The young tentmaker

Front matter

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Chapter I

The glorious Persian sun had risen from behind the silent mountains, and had scattered before it the mist that had fallen heavily upon the fields and the housetops of Naishapur. Out of respect to the king of the heavens, the golden-throated nightingale, that nested in a tall chinnar tree in an old cemetery near the northern gate of the town, had now ceased her lovely melodies, and was flying about in search of food. The wind was blowing softly, vibrating the leafy branches of the chinnar tree, and on a tiptop twig the small nest containing several young night¬ ingales waved gently back and forth.

The baby nightingales were chirping hungrily. The strongest of the brood, having decided now that it had been cared for long enough by its parents, emerged upon the ridge of the nest, slowly made its way to a small branch and hopped out of sight. The disappearance of the young nightingale created much excitement among the other inhabitants of the nest, and the chirping and screaming was heard by three boys standing under the tree. They looked through the leafy screen and descried the bag-shaped nest swinging against the blue sky.

“A nightingale’s nest,” cried Hassan, estimating with his eye the strength of the limb that bore the nest upon its farthest branch. “I believe we can get it with all the little birds.”

“Let them alone,” said Omar, as Hassan began to remove his sandals to climb the tree.

“Why, by the beard of my grandfather,” ex¬ claimed Hassan, “nightingales bring a good price! We can take the nest and all the young birds to the bazaar and sell them.”

“But we should not disturb them,” argued Omar thoughtfully, “for Khoda has created birds and ani¬ mals as He has created us. No, no, let the baby nightingales go free, for who knows why Khoda has made them?”

“There is a law, you know, forbidding the taking of nightingales,” prudently said Nizam.

“Ho,” laughed Hassan, “if the law did not close,

IN THE STREETS OF NAISHAPUR its eyes how could the nightingale dealers keep shop? Besides, is not my grandfather the law in Naisha¬ pur?”

u But what Omar says is good, and we should not disturb the nest. Even if you are not afraid of the law, it would be a disgrace for the governor’s grand¬ son to rob a nightingale’s nest.”

That argument had weight, for young Hassan was proud of his family’s rank. He abandoned for the time his plan of selling the little birds, and the boys walked away to the cemetery, which had housed many important citizens of Naishapur in the past hundreds of years. The three friends found a group of boys sitting on the flat tombstones in the tangled grass. One was reading aloud the record of a de¬ parted soul:

“Hamza, the tentmaker, the son of Ali, upon whose soul be peace.”

Omar looked at the tombstone. It covered none other than the grave of his grandfather, whose trade had descended to his father and himself. Omar’s face lost its genial appearance, and at once his mood changed to deep seriousness. Had not his grand¬ father once seen the sunrise and the sunset, and watched the moon waxing and waning? Now he was in the earth, his sleep undisturbed by the voices of the boys playing on his tombstone. But the thought¬ ful mood did not last long, for the excited shouts of the other boys drew Omar’s attention to a dog fight,

THE YOUNG TENTMAKER and, as he watched the battle, he forgot that his grandfather had ever lived.

A big yellow dog had stolen a sheep bone from a butcher’s stall near the town gate, and was quickly devouring it, with one eye on the boys and the other fixed in the direction of a great lean dog that was also lurking near the butcher’s stall, in the hope of making off with a bone. While the yellow dog cen¬ tered his attention on a tendon that was hard to tear loose, the lean dog edged nearer and made a leap upon him. Then a furious fight ensued for the pos¬ session of the bone. Hair began to fly and blood to flow. The yellow dog was thrown flat on a tomb¬ stone, but struggled to rise again and began chok¬ ing his enemy. The lean dog tore himself free, and grabbed an ear of the yellow dog, almost chewing it off. Then, not being satisfied with that, he fiercely grabbed his adversary by the neck, flung him down on the tombstone again, and slit his throat with his sharp teeth.

The boys watched this gleefully, for no boy would disturb a fight between two strange dogs. Soon the yellow dog lay on his back, with twitch¬ ing legs and muscles, while the victorious brute picked up the bone and walked contentedly to a shady place under a walnut tree. Here he started cracking the bone with his powerful jaws, and eating the marrow.

