Episode XV: The Prison on the Mountain

During the first ten days of the Báb’s confinement in Tabríz, no one knew what would happen next. Wild rumors circled the city. Then Siyyid Husayn-i-Yazdí ventured to ask his Master whether He would remain or be moved again.

“Have you forgotten the question you asked me in Isfahán?” the Báb replied. “For a period of no less than nine months, we shall remain confined in the Jabál-i-Basít, from whence we shall be transferred to the Jabál-i-Shadíd.”

Two mountain prisons. He named them both. Five days later, the transfer order arrived.

The state thought it was isolating a troublemaker. The Prisoner had already mapped the shape of the next affliction before the guards received their instructions.

The castle of Máh-Kú was a solid, four-towered stone fortress crowning the summit of a mountain. The town lay at its feet. The only road down passed through a gate that adjoined the seat of government and was kept permanently closed. To the west ran the river Araxes, marking the frontier with the Russian empire. To the south lay Ottoman territory; the border town of Báyazíd stood only four farsangs away. The castle had served as a military observation post. Its officer monitored enemy movements and reported emergencies to the capital.

The warden was a man named ‘Alí Khán. The people of the town were Kurds, all sunní. The shí’ahs of Persia had always been their enemies, and these Kurds held a particular hatred for siyyids, whom they regarded as the chief spiritual leaders and agitators among their opponents. ‘Alí Khán’s mother was Kurdish, and for that reason the people of Máh-Kú trusted him completely.

Hají Mírzá Aqásí had chosen the place with care. A remote corner of the empire, inhabited by a rebellious people who despised everything the Báb represented. The Grand Vizier imagined that few would dare penetrate such wild country, and that forced seclusion would sever the Báb from His followers, starve the Movement of contact, and let it die at its birth.

He was wrong almost immediately.

The turbulent spirits of that unruly people were subdued by the Báb’s gentleness. Their pride was humbled by His modesty. Their arrogance was mellowed by the wisdom of His words. Every morning their first act was to seek out a place from which they could catch a glimpse of His face. They would commune with Him from below and beg His blessings on their daily work. When disputes arose, they would hasten to that spot, fix their gaze on His prison, invoke His name, and adjure one another to speak the truth. ‘Alí Khán tried several times to stop them. He could not.

And at first, the discipline was severe. For the first two weeks, no one was permitted to visit the Báb. Only Siyyid Husayn and his brother Siyyid Hasan were admitted. Each day Siyyid Hasan descended to the town with a guard to purchase their daily necessities. Shaykh Hasan-i-Zunúzí, who had arrived at Máh-Kú, spent his nights in a masjid outside the town gate. He served as the sole link between the occasional visiting believers and Siyyid Hasan, who carried their petitions upward and brought back the Báb’s replies.

Then the Báb made a promise no one around Him believed was possible. He told His brother to inform Shaykh Hasan that He would Himself request ‘Alí Khán to change his attitude, and that the warden would bring Shaykh Hasan to the castle the very next day. Siyyid Husayn heard the message with disbelief. How could the domineering, self-willed ‘Alí Khán be induced to relax the severity of his discipline?

Early the next morning, the gate of the castle was still closed. Then came a sudden knock. The guards knew their orders: no one was to be admitted before sunrise. But the voice on the other side belonged to ‘Alí Khán himself, insisting on being allowed into the Báb’s presence at once.

Siyyid Husayn conveyed the request. The Báb commanded him to usher ‘Alí Khán in immediately. As Siyyid Husayn stepped out through the antechamber door, he found the warden standing at the threshold in an attitude of complete submission. The pride was gone. The self-assertiveness had vanished. His face showed an expression of unusual humility and wonder. He returned the greeting humbly, with extreme courtesy, and begged to be led into the Báb’s room.

His limbs trembled as he followed. An inner agitation he could not conceal brooded over his face.

The Báb rose from His seat and welcomed him. ‘Alí Khán approached, bowed reverently, and flung himself at His feet.

“Deliver me from my perplexity,” he pleaded. “I adjure You, by the Prophet of God, Your illustrious Ancestor, to dissipate my doubts, for their weight has well-nigh crushed my heart.”

Then he told what he had seen.

He had been riding through the wilderness, approaching the gate of the town at the hour of dawn. Suddenly his eyes fell on the Báb, standing by the side of the river, engaged in prayer. With outstretched arms and upraised eyes, He was invoking the name of God. ‘Alí Khán stood still. He watched. He waited for the prayer to end so he could rebuke the Prisoner for leaving the castle without permission. But the Báb seemed so wrapt in worship that He was utterly forgetful of Himself. ‘Alí Khán approached quietly. The Báb remained unaware. Then a great fear seized the warden, and he recoiled at the thought of waking Him. He decided instead to go to the guards and reprove them for negligence.

