Episode X: The Fire Returns to Shíráz

Nine lunar months. That was all the time they were given.

The Báb landed at Búshihr, returned to the same khán He had occupied before the pilgrimage, and received the friends and relatives who had come to welcome Him home. But the first thing He did in that khán was say goodbye.

He summoned Quddús and told him their companionship in this world was ending. “The days of your companionship with Me are drawing to a close,” He said. “The hour of separation has struck, a separation which no reunion will follow except in the Kingdom of God.” Then He named the road ahead. Tribulation would plunge Quddús into an ocean of suffering. In the streets of Shíráz, indignities would be heaped upon him. The severest injuries would afflict his body. He had been chosen as “the standard-bearer of the host of affliction”, standing in the vanguard of a noble army that would suffer martyrdom. And the Báb would follow him. Both would be killed. Both would drink from the same cup. “Rejoice with exceeding gladness,” He told him, “for you have been chosen.”

Not grief. Certainty. A young Man in a merchant’s khán, naming the exact shape of the future — suffering, steadfastness, death, reunion — and sending the person closest to Him straight into it.

He placed in Quddús’s hands a letter for His maternal uncle, Hají Mírzá Siyyid ‘Alí, along with a copy of the Khasá’il-i-Sab’ih, a treatise setting forth what the new Revelation required of those who had recognized it. Then He asked Quddús to carry His greetings to every one of His loved ones in Shíráz.

Quddús obeyed at once.

In Shíráz, Hají Mírzá Siyyid ‘Alí received him in his own home. He asked eagerly after his Kinsman’s health and doings. Quddús found him receptive and told him the full nature of what had happened. The Báb’s uncle became the first believer in Shíráz after the Letters of the Living. Though he was recognized as an outstanding figure among the city’s businessmen, he would never allow material considerations to interfere with what he now saw as his duty. He would consecrate the rest of his life to shielding the Báb’s person and advancing His Cause. He would scorn fatigue and be disdainful of death. And years later, joining the company of the Seven Martyrs of Tihrán, he would lay down his life in circumstances of exceptional heroism.

But that was still ahead. For now, the treatise Quddús had carried was about to set the city on fire.

Quddús delivered the Khasá’il-i-Sab’ih to Mullá Sádiq-i-Khurásání, known by the title Ismu’lláhu’l-Asdaq, a preacher already famous in Shíráz for extolling the virtues of the Imáms from the pulpit to large audiences. Quddús stressed one thing: carry out its provisions immediately. Among its precepts was an emphatic command. Every loyal believer must add specific words to the traditional call to prayer, the adhán. Those words declared: “I bear witness that He whose name is ‘Alí-Qabl-i-Muhammad is the servant of the Baqíyyatu’lláh.”

Mullá Sádiq read the treatise. He did not hesitate. One day, as he led his congregation in prayer at the Masjid-i-Naw, he sounded the adhán and suddenly proclaimed the additional words.

The congregation erupted. The distinguished divines in the front seats, men revered for their pious orthodoxy, raised a clamor: “Woe betide us, the guardians and protectors of the Faith of God! This man has hoisted the standard of heresy. Down with this infamous traitor! He has spoken blasphemy. Arrest him, for he is a disgrace to our Faith.” And then: “Who dared authorise such grave departure from the established precepts of Islám? Who has presumed to arrogate to himself this supreme prerogative?”

The populace echoed them. The whole city was thrown into commotion. Public order was threatened.

Husayn Khán, the governor of Fárs, surnamed Ajúdán-Báshí and known in those days as Sáhib-Ikhtiyár, intervened. He was told that a disciple of a young Siyyid who claimed to have authored a new revelation had arrived in Shíráz and was summoning the multitude to accept that message. Mullá Sádiq had embraced the faith and declared its recognition to be the first obligation of every loyal Muslim.

Husayn Khán ordered the arrest of both Quddús and Mullá Sádiq.

