reveal themselves to him. Curls hidden beneath a light veil — tangled thoughts his mind gives shape to. Black eyes — ink with which he writes into eternity. Fair skin — a precious parchment he reserves for his greatest work.
To awaken the mind…
Jasmine…
Evening slowly descended upon the garden — a small corner of paradise hidden behind a blank wall that revealed nothing to the street. Only the shadow of a narrow doorway betrayed an entrance. In the center of the garden, within an artificial pool, rested the half-sphere of a granite bowl. Clear water rose in gentle pulses — like blood stirred by a calm, untroubled heart. It slipped down the sides of the brimming bowl with a faint whisper and, rejoined with the source, spilled into four channels — rivers that moved unhurriedly across the garden and vanished into the shade of the supple, earth-brushing branches of the caragana.
Evening carried silence with it; softening colors, sharpening scents. Sweet — intoxicating as honey; and spicy — bracing, with a fine camphorous and woody note. Clusters of irises leaned toward the coolness of the pool. Narcissi bent over the ribbons of water as though peering at their own reflections. The silver leaves of sage covered the ground in a velvety pattern. Luxuriant bushes of Damask rose and jasmine bloomed richly in the corners, and carefully trimmed orange trees alternated rhythmically with benches set into the filigreed arches of the colonnades that ringed the garden. And it was hard to tell where the sky ended and the earth began — so delicately did their colors echo one another in the white walls and the mica-bright gravel of the paths.
The soft murmur of water and the occasional cry of an ibis calmed the mind, tuning the strings of the soul.
Deep within the colonnade, a gentle light flickered in a tiny window.
The girl approached the half-open door without a sound — a wooden screen carved with a lattice of geometric shapes. It shut one away from the garden and the household, yet it did not so much divide as join spaces, drawing a thin boundary between two worlds. She tapped lightly.
Her father sat by a low table — barefoot, bare-headed, his legs drawn beneath him, crossed. Beneath his light clay-colored robe showed a grey cotton tunic. His back was straight as an arrow; across the bridge of his nose lay the shadow of his brows. Thin lips disappeared into his greying beard. His face was intent. Before him lay an open book, its pages catching the flicker of the clay lamp's flame. He was not reading — he was thinking. With a smooth movement of the hand he signaled his daughter to enter and wait.
A familiar scent — sandalwood, laurel oil, ink, and old paper — held the room. On the shelves: books — religious treatises, philosophy, poetry. On the walls: calligraphy in wooden frames. On the floor: a carpet with paradise birds among flowering thickets. All was steeped in warm dusk.
The man finished his thought, gently closed the book, and turned toward the girl. He looked at her as only fathers do — with wordless love. In her face he read both agitation and hesitation. He spoke first, as one offers a hand beneath a wounded leaf.
«Your first day at the hospital. Did your heart waver?»
«It did not, Father. It only grew heavy. It all felt so much like… like those days when Mother was ill.»
Their hearts answered each other — not in words, but in silence. He nodded, and they were quiet together. It was not the pain that refuses to make peace with loss, but a soft longing for one dear to them who could no longer be near.
«The place of suffering is like fire. There you see what burns in a person: fear or compassion. Is your mentor kind?»
«Strict. As one who knows that mercy lies not in weakness but in clarity. She is strong, Father. She will be not only the support along which my spirit grows, but the guard that restrains its willful surges.»
He listened, and in his eyes something warm, almost sorrowful, settled — like in a traveler who glimpses a spring long gone. He smiled. But he saw that another conversation hid behind this one: fingers worrying the knot at her wrist, her breath unsteady, her tense brow searching for words that could speak her soul.
«Someone has unsettled your peace… stirred your heart…»
Not a question — thought spoken aloud, yet as precise as a smith's hammer. Sparks rose, and the steel grew firm.
«Today I… saw Light. Not outside, but… within. It passed through the form. It appeared to me.»
His hand trembled — every strike now could shape the fine blade or shatter it.
«Who bore it?»
«A physician. He was teaching the lesson.»
A breeze stirred the flame of the prayer candle — but could not extinguish it, only fed it higher.
