Excerpt from
A Moth to the Flame: The Life Story of Sufi Poet Jelaluddin Rumi (a novel)

1

From my first breath I have longed for Him -
This longing has become my life.

1231 A.D.
Konya, Turkey

Pacing at the edge of the garden, his eyes burning, his lower lip trembling, he knows when he goes back inside his old life will be over. Dread surges into his mouth like a tart lemon, leaving it puckered and dry. Trudging back and forth in the chill to avoid the moment as long as he can, he shivers as the caftan flaps at his ankles and his sandals crunch the dirt.

Above him in the blackness, a comet shoots across the silver-dotted sky. A bad omen?

His stomach lurches when he notices that the red tulips, so loved by his father, have wilted. The queasiness passes and he begins pacing again, rubbing his palms together for warmth. But the wetness is seeping into the caftan now. He stops in his tracks, braces himself, and steps across the threshold into the house.

Pushing aside the curtain to his father's room, he peers in, and his stomach turns over again. The turbaned head of Bahaoddin rests on a worn, blue cushion. His beard, white with eighty snows, rests on his chest. He is lying still, his bronze face yellowed, his black eyes vacant, only his lips moving, murmuring the names of God.

Bending down over the patient to sniff his breath, the doctor seems troubled. Several days earlier, he prescribed bitter wood to improve appetite and anise to improve digestion. But Bahaoddin refused both. Now, the doctor urges his patient, "Master, rest for a minute. You can return to your practices soon."

His father arouses himself to reply. "All that I have gained is from these practices. I won't abandon them now." After nodding, the doctor exits the room.

As he moves closer to his father, folding his legs on the floor, he tugs at the bristles beneath his chin, the coarse clump of hair separating in his fingers. The women's voices in their quarters rise to a pitch, petitioning God to save the Master. He imagines them blowing on knots to appease the evil eye and mixing vinegar with the nectar of the hive to feed their sheikh.

A moment later, he hears a steed stomping outside the house. The sultan, bedecked in orange robes and gold earrings, hurries into the room and kneels low. "Master, Konya will not be the same without you."
"Don't be sad, sultan," Bahaoddin says in a hushed tone. "We come from God, and to God we return. You will follow me soon." Appearing frightened, the ruler scurries out.

Finally, his father turns his head toward him. "Before you came back, son, I had a dream, a conversation with the Holy One, who knows the future. There was a sultan, whose head was made of gold. His breast was made of silver, his body of bronze, his thighs of lead, his feet of pewter. As long as he was there, the people were as precious as gold. In the son's reign, they would be as precious as silver. After him, they would have the value of bronze."

The Master coughs, his chest rattling. He forces the words out. "Then a great disorder will arise. No sincerity, no faith in the fourth generation. By the fifth, the dynasty declines. The Mongols conquer the land."
The images chill him, as if he remains out in the night air. "But father, if we fight. . . ."

"Shhhhh. . . .The Brothers' safety from the Mongol hordes is in your hands now, son. Keep the people as precious as gold for as long as you can. Time is short."

The Brothers' safety. . . his duty?

Reaching beneath the carpets, his father pulls out a stack of papers that is bound between wooden boards. "You will need my teachings. Now they are yours," he murmurs, handing them over.

Choking back tears, he glances down - The Divine Sciences by Bahaoddin Velad -- and clutches the precious pages to his heart.
"And the final secret," Bahaoddin says under his breath. "Come closer." His father pulls the edge of his robe and draws him in, their beards touching, hot breath falling on his ear.

The whispered words startle him. Then Bahaoddin's head falls back on the pillow and he mutters, "In these terrible times, may God guide you on the path to Him as you guide our dervish Brothers."

No! Don't leave me, father. Mother is gone, not you now. Not yet. . .

Gulping down the scream, he blinks back tears and opens the pages of the book to distract himself from the rush of feelings. The curves and loops of the script seem to shine. What of the hidden meanings and secret names that you have not told me? Are they here, on these pages, or will they die with you?

His father's throat rattles. It's no time to read. As he sets the book aside, his glance returns to Bahaoddin.

The old man's skin, once smooth as an urn, is creased and furrowed now. His hollow eyes, looking weary, slowly withdraw. The names of God grow fainter on his lips and finally cease altogether. Silence.

A wave of grief rolls through him, threatening to overtake him, as he turns his father's turbaned head toward Mecca and prepares him for resurrection on judgment day. Then he hears himself say, "There is no god but God."

An instant before, he was a son, a disciple. Now he is alone. He can no longer look up into Bahaoddin's wise, fearless face. He can no longer pose any question and expect to be escorted through the arguments until he knows the correct response. For the first time, he is without a true friend, without a guide.

The grief gives way to shock as he stands up to leave the room. His mind is racing. How could this have happened? I am twenty-four and the only link in a chain of teachers going back to the Prophet.

