Raman Shah

By MICHAEL ALAN SHAPIRO

In the year 1160 a young man named Raman travels to Morocco to join the Sect of Shah where he is to become their head horse trainer. Raman is introduced to the practice of meditating on a special "Magic" carpet whose intricate, colorful patterns induce the user into seeing ever changing patterns and scenes within their minds. In his interactions

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Alan Shapiro
• Release date: Oct 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781735638911

MICHAEL ALAN SHAPIRO

Michael Alan Shapiro was born and raised in New Jersey. He is a graduate of the University of California. He is married with two children and lives in Florida with his third wife.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

London, September 1977

My name is Harold Aldridge. For the past twelve years I have served as the Chair of the Linguistics Department at Cambridge University. The following manuscript came to me when one afternoon I received a telephone call from a gentleman who had gone to some lengths to locate me. He explained that he was in need of the services of an expert in regards to a very old manuscript. His description of the document did in fact peak my interest as it was hand written in Hebrew on some type of animal skin. His name was Fred Webster and he said the manuscript came from the bookshop of his recently deceased grandfather. We agreed to meet for tea in a small shop in Earl’s Court near the bookstore on the following Wednesday. The call being on Friday, I had several days before our meeting and the more I thought about this manuscript and what it might be, the more anxious I felt myself becoming. I nearly counted the hours until I would be able to examine it.

We met the next Wednesday at noon. I found Mr. Webster sitting in a window booth looking out on the day’s traffic and pedestrians. He was of late middle age and wearing a brown, wool suit with no tie and rumbled dress shirt. He was partially bald and hadn’t shaved in days. I soon found out the reason for his dishevelment was the fact that he had recently inherited the estate of his aged grandfather, a Michael Webster who passed on quietly in his sleep a fort night ago. In addition to a flat on Gramercy Place, Mr. Webster received the Earl’s Court Book Store, lock, stock and barrel as they say. His personal unkempt appearance was due to the fact that he had been working every possible hour inventorying the contents of the home and business to catalogue his inheritance.

After our exchange of greetings and this short background history, he pulled from his satchel a manuscript bound in faded leather. As he laid the thick manuscript on the table, I felt a sudden joy which I attributed to the innate pleasure I experience whenever I am able to touch a genuine object from the distant past. This manuscript without a doubt immediately registered as the real thing. I put on my white examination gloves and Mr. Webster allowed me to handle it without interrupting.

Quite remarkable, I said closing the book. And you found it where?

In the attic of my grandfather’s book shop.

Here in Earl’s Court?

Yes, just about the corner there. He pointed out the window of the tea shop to the corner across the way.

And how may I help you? I asked.

Yes, well. A-hem. You see I will need to have it valued for estate tax purposes and I was hoping that you could attest to its authenticity and value, or point me to the persons who could do so.

I see. Well, I believe I will be able to help you with that. I must say, at first blanche, if it is authentic, I touched the manuscript’s soft cover with my gloved forefinger, and at first impress I think it may well be. If it is, I would not be surprised to say that it could be priceless.

Yes, well actually, it would be much more helpful to me if it had a price. He looked me in the eye for a moment, cleared his throat then continued. You see, grandfather’s holdings are going to run up an estate tax the amount of which will force me to sell most everything to pay it. The estate is loaded with things but cash not being one of them. I’m told, if I donate some of the items and if these items were valued high enough, with the right kind of appraisals of course, he hesitated, turning his head to the side. Their value would greatly reduce the total estate.

I did not immediately respond; thinking perhaps I was being drawn into some sort of tax fraud scheme. Mr. Webster feeling my hesitation continued.

Or so my solicitor advises me. You see, as I understand it, since the total estate value minus charitable deductions, times the estate tax rate…

Which is what now, still fifty percent? I asked and he nodded. Without an outlay of cash, I continued for him, you could hold onto most of the remainder of the estate?

Exactly, he said.

I took a sip of my tea and fell silent.

After a moment’s thought he said, I was thinking that the library at Cambridge might be the right sort of place for this manuscript and perhaps a few other first editions I’ve come across in the shop.

And so within the month the papers were drawn up. The dean’s office had the departments of chemistry and antiquities authenticate the manuscript and they issued their report as to the age of the ink and the sheep skin pages and binding. Which they and I believe to be from the mid to late 12th century.

Within six months of our meeting the value was attested to. That value satisfied Mr. Webster’s estate tax needs and the university’s library became the legal owner of this ancient manuscript. It then fell to me to translate the work from archaic Hebrew into English.

What follows are the results of my one and a half year’s work in that regard.