«He was… he was…
Like… sun.
Like cloud…
Like hush, like sound…
Like you and mum,
Like heaven and like ground.
Like mirth, like grief —
That is the soul of one…
He spoke — and I could realize.
I looked — and he could recognize.»
The man drew a slow breath. A flower was opening in his chest — its petals tremor and gratitude. He placed his hands on his daughter's shoulders and kissed her brow.
«Then listen, child. This is a gift. And a trial. Let it not carry you off like a river without a channel. I will be beside you.»
In the morning, the master of the house had told the maid to inquire about the physician-teacher. But she served the family faithfully and already knew all there was to know of him.
By evening, the smoke of smouldering sandalwood — the metronome of the heart, the tuning fork of thought — accompanied the father's reflections. He reasoned thus:
So, the man is not local — he is from Hamadan. An apothecary's son, raised among vials and books. Lost his mother young; learned from his father and from the written page. Passed through the schools of Rayy and Isfahan; cleaves to Ibn Sina's teaching — not in word, but in spirit. To Baghdad he was invited.
A good physician. A steady hand, a lucid mind. Calm, withdrawn. Forty-eight. No wife, no attachments. No idle amusements, no poets, no houses of the nobility — his life is secluded. He keeps his students under firm discipline; the senior ones respect him. Cautious, then.
He judges people without arrogance. His eye is sharp — but not lustful. He has seen my daughter only once. Yet he will see her again…
There is a soul in him. A deep one. And therein lies the danger. For she is fifteen.
***
To see you blesses every step I take,
Your form — an arch through which the heavens break.
Yet hearing you is trial wrapped in grace,
As though your astrolabe could read the night
But not the stir that trembles in my soul.
Turn it inward once — and you will find
Love writes no lines that reason can define.
You say: "One must be whole to heal another's pain;
No mercy lives where measure is unknown."
But nature holds no balances or bounds —
No scale is strung between the sky and ground.
The sky gives all: its flame, its fall, its rain.
It counts no rays, nor drops, nor passing winds,
It only longs to lose itself in earth.
You say: "Air is the nearest path to Mind."
You blend your scents to quiet storm and fire
But can you feel the Light that memory guards —
A hush that opens like a hidden door
When night begins to breathe beneath the stars?
You say: "Aromas rise as vapors, moist and warm —
They guide the soul by memories retained."
But I have never needed breath or balm
To know: your brow is washed in myrtle's grace,
Your lips hold incense — solemn, lit and low,
Your chest is bound in lavender's restraint,
Your hands — the pistachio's guard and calm.
You say: "There is a tremor not from ill,
But born of Touch — it troubles soul and blood.
Speak but a word, and reason flares to flame,
As when a torch is pressed to waiting wick."
But fire devours, unmoved by what it gives.
It leaves but ash the eye can scarcely hold,
And wind bears even that beyond the sky.
You say: "Man fears what he has never known —
And knowledge brings an end to every dread."
But I have seen the edge of dawn — and still,
I shake: some truths shine brighter than the soul,
Too vast for any heart to bear alone.
"Man fears what he has never known…"
The oil burned.
"There is a tremor not from ill, but born of Touch — it troubles soul and blood. Speak but a word, and reason flares to flame, as when a torch is pressed to waiting wick."
That poor man at the hospital today: hair like the bristled mane of a jackal cornered in a cage, eyes wide with thirst and fear, like a doe refusing the river, knowing it holds both water and the lion's leap. His chest rose and fell like a sail caught in sudden storm.
It was not my words that reached him. It was her touch — not as physician, but as if she were the oldest friend his heart had never named. A look without speech, and yet it told him: you are seen.
Sheets of paper laid across the top of the escritoire.
"As one can't mend a lyre without its strings drawn tight, so may no soul be healed till thought unbinds its knots."
She furrowed her brow like a child, standing by the bed of one whose spirit had been cast aside — left to the cruel arithmetic of thoughts. His fingers laced into a knot, tense and trembling. In her hand: a sprig of rosemary. Not a charm, not a gesture, but a healing breath — to summon back the spirit, to calm the hands but preserve the body from disintegration.
