Episode IX: Pilgrimage of the Gate

Mullá Husayn’s letter arrived in Shíráz, and the Báb did not wait.

He entrusted His wife to His mother. He placed them both in the care of His maternal uncle. Then He joined the company of pilgrims from Fárs bound for Mecca and Medina. The month was Shavval, 1260, October of 1844. Quddús was His only companion. An Ethiopian servant attended Him. They traveled first to Búshihr, the port city where the Báb had once lived the quiet life of a merchant alongside that same uncle. There He completed His preparations and boarded a sailing vessel bound for the shores of Hijaz.

The voyage took two months. The seas were high. Comfort was absent. Passengers sickened. Panic seized the ship.

But one man aboard that vessel would remember a different scene entirely.

Hájí Abu’l-Hasan-i-Shírází, traveling on the same ship, later described what he saw: “During the entire period of approximately two months, from the day we embarked at Búshihr to the day when we landed at Jaddih, the port of Hijaz, whenever by day or night I chanced to meet either the Báb or Quddús, I invariably found them together, both absorbed in their work. The Báb seemed to be dictating, and Quddús was busily engaged in taking down whatever fell from His lips. Even at a time when panic seemed to have seized the passengers of that storm-tossed vessel, they would be seen pursuing their labours with unperturbed confidence and calm. Neither the violence of the elements nor the tumult of the people around them could either ruffle the serenity of their countenance or turn them from their purpose.”

The Báb Himself, in the Persian Bayán, wrote of those days: “For days we suffered from the scarcity of water. I had to content Myself with the juice of the sweet lemon.” And because of that experience, He prayed that the means of ocean travel might soon be improved, that its hardships might be reduced and its perils eliminated.

Two months of storms, sickness, and thirst. And on every one of those days, Revelation did not pause.

They landed at Jaddih. The Báb donned the pilgrim’s garb, mounted a camel, and set out for Mecca.

Quddús refused to ride.

Though the Báb urged him again and again, Quddús walked the entire distance from Jaddih to Mecca on foot, joyously, prayerfully, holding in his hand the bridle of the camel upon which his Master rode. Every night, from eventide until the break of day, he stood watch beside the Báb, sacrificing sleep, ready to provide for His wants and ensure His protection.

Then the desert stripped them further.

The Báb dismounted beside a well to offer the morning prayer. A Bedouin appeared on the horizon, drew near, snatched the saddlebag lying on the ground beside Him — a bag containing His writings and papers — and vanished into the waste. The Ethiopian servant rushed to pursue him. The Báb, still praying, motioned him back with His hand.

Later, He told the servant what had happened: “Had I allowed you, you would surely have overtaken and punished him. But this was not to be. The papers and writings which that bag contained are destined to reach, through the instrumentality of this Arab, such places as we could never have succeeded in attaining. Grieve not, therefore, at his action, for this was decreed by God, the Ordainer, the Almighty.”

A thief carried stolen pages into the desert. The Báb saw not loss but providence.

On the day of ‘Arafát, He withdrew into quiet seclusion and gave Himself entirely to meditation and worship.

The following day, the day of Nahr, He offered the feast-day prayer, then proceeded to Muná. There, according to ancient custom, He purchased nineteen lambs of the choicest breed. Nine He sacrificed in His own name. Seven in the name of Quddús. Three in the name of His Ethiopian servant. He refused to eat any of the consecrated meat and distributed it all among the poor.

The month of Dhi’l-Hijjih, the month of pilgrimage, fell that year in the first month of winter. But the heat in that region was so intense that most pilgrims could not bear to make the circuit of the Ka’bih in their usual garments. They stripped down to light, loose tunics. The Báb refused. As a mark of deference, He kept both His turban and His cloak. Dressed in His full attire, with dignity, calm, simplicity, and reverence, He compassed the Ka’bih and performed every prescribed rite.

Then came the confrontation that cut the story open.