They were brought before him in handcuffs. The police had also seized the copy of the Qayyúmu’l-Asmá, taken while Mullá Sádiq was reading it aloud to an excited congregation. Quddús, because of his youthful appearance and unconventional dress, was ignored. Husayn Khán directed all his anger at the older man.

He brandished the opening passage of the Qayyúmu’l-Asmá, the passage in which the Báb addressed the rulers and kings of the earth: Divest yourselves of the robe of sovereignty, for He who is the King in truth, hath been made manifest! The Kingdom is God’s, the Most Exalted. Thus hath the Pen of the Most High decreed!

“If this be true,” Husayn Khán said, “it must necessarily apply to my sovereign, Muhammad Sháh, whom I represent as the chief magistrate of this province. Must Muhammad Sháh lay down his crown and abandon his sovereignty? Must I, too, abdicate my power and relinquish my position?”

Mullá Sádiq answered without hesitation: “When once the truth of the Revelation announced by the Author of these words shall have been definitely established, the truth of whatsoever has fallen from His lips will likewise be vindicated. If these words be the Word of God, the abdication of Muhammad Sháh and his like can matter but little.”

That answer cost them everything.

Husayn Khán ordered Mullá Sádiq stripped of his garments and scourged with a thousand lashes. He commanded that the beards of both Quddús and Mullá Sádiq be burned. Their noses were to be pierced, a cord threaded through the incision, and with that halter they were to be led through the streets of Shíráz. “It will be an object lesson to the people of Shíráz,” Husayn Khán declared, “who will know what the penalty of heresy will be.”

Mullá Sádiq, calm and self-possessed, lifted his eyes to heaven and recited: “O Lord, our God! We have indeed heard the voice of One that called. He called us to the Faith, ‘Believe ye on the Lord your God!’, and we have believed. O God, our God! Forgive us, then, our sins, and hide away from us our evil deeds, and cause us to die with the righteous.”

Both resigned themselves. The punishment was carried out with alacrity and vigor. No one intervened. No one pleaded their cause.

An unbeliever living in Shíráz witnessed what happened and later recounted it. “I watched his persecutors each in turn apply the lash to his bleeding shoulders, and continue the strokes until he became exhausted,” he said. “No one believed that Mullá Sádiq, so advanced in age and so frail in body, could possibly survive fifty such savage strokes.” But the strokes passed fifty, and kept going. Past a hundred. Past five hundred. Past nine hundred. “His face still retained its original serenity and calm. A smile was upon his face, as he held his hand before his mouth.”

After the scourging, as Mullá Sádiq was being expelled from the city, the witness approached him and asked why he had held his hand over his mouth. Why, through all of it, had he been smiling?

Mullá Sádiq answered: “The first seven strokes were severely painful; to the rest I seemed to have grown indifferent. I was wondering whether the strokes that followed were being actually applied to my own body. A feeling of joyous exultation had invaded my soul. I was trying to repress my feelings and to restrain my laughter. I can now realise how the almighty Deliverer is able, in the twinkling of an eye, to turn pain into ease, and sorrow into gladness.”

Nine hundred strokes, and he was trying not to laugh.

They were both expelled from Shíráz. Before being driven out, they were warned: if they ever returned, they would be crucified. Mullá ‘Alíy-i-Bastámí had been the first to suffer for this Faith, but his persecution took place in ‘Iráq, beyond the borders of Persia. Quddús and Mullá Sádiq earned a different distinction: the first to be persecuted on Persian soil for the sake of this Cause.

Husayn Khán’s anger was not appeased. He dispatched a mounted escort of his own trusted guard to Búshihr with emphatic instructions: arrest the Báb and bring Him in chains to Shíráz.

The leader of that escort was a member of the Núsayrí community, the sect known as ‘Alíyu’lláhí. He later recounted what happened.

Three stages into the journey, in the midst of the wilderness, they encountered a youth. He wore a green sash and a small turban in the manner of siyyids in the trading profession. He was on horseback. An Ethiopian servant followed with his belongings. As they approached, he greeted them and asked where they were going.

