And I Darken
Page 24
God had always seemed like his own father—distant, unknowable, disapproving. Radu feared that, as always, nothing he did would ever be good enough to earn the love of an omnipotent and unknowable God.
Islam made sense to him, appealed to him with its generous simplicity. But if Lada wanted him to hate Islam, he would. If it meant getting his protector back, he would do anything.
He wiped away the remains of his tears, hiding his weakness. Then he pushed open her door.
Wearing only a long shirt, Lada was crouched by the hearth. Instead of stone, like the hearths in Tirgoviste, this one was framed by white tile with a repeating pattern of an eight-sided star. Although it was warm, Lada had stoked a bright fire. She was shoving her nightclothes into it. Next to her on the floor were blankets torn from her bed. They were stained red.
“Lada?” Radu stepped into the room, looking for her assailant, looking for her wound. “What happened?”
She turned to him, eyes wild and filled with tears. “Get out!” she screamed.
“But—”
“Get out!”
Reeling as though struck, Radu ran from the room, then out of their joint chamber. He did not stop running until he was free of the palace’s sprawling labyrinth and weaving through the crowds of people on the streets.
He was lost.
He kept walking, turning in aimless circles, numb. The familiar call to prayer sounded, this time closer than Radu had ever heard it. He stopped in his tracks, finally looking up to see the towers and spires of a mosque. But his heart felt leaden, lower than the ground. He could not follow it up to the sky.
A soft hand came down on his shoulder, and he jumped, cringing.
A man—head wrapped in a simple white turban, robes of fine material but plainly made—crouched down so he was eye-level with Radu. His eyes widened for a moment as he took in Radu’s beaten face, then they crinkled with a gentle smile. He could not be much older than Mircea, but kindness was written on his face in a way that made him seem wise. “Do you need help?”
Radu shook his head, then nodded, then shook his head again.
“Would you like to join me for prayer?”
Radu had never prayed before, not like this. He had seen his tutor do it, but it felt strange and intrusive to watch, so Radu usually looked away. But he had wanted to enter a mosque since they had arrived in Edirne.
“I do not know how,” Radu said, face burning, eyes on the ground.
“We will put our rugs in the back. You can watch me.” He guided Radu up the stairs. There was a fountain with clear water. The man stopped, washing his hands with particular movements. He smiled and nodded toward Radu’s own hands. Self-conscious, Radu carefully imitated the man’s actions.
When they were done, the man unstrapped a rug from his back. Radu panicked because he did not have one, but the man handed his own rug to Radu and took a worn rug from a stack in the back for himself. Eyes still on the floor, Radu followed him into a massive room where men were setting up in lines with practiced, calm efficiency.
The man led Radu to a corner, where he pointed for Radu to put down the rug. Radu copied the man’s posture and knelt, nervous and regretting his decision to come. There was a wide variety of men in the room, old and young, wearing the finest clothes to patched and worn ones. But everyone belonged, everyone had a place. They would know he did not have a right to be here. Maybe they, too, would beat him.
And then the prayer started.
Radu watched in wonder as the men closed their eyes, following the same movements, praying together, their bodies and voices in perfect unison.
He had never seen anything so beautiful.
For once in his life, he did not want to observe. He wanted to be a part of it. Keeping one eye open to follow his friend’s motions, Radu joined in. Before long he was lost to the rhythm of it, the peace of becoming one small part of a whole, the words he could only partly understand nonetheless making him feel, tugging his worn and bruised soul upward.
When the prayer was over, he looked up, up, up. The ceiling soared above him, interlocking, many-pointed stars drawing the eye inward until finally releasing the gaze into the open minaret. Toward heaven.
“Are you well?”
Radu looked at his friend, startled, then wiped his eyes. He smiled. “Yes. Thank you.”
The man held out a hand, helping Radu to his feet. They returned the borrowed mat and then walked back out into the day.
“What is your name?” the man asked.
“Radu Dragwlya.”