On the last day of His pilgrimage to Mecca, the Báb stood facing the Black Stone. Mírzá Muhít-i-Kirmání was there, a man who regarded himself as one of the most outstanding figures of the Shaykhí community, a direct successor and rightful inheritor of Shaykh Ahmad and Siyyid Kázim. The Báb took his hand and spoke:

“O Muhít! You regard yourself as one of the most outstanding figures of the Shaykhí community and a distinguished exponent of its teachings. In your heart you even claim to be one of the direct successors and rightful inheritors of those twin great Lights. Behold, we are both now standing within this most sacred shrine. Within its hallowed precincts, He whose Spirit dwells in this place can cause Truth immediately to be known and distinguished from falsehood. Verily I declare, none besides Me in this day, whether in the East or in the West, can claim to be the Gate that leads men to the knowledge of God. My proof is none other than that proof whereby the truth of the Prophet Muhammad was established. Ask Me whatsoever you please; now, at this very moment, I pledge Myself to reveal such verses as can demonstrate the truth of My mission. You must choose either to submit yourself unreservedly to My Cause or to repudiate it entirely. You have no other alternative.”

The challenge was absolute. No qualification. No appeal to patience. Submit or reject, here, now, in the holiest place on earth.

Muhít crumbled. Notwithstanding his age, his authority, and his learning, he stood before that Youth like a helpless bird in the grasp of a mighty eagle. Confused and full of fear, he answered:

“My Lord, my Master! Ever since the day on which my eyes beheld You in Karbilá, I seemed at last to have found and recognised Him who had been the object of my quest. I renounce whosoever has failed to recognise You, and despise him in whose heart may yet linger the faintest misgivings as to Your purity and holiness. I pray You to overlook my weakness, and entreat You to answer me in my perplexity. Please God I may, at this very place, within the precincts of this hallowed shrine, swear my fealty to You.”

The Báb listened. He was well aware of the man’s helplessness and poverty of soul. Then He answered, calling witnesses: “Verily I say, the Truth is even now known and distinguished from falsehood. O shrine of the Prophet of God, and you, O Quddús, who have believed in Me! I take you both, in this hour, as My witnesses. You have seen and heard that which has come to pass between Me and him.”

Muhít submitted his questions and pleaded the necessity of immediate departure for Medina. He asked to receive the Báb’s written reply before he left that city. The Báb granted the request: “On My way to Medina I shall, with the assistance of God, reveal My answer to your questions.”

Before departing, Muhít swore again: “I shall never depart from Medina, whatever may betide, until I have fulfilled my covenant with You.”

He broke every word of it.

Like a mote driven before the gale, he fled from the sweeping majesty of what he had witnessed. He tarried a while in Medina, then, faithless to his pledge and heedless of his own conscience, left for Karbilá. There the Báb’s written reply reached him: the Sahífiy-i-Baynu’l-Haramayn, the Epistle Between the Two Shrines, revealed on the road from Mecca to Medina. Muhít received it and remained unmoved. His attitude hardened into concealed and persistent opposition. At times he claimed to follow Hájí Mírzá Karím Khán, that notorious adversary of the Báb. At times he claimed the station of an independent leader.

Years later, near the end of his life, he tried one more approach. Living in ‘Iráq, he sent word through a Persian prince in Baghdád that he wished to meet Bahá’u’lláh, confidentially. Bahá’u’lláh’s reply was an ode composed during His own years of solitary retreat in the mountains of Sulaymáníyyih: “If thine aim be to cherish thy life, approach not our court; but if sacrifice be thy heart’s desire, come and let others come with thee. For such is the way of Faith, if in thy heart thou seekest reunion with Bahá; shouldst thou refuse to tread this path, why trouble us? Begone!”

Muhít could not comply and would not resist. He departed for Karbilá the same day. He sickened on arrival. Three days later, he was dead.

A man who had stood at the Black Stone and heard the truth from its Author’s own lips, who had sworn loyalty twice and meant it neither time. The distance between hearing and heeding proved, in the end, uncrossable.

Before leaving Mecca, the Báb addressed one more claim to one more authority.