“He deserves another bone for that fight!” cried one of the boys.

Hassan added, “I like to see dog or man take what he wants.”

“By killing?” observed Omar, who felt sorry for the dying dog.

“Why not?” retorted Hassan. “If the lean dog had merely looked on and wished for the bone he would still have an empty stomach.”

“But men are not dogs,” said Nizam, looking thoughtfully at the yellow dog, now stiffening in death.

A robin pulled a struggling worm from the moist earth at the foot of a willow tree, but its triumph was short, for a cat, stealthily crawling through the low-hanging willow branches, pounced upon the bird, and silenced its frightened cry with sharp teeth upon its throat.

“Must every creature fight for its life?” mused Omar, as the boys wandered through the cemetery, passing a stray ass that was picking the grass round some one’s tomb, and stamping its hoofs on the flat stone.

Beyond the gate of the town lay the wheatfields where the farmers were keeping watch with wooden rattles to scare away the hungry birds from the newly planted grain. They had plowed their fields and had sown the wheat by their own hands in the fertile ground, and now they watched to see that the golden grain was not picked up by crows and black¬ birds.

“Khoda will send the rain in due time,” said one, “and the wheat will begin to take root in the ground and will be protected from the red eyes of the black¬ birds.”

“Inshallah (by the grace of God),” added his neighbor in the next field, “the wheat will be plentiful this season.”

While these good husbandmen were pausing for a moment’s greeting, with their speech and thoughts centered on their treasure buried in the ground, they became aware of the approach of several boys scuf¬ fling along the dusty road, whistling and playing. They knew the lean, barefoot boy in the lead, walk¬ ing with two better dressed companions.

“Oh, young tentmaker,” one of the farmers hailed him, “if you see any black crows in the fields scratch¬ ing the earth, throw a stone at them.”

“Why?” responded Omar quickly. “Khoda has created the birds, and in the name of Khoda they will find food to eat.”

“But they should not eat our wheat!” cried the indignant farmer. “We have sown the seed and we are praying for it to grow, and Khoda will see to it that we have an abundance of good grain.”

“Khoda has his plans,” said Omar, “and no one can change them. The birds are Khoda’s creatures, too. Let them eat and enjoy themselves.” And he walked on.

“That is a wild chicken,” said one of the men.

“There is not a boy in Naishapur that can talk as he does.”

Meantime the boys had turned back to the town, seeking further adventure in the busy streets. They sauntered slowly toward the bazaars, passing the high-walled court of the great Juma Masj id, the Friday Mosque, named for the holy day of Moham¬ med and dedicated to the worship of Khoda, whose prophet Mohammed was. The gateway of the mosque was set with shining tiles that glittered in the sun, and the gate stood open, giving a glimpse of the treeshaded court and the sparkling pool, in which wor¬ shipers bathed hands and feet before entering the house of God.

As the boys paused to look within the court, there emerged from the mosque an imposing and serious figure, dressed in flowing robes, with a high green turban of many folds covering his head. By his appearance, the boys knew he was a holy man and of the lineage of Mohammed, for only the descend¬ ants of the Prophet might wear the green turban. They became quiet and obedient in the great pres¬ ence.

“ Khob , Jchob (well, well),” said the holy man, greeting the boys with a kindly twinkle in his eyes, “what has the day brought? Khoda be praised, you have not been in any mischief?”

“No mischief, most learned of men,” answered Nizam respectfully. “We have only been passing

THE YOUNG TENT MAKER the afternoon looking on at what is happening about us.”

“And what have you learned?”

This puzzled the boys, but Omar remembered his thoughts in the graveyard, and answered the ques¬ tion bashfully.

“We have learned that life is nothing but strug¬ gle. Two dogs were fighting, and one killed the other on account of a bone. The birds are flying about to pick up worms, and we saw a cat catch a bird while it was getting a worm. In the fields the farmers are killing the birds because they eat the grain. Tell us, most holy man, does Khoda will that in order to live we must take the life of other creatures?”