“I am Kumal Vali. Come, take a meal with me. You look as though you need someone to talk to.”
Islam made sense to him, appealed to him with its generous simplicity. But if Lada wanted him to hate Islam, he would. If it meant getting his protector back, he would do anything.
He wiped away the remains of his tears, hiding his weakness. Then he pushed open her door.
Wearing only a long shirt, Lada was crouched by the hearth. Instead of stone, like the hearths in Tirgoviste, this one was framed by white tile with a repeating pattern of an eight-sided star. Although it was warm, Lada had stoked a bright fire. She was shoving her nightclothes into it. Next to her on the floor were blankets torn from her bed. They were stained red.
“Lada?” Radu stepped into the room, looking for her assailant, looking for her wound. “What happened?”
She turned to him, eyes wild and filled with tears. “Get out!” she screamed.
“But—”
“Get out!”
Reeling as though struck, Radu ran from the room, then out of their joint chamber. He did not stop running until he was free of the palace’s sprawling labyrinth and weaving through the crowds of people on the streets.
He was lost.
He kept walking, turning in aimless circles, numb. The familiar call to prayer sounded, this time closer than Radu had ever heard it. He stopped in his tracks, finally looking up to see the towers and spires of a mosque. But his heart felt leaden, lower than the ground. He could not follow it up to the sky.
A soft hand came down on his shoulder, and he jumped, cringing.
A man—head wrapped in a simple white turban, robes of fine material but plainly made—crouched down so he was eye-level with Radu. His eyes widened for a moment as he took in Radu’s beaten face, then they crinkled with a gentle smile. He could not be much older than Mircea, but kindness was written on his face in a way that made him seem wise. “Do you need help?”
Radu shook his head, then nodded, then shook his head again.
“Would you like to join me for prayer?”
Radu had never prayed before, not like this. He had seen his tutor do it, but it felt strange and intrusive to watch, so Radu usually looked away. But he had wanted to enter a mosque since they had arrived in Edirne.
“I do not know how,” Radu said, face burning, eyes on the ground.
“We will put our rugs in the back. You can watch me.” He guided Radu up the stairs. There was a fountain with clear water. The man stopped, washing his hands with particular movements. He smiled and nodded toward Radu’s own hands. Self-conscious, Radu carefully imitated the man’s actions.
When they were done, the man unstrapped a rug from his back. Radu panicked because he did not have one, but the man handed his own rug to Radu and took a worn rug from a stack in the back for himself. Eyes still on the floor, Radu followed him into a massive room where men were setting up in lines with practiced, calm efficiency.
The man led Radu to a corner, where he pointed for Radu to put down the rug. Radu copied the man’s posture and knelt, nervous and regretting his decision to come. There was a wide variety of men in the room, old and young, wearing the finest clothes to patched and worn ones. But everyone belonged, everyone had a place. They would know he did not have a right to be here. Maybe they, too, would beat him.
And then the prayer started.
Radu watched in wonder as the men closed their eyes, following the same movements, praying together, their bodies and voices in perfect unison.
He had never seen anything so beautiful.
For once in his life, he did not want to observe. He wanted to be a part of it. Keeping one eye open to follow his friend’s motions, Radu joined in. Before long he was lost to the rhythm of it, the peace of becoming one small part of a whole, the words he could only partly understand nonetheless making him feel, tugging his worn and bruised soul upward.
When the prayer was over, he looked up, up, up. The ceiling soared above him, interlocking, many-pointed stars drawing the eye inward until finally releasing the gaze into the open minaret. Toward heaven.
“Are you well?”
Radu looked at his friend, startled, then wiped his eyes. He smiled. “Yes. Thank you.”
The man held out a hand, helping Radu to his feet. They returned the borrowed mat and then walked back out into the day.
“What is your name?” the man asked.
“Radu Dragwlya.”
“I am Kumal Vali. Come, take a meal with me. You look as though you need someone to talk to.”