He reached the castle. Both the outer and inner gates were closed. They opened at his request. He was ushered inside.

And there sat the Báb, already in His room, seated before him.

“What you have witnessed is true and undeniable,” the Báb said. “You belittled this Revelation and have contemptuously disdained its Author. God, the All-Merciful, desiring not to afflict you with His punishment, has willed to reveal to your eyes the Truth. By His Divine interposition, He has instilled into your heart the love of His chosen One, and caused you to recognise the unconquerable power of His Faith.”

Those words calmed ‘Alí Khán’s agitation and subdued the fierceness of his animosity. He resolved at once to atone for his past behavior. “A poor man, a shaykh,” he told the Báb urgently, “is yearning to attain Your presence. He lives in a masjid outside the gate of Máh-Kú. I pray You that I myself be allowed to bring him to this place that he may meet You. By this act I hope that my evil deeds may be forgiven, that I may be enabled to wash away the stains of my cruel behaviour toward Your friends.”

The Báb granted his request. ‘Alí Khán went straightway to Shaykh Hasan-i-Zunúzí and led him into the presence of his Master. The promise the Báb had made the day before, the one Siyyid Husayn had found impossible, was already fulfilled.

From that dawn forward, the prison changed. At night the gates remained closed. But during the day, those whom the Báb wished to see were freely admitted. An increasing stream of pilgrims began to arrive from the provinces. After three days with their Master, they were dismissed with instructions to return to their homes and resume their work for the Cause. ‘Alí Khán himself visited the Báb every Friday, offered his loyalty, and brought the rarest and choicest fruits of the region.

And within the walls of that castle, confined but unbroken, the Báb devoted Himself to the composition of the Persian Bayán, the most weighty, illuminating, and comprehensive of all His works. In it He laid down the laws and precepts of His Dispensation. Again and again He announced the advent of a subsequent Revelation. Again and again He urged His followers to seek and find Him whom God would make manifest, warning them not to let the mysteries and allusions of the Bayán interfere with their recognition of that future Cause.

At the foot of the mountain, Shaykh Hasan-i-Zunúzí listened.

“The voice of the Báb, as He dictated the teachings and principles of His Faith, could be clearly heard by those who were dwelling at the foot of the mountain,” he would later testify. “The melody of His chanting, the rhythmic flow of the verses which streamed from His lips caught our ears and penetrated into our very souls. Mountain and valley re-echoed the majesty of His voice. Our hearts vibrated in their depths to the appeal of His utterance.”

Revelation poured down the mountainside. The prison that was meant to silence the Báb became the place where His greatest book was written, and even the landscape carried His voice.

Then summer and autumn passed, and winter came.

It was a winter of exceptional severity. Even the copper implements inside the castle were affected by the intensity of the cold. The beginning of that season coincided with the month of Muharram, 1264 A.H. The water the Báb used for His ablutions was so bitterly cold that its drops froze and glistened on His face.

After each prayer, He would summon Siyyid Husayn and ask him to read aloud from the Muhriqu’l-Qulúb, a work that recounted the virtues, the death, and the martyrdom of the Imám Husayn. The recital provoked intense emotion. The Báb’s tears flowed as He listened to the tale of the indignities heaped upon that holy figure, the agonizing pain inflicted at the hands of a faithless enemy.

But the grief was not only for Karbilá. As those circumstances were unfolded before Him, the Báb was continually reminded of a still greater tragedy, one yet to come. To Him, those past atrocities were a symbol foreshadowing the bitter afflictions which His own beloved Husayn was soon to suffer at the hands of His countrymen. He wept as He pictured calamities such as the Imám Husayn, even in the midst of his agonies, had never been made to endure.

There is a passage that reaches behind even that grief. In one of His writings, the Báb declared: “The spirit of prayer which animates My soul is the direct consequence of a dream which I had in the year before the declaration of My Mission. In My vision I saw the head of the Imám Husayn, the Siyyidu’sh-Shuhada’, which was hanging upon a tree. Drops of blood dripped profusely from His lacerated throat. With feelings of unsurpassed delight, I approached that tree and, stretching forth My hands, gathered a few drops of that sacred blood, and drank them devoutly. When I awoke, I felt that the Spirit of God had permeated and taken possession of My soul. My heart was thrilled with the joy of His Divine presence, and the mysteries of His Revelation were unfolded before My eyes in all their glory.”

That dream preceded everything, the Declaration, the Bayán, the prison, the weeping. The Spirit that animated the Báb’s prayers traced back to blood gathered from a tree, to a throat that never stopped bleeding, to a lineage of suffering that He had entered by choice and by communion.

Meanwhile, beyond the mountain, the empire was shaking.