The holy man began stroking his beard in great contemplation. What manner of boy was this who asked such questions?

“Whose son art thou?” he inquired.

“I am Omar, the son of Ibrahim, the tentmaker.”

“Can you make tents?”

“I can help my father wrap the thread on the big spool, and I can do some of the weaving myself.”

“Khob, hhob , how many years do you have?”

“My head does not know.”

“How many years have you been studying the Koran?”

No one had ever asked Omar that before, and he gravely considered and finally said, “Nine.”

“Then you must be thirteen or fourteen. You ask wise questions for your age.”

“If I ask wise questions at my age, then you at your age must be able to answer me,” said Omar, gaining confidence as the bright eyes under the green turban looked kindly into his.

“Yes, yes, I may be able to answer you this and many more questions some day, when we have both passed beyond this life. So you are the young tentmaker, trying to understand the workings of the universe. Who is your teacher?”

“I go to the schoolmaster no more,” said Omar. “My father keeps me busy at the loom now. He has used the last of his yarn and thread and that is why I have this day to play.”

“A boy like you should be in school. The Koran will answer many of your questions. I will come to your father’s tentshop to talk with him about your future.” And the holy man departed on his way, walking in stately fashion.

“Who is this holy man?” asked Hassan, much impressed by the dignity of the retreating figure.

“He is Imam Mowaffak, the chief teacher in the Madrassa,” responded Nizam. “They say he is the most learned man in Iran. My father is his friend, and has sent me here to school in the hope that I may study under him sometime. He does little teach¬ ing now, for his is growing old, but it is said that whoever studies under him achieves great success.”

Omar’s eagle eyes became wider than ever. How much would such a man not know?

“I shall study under him!” cried Hassan. “My

THE YOUNG TENTMAKER grandfather’s influence is great, and no one can refuse him anything. But this great teacher would not teach you, Omar. Your father is only a tentmaker, and scholars do not come from tentshops. You will be making tents all your life, just as your father and his father’s fathers have done before him for generations.”

The other boys thought that Hassan was precipi¬ tating a fight, but Omar only sorrowfully turned his face from Hassan to look at the distant figure of the teacher as he disappeared from view. The young tentmaker wondered if the great man had been in earnest about visiting the tentshop.

The boys moved slowly onward down the street. They reached the bazaars and wandered aimlessly here and there, for there was much activity to en¬ tertain them and many things to see. Suddenly a clear, melodious sound fell upon the confusion of the market place. A voice was heard from the minaret of the Juma Masj id, calling every man to prayer.

“ La-Allahi-El Allah , La-Allahi-El Allah! Mo¬ hammed rozul Allah! Hayya alal falah , hayya alal falah /” came the sonorous tones of the azan giver. “There is only one God, there is only one God. Mohammed is the prophet of God. Come here and be forgiven. Come here and be forgiven!”

A great quietness prevailed everywhere. Even the caravan leaders bowed their heads in response to the call to prayer. A pious man spread his prayer rug

IN THE STREETS OF NAISHAPUR in the street and knelt down upon it and prayed earnestly. A fruit seller was torn between his devo¬ tions and anxiety for his wares when he saw the group of boys approaching. He kept watch out of one eye over his fruits, while pretending to offer supplica¬ tion to Khoda, but neither his divided attention nor his half-hearted prayers saved him from loss. As the boys passed by his stall, Hassan snatched a long cucumber.

“Thief!” hissed the boy next to him, as they crossed the street.

“You are worse than a thief,” said Nizam, with a frown of disapproval. “You stole the poor man’s goods while he was occupied in his devotion to Khoda.”

Hassan simply shrugged his shoulders. “ Khob , I am enjoying the cucumber anyway.”

A caravan of a hundred camels was making its way toward the great caravanserai of Shapur. The camels were keeping step with the jingle of the bells that hung from their necks. The caravan bashie was perched on a great camel, which carried the largest bell of all and was decorated with tassels of many colors.

