The Black Clover 1
USUAL DISCLAIMER
"THE BLACK CLOVER" is a gay story, with some parts containing graphic scenes of sex between males. So, if in your land, religion, family, opinion and so on this is not good for you, it will be better not to read this story. But if you really want, or because YOU don't care, or because you think you really want to read it, please be my welcomed guest.
THE BLACK CLOVER
by Andrej Koymasky © 2018
written on 3rd of April, 1986
Translated by the Author
English text kindly revised by an Australian friend
CHAPTER 1
ALIF
My life is by this time serene as a spring garden, and my soul awaits only Allah's call.
My Lord and Master has asked me to write these papers so that a trace of my humble life could remain, and, being a good and respectful servant I obey and write, even if to narrate what concerns me, I have to tell also about my Lord and Master, Allah bless Him in the Eternity.
My Lord will judge if what I am about to write has to be kept secret, burned or conserved. In writing these papers I will tell with the spirit of truth everything regarding me and all (it seemed to me) that distinguished my Sovereign in the long years Allah gave me the grace to spend in His service and at His side.
BAA
My name is Nadim ibn Yussuf el Saum, Grand Visir of the Shaikh Amin ibn Hassam el Salil, fifth sovereign of this sweet and strong land, blessed by Allah.
I was born during the Mulud of the year 1102 of the Ajirah, seventh child of Yussuf, donkey breeder in the El Saum mountains, were we are told that the Prophet slept one night in the period of His fast. From my tender childhood I grazed my father's donkeys, so I spent long periods with those humble but precious animals on the slopes of the mountain, in perfect seclusion.
I passed my time observing the thousand marvellous creatures with which Allah populated my land: from the tireless ant to the shrewd little mountain mouse, to the powerful hawk with his sharp eyesight; from the multiform leaves to the rare flowers, now delicate and now so intense and intoxicating; to the changing color of the sky where invisible fly the genii. From all of those I was drawing and obtaining unconscious teachings that fed my soul.
Other times, on the contrary, to spend my time I found delight in playing a coarse whistle I had made by myself, inventing tunes or playing musics of my people's tradition. I liked very much to play, especially when I was in a place where it was possible to hear a faint far away echo. In that case it was to me like doing a duet with a faithful, invisible mate capturing my notes and sending them back in a delicate and gentle game.
Or else I sat or stretched on the grass and was lost in a thousand thoughts... Or sometimes I spoke to my donkeys, particularly with one I loved dearly: he was perhaps the eldest one of the flock and at times I found myself thinking that probably that animal did have a soul, an intellect and that he listened to me and really understood me.
In this way my childhood passed: thinking back on it I have to say that was not so good nor so bad, but certainly serene.
When I was back in the village, I seldom joined other boys in play or jokes: I normally preferred to go to the masjid where the muazzin, who was once a good meddah, told me stories or read me a passage of the Al Qur'an, teaching me little by little in this gentle way to read and to understand.
In those years the source of all my culture, all my education, were taken as a baby drinks - both from nature and my muazzin. When about twelve I was able to read passably well, I had memorized several verses of Al Qur'an and I knew all the animals and plants living in my land.
The muazzin, 'Omar, had a liking for me and some times, on my request, he sang me one of the many wonderful tales he knew, thanks to his job as a meddah he had carried out when young: so I listened to fascinating, mysterious, amazing things and consequently I dreamed daydreams.
Little by little I started to dream of towns with slender minarets, more numerous than our village's trees and with domes in pure gold, with magnificent palaces built in white marble where lived wise shah with their visirs and with their harems that were guarded by powerful eunuchs, and I dreamed of wide, busy and lively streets, noisy and full of smells, where wandered robbers and merchants, wise men and faqir, soldiers and ulama.
In short, of my dreams was born in me desire, of my desire developed dissatisfaction, of my dissatisfaction the plan to abandon everything: family, village and donkeys, to go to the town, my dream town. To do what, I did not know, but sure wonderful things as happened to the protagonists of 'Omar's tales. So one day, now fourteen, I said to my father I wanted to leave home, I wanted to leave the village to go to the capital. Quite the opposite of what I had feared, he didn't oppose me: he just told me to ask advice from our mullah. He gave me a few coins, invoked on me Allah's blessings and gave me his farewells. On the contrary my mother cried and the acute tone of her voice accompanied me as I was going away from home towards the masjid, vanishing little by little but remaining in my heart. The mullah listened to me nodding with big movements of his head, then said:
"My boy, you want to go to the town: so it will be if this is also the will of Allah. Town is beautiful and terrible, like a woman: she can give you everything or become extremely jealous; she can ignore you or betray you; she can give you delight or make you suffer. It is up to you to be able to dominate her and not to be dominated by her. When you arrive at the capital, go immediately to the Great Masjid that is in front of our Shaikh's palace, be he blessed by Allah, and ask to be received by the Imam, Abbas el Kuds. Tell him I am sending you - he was my teacher. Probably he can help you to find honest and dignified work. Never forget your daily prayers and never miss the common prayers in the masjid on Fridays, and Allah will never abandon you. Now, go, and may Allah accompany you, my boy."