CHAPTER ONE

The Questioning

Rabat, Morocco 1163 AD

The room in which we meditated was made of large chiseled blocks of stone. On the wall opposite the door, two long window openings allowed the early morning sunshine to light the room in a golden glow. On the floor lay a wall to wall carpet of exquisite beauty. Sitting in this room, watching the free-flowing images appear in the rug’s patterns is how the men of the Sect of Shah meditated. Their sect was now in its seventh generation but only thirty years before had the rug been brought from Persia. Before then the men had meditated on flowers, seashells or pieces of wood but once they saw how the carpet produced fantastic mental images, they were certain it was a magic carpet.

The sect had grown over the years and members here in Rabat could claim a relation to members from Spain to the borders of India. The sect’s foundation, however, was here in this room, in this old two story building in northern Morocco. The building was a massive structure of large, rough cut boulders situated on top of a hill overlooking the seacoast town of Rabat. Its location offered panoramic views of the harbor.

One morning a teenage boy stood outside the front door. He looked down over the blue harbor waters and saw among the anchored boats the grain ship he traveled on to Rabat from his home in the desert near the Jordan River. On the horizon, cloudless blue sky and the dark Mediterranean Sea both become one at the curve of the earth. Closer to shore, ships lay in anchor, gently rolling on the calm harbor waters as they await their turn for unloading at Rabat’s waterfront. On the docks, brown skinned longshoremen, nude except for rags wrapped round their loins, toil in the hot North African sun. Sweat glistens on their bodies and their muscles ripple under the strain of their work.

The town’s dirt roads begin at the waterfront and travel first through an open air market place then up narrow streets where white apartments reflect the sun’s light in the hot, still Mediterranean air. One street goes up higher yet; beyond the neighborhoods. At the top of this street, overlooking the harbor and city below, the old stone building stands.

The front door opens and a tall, rugged looking man with brown skin calls out, Raman.

Raman acknowledges his friend’s greeting with a smile.

Yes, Karif.

They are ready for you. Karif motions to the open door and they enter into the building’s coolness.

They hesitate for a moment to allow their eyes to adjust to the darkness of the interior. Raman hears the sounds from the different rooms on the first floor as the other members of The Sect of Shah go about their daily activities. Passing through several rooms, Karif leads the way up a flight of stone steps to the second level. He opens the wooden door at the top to the stairs and motions for Raman to enter the meditation room first.

Sitting in a semi-circle on the thick Persian carpet, twenty men with their backs to the door, face the far corner of the room. Karif motions for Raman to pass through the seated counselors and to take his place facing them. This he does, first acknowledging a small white haired counselor who has come forward to sit next to him. Karif takes his place to Raman’s right and the three men look into the faces of the counselors seated crossed legged in front of them.

The usual practice had been to question a new, would be member in another room but Karif had informed the council that as far as he was concerned this desert boy, Raman was one of them already. He told the council members that he was impressed by Raman’s manner of speaking and in the way he carried himself. Based on these accolades, Raman’s questioning was held in the meditation room. The room of the magic rug.

Raman felt a nervous flutter in his stomach. He expected the council members to challenge his knowledge and having had no formal education, he worried that he would not have the right answers. To his surprise the questioning took an unexpected turn.

Raman, who are you? This first question came from the eldest councilman. The small man with white hair and beard who sat to his left. He asked the question in a soft voice and he had such a feeling of peace about him that Raman immediately relaxed and smiled back at him.

I am, Raman, son of Rahshar, horse trainer to the Sheik Asi-Ben.

After a few moments pause, Ashad, a shaven headed man sitting across from Raman asked, Why has the Sheik Asi-Ben permitted the son of his horse trainer to leave his tents and go to a foreign city?

The Sheik Asi-Ben does not have the final word in permitting Rafshar or his sons anything, Raman answered. We are his equals and come and go as we choose.

Unusual for a sheik to make such a gesture. Ashad’s tone had not changed but there was an almost indiscernible vibration that accompanied his statement. Raman felt it but he did not understand that his life and Karif’s lay in the balance of his answer. He did not understand that he would truly be better off as a starving beggar than to speak falsely within this room and these men. There had never been a lie uttered within these walls nor a false or boastful statement. For one to have been spoken now, well, the lie would hang like a sacrilege in the atmosphere and would confront them each time they returned to the room. Karif, whose word alone had brought the questioning into this most high place, would be the one who would have to slay the perpetrator. And even that act would not cleanse him in their eyes.

It was the nature of the stillness that warned Raman and so before answering he looked about the room. Sunlight streaked through the high windows above their heads. Outside even the faint, distant noises from the street seemed to stop as if awaiting his reply. The robes of the men glistened with the light reflecting off of the stone walls. The rug beneath them seemed to float above the world with its brilliant colors and intricate patterns. His words echoed around the room as his voice broke the stillness.

"My father’s father, Rafshar Anu, had been the most courageous warrior of Sheik Asi-Ben’s grandfather. He had saved the sheik’s life in battle and had indeed even once turned a sure loss into a victory with his bravery. Because of this, the sheik swore to my grandfather his unending gratitude to