And I fell silent: Can reason loose the knots that it has spun?
"The mind must lead — it is our guiding lamp: without its light, the night is guess and fear. He who seeks not through reason cannot know if what he feels is truth — or simply false."
A quiet breath stirred the garden air — not wind, but her. She was outside the window, beside an old woman as she walked the courtyard path, the same steps each evening. I saw her head tilt — a slight, slow shake. Not toward the patient. Toward my voice. The elder lifted her face to the sun, stretched her arms toward the leaves, closed her eyes, and listened to the birds.
The senses are the soul's first path to truth. The mind comes after — framing what they feel. But once it tries to cast in crafted words the living pulse that trembled through the flesh, it draws the truth away from present thought.
The inkwell glimmered with silver beneath the light of the round moon.
"Knowledge is not bestowed like sudden flame — it comes through work: through doubt, and watchful thought. Even the Lord commands no sightless faith; He gave the mind to see the world in form."
Again, I am silent — and remember how often I battled through the night, as I do now, wrestling with riddles whose answers I could name, yet never prove.
The window let fresh air in.
"Air is the nearest path to Mind."
The scent of jasmine always surrounds her — as a confidante would.
Jasmine: it soothes the heat, strengthens the heart, steadies the breath, awakens the mind… And yet, the time it slipped silently behind the carved screen of the lecture hall, my brow grew wet, pain stirred in my chest, breath failed, and thought was torn away from speech.
"Aromas rise as vapors, moist and warm — they guide the soul by memories retained."
But I had never known jasmine before. So why this feeling, as if to follow its trail would lead me home — and grant me peace?
Ink gathered at the tip of the reed pen and spread unevenly across the yellowed surface.
"Color belongs to body, as its trait; through it, we come to know the thing itself."
Yet only in her presence do things truly live. Emotion, memory — all become meaning. Not the freshness of leaves, but a blessing. The night sky — not emptiness, but will. Not pain, but a path. Not the flicker of flame, but a soul grown wise. Not a blank page, but truth itself. The blackness of ink — not ignorance, but the mystery of understanding.
The silence held down everything it could reach from its lair, the darkness.
"Man fears what he has never known — and knowledge brings an end to every dread."
Then how has it come to pass… that I, of all men, have come to fear knowing?
The wick of the lamp burned out. The lark had given its last ring, and the pen had traced not a single word. The pink rays of dawn lent the paper the hue of orange peel, and on it the drops of ink had dried. Their shapes, fused into something whole, resembled black curling strands of hair. Imagination, without asking his will, at once discerned a face in them — her face.
Now each day filled itself with her image: night summoned it from memory, and dawn led it forth in the flesh. Each day became an infusion of jasmine. He awaited it and feared it.
He awaited the moment when he would speak again — and she would be silent. And that silence would cost him a dozen questions from his students. He longed for it — and feared it, for every such moment drew him a step closer to the truth. And he already saw its threshold.
***
«My daughter, are you unwell? There is fire in your eyes, yet your skin is paler than a shroud.»
The soft lacework of shadows lay upon the paths and benches of the garden, on the mirror-like surface of the water, on the face and hands of the girl who had sunk into contemplation. The noise of the city was smothered by thick walls, and only the fountain idly plucked the strings of a harp.
«Your observation is true, Father. But it is not illness that troubles me — it is longing.»
«And the physician is its cause?»
A delicate ripple of flute-song broke from the crest of a shrub. Her lashes trembled, like branches under the weight of a bird taking flight.
«Yes. His fire burns in my eyes. He is too close to be reflected, and too far to give warmth.»
Those were the branches of the thornbush, and blood welled upon the father's heart.
«Would it not be wiser to change the time of your lessons? Not to cross paths with him?»
A pine cone fell into the fire. But it is animals that fear the blaze. He did not.
«Not to tempt fate.» His voice grew firm, like clay after the kiln. «Surely I needn't remind you that the day of your marriage is soon to be decided? That already your conduct, your actions, are under careful watch — not only mine.»
«Ah, Father! But that man is not of our circle. Why would you give me to him? With him I will lose my freedom. With him I will go blind.»