Those were, more or less, his words.
I left, therefore, on foot, feeling full of happiness and hopes. New skies, new times were waiting for me: the future belonged to me. I walked and walked until the landscape started to be less familiar to me: I never had moved so far away from my village before this time. The valley was opening in front of me, extending in a wide plain that seemed to be waiting for me in a boundless embrace. 'Omar had illustrated to me the road to follow, tracing on the earth with a stick a sort of essential map and now his explanations, accurate and precise, full of details I had carefully memorized, were helping me at any crossroad to choose the right way and to feel a little less lost and less a stranger in those lands completely unknown to me.
Along the way, for a long while I didn't meet a soul, but the second day I passed a caravan: by the banners I understood it was composed of pilgrims doing their hajj to Mecca. Therefore I greeted them with the traditional "Salla-llah alaih ua sallama." and carried on with my way, followed by the blessings shouted to me by the pilgrims.
Now the road was flat, wide and straight, therefore I understood that the capital couldn't be so far away, yet nothing yet was visible on the horizon. I continued on my way with good stamina, but eventually fatigue started to make grow in me, even though I stopped to rest every night in a place protected by bushes or a small wall. But my desire not to waste my time, to soon reach my goal, gave wings to my feet. I didn't pay so much attention to the aching that was beginning to make heavy my legs and proceeded to walk with determination. My heart full of dreams soothed the fatigue in my young body.
At last, at dawn of the fourth day, I started to see something at the horizon, a peculiar profile I guessed were the capital's buildings. That gave me new energy. My eyes staring in that direction, I walked rapidly and soon, as I was little by little approaching, I began to distinguish the walls surrounding the town. I could see them more and more clearly and started to grasp their grandiosity, strength, coarse beauty. Then, from the compact mass of the ancient walls, I started to clearly distinguish, and could also count, seven minarets standing lean and straight like stalks of flowers near to bloom. I could distinguish two of them that seemed twins: they were very tall, white, their tops shining at the first sun. They had to have been those of the Great Masjid, built by the great- grandfather of the Sheikh, that is by the founder of the dynasty, the great Ali ibn el Ghazi, Dhimmi of the Baghdad's Khalifa.
Also the road, by now, was more crowded: there was an incessant coming and going of people of all kinds, of all ages, of all social conditions: people dressed in fashions I never did see before, rich lords with sumptuous and elegant attires, but also ragamuffins and beggars with a miserable and wretched aspect I never before guessed could exist.
Finally I reached a town gate, the one called "The Crooked". Nowadays it does no more exist, having been demolished when was rebuilt that part of the walls that now enclose the capital in the north. It was wide open, but guarded by several Shaikh soldiers observing carefully everybody entering or going out. Sometimes they greeted with a nod somebody they knew, sometimes they stopped some passerby to examine what he was carrying, but the most of time they seemed to be almost indifferent to the traffic. Only their attentive eyes, moving and alive, betrayed the care with which they were carrying out their duty to protect the town and all she contained. I passed under the huge arch of the gate feeling almost frightened and I had a sensation as if I was penetrating a giant - I hoped a good one - to go forward in his body. That gate was called "The Crooked" because the street entering through it did two sharp bends so that neither from outside was it possible to see the town houses, nor from inside could you see the outside. I presumed it had been built that way for defense reasons, but at that time I just got a sense of mystery that, mixed with my desire to "discover" the city, while I was passing in there, caused my heart to beat with unusual force.
I wandered in the town's streets: how many huge houses, how many splendid buildings, how many strange and marvellous things and above all, what a bustle! How many people! How many noises, smells, colours! I was almost dazed. I arrived at the Bazaar and was likewise bewildered by the confusion, by the quantity of people walking almost at elbow contact, yelling, by the sing-song calls of vendors, by the thousand merchandises exposed plentifully, by the penetrating smells of foods and of goods, smells changing at every sidestreet of the Bazaar. I wandered in it far and wide, all over, my eyes wide open from wonder, until I lost completely my sense of direction and my sense of time. When my body started to protest for the fatigue, I remembered my destination: I had to ask several times what direction I had to walk to reach the Great Masjid.
TAA
Out of the Bazaar, the streets now seemed to me, in contrast, almost empty and silent. I followed the way shown to me, a slight slope and, suddenly, I emerged on a wide, open, level space in whose center was erected the masjid. Even if it was the back, I was stricken breathless. It was completely built in pure white stone carved in bas-relief with geometrical patterns and was decorated with colourful panels of blue ceramic tiles with ornamental motifs in black, red and gold. There was a narrow and long window, closed by a colorful stained glass. I entered the precincts looking all around, open-mouthed, my eyes wide open, feeling full of reverential awe and respect.
Arrived at the fountains I did the prescribed ritual purification, then I climbed the stairs, left my slippers and entered the cool and mystic dim light of the holy place: all the floor was entirely covered by soft and beautiful carpets. It wasn't the prayer time so there were just a few men praying here and there. I sat on the carpets and recited into my heart all the prayers I knew. After a long while, by this time relaxed by the atmosphere reigning in that marvellous place, re- tempered my body, tired from the long journey, strengthened in my soul thank to the prayers I had said, I stood up and went to look for the muazzim. When I found him, I said respectfully who I was, on behalf of whom I was there, and asked him if he could introduce me to the Imam.