The escort leader concealed the truth. He said they had been sent to conduct an enquiry in the area.

The youth smiled. “The governor has sent you to arrest Me,” He said. “Here am I; do with Me as you please. By coming out to meet you, I have curtailed the length of your march, and have made it easier for you to find Me.”

The leader was startled. He tried to ignore Him and prepare to leave. But the Báb approached him again and spoke: “I swear by the righteousness of Him who created man, distinguished him from among the rest of His creatures, and caused his heart to be made the seat of His sovereignty and knowledge, that all My life I have uttered no word but the truth, and had no other desire except the welfare and advancement of My fellow-men. I know that you are seeking Me. I prefer to deliver Myself into your hands, rather than subject you and your companions to unnecessary annoyance for My sake.”

The leader dismounted from his horse. He kissed the Báb’s stirrups. He begged Him to flee, to escape to Mashhad, to avoid falling victim to “the brutality of this remorseless wolf.” His companions, he said, were all honorable men. Their word was their bond. They would pledge themselves not to betray His flight.

The Báb refused. “Never will I turn My face away from the decree of God. He alone is My sure Stronghold, My Stay and My Refuge. Until My last hour is at hand, none dare assail Me, none can frustrate the plan of the Almighty. And when My hour is come, how great will be My joy to quaff the cup of martyrdom in His name! Here am I; deliver Me into the hands of your master. Be not afraid, for no one will blame you.”

The escort leader bowed his consent.

The Báb rode ahead. Free and unfettered, He went before His escort, which followed Him in an attitude of respectful devotion. By the power of His words, He had transmuted the proud arrogance of His guards into humility and love. By the time they entered Shíráz, the force sent to overpower Him was marching behind Him. Anyone who saw the cavalcade passing through the streets could not help but marvel at the spectacle.

Husayn Khán summoned the Báb to his presence at once. He received Him with the utmost insolence, bade Him sit in the center of the room facing him, and in abusive language denounced His conduct. “Do you realise what a great mischief you have kindled?” he demanded. “Are you aware what a disgrace you have become to the holy Faith of Islám and to the august person of our sovereign? Are you not the man who claims to be the author of a new revelation which annuls the sacred precepts of the Qur’án?”

The Báb replied with a verse of the Qur’án: “If any bad man come unto you with news, clear up the matter at once, lest through ignorance ye harm others, and be speedily constrained to repent of what ye have done.”

Husayn Khán erupted. “What! Dare you ascribe to us evil, ignorance, and folly?” He turned to his attendant and ordered him to strike the Báb in the face.

The blow was so violent that the Báb’s turban fell to the ground.

Shaykh Abú-Turáb, the Imám-Jum’ih of Shíráz, was present. He strongly disapproved of Husayn Khán’s conduct. He ordered the turban replaced upon the Báb’s head and invited Him to be seated beside him. Then, turning to the governor, the Imám-Jum’ih explained the circumstances connected with the Qur’ánic verse the Báb had quoted, and sought to calm his fury. “This verse which this youth has quoted has made a profound impression upon me,” he said. “The wise course, I feel, is to enquire into this matter with great care, and to judge him according to the precepts of the holy Book.”

Husayn Khán consented. The Imám-Jum’ih questioned the Báb regarding the nature and character of His Revelation. The Báb denied the claim of being either the representative of the promised Qá’im or the intermediary between Him and the faithful. The Imám-Jum’ih was satisfied, but required a public declaration. He would be asked to appear at the Masjid-i-Vakíl on Friday and proclaim His denial before the congregation.

Husayn Khán added a condition: a person of recognized standing must give bail and pledge in writing that the Báb would not prejudice the interests of Islám or the government. Hají Mírzá Siyyid ‘Alí, the Báb’s uncle, present at that meeting, consented. In his own handwriting he wrote the pledge, affixed his seal, confirmed it by the signatures of witnesses, and delivered it to the governor.