No sooner had Muhammad Sháh condemned the Báb to captivity in Ádhirbayján than the Sháh’s own fortune reversed. Appalling disaster struck the forces charged with maintaining order in the provinces. In Khurásán, the standard of rebellion was raised. The projected campaign to Hirát was abandoned. Aqásí’s recklessness and extravagance had fanned the fires of discontent. The most turbulent elements in the regions of Quchán, Bujnúrd, and Shíraván joined the Salar, son of the governor, and repudiated the central government. Every force sent from the capital was defeated. Ja’far-Qulí Khán-i-Namdar and Amír Arslán Khán, son of the Salar, crushed the attacks and mercilessly put their captives to death.

Mullá Husayn was in Mashhad through all of this, working to spread the new Revelation despite the surrounding chaos. When he discovered that the Salar intended to approach him and recruit his support for the rebellion, he acted at once. In the dead of night, with only Qambar-‘Alí as his attendant, he left the city on foot, heading for Tihrán and from there to Ádhirbayján, determined to reach the Báb. His friends, learning how he had departed, rushed to overtake him with provisions and comforts. He refused everything.

“I have vowed to walk the whole distance that separates me from my Beloved,” he said. “I shall not relax in my resolve until I shall have reached my destination.”

He even tried to send Qambar-‘Alí back. But the servant would not leave his side.

In town after town, believers greeted him with the same request, stay, teach, lead. He gave them the same reply and pressed on. In Tihrán, he was received again by Bahá’u’lláh and drew from that meeting the spiritual sustenance he would need for what lay ahead. Áqáy-i-Kalím, who was among the believers who went to see him, later testified: “He seemed to us the very embodiment of constancy, of piety and virtue. He inspired us with his rectitude of conduct and passionate loyalty. Such were the force of his character and the ardour of his faith that we felt convinced that he, unaided and alone, would be capable of achieving the triumph of the Faith of God.”

Then came the night before his arrival at Máh-Kú, the eve of the fourth Naw-Rúz since the Declaration, falling on the thirteenth of Rabí’u’th-Thání, 1264 A.H.

‘Alí Khán dreamed a dream.

“In my sleep,” he would recount, “I was startled by the sudden intelligence that Muhammad, the Prophet of God, was soon to arrive at Máh-Kú, that He was to proceed directly to the castle in order to visit the Báb and to offer Him His congratulations on the advent of the Naw-Rúz festival.”

In the dream, ‘Alí Khán ran out to meet the Prophet. In a state of indescribable gladness, he hastened on foot toward the river. At the bridge, one maydán from the town, he saw two men advancing toward him. One he took to be the Prophet Himself. The other, walking behind, he supposed to be one of His distinguished companions. He threw himself at the Prophet’s feet and bent to kiss the hem of His robe.

Then he woke. A great joy had flooded his soul. He felt as if Paradise itself had been crowded into his heart.

Convinced of the reality of the vision, he performed his ablutions, offered his prayers, arrayed himself in his richest attire, anointed himself with perfume. He instructed his attendants to saddle three of his best steeds and bring them to the bridge. Then, alone and unescorted, he walked out of the town of Máh-Kú in the direction of the river.

The sun had just risen.

As he approached the bridge, he discovered, with a throb of wonder, the same two men he had seen in his dream, walking one behind the other, advancing toward him. He fell at the feet of the one he believed to be the Prophet, and kissed them devoutly. He begged both men to mount the horses he had prepared.

“Nay,” came the reply. “I have vowed to accomplish the whole of my journey on foot. I will walk to the summit of this mountain and will there visit your Prisoner.”

It was Mullá Husayn.

That experience deepened everything ‘Alí Khán felt toward the Báb. In an attitude of humble surrender, he followed Mullá Husayn up the mountain path until they reached the gate of the castle. The moment Mullá Husayn’s eyes fell on the face of his Master, standing at the threshold of the gate, he halted instantly, bowed low, and stood motionless by His side.

The Báb stretched forth His arms and embraced him. Taking him by the hand, He led him to His chamber. He summoned His friends. Dishes of sweetmeats and the choicest fruits were spread before them. As He offered quinces and apples to Mullá Husayn, the Báb said: “These luscious fruits have come to us from Milán, the Ard-i-Jannat, and have been specially plucked and consecrated to this feast by the Ismu’lláhu’l-Fatiq, Muhammad-Taqí.”

Naw-Rúz was celebrated in the castle on the mountain. The companions were together. The prison had become a place of reunion.

That day, ‘Alí Khán went to the Báb and offered what no one had asked of him. “If it be Your desire to retain Mullá Husayn with You this night, I am ready to abide by Your wish, for I have no will of my own. However long You desire him to stay with You, I pledge myself to carry out Your command.” From that point, the Báb’s disciples arrived in increasing numbers and were admitted to His presence without the least restriction.