“Make way, make way!” shouted the caravan bashie, as his camel almost tramped on one of the boys.

“I wonder where these camels come from,” re¬ marked Omar. “How proud they seem, and how

THE YOUNG TENTMAKER important their leader is! When I am a man I would like to go on a journey to see the marvelous things travelers tell of.”

“They will make you work if you join a caravan,” said Hassan, between bites of the stolen cucumber. “Loading and unloading camels is not an easy task.”

The caravan meandered its way through the ba¬ zaars, turning this way and that, and by and by met another long caravan making its way to the great Maidan Khana. Naishapur was a center of commerce, and caravans came from Bagdad, Ispahan and Samarkand, and from China and India, to sell and buy merchandise and carry back with them the precious turquoises for which Naishapur was famous.

The boys followed the caravan. The tinkling of the camel bells charmed them and urged them on in the wake of the beasts of the desert. Now they passed the shops containing brass work from Ispahan, shops where shining glazed pots, made by the finest potters of Naishapur, were displayed, and the stalls of the jewelers and money changers, who sold brace¬ lets and necklaces of the finest gold and silver wire, fashioned of the rare metals obtained from the gold fields of Samarkand and the silver mines of Mezanderan.

Now they passed the nightingale shops. The little stalls had cages and cages of Persian singers in captivity, waiting to be sold. The greatest of the nightingale dealers was old Monuf. The cages that

IN THE STREETS OF NAISHAPUR contained his birds were more beautiful and elaborate than all the others. They were made of finest walnut wood and carved with delicate tools by skillful wood carvers. One cage was an exact miniature of the great palace of King Shapur, for whom Naishapur was named. This wonderful cage held the Sultan, the king of all Monuf’s nightingales.

Hassan was curious to learn the price of the nightingales, and stopped to question Monuf.

“O grandson of my gracious patron,” said the shrewd old dealer, recognizing Hassan, “the price of this one is five pieces of silver. His song is sweeter than the music of King David’s harp. But, since you are the grandson of Hadji Mukhtar, the governor, you may have him for only half what I ask. And this is the great Sultan, the king of all singers. He sings not only at night, but in the daytime as well, and his golden throat is never closed. He can charm hawks and eagles and no bird or beast will ever harm him, once it has heard him sing.”

“Now what do you ask for him?” cried Hassan.

“Twenty-five pieces of silver, and Khoda knows I am giving him away.”

“ Khob , Jchob” exclaimed Hassan as his eyes fell upon a few little nightingales. Now he became much interested.

“What about these?”

“They are very young,” answered the dealer, “and one can not tell which of them might become

THE YOUNG TENTMAKER the Sultan of my shop, but, I assure you, you will not be disappointed in any of them. I have not sold a young nightingale yet that did not turn out to be a fine singer.”

“How much do you ask for them?”

“One piece of silver each.”

Hassan studied for a moment, then, since Omar and Nizam and the other boys had moved on to view the shop of Ameen, the master wood carver, he left Monuf and his nightingales and walked toward his companions.

The sun was now declining toward the west, and all the boys were tired and thirsty. A welcome song fell on their ears as a man came through the bazaars, carrying a goatskin slung over his shoulder and an earthenware cup hanging from his girdle.

“Water, water, who wants water? Quench your thirst with my fresh water from the river Wadi.”

“I wonder how much he will ask for a little drink?” thought Omar. He had no money but one copper penny.

The water carrier came closer, shouting, “Water, water! Quench your thirst with fresh water from the river Wadi.”

Omar looked at him wistfully. “How much for a drink?”

“One copper without the cup, and two coppers with the cup.”

Omar cupped his hands and the water carrier

IN THE STREETS OF NAISHAPUR filled them with good water. Hassan approached next. Being the son of a wealthy father, he used the water carrier’s cup and paid him two coppers.

“Khoda knows how fine this water tastes,” said Omar.

“Have another drink,” urged the water carrier, now serving the other boys.

“No, I have no more coppers.”