The uncle conducted the Báb home and committed Him to the loving care of His mother. He rejoiced at the reunion and was greatly relieved by the deliverance of his Kinsman from the grasp of what he knew to be a malignant tyrant. For a time, no one except the Báb’s wife, His mother, and His uncles had any contact with Him.

But the mischief-makers pressed Shaykh Abú-Turáb. They bent every effort to inflame the public resentment already seizing the city. The Imám-Jum’ih, a man of kindly disposition who was extremely reluctant to treat anyone of recognized standing with contumely, and who was universally esteemed for this quality, tried to appease the agitation through evasion and postponement. He failed. At length he sent a confidential message to the uncle: bring the Báb on Friday to the mosque, that He might fulfil the pledge He had given. “My hope,” he added, “is that by the aid of God the statements of your nephew may ease the tenseness of the situation and may lead to your tranquillity as well as to our own.”

The Báb arrived with His uncle at a time when the Imám-Jum’ih had just ascended the pulpit and was preparing to deliver his sermon. As soon as his eyes fell upon the Báb, he publicly welcomed Him. He requested Him to ascend the pulpit and address the congregation.

The Báb advanced and stood on the first step of the staircase.

“Come up higher,” the Imám-Jum’ih said.

He ascended two more steps. Standing there, His head hid the breast of Shaykh Abú-Turáb, who sat at the pulpit-top. He began with an introductory discourse: “Praise be to God, who hath in truth created the heavens and the earth…”

A siyyid known as Siyyidí-Shish-Parí, whose function was to carry the mace before the Imám-Jum’ih, interrupted him insolently: “Enough of this idle chatter! Declare, now and immediately, the thing you intend to say.”

The Imám-Jum’ih rebuked him sharply. “Hold your peace, and be ashamed of your impertinence.” Then, turning to the Báb, he asked Him to be brief, as this would allay the excitement of the people.

The Báb faced the congregation and declared: “The condemnation of God be upon him who regards me either as a representative of the Imám or the gate thereof. The condemnation of God be also upon whosoever imputes to me the charge of having denied the unity of God, of having repudiated the prophethood of Muhammad, the Seal of the Prophets, of having rejected the truth of any of the messengers of old, or of having refused to recognise the guardianship of ‘Alí, the Commander of the Faithful, or of any of the imáms who have succeeded him.”

He ascended to the top of the staircase, embraced the Imám-Jum’ih, and descended to the floor. He moved to join the congregation for the Friday prayer. But the Imám-Jum’ih intervened. “Your family is anxiously awaiting your return,” he said. “All are apprehensive lest any harm befall you. Repair to your house and there offer your prayer; of greater merit shall this deed be in the sight of God.” The uncle was asked to accompany Him home, a precaution taken out of fear that, after the crowd dispersed, some among the evil-minded might attempt to injure Him. But for the sagacity and the careful attention the Imám-Jum’ih displayed on that and other occasions, the infuriated mob would have committed the worst excesses. He seemed to have been the instrument of an invisible Hand appointed to protect both the person and the Mission of that Youth.

For a time, the Báb led a life of comparative tranquility in His own home, in close association with His family and kinsmen. In those days He celebrated the first Naw-Rúz since He had declared His Mission, a festival that fell, that year, on the tenth day of the month of Rabí’u’l-Avval, 1261 A.H.

But what happened in the Masjid-i-Vakíl had not ended. It had planted seeds.

A few among those who had been present that Friday were struck by the mastery with which that Youth had, by His own unaided efforts, silenced His formidable opponents. One by one, they were led to recognize the reality of His Mission.

Among them was Shaykh ‘Alí Mírzá, the nephew of the Imám-Jum’ih himself, a young man who had just attained the age of maturity. The seed implanted in his heart that day grew until, in 1267 A.H., he met Bahá’u’lláh in ‘Iráq and returned to Persia with redoubled energy. He persevered in his labors for the rest of his life. Years later, he wrote in astonishment at what he had lived to see: a man known for forty years throughout Persia as a Bábí had been made the sole arbitrator in a dispute between the tyrannical son of the Sháh and a powerful provincial official, and both parties had publicly agreed to accept whatever that Bábí decided.