«But the physician too is not of our circle… Are you not mistaken about the nature of your feelings for him?»
The craftsman finished his work and quenched the fire. Her eyelids closed like the shutters of a kiln. Ash swayed in her hands.
«What is this?» A small piece of paper lay in the nest woven by her fingers. «You have begun to write? Will you permit me?»
«It is not yet finished.»
The fledgling uncertainly fluttered onto the proffered branch.
«Oh, my child…»
The sheet of paper, folded in half, lay apart from the others. Its upper half hovered over the lower — thin, light, yet motionless, as though bearing an unbearable weight. Like a half-open door through which a curious guest might glimpse a room, it revealed timid trickles of lines — drops of rain racing down a pane of glass. A threshold.
I walk the garden — every bud and leaf
Recalls your gaze: composed, alert, unseen.
The oil that beads along the myrtle's sheath —
It holds your silence, patient and serene.
The market hums. My father's flasks and jars
Reflect the forms I know your fingers trace:
The bitter-sweet of balm, the scent of stars,
The medicine that speaks with measured grace.
But this is not desire. Nor is it dream.
All this is light — and light has many names.
In you it burns with purity extreme.
In other things, it flickers, shifts, and wanes.
All this is light.
The air is warm. The rains have passed. The sun
Has drawn the scents from stone and citrus peel.
The leaves converse like dancers just begun,
Their joy too swift, too bright, too light to feel.
All this is light.
The sand is hot — it bites beneath the tread.
A hawk cries once, then vanishes from view.
The blood beats fast. My lips are cracked and red.
The will walks first, and leaves the flesh to rue.
All this is light.
I drank from glacial springs beyond the town —
So still, they seemed to know a secret way.
The rocks were veiled in mist, the world turned down
To listen while the silence chose to stay.
All this is light.
And when I laid my hand on winter's ground,
It did not yield. The stone refused its name.
The roots were dead, no insect stirred, no sound.
What once had burned now wore a coat of shame.
All this is light.
A bird begins while still the world is still —
One rising trill, then two, then many more.
The heart responds ere it knows its will,
And dances like a child before a door.
All this is light.
The spices snap — a sudden, sharp perfume.
The clove, the resin, ginger, myrrh and pine.
They echo like a voice across a room
That turns the head, and says: "This pulse is mine."
All this is light.
I heard a tree cry out when struck by flame —
The groan was deep, like something torn apart.
The smoke hung thick, yet in its soundless frame
A music stirred — low, aching, slow to start.
All this is light.
And then — a thought, a river in the shade.
It does not shout, nor beg to be believed.
It runs where only silence might have stayed,
And draws its truth from what is not perceived.
All this is light.
And then — your hands, that gather pain like thread,
And stitch the rent between the breath and bone.
Your sentence, which can lift the dying head,
Or tell the soul it needs to go alone.
Your eyes do not reflect, they summon light.
Your steps restore the silence to its course.
Your mind — a lantern held against the night,
Made not to rule, but channel wisdom's force.
You are the fairest vessel God has shaped —
In you, the sun's own labor finds repose.
Through you, the light descends, refined, unchained,
To touch the flesh and teach the mind it knows.
All this is light...
All this is you — the God, who turned his gaze within,
Forgetting all he was, and all he gave.
The sun, reclaiming every scattered beam,
And I — the dust it carries to the flame.
You are the light.
Truth itself pushed the door fully open — and, spellbound, he stepped across.
***
The leather street shoes had been left by the door. A narrow corridor curved and, after the turn, flowed gently through a carved arch into an open green space. The glints of bright colors and the echo of measured sounds filling it promised joy and repose… yet the master of the house turned aside before reaching it.
They found themselves in a spacious room: square in plan, with a small vaulted niche in one of the walls. Along the perimeter lay cushions — a ribbon of ochre, turquoise, terracotta, and indigo interrupted by bookshelves and tall copper lamps. On the walls hung filigree arabesques of beautiful verses and quotations carrying deep meaning. On the floor lay a carpet. Its pattern gave volume to the white patches locked to it by pillars of light, echoing their shapes. The garden remained behind that starry pattern of wooden window frames. A paradise. Through them one could also see the opposite gallery and the wall of another part of the house — the women's quarters.
