The Prophecy
Seventeen years old, kin to the mighty house of Hakam II, the Omayyad Caliph of Cordoba, al-Kiran gazed toward the sun through closed eye-lids. Seeing a magenta corona, he recalled the nine couples ritually dancing for three days in and about the great Plaza, moving toward the rainbow bridge prophesied by the Blessed Mohammed, Messenger of Allah, upon which the dancers would rise, thus marking the beginning of a new age.
He had been eight years old. There had been no eclipse and the dancers had not flown up into the sky, at least in the outer-world; but watching the dance from his father's shoulders, he had experienced reverence and awe.
Since the last All Faith's Festival, held every ninth year to commemorate the Prophet's vision, he had pursued his studies and the freedom of the city while secretly dreaming of the next Dance of Created Lights. This was the year.
Lying in the sun with Marik, his best friend, high on the bank above the Guadalquivir, shirts off, soaking in the heat, listening to the great, slow waves of the river, al-Kiran fantasized about being selected to dance.
They had just come from wrestling. Both were Arab, high born, and handsome, but unlike olive-skinned and raven haired Marik, al-Kiran was blond and blue eyed, a peculiarity made attractive by the fact that Caliph Hakam II was also blond and blue eyed, as had been the great Abd-er Rahman before him.
An outstanding athlete and scholar, al-Kiran was nevertheless shy and reserved. Recognizing his own lack of experience, particularly regarding politics and young women, he looked to his friend for advice. Whereas his father was a teaching mullah, a mystic by nature, Marik's father served Hakam II at the Royal Court.
Following the last All Faith's Festival, he and Marik had shared an excitement based on the belief in miracles. They had dreamed of great spiritual adventures. But when, three months ago, al-Kiran left the academy to study with the Alpha ben Hebaron, Marik had warned that the rabbi had links to a Sufi conspiracy and should be avoided. Since then, much to al-Kiran's disappointment, Marik had been reluctant to discuss the mysteries which had sustained them and should now, he believed, form the platform for their spiritual quests.
While they watched royal barges, loaded with silks and spices from the Orient, moving steadily toward the Roman bridge connecting the central city to the palace on the other shore, he attempted to relate some of the details of the rabbi's lecture that morning, leading up to his interpretation of the prophecy. But Marik turned away, disinterested.
As the indigo sail of a royal pleasure-boat approached the caravan of barges then disappeared through the arches beneath the bridge, al-Kiran told himself he would never accept Marik's fear that things were about to change for the worse. A devout Moslem, he believed in the future and in the miracle of the rainbow bridge.
"Okay," Marik rolled grudgingly onto his side, "tell me what the rabbi said about the prophecy."
The sun sparkled in al-Kiran's eyes. During the years since he had witnessed the long dance, he had queried his parents without much response; but Alpha ben Hebaron had been explicit. Leaning forward, excited, he began: "According to my teacher, a school of dervish mystics had arranged . . ."
"Dervishes?" Marik interrupted, upset. "I've warned you about ben Hebaron. He's teaching false doctrine. There were no Sufis until long after the Prophet's death."
"According to him," al-Kiran paused, well aware of the doctrinal conflict but surprised by Marik's reaction, "there have always been Sufis."
"They're heretics, Kemi," Marik responded, using his friend's nickname, then rolled back and gazed at the sky. Al-Kiran leaned forward after him.
"Heretics in Baghdad are not heretics in Cordoba."
"Not under Hakam II, but if 'al-Mansur' has his way . . ."
"The Victorious," al-Kiran, startled by Marik's tone, translated the name, knowing he was referring to one of the Caliph's advisers. He assumed Marik's attitude and concern came from his father's knowledge of the Court.
"Why do you flinch?" Marik turned back to him. "You know the fundamentalists are gaining power."
"Cordoba is based on tolerance," al-Kiran asserted.
"Things are changing." Marik spit to the side.
River sounds floated up toward them. Drawing back, al-Kiran reminded himself Marik was an alarmist. His own parents had encouraged him to explore Sufism and study with the rabbi. His mother's mother was an initiate of an esoteric sect, although he didn't know, or even want to know, the details.
Tentatively, al-Kiran said: "Don't you even want to hear what he's teaching?"
"If it's just between us," Marik conceded.
"Aren't you at least curious about the secret school founded in Medina following the Prophet's last vision?" al-Kiran tried to incite the old interest.
"Did the Prophet dance?" Marik grumbled.
"No. He was over sixty years old by then. Two of his grandchildren, a young girl and boy, were the dancers."
"Just two dancers?" Marik seemed surprised then picked up a stone and tossed it. A group of soldiers strolled past and waved at them.
Once the soldiers were a safe distance away, al-Kiran whispered: "He had them dance for three days and nights, in a carefully arranged pattern."
"What did the Prophet do?" Marik responded, reluctantly.
"According to the Sufis?" al-Kiran tested.
"You know none of this is recognized by the traditional schools." Marik sat-up. "But . . . tell me."
Warming to the story, al-Kiran said: "The Prophet was with his grandchildren during the entire dance, focusing their energies. As they grew weary, he fed them from his own strength. During the final day, the sun was totally eclipsed.
"The Prophet watched the children dance as if in a dream. As light returned, the children embraced him. All three collapsed. When the Blessed Messenger finally awoke, the children were stretched out next to him on the sand. Then he gave the prophecy recorded by Ali."
"'This is the morning. Next time it will be the day.'" Marik quoted the words as handed down from generation to generation, which were the basis for popular speculation and excitement before each Festival.
"When we were young," Marik leaned forward earnestly, "we believed. But now we know there have been over twenty Dances here in Cordoba and nothing extraordinary has happened. There's been no eclipse, no miracles. According to al-Mansur it's all a pagan long dance designed by Sufis to subvert the True Faith."
Hesitating slightly, then plunging ahead, al-Kiran quoted his teacher: "The actual words were: 'The morning has begun. Rainbows will flow from the dark.'"
"Forget it, Kemi." Marik frowned. "You'll only get in trouble believing such things.
Al-Kiran wanted to share the prophecy the rabbi had uttered, but was uncertain. Then, certain that he shouldn't, he repeated the words to himself, wondering at their meaning:
"When the moon eats the sun between
earth-base and stars, Venus, a white owl,
beckons to the black snake, Mars.
Spinning in violet rays, they
revolve through the violent sky.
Dancing on a rainbow bridge, they bear
dark-light while the old world dies."