Another was Muhammad-Karím, whose immediate conversion that Friday drove him eventually out of Persia and into the presence of Bahá’u’lláh, who sent him back to Shíráz to propagate the Cause for the rest of his life.

Another was Mírzá Áqáy-i-Rikáb-Sáz, who became so enamored of the Báb that day that no persecution, however severe and prolonged, could shake him. He, too, attained the presence of Bahá’u’lláh, who revealed a Tablet for him concerning the Disconnected Letters of the Qur’án and the meaning of the Verse of Núr. In His path he eventually suffered martyrdom.

Another was Mírzá Rahím-i-Khabbáz, who distinguished himself by his fearlessness and fiery ardor and relaxed not in his efforts until the hour of his death.

Another was Hají Muhammad-Bisát, well versed in the metaphysical teachings of Islám, a great admirer of both Shaykh Ahmad and Siyyid Kázim, a man of kindly disposition gifted with a keen sense of humor. He had won the friendship of the Imám-Jum’ih himself and was a faithful attendant at the Friday congregational prayer.

And then there was Hají Abu’l-Hasan-i-Bazzáz, the same man who had been the Báb’s fellow traveler on the pilgrimage to Hijaz and had only dimly recognized His Mission during the journey. That Friday in the Masjid-i-Vakíl shook him completely and transformed him. He bore the Báb such love that tears of overpowering devotion flowed continually from his eyes for the rest of his life.

One Friday. Six men whose lives were permanently altered. The authorities had demanded the Báb’s public denial. What they got was a demonstration that planted the Cause deeper into the city than any sermon could have.

Soon after Naw-Rúz, an epistle from the Báb reached those who had been waiting for Him in Karbilá. He had intended to return from Hijaz by way of that city. Instead, He informed them the plan had changed. He could not fulfil His promise. He directed them to proceed to Isfahán and remain there until further instruction.

The news tested hearts. “What of His promise to us?” whispered a few of the discontented. “Does He regard the breaking of His pledge as the interposition of the will of God?” Others became more steadfast. Faithful to their Master, they set out for Isfahán, joined by a few companions who, though gravely shaken, concealed their doubt. Among the faithful were Mírzá Muhammad-‘Alíy-i-Nahrí, whose daughter would later marry the Most Great Branch, and his brother Mírzá Hádí, both residents of Isfahán, both unmoved by the whispered misgivings. Among them, too, was Muhammad-i-Haná-Sáb, also of Isfahán, who would live to serve in the household of Bahá’u’lláh. A number of these companions would eventually participate in the great struggle of Shaykh Tabarsí and miraculously escape the fate of their fallen brethren.

On the road to Isfahán, they met Mullá Husayn in the city of Kangávar, traveling with his brother and nephew. They were overjoyed by this unexpected encounter. Mullá Husayn lingered in the city and led the companions in the Friday congregational prayer. He was held in such esteem that a few of those present, men who would later reveal their disloyalty, were moved not by admiration but by envy. Among these were Mullá Javád-i-Baraghání and Mullá ‘Abdu’l-‘Alíy-i-Haratí, both of whom feigned submission to the Revelation in the hope of satisfying their ambition for leadership. Secretly they strove to undermine Mullá Husayn’s position through hints and insinuations.

Mullá Husayn traveled alone, about a farsakh’s distance ahead of his companions. Whenever he paused at nightfall to offer his prayer, they would overtake him and complete their devotions together. He was the first to resume the journey and would be joined again at dawn, when he broke his march to pray. Such was the devotion he kindled that a number of his fellow travelers would dismount from their horses and offer them to those journeying on foot, walking themselves in his wake, indifferent to the strain of the march.