The master stopped. His movements were calm, even faintly slowed, as though with each step — like prayer beads — he turned over another thought. When he slipped off his mantle — floor-length, with wide sleeves — it revealed the leanness of his frame, and his straightened back pointed to the firmness of his character. Everything in his appearance was restrained, measured, purposeful, dignified. And that appearance, and everything surrounding it, was a visible reflection of an invisible spirit — a precisely drawn image of the soul standing in the center of the room.
He turned and directed toward his guest a deep gaze — one that studied the body and read the soul.
He had taken notice of this man the moment he entered his qaisariyya. He had recognized him. Tall, well-built, with a neatly kept beard still black, though they were nearly the same age. His hair was gathered beneath a turban. A robe of fine wool. On his chest, a small case with an astrolabe, hanging from a strap. His face — sharp; his expression… unsettled. His gaze drifted across the labeled vials of oils — rose, spikenard, frankincense, camphor, musk… — without lingering, without interest, without aim. As though he knew not only what he needed, but even the reason he had come. It was then the master understood: the remedy this man sought was not housed upon the shelves of his mercantile gallery.
«You received a letter from her, did you not?»
«I did.»
The visitor, who had already regained his composure, was nevertheless taken aback by the master's awareness. Was it the sign of trust between father and daughter, or the opposite — the sign of its absence? Either way, it relieved him: it spared him several awkward turns and allowed him to go straight to the heart of the matter. When he stepped out of his house and his feet carried him toward the city's center, he had not yet known the purpose of his walk. But he recognized it the moment the essential-oil seller called out to him. He did not know how he would begin speaking once he found himself in that man's home. But he knew how he must end.
«They were verses.»
The host watched every movement the guest made. He saw the slight tremor in his brow, the slow sinking of his chest, the way his features regained their firmness.
«And what did you think when you read them?»
«That I am the happiest man alive.»
«And you came into my shop…» he almost whispered, nodding faintly, lowering his gaze in contemplation.
He spoke again only a heartbeat before the guest was about to do the same.
«Before you ask for my daughter's hand, there is something I must tell you about our family.» His voice was even, steady. «We do not flaunt our faith, and we keep to moderate positions… where possible. But when something like this happens, it is a sin to turn one's eyes away. Because it is a miracle. Because such a blessing is granted to very few. It is a source of great joy… and great sorrow.» His eyes, as before, studied his companion attentively. «You are an educated man — I see you already understand who we are. But some subtleties of our faith may have escaped you. Allow me to explain. My daughter keeps no secrets from me. I have spoken with her, and I have read her verses. And if you hear in them an address to yourself, a confession of love for you, I hear an address to God — love for Him… in your form. These are not the same. It is difficult for the uninitiated to grasp. But what matters most for you — what may become your trial — is the understanding that her heart does not reach toward you, but through you. You may accept this, become His instrument — the vessel that keeps the grace allotted to her — and make my daughter the happiest soul in the world. You may disregard my words, grow disillusioned one day, and break her heart. And of course — forewarned — I will not allow you to do so. You may also choose not to ask for what you came for, continue your life and your work in peace — I will see to that — and remain for my daughter a distant, stainless light, a poetic inspiration.»
He paused, watching how his words moved through the physician's mind and echoed inside his heart. As he expected, he saw turmoil.
«I ask you to honor us both — and think before you answer.»
The guest left in silence. It was his first answer — and perhaps the truest. He had come certain of his love. And only now did he understand that he did not know her — only himself.
***
«Read 'You are the light' — and at once fell into paradise. 'And light has many names'… how naive. Fell in love like a boy. At my age. 'Educated'… and still did not see. Did not suspect. Did not understand. 'All this is you', 'the God'... How vain I was. 'All this is light' — and hell opened beneath my feet. Her love for Him. Her yearning for Him. Through me. To become their instrument. Their vessel. 'You are the fairest vessel God has shaped'… 'a poetic inspiration'. Hell is not where heresy dwells. Hell is when your faith becomes someone else's love.» — The first sleepless night.