The man listened to me with patience, than told me to wait. He was back in a short time, told me to follow him and took me to the presence of the holy man. This was an old man with a flowing and thick beard of the color of melting silver, with a big aquiline nose, two amazingly black and thick eyebrows, two penetrating eyes. He was wrapped up in a wide, loose cloak made of soft cloth of the colour of wood charcoal and had a turban of the same colour. He was saying a rosary and his lips barely moved, and was reciting, without emitting any sound, the ninety-nine perfections of Allah. The muazzim introduced me and left me alone in presence of the venerable Imam. This one, that seemed he had not even heard what my guide had just told, after a while signalled me to seat near him and said:
"Yes, I remember very well your mullah: he was my pupil thirteen years ago."
Then he again became silent - only his eyes scrutinized me carefully, as if he was reading in the deepest secrets of my soul, then started to ask questions. Some were direct, relevant and pertinent:
"How old are you... Why did you come to the city... What are you able to do..."
but some made me perplexed:
"What is the colour of a fig tree flower... How many hairs are there in a donkey's ear... How many dates can a man fasting for eight days eat..."
I answered the best I could, respectfully, but I started to think that perhaps his age had to have done some tricks to his brain. At last the Imam said:
"Well, boy. You can stop at the school of this Masjid, in order to study and become a good mullah. Now go to see the muazzim and tell him to settle you in the school, with the first year students."
That said, he seemed to forget me and he started again to silently pray, barely moving his lips, his vacant look lost in emptiness. So my life in the school of the holy man started. His brain worked perfectly and he was a man of a very wide culture, of a deep wisdom, and above all very kind and patient. My life in the school was pleasurable; I was learning many and many things and often the teachers complimented me on my progress.
But my restless nature was source to not a few problems: one of the things they had to forbid me was to climb. I climbed everywhere: once they found me hanging from the big chandelier of the Masjid and the poor muazzim almost fainted for fear, because he couldn't understand how I had managed to go up there, and he was scared I could fall headlong in any moment, probably even with the chandelier. Another time I was caught while climbing a minaret from outside: I had yet to climb more than one third, when I heard one of my teachers shouting and ordering me to come back immediately.
Another point, I think, that posed not a little problem to my teachers: my answers not serious enough to the problems they were submitting us. Once they asked us to explain why women had to always have their faces covered with a veil. None of us boys could find the right answer. So, I, not succeeding in holding back what fluttered in my head, exclaimed:
"It must be because Allah, after the creation of the woman, did notice how ugly she was, so said: 'From now on, you will hide your face, otherwise...'"
I could not end the sentence, because I received a really strong slap on my head and our teacher ordered me to refrain from speaking nonsense.
Another time, our teacher questioned us about the meaning of the fast. I answered triumphantly:
"But, of course! Because if you do not fast, one becomes fat and ugly, hence ruining Allah's work..."
The Imam, for a while, even if he was scolding me, defended me and kept me in the school. But at last I think that even he could not do anything for me: at that point all the teachers affirmed that from me it was impossible to obtain even a mediocre mullah. So, one day, the Imam summoned me to his presence and said:
"Nadim, you are a strong, nimble and agile boy, you have a sharp and ready intelligence, Allah blessed you with not a few gifts, but you are also too lively, restless and at times also not respectful. Probably I made a mistake when I thought to make of you a mullah: probably this is not your way. And yet, I feel you will do very well for yourself. I am sorry I can no more keep you in our school... But where I am sending you, they will be able to use at the best your exuberant energy, and even without reining you in, they will be able to teach you the discipline you are lacking. So, since our Sheikh is enlisting new guards for the Prince, I decided to send you to the Palace to undertake the soldier's tasks. You have a strong sense of honour and I believe that, at least there, you will be appreciated. I have already spoken to the Chief of the Guard, and he will send for you in a short time. Farewell, my son."
To tell the truth, in the first moments I was hurt. But I also felt that I must have passed all the limits and that the Imam could not possibly do otherwise. I went to my dormitory, made a small bundle of my belongings, farewelled my friends and went to see the muazzim waiting for the soldiers to come take me. After all it would not be too bad to be soldier in the guard of prince Amin: He was, at that time, ten years old. At his birth the astrologer had predicted for him a wonderful future, actually they said that he had the luck sign impressed in his body: three moles each as big as a lentil, at the level of his liver, close, joined to shape a kind of black clover. It was predicted also that death would have brushed him several times but that would grasp him only at a late age.
I was happy to become a guard of the prince, as much because the Palace guards were dressed with rich, colorful and beautiful uniforms, had shining swords and got admiration and respect from everybody. This, for the kind of boy I was, was as important as possible in my eyes. Everything considered, I said to myself while waiting while they came to take me, the change wasn't so bad. On the contrary, I remember I thought at a one point, perhaps it was for me real and true luck the Imam decided not to keep me in the school. In fact, as can be seen in the continuation of this story, my true luck started precisely that day.
CONTINUES IN CHAPTER 2
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