As they approached the outskirts of Isfahán, Mullá Husayn, fearing that the sudden entry of so large a group would excite suspicion, advised them to disperse and enter the gates in small, inconspicuous numbers.

When Mullá Husayn decided to continue to Shíráz, he learned that the city was in a state of violent agitation. All intercourse with the Báb had been forbidden. The visit would be fraught with grave danger. He was undaunted. He told only a few trusted companions of his intention. Then he discarded his robes and turban, put on the jubbih and kuláh of the people of Khurásán, disguised himself as a horseman of Hizárih and Quchán, and set out with his brother and nephew at an unexpected hour.

As he approached the city gate, he instructed his brother to proceed in the dead of night to the house of Hají Mírzá Siyyid ‘Alí and request that the Báb be informed of his arrival. The next day, word came back: the uncle was expecting him an hour after sunset outside the gate. Mullá Husayn met him at the appointed hour and was conducted to his home. Several times at night the Báb honored that house with His presence and continued in close association with Mullá Husayn until the break of day.

Soon after, the Báb gave permission for His companions who had gathered in Isfahán to leave gradually for Shíráz. He cautioned them to exercise the utmost vigilance, enter a few at a time, disperse immediately into lodgings reserved for travelers, and accept whatever employment they could find.

The first group to arrive and meet the Báb consisted of Mírzá Muhammad-‘Alíy-i-Nahrí, his brother Mírzá Hádí, Mullá ‘Abdu’l-Karím-i-Qazvíní, Mullá Javád-i-Baraghání, Mullá ‘Abdu’l-‘Alíy-i-Haratí, and Mírzá Ibráhím-i-Shírází. In the course of their association with Him, the last three gradually betrayed the baseness of their character. The Báb’s increasing favor toward Mullá Husayn aroused their anger and excited the smoldering fire of their jealousy. Unable at first to oppose him openly, they resorted to craft, fraud, and calumny. Their behavior alienated the believers and precipitated their expulsion from the community of the faithful. They allied themselves with the enemies of the Cause, proclaimed their utter rejection of its claims, and eventually the civil authorities expelled them from the city. They proceeded to Kirmán and joined forces with Hájí Mírzá Muhammad Karím Khán, reinforcing his denunciations. The Báb Himself, in a Tablet, compared them to the calf of the Samírí, the calf that had neither voice nor soul, both the handiwork and the idol of a wayward people. “May Thy condemnation, O God!” He wrote, “rest upon the Jibt and Tághút, the twin idols of this perverse people.”

And then, one night, a moment that had been gathering for years.

The Báb was visiting the home of His uncle. He had summoned Mírzá Muhammad-‘Alíy-i-Nahrí, Mírzá Hádí, and Mullá ‘Abdu’l-Karím-i-Qazvíní to meet Him there. Suddenly He turned to Mullá ‘Abdu’l-Karím and said, with calm and extreme gentleness: “‘Abdu’l-Karím, are you seeking the Manifestation?”

The words hit him like a blow. He paled. He burst into tears. He threw himself at the Báb’s feet in a state of profound agitation.

The Báb took him lovingly in His arms, kissed his forehead, and invited him to be seated by His side.

Later, when Mírzá Muhammad-‘Alí and his brother asked what had seized him so violently, ‘Abdu’l-Karím told them the story he had shared with no one until that hour.

Years earlier, in Qazvín, he had felt a profound yearning to unravel the mystery of God. He abandoned his business, occupied a room in one of the city’s madrisih, and plunged into study. Within two years he had resolved to master Muslim jurisprudence and theology. He became the disciple of Mullá ‘Abdu’l-Karím-i-Iravání, the most outstanding divine of Qazvín in those days, attending his lectures faithfully and submitting a treatise every night for his teacher’s revision. One day, before the assembled students, the teacher declared him qualified to expound the sacred Scriptures authoritatively. He announced that on the coming Friday, after the congregational prayer, he would elevate ‘Abdu’l-Karím to the rank of mujtahid and deliver the certificate.