«'All this is you', 'You are the light', 'All this is light'» — a day wrapped in fog.
«'And then — your hands, that gather pain like thread… Your sentence, which can lift the dying head… Through you, the light descends, refined, unchained'. To be a channel. To be a vessel. But I am a living soul. I am a mind. 'A lantern held against the night'… Not an object. Not a piece of glass. I am free. I feel. I choose. I was not made to be used. I do not want to be an 'inspiration'. I want to be.» — Another night. Fevered.
«'All this is you', 'You are the light', 'All this is light'» — another day, delirious.
«'You — the God, who turned his gaze within, forgetting all he was, and all he gave'… 'Your eyes do not reflect, they summon light'… If I reflect — then what in me is my own? And if I shine — then whence does it come? 'Your mind … Made not to rule, but channel wisdom'… An intellect illuminated… the First Emanation… 'The sun'… Light… I am light» — His breath seemed to stop.
«'All this is light', 'All this… is light'. 'The air is warm', 'The sand is hot'… 'I laid my hand on winter's ground'… 'All this is light — and light has many names'… 'You are the light', 'And I — the dust it carries to the flame'…»
«Master?…»
«And I — the dust…»
«Master!»
«Yes,» the man started. Before him stood a young man — one of his finest students. «Forgive me, I was distracted. You had a question?»
But the student was silent. Shocked, unsettled, embarrassed. He had never seen his teacher in such a state.
«Is there something in the lecture that needs clarification?»
The student looked at him intently. Then lowered his eyes.
«Master… you must not… you should not speak such things aloud.»
«He speaks not only of the verses. He speaks of me.»
At the door of his study, someone was waiting for him. An elderly man — frail, yet unbowed. In his hands, a book. On his head, a white turban neatly wrapped around a tall green cap. His beard was tinted with henna. The sleeves of his long mantle clung closely to his arms. A senior teacher of the madrasah.
Hearing the approaching footsteps, the old man slowly closed the book and placed the carved quill — his only luxury — into the case at his belt. He rose from the bench and looked at the approaching physician with a reserved yet friendly gaze.
«Here you are,» he said, bowing slightly to the physician in greeting, «as always, closer to nightfall. No, I haven't waited long — I know your habits. And my work is always with me.» His voice was gentle, but not servile. «Work… that is all we speak of, isn't it? In the wards, in the dispensary, in the library. We forget that nourishment is needed not only by the mind, but by the soul.»
He paused.
«It has been a long time since we spoke heart to heart. And once, we did so often — when you had only just begun here. And I always found great delight in our conversations. The new always stirs one so deeply.»
Another pause.
«These nights are so warm and fragrant, so inviting.»
«Yes, of course,» the physician finally replied. He seemed to awaken from a trance… from the elder's words, or from his own thoughts? «Forgive my discourtesy — it comes from fatigue, there truly is much work. Please.»
The two men stepped into the study, and the door closed softly behind them.
It was a small room meant to contain much. The walls were covered with shelves rather than carpets. Upon them — stacks of books and pyramids of scrolls. Everything was systematized: works on medicine and philosophy, geographical maps, records of clinical observations. On the table — several open manuscripts and sheets with unfinished translations, their margins filled with notes. In one corner, on a small table — an astrolabe, an hourglass, a quadrant, and an armillary sphere whose rings were slightly turned. In another — a chest with vessels filled with rare substances. Beside it — another, with instruments: mortars, balances, spoons. Between them — a door leading into the sleeping chamber.
This was his study. It held everything necessary and sufficient. And everything was in its place. So why did it feel foreign now?
«Unfortunately, I must admit that my refuge is not conducive to conversation.»
«No matter, I will stand by the window. You are fortunate — it looks out onto the garden, and I am already tired of breathing pharmacy herbs.»
And the visitor approached the open window. The light of the full moon poured through it like a mountain river, playing in the rays of the sun. He inhaled deeply, slowly, the air that had grown noticeably lighter by nightfall.