One day, the Báb and Mullá Husayn stood together on the roof of the castle. The Báb gazed toward the west and saw the Araxes winding its course far below. He turned to Mullá Husayn and said:

“That is the river, and this is the bank thereof, of which the poet Háfiz has written: ‘O zephyr, shouldst thou pass by the banks of the Araxes, implant a kiss on the earth of that valley and make fragrant thy breath. Hail, a thousand times hail, to thee, O abode of Salma! How dear is the voice of thy camel-drivers, how sweet the jingling of thy bells!’”

Then He added: “The days of your stay in this country are approaching their end. But for the shortness of your stay, we would have shown you the ‘abode of Salma,’ even as we have revealed to your eyes the ‘banks of the Araxes.’” By the “abode of Salma” the Báb meant the town of Salmás, which lies in the neighborhood of Chihríq, the next prison.

He continued: “It is the immediate influence of the Holy Spirit that causes words such as these to stream from the tongue of poets, the significance of which they themselves are oftentimes unable to apprehend.” Then He quoted another verse: “Shíráz will be thrown into a tumult; a Youth of sugar-tongue will appear. I fear lest the breath of His mouth should agitate and upset Baghdád.” And He said: “The mystery enshrined within this verse is now concealed; it will be revealed in the year after Hín.”

He quoted the tradition: “Treasures lie hidden beneath the throne of God; the key to those treasures is the tongue of poets.”

Then, one after another, He told Mullá Husayn of events that must yet come to pass. He told him not to speak of them to anyone. “A few days after your departure from this place,” He said, “they will transfer Us to another mountain. Ere you arrive at your destination, the news of Our departure from Máh-Kú will have reached you.”

The rooftop. The river. Poetry whose meaning had run centuries ahead of its author. A transfer already named. And beneath all of it, events still sealed, revealed to one man and bound in silence.

The prediction was promptly fulfilled. Secret watchers had been reporting ‘Alí Khán’s every movement to Aqásí. They wrote in detail: “Day and night, the warden of the castle of Máh-Kú is to be seen associating with his captive in conditions of unrestrained freedom and friendliness.” And they added what must have astonished the Grand Vizier most of all: ‘Alí Khán, who had obstinately refused to wed his daughter to the heir to the throne of Persia, pleading that his sunní Kurdish relatives would kill them both, now desired with the keenest eagerness that same daughter to be married to the Báb. The Báb had refused. But ‘Alí Khán persisted. He had even begged Mullá Husayn to intercede on his behalf.

A man who would not give his daughter to a prince now begged a Prisoner to accept her.

Those reports struck Aqásí with immediate force. Fear and resentment drove that capricious minister to issue a peremptory order: transfer the Báb to the castle of Chihríq.

As the Báb bade farewell to Mullá Husayn, He spoke words that carried the full weight of what was coming:

“You have walked on foot all the way from your native province to this place. On foot you likewise must return until you reach your destination; for your days of horsemanship are yet to come. You are destined to exhibit such courage, such skill and heroism as shall eclipse the mightiest deeds of the heroes of old. Your daring exploits will win the praise and admiration of the dwellers in the eternal Kingdom.”

He named every stop on the road ahead, the believers of Khúy, of Urúmíyyih, of Marághih, of Milán, of Tabríz, of Zanján, of Qazvín, and of Tihrán. To each, Mullá Husayn was to carry the Báb’s love and strive to inflame their hearts anew. From Tihrán he was to proceed to Mázindarán, “where God’s hidden treasure will be made manifest to you. You will be called upon to perform deeds so great as will dwarf the mightiest achievements of the past.”

On the morning of the ninth day after Naw-Rúz, Mullá Husayn set out. To Qambar-‘Alí, who would again walk beside him, the Báb spoke one last word: the Qambar-‘Alí of a former age would glory to know that his namesake had lived to witness a Day for which even the Lord of his lord had sighed in vain, a Day of which He had spoken with keen longing: “Would that My eyes could behold the faces of My brethren who have been privileged to attain unto His Day!”

Twenty days after Naw-Rúz, the Báb bade farewell to the people of Máh-Kú, who, in nine months of captivity, had recognized to a remarkable degree the power of His personality and the greatness of His character. Mullá Husayn, already on the road, was still in Tabríz when the news of his Master’s predicted transfer to Chihríq reached him, exactly as promised.

Máh-Kú was chosen to bury the Cause in stone, frontier distance, and winter cold. Instead a warden’s limbs trembled at the threshold, a mountain carried the sound of revelation, and a man who had refused the heir to the throne begged a Prisoner to marry his daughter.

The Prisoner was moved. The Cause did not diminish. And Mullá Husayn walked south with sealed knowledge of deeds still to come, deeds so great, the Báb had told him, as to dwarf the mightiest achievements of the past.