“In the name of Khoda,” cried the genial water seller, “here is a cupful! Drink it.” And Omar took the cup and emptied it, smacking his hps, but the taste was different.

“Khoda knows,” he told Hassan and Nizam, “I have made a discovery.”

“What is that?” cried Hassan.

“Water tastes sweeter from your hands than from a clay cup.” And they all laughed at him.

But Nizam tried the experiment for himself, by taking a drink from his hands as Omar had done, and behold Omar was right!

“This is a puzzle,” observed Nizam. “Will some scholar one day explain this to us?”

There were several women now approaching from the direction of one of the bathhouses. The boys saw them coming.

“Be quiet,” said Hassan. “One of these ladies is my mother.”

“How can you tell?” asked another boy. “Are they not all dressed alike?”

“Yes, but the one with the red slippers is my mother.”

The veiled ladies passed, and the one wearing the red slippers gave a glance toward Hassan.

“Did I not tell you it was my mother?” exclaimed Hassan. “She wishes me to come home.” And Has¬ san followed the ladies, as an obedient son to whom his mother’s merest gesture was law. But once out of sight, around a turn in the street, he made off quickly in another direction, and hastened to the old clninnar tree by the graveyard, congratulating himself upon the chance that had enabled him to slip away from his companions.

All afternoon the idea of stealing the nightingale’s nest had been in his mind. He had to do it stealthily, to avoid disgrace and punishment, for his grand¬ father would surely mete out a double whipping if word came to his ears that Hassan had been caught robbing a nightingale’s nest.

Soon Hassan was standing under the chinnar tree, like a cat looking for its prey. There was no one about, and he pulled himself up into the tree. He climbed and climbed. A few branches broke, and once he almost fell to the ground. But have the nest he must. He finally reached almost the top of the tree. Slowly he got hold of the branch which held the nest. Very carefully he pulled it toward him, until the nest with its chirping little nightingales was

IN THE STREETS OF NAISHAPUR within his reach. He broke the stem and held the nest in his hand. Eagerly, in his precarious perch, he counted the birds, not being able to wait until he had reached the ground.

“Praise to Khoda,” he cried, “there are five of them! I can have several pieces of silver to spend as I like.”

Painfully he made his way to the ground, cling¬ ing to the branches with one hand while holding the nest in the other. Now he was free and the baby nightingales were in his possession. Hastily he hid them in his wide sleeve, half smothering them, and, looking neither right nor left, for fear that some one might recognize him, he made his way through the cemetery and finally through the bazaars until he reached Monuf’s shop. He was relieved to see that few people lingered in the bazaars, for it was near sunset, and soon the drum would beat to signal the closing of the shops for the night.

The little nightingales, from fright, made not the slightest sound, and no one could guess that Hassan had the nest muffled in the folds of his sleeve. But he entered the nightingale dealer’s shop very sheep¬ ishly. No one was there but old Monuf, dozing among his captive singers. At once, without any formality, Hassan displayed the five baby birds. Monuf’s eyes twinkled, for nightingales were not easily captured. Business was business, even with the nightingale dealers, and he began bargaining with

THE YOUNG TENTMAKER Hassan. He knew that Hassan’s action would be displeasing to his grandfather, if he should find him out.

“Your nightingales are too young,” he said, “and they may not live long in captivity. What price do you want for them?”

“In the name of Khoda, I shall ask only half what you ask for your young birds.”

“No, no, not for me. Take them to another dealer.” And Monuf waved the nest away.

“I am your sacrifice,” pleaded Hassan, anxious to have the transaction done with. “I brought these especially to you.”

“You should not have taken those little nightin¬ gales. It was a very wrong thing for a boy of your position to do. I believe I shall tell your grandfather about it when he passes my shop to-morrow. I have never seen such a rascal as you. Now, what will you take for them?”

“Anything you might offer me, only do not tell my grandfather,” begged Hassan, wishing that the nest and all the young nightingales were still in the top of the chinnar tree.

“I shall give you one piece of silver for nest and all, and shall keep the business secret from your grandfather,” said the dealer.