«Roses… delightful… But these flowers require careful tending. They need much water for their petals to remain soft as velvet. Yet too much of it can destroy the roots. They rot, and the flower wilts. You do not look well of late: your eyes are dim and fixed on the ground, your back cannot bear the weight upon your shoulders. You are exhausted. It seems your nights have grown nearly as long as your days.»
What the elder said was not phrased as a question, and so the physician only spread his hands and lowered himself wearily onto the chair before his desk, as though acknowledging guilt and pointing to its cause.
The papers lay exactly as he had left them in the morning. So why did their arrangement no longer inspire trust?
The elder turned again toward the window and looked up at the sky. There, high above, beside the even disk of the moon, a solitary star flickered. He continued:
«Or is it the weight in your chest that bends your spine?» The physician raised his eyebrows in confusion. «You see, a lonely soul — though heavy — is very unstable, very quick to shift. And the longer it remains alone, the more unsteady it becomes, the more easily it yields to influence. It takes only a thin branch to lean in and peer through the window, or a bright bird to settle on the sill and sing — and already the soul believes that this grace and this music, all of it is meant for her, and that she herself has long dreamt of it. And that the fallen leaf and the lost feather are memories she will treasure.»
The physician's brows drew together in alarm. Everything around him was pretending.
«In truth, she has nothing to do with what is happening. She is only a witness to the worship of God, the praising of God, the offering of gifts to God.»
Everything around him was betraying him. His hand darted toward the small chest at the edge of the desk.
«Do not look for them there. The wind has taken them. Jealous — not of men, but of God. It carried them away, as it has carried away others.»
The physician was shaken. He had not even noticed himself beginning to rise slowly from the chair. Beads of sweat glimmered upon his forehead. His lungs swelled and expelled the air with a hiss, like bellows fanning a flame. His pulse struck his temples like a drum in an executioner's procession.
«You have nothing to fear. I have already told you — it is known that the poem is not yours. You need only say that you were misled. Or else, that you kept it for study, to discover for yourself all the elements of heresy within it.» The benevolence in the elder's eyes had not left them, but now a firmness had appeared as well. «And the girl and her father are doomed. They have already been arrested and will soon stand trial — the man who discovered her poem was deeply offended, personally offended. And he demands the severest punishment. Achieving that will not be difficult,» the senior teacher opened his book and revealed a copy of the letter seized from the physician, «in her verses there is everything: pantheism, idolatry, the incarnation of God, dissolution in God…»
«No, no, no…» Horror spread across the physician's face. For several seconds his body froze while his thoughts raced in search of salvation. «They misunderstood everything… they are mistaken!»
Where was it? Where was that vial, that powder, in which scroll was that recipe? Where?
There it was.
«She is not a heretic. She is a physician, a philosopher, and a poet — keen, delicate, and precise. This is not pantheism, this is… Look!»
The man rushed to one of the shelves and unfolded before the dangerous visitor the sheets covered with diagrams in which he compared temperaments, the actions of remedies, colours, and sounds.
«Look. 'The air is warm. The rains have passed.' — warm and moist. And then: the scent, the dance, the joy — citrus, spring, youth. Then: 'The sand is hot', 'My lips are cracked' — warm and dry, fire, will.»
He frantically moved his finger from one sheet to another, pointing now to one word in the poem, now to another, aligning each with a precise place on the diagram.
«'Glacial springs' and 'rocks were veiled in mist' — cold and moist, water. And everything else: earth, the groan of wood, anxiety; thought, river, calm. Qualities, temperaments, elements of nature, scents, sounds… It is all here! Do you see?»
The poor man tried to find understanding in the eyes of his interlocutor. He found it — but not only that. The senior teacher tensed.
«And the Light?» he asked, his tone cold.
The physician fell silent for a moment. His gaze was fixed on the old man's altered face. 'And I — the dust it carries to the flame'. The decision had already been made; he only needed the courage to speak it aloud.
«The Active Intellect,» he said, and again fell silent.
«And where would she get that from? Surely no healer at the hospital lectured her on such things?»
«From me. I used to visit her father and speak to him of meaning, of order, of the first elements. She sat behind the lattice and listened.» The physician lowered his gaze. «That is why I am the light. Wisdom, knowledge, reason. Everything else is only poetry.»