He wrote an epistle to the Sherif of Mecca, setting forth, in clear and unmistakable terms, the distinguishing features of His mission. He delivered it through Quddús, along with selections from His other writings. The Sherif accepted the sealed book.

No answer came.

Years later, in 1267 A.H., Hájí Níyáz-i-Baghdádí made his own pilgrimage to Mecca and met the Sherif. In the course of their conversation, the Sherif told him: “I recollect that in the year ‘60, during the season of pilgrimage, a youth came to visit me. He presented to me a sealed book which I readily accepted but was too much occupied at that time to read. A few days later I met again that same youth, who asked me whether I had any reply to make to his offer. Pressure of work had again detained me from considering the contents of that book. When the season of pilgrimage was over, one day, as I was sorting out my letters, my eyes fell accidentally upon that book. I opened it and found, in its introductory pages, a moving and exquisitely written homily which was followed by verses the tone and language of which bore a striking resemblance to the Qur’án. All that I gathered from the perusal of the book was that among the people of Persia a man of the seed of Fátimih and descendant of the family of Háshim had raised a new call, and was announcing to all people the appearance of the promised Qá’im.”

The Sherif had held the claim in his hands. He had read verses that struck him as resembling the Qur’án itself. He had done nothing.

Hájí Níyáz told him what had followed, the multitude who rallied to the Báb’s standard, the martyrdom in Tabríz. The Sherif listened. Then he said: “The malediction of God be upon these evil people, a people who, in days past, treated in the same manner our holy and illustrious ancestors!”

Indignation, but too late. The book had sat unopened. The youth had come and gone. Nearness to the claim had not been enough. Neither prestige nor proximity could substitute for the act of answering.

From Mecca the Báb proceeded to Medina.

It was the first day of the month of Muharram, in the year 1261, the thirtieth of January, 1845. As He approached that city, He called to mind the stirring events that had immortalized the name of the Prophet who had lived and died within its walls. He prayed as He drew near the holy sepulchre that enshrined Muhammad’s mortal remains.

He remembered, too, the Herald of His own Dispensation. In the cemetery of Baqí’, not far from the shrine of Muhammad, Shaykh Ahmad-i-Ahsá’í lay buried, the one who had spent the evening of his days within those precincts after a life of onerous service.

And there came to Him also the vision of those holy men — pioneers and martyrs of the Faith — who had fallen on the field of battle and sealed, with their blood, the triumph of the Cause of God. Their sacred dust seemed stirred by the tread of His feet. Their shades seemed to rise at His approach, hastening toward Him. They seemed to plead:

“Repair not unto Thy native land, we beseech Thee, O Thou Beloved of our hearts! Abide Thou in our midst, for here, far from the tumult of Thine enemies who are lying in wait for Thee, Thou shalt be safe and secure. We are fearful for Thee. We dread the plottings and machinations of Thy foes.”

The Báb answered:

“I am come into this world to bear witness to the glory of sacrifice. You are aware of the intensity of My longing; you realise the degree of My renunciation. Nay, beseech the Lord your God to hasten the hour of My martyrdom and to accept My sacrifice. Rejoice, for both I and Quddús will be slain on the altar of our devotion to the King of Glory. The blood which we are destined to shed in His path will water and revive the garden of our immortal felicity. The drops of this consecrated blood will be the seed out of which will arise the mighty Tree of God, the Tree that will gather beneath its all-embracing shadow the peoples and kindreds of the earth. Grieve not, therefore, if I depart from this land, for I am hastening to fulfil My destiny.”

So the pilgrimage did not lead away from danger. It led through it.

He went to Mecca as a pilgrim. He declared His claim at the Black Stone. He carried it to the Sherif. He revealed the Epistle Between the Two Shrines on the open road. He stood within sight of Muhammad’s tomb and named the price aloud, His blood and the blood of Quddús, shed willingly, watering a Tree that would shelter the world.

He left Hijaz not with safety secured but with sacrifice accepted.

The road home led back to Persia. And Persia was waiting.