The next afternoon, as the sun rolls overhead, he drapes himself in his father's black robe with the wide sleeves, the gown of a scholar. And he makes his way up the hill toward the great mosque as if for the first time. Below him, off to one side, green fields of lettuce and strawberries stretch as far as he can see. Off to the other, golden grains of wheat sway in the breeze. The silver dome covers the rectangular building like the dome of heaven itself. Long-necked white storks nest in the two silver minarets, which soar high into the blue sky. Slipping off his shoes, he crosses the threshold.

Inside, thick, carved marble columns support arched passageways. A wooden stairway carved with linking lines that form stars leads to the pulpit, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Flaming red carpets cover the floors between the pillars.

As he steps up to the pulpit, four Koran reciters surround him, and the people seated before him now believe that the Prophet Mohammed, blessed be he, addresses them today through him, their sheikh. And yet. . . .

He may be intellectually prepared, having studied the Koran and the intricacies of Muslim law. He has read widely in philosophy - Ghazzali who, paralyzed and mute from a loss of faith, claimed that practices, not theological arguments, would fulfill the promise of religion. Suhrawardi, who urged believers to make a symbolic, not a literal reading of the Koran. And Ibn 'Arabi in Spain, who proclaimed that each individual is a unique expression of a divine attribute of God.

Besides Persian, he speaks Arabic and Turkish. He knows how to work with numerals and to recognize Capricorn, the mountain goat, and Sagittarius, the archer with the long tail of a dragon, in the night skies. But what does it all add up to?

His father, wise in the hidden meanings, passed on only a few secrets to him. Spiritually, he is unprepared, a novice. He has knowledge of Sufism, but not experience. He knows about God, but he has not seen Him face to face.

Setting his hands firmly on his father's worn copy of the Koran, he surveys the sea of eager faces: the sultan in a red gown with the weaver, butcher, candle maker, tanner, perfume seller, and stonecutter in threadbare robes. Some men bow their heads and move their lips in constant zikhr. Clustered in the rear, women in headscarves pulled across their mouths begin to sway back and forth in silence. A neighboring sheik in a coiled, green turban sits beside a Christian monk, who hides his light skin in a black cowl. The Jewish wine seller is bareheaded. And an adolescent boy in billowing white robes, oblivious of the crowd, wanders up and down between the pillars, grinning at something the others cannot see.

As hundreds of eyes bore through his robe, he feels naked. His father no longer stands between him and the peoples' great hunger. He draws a breath and does the only thing he can do, the duty that is required of him at this moment: he praises God, blesses the Prophet, offers blessings to the sultan, and begins his first discourse as the sheikh.

"Brothers," he begins, "why do we open each prayer with a negation? 'There is no God,' we say, 'but God,' we affirm. We negate the world, then we affirm the existence of God."

The power of mystery seems to enter the room, and he is encouraged to go on, a bit louder. "Don't listen to these words. Listen behind them. Words are a shadow of reality. A resonance draws one man to another, not words. If a man sees a thousand miracles but there is no resonance connecting him with that sheikh, then those phenomena will be useless."

He pauses, regarding his listeners. "If there is no amber in a straw, the straw will not move toward amber. If there is no resonance in a man, he will not move toward a sheikh."

He clears his throat. He has known these truths for so long that the words ring hollow to him. His tongue feels thick. As he studies the people, a few glare at him like an idol, a dazzling peacock to adore. For an instant, his chest puffs up. Yes, my mind is quicker than theirs, my heart more faithful.

After pausing, he comes back to himself. No, I will not accept their worship. I am merely their guide, their caravan leader.

But this knowledge and position are not enough for him. They are not who he is. Even the sacred law, ablutions, prayers, alms, and fasting do not satisfy his hunger. They, too, come and go like joy or sadness.

A restless yearning is arising in him again, gnawing at him, and demanding something more from life, more than this fleeting outer form.

What is this longing that calls me away from duty and gives me no peace? I will go through the motions, but one day I will have to heed the call, turning toward what I most deeply love, in spite of any danger, any risk.

He reins in his impatience and attends to his followers. "Every thing other than God is leading you astray, be it your throne, kingdom, or crown. The world's harp has but a single string."

An expectant hush comes over the crowd. Some stare up at him, rapture on their faces. Others hang their heads, weeping with reassurance. Even the restless children are quieted. With this sermon, the hundreds of disciples of his father are now devoted to him.

From this day forward he is called Rumi, named after Rum, the land of Roman Anatolia in south central Turkey on which he stands. He wraps himself in the name, and it settles on his shoulders like a cloak. It ties him to the land, its fortunes, and its fate. He is no longer Jelaluddin of Balkh. He is the sheikh of Rum.

But in his inmost heart, he longs for something more, something that is untouched by these comings and goings. And this gnawing feeling leaves him restless and thirsty.

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