The students congratulated him. He returned home elated. His father and his elder uncle, Hají Husayn-‘Alí, both greatly esteemed throughout Qazvín, were already preparing a feast to celebrate.

But that night, alone in his library, he looked honestly at himself.

Had he not believed that only the sanctified in spirit could attain this station? Had he not assumed that whoever reached it would be immune from error? And did he, in his own heart, regard himself as having achieved that purity? He felt the truth descend on him. He was still a victim of cares, temptations, and doubts, anxious about how to conduct his classes, how to lead prayer, how to enforce the laws, how to ensure his achievements exceeded those who preceded him. The consciousness of error overwhelmed him. He saw the rust of learning on his soul. He did not know whether his interpretation of the Qur’án was true. He wept until dawn. He neither ate nor slept.

In the darkness he prayed: “Thou seest me, O my Lord, and Thou beholdest my plight. I am lost in bewilderment at the thought of the multitude of sects into which Thy holy Faith hath fallen. Wilt Thou guide me in my perplexities, and relieve me of my doubts?”

Then came a vision. A great gathering of people. A noble figure in the garb of a siyyid sat on the pulpit before them, expounding the meaning of a verse from the Qur’án: “Whoso maketh efforts for Us, in Our ways will We guide them.” ‘Abdu’l-Karím was fascinated by his face. He advanced toward him, was on the point of throwing himself at his feet, and the vision vanished. His heart was flooded with light.

He went to Hají Alláh-Vardí, a man known throughout Qazvín for deep spiritual insight, and described what he had seen. Alláh-Vardí smiled and, with extraordinary precision, described the distinguishing features of the siyyid in the vision, then named him. “That noble figure was none other than Hají Siyyid Kázim-i-Rashtí, who is now in Karbilá.” ‘Abdu’l-Karím abandoned the rank, abandoned the feast, and departed at once.

In Karbilá he found Siyyid Kázim expounding to his disciples under the exact circumstances of the vision, the same setting, the same verse. He spent the entire winter at his feet. At the close of that season, Siyyid Kázim bade him depart. “Rest assured, O ‘Abdu’l-Karím,” he told him. “You are of those who, in the Day of His Revelation, will arise for the triumph of His Cause.”

‘Abdu’l-Karím returned to Qazvín. He followed the counsel he had been given. He traded by day, and at night he prayed alone in his room. With tearful eyes he would say: “Thou hast, by the mouth of Thine inspired servant, promised that I shall attain unto Thy Day. How long wilt Thou withhold from me Thy promise?”

Then, one night on the eve of ‘Arafih, in the year 1255 A.H., he was so wrapt in prayer that he seemed to have lost consciousness. A bird appeared, white as snow, and alighted on a twig beside him. In accents of indescribable sweetness, it spoke: “Are you seeking the Manifestation, O ‘Abdu’l-Karím? Lo, the year ‘60.”

The bird vanished. He tasted all the delights of Paradise. The joy was irrepressible.

For years he kept those words to himself, turning them constantly in his mind. He shared them with no one, fearing their sweetness would leave him.

Now, in a house in Shíráz, the Báb had spoken the same words, in the same tone and language as the bird in that vision.

And he understood.

That was the weight of what this chapter held. Not a catalog of incidents, but a single unfolding pressure. A farewell in Búshihr that named the road to martyrdom. A call to prayer that cracked a city open. A scourging that failed to break the man it was designed to destroy. An armed escort that arrived to seize a prisoner and ended up following Him in devotion. A turban knocked to the ground by a governor’s attendant, and set right by a man of conscience. A public declaration that planted the Cause deeper into hearts the authorities thought they had silenced. Treachery from within. And in a quiet room, a question that bridged a vision ten years old and sealed a soul’s recognition forever.

The Báb had come home to Shíráz. And every force the city could summon — the governor’s rage, the clergy’s alarm, the mob’s fury, the betrayal of false companions — had failed to do the one thing it intended.

It had not stopped the spreading.