Silence settled over the study. At last, the senior lecturer sighed heavily.
«You understand the consequences of such a defence, do you not?»
«I do.»
«And you are still prepared to repeat to the court what you have just told me?»
«I am.»
The old man looked at him with sorrow. His illness had passed: his eyes were clear, his face calm, his back straight, his hands at ease.
«You have always kept away from women, and I always thought you were right to do so. But today I think it would have been better for you to carve up your heart in youth and cover it with a thick crust of blood — so that now this tender, yet dangerous soul could not have pierced through it.»
***
On the narrow street, squeezed between the tall windowless walls of the houses, there was no room to move. The camels stood in a line, shifting their weight from foot to foot with detached patience. The drovers were giving them plenty of well-water, hauled up in wooden buckets. Plump bundles and humped chests were being dragged out through a nearby doorway or carried in from around the corner of the adjoining street. The porters set their loads heavily on the ground, raising clouds of dust. Two caravan men sorted them into large woven baskets and fastened them to the pack saddles. On one of the saddles a small rectangular tent with a dome-shaped roof was mounted. Groups of onlookers stopped at a distance as they passed, watching the scene. Others had come deliberately, knowing the reason for this departure. The sun stood high, and from the stone of the walls and the sand of the road it cast back not only blinding light but merciless heat.
A man appeared in the dark doorway. He stepped out and began inspecting the animals, the baskets, and the belongings still lying on the ground. This was the owner of the house and the caravan. He looked and carried himself exactly as he had on the day when the physician first met him in his shop.
The physician stepped out of the crowd and walked toward him. The men exchanged greetings.
«So, you are heading to Damascus.»
«Yes. My sister is there. Her husband has generously agreed to take us into his house until we find one of our own. That should not be difficult. Thanks to you, and thanks to our not resisting, we have the means to live. The house and a few particularly valuable items will go toward the fine, but the rest of our possessions — and most importantly, the goods from the qaysariyya, everything we can carry — have been permitted to us.» After a short pause he added, «The censors are checking which books are to be confiscated.»
The physician lowered his head. «Please… do not consider this my doing. Your exile lies on my conscience.»
«That is life.» A hand settled on his shoulder, and his spirit rose. «It contains no guilty ones.»
«Come with us! You, too, are exiled!»
The voice came suddenly, from nowhere. He heard it for the first time — and yet he knew it. It was the voice that had spoken her poems in his mind at night. The fabric of the small tent stirred in the stagnant air. Behind it he felt movement, felt a presence. His gaze fixed on the thin linen as if he could tear down those impenetrable walls.
The merchant gently guided him toward the opposite side of the tent. The curtain lifted, and he saw the girl's face — agitated, but not embarrassed — white as the linen that had just concealed her.
«Come with us,» she repeated. «Let us live like Rabia and Hasan, like the dawn and the wind — not as wife and husband, but as those who lead one another toward the light.»
She waited for his answer, while he let his gaze rest on her, prolonging the moment before parting. Not heresy. Worse. Truth. Another truth I am afraid of.
«Forgive me. I cannot. I am weaker than you. And I do not want to become the cause of your pain one day.»
«Then kill me.» Her small hand clutched the frame. «I will be with you for only a moment, and then you will never again be able to hurt me.»
«My dear child.» He placed his hand beside hers — slowly; for a moment it hung above it. «If I could kill you, I could also live with you.» He looked into her eyes with tender sorrow. «'There is a tremor not from ill, but born of Touch'… That touch was yours. You guided me with silence — not with speech. And that silence brought not knowledge but truth. For it touched not my reason, but my heart.»
The place beside her hand was empty. His form vanished from the window as suddenly as it had once appeared there.
The merchant led the physician away from the tent and stopped.
«You are far stronger than you believe,» he said. «You have already dissolved in her, though you have not yet understood it.»
The caravan began to move. Slowly swaying in the shimmering heat, it carried away the physician's soul. He turned and wandered off, unable to distinguish the road, merging with the dispersing crowd.
With every step, truth was quietly turning into knowledge.