Hassan fairly threw the nightingales at Monuf, took the silver coin, and disappeared from the shop. He cast a furtive glance about, fearful that one of

IN THE STREETS OF NAISHAPUR his young friends might see him coming from the nightingale dealer, but he saw no one he knew. The boys had all felt an inner call to supper, and each had gone to his own home.

“Well, young tentmaker,” asked Omar’s father as his son entered the gate at sunset, “where have you been all this day?”

“I have been with Hassan and Nizam.”

“What business do you have with those boys? They are the sons of rich parents.”

“Nizam likes me, and what Hassan thinks of me I do not care.”

“But Hassan’s good will might be valuable. His grandfather can make officials and take their offices away from them on the same day.”

“He may be able to do that, but he can not make tents,” said Omar.

“Yes, thanks to Khoda,” answered his father, “our livelihood does not depend upon him.”

“I also met a great teacher,” added Omar. “Nizam told me he was the wisest man of Iran, and there is nothing he does not know.”

“What was his appearance?”

“He was tall, dressed in long flowing robes and a high green turban, and his eyes were very bright.”

“Ah, I know him by sight. He is the great Imam Mowaffak, and no one can dispute his word, not even the king.”

“He talked to me and said that he would come to our tentshop to see us,” announced Omar eargerly.

“By the grace of Khoda!” cried the tentmaker in astonishment, never hoping that such an honored man would condescend to visit his place of business. He looked at his son closely.

“Now, son, as you are a Persian boy, you know there is nothing more important than telling the truth. Did the Imam really speak to you?”

“Khoda knows I am telling the truth. One day he will come to our shop.”

The moon rose over the housetops. The nightin¬ gales were singing in the branches, but one of the best singers did not join the melodious chorus. His golden notes were changed to piteous cries as he flew distractedly about the tall chinnar tree by the ceme¬ tery. He and his mate were now without a home and without a family. They left the chinnar tree that night and were heard no more in the neighborhood where the tragedy had occurred.

Naishapur slept peacefully under the moon, but there was one restless sleeper. Hassan tossed about on his soft bed, tormented by secret fear that after all some one had seen him steal the nightingale’s nest, or that old Monuf would not keep his promise of silence. Across the town, in the tentmaker’s house, young Omar was dreaming of the wise man whom he had met that day.

Chapter II The Tentshop

The dwelling of Ibrahim, the tentmaker, was only a few steps from the north gate of Naishapur. The one-story house was enclosed by a mud wall eight feet high, with a gateway opening into the narrow street. The gate had heavy double doors made of the hard wood of a walnut tree that once had shaded the tentmaker’s yard. The doors were hung on iron hinges, and on the right-hand door was a large ring made of iron, which was used as a knocker. On the inside a wooden latch slipped through iron bars and made a secure lock, shutting

THE YOUNG TENTMAKER out the world from the seclusion of the courtyard.

The dwelling housed the family of five, Ibrahim, his wife, two daughters, and the young Omar, and also all the implements that were used in the mak¬ ing of tents. In the summer, the loom was set in the yard, under an old cherry tree, and in winter it was moved back into the house, where a place was pre¬ pared for it under the skylight in the center of the one big room.

Ibrahim’s business had been good. “Ah, if I did not have to buy so much wool and cotton my worries would come to an end,” he said. “I need much black yarn, fine linen thread, and silk for tassels, for this tent must be the best I have ever made.”

“For whom is the tent?” asked Omar.

“It is for Hassan’s grandfather. He gave me the order two moons ago, and wants it by the first day of summer, when he moves his family to the cool banks of the river. The tent must be big enough to house the whole family comfortably, and fine enough to suit his rank. We must have the best wool and cotton.”

“The caravan that entered the northern gate yes¬ terday was loaded with wool,” said Omar.

“Yes, I saw it, too, and I am going to the market this morning to see what I can do.”

“May I go with you?” cried the young tentmaker.

“Yes, son, you may as well begin early to learn how to buy, for buying good material is just as important in making tents as the weaving.”