The palace chamberlain came rushing in, breathless and visibly shaken. His hesitation and stammering announced that some words were struggling to escape his lips, flashing across his face like lightning in a storm-lashed night.
Antar motioned for him to come forward and stand before him, beside the royal throne.
"What's wrong with you, Chamberlain? Why do you look so rattled and confused?"
The chamberlain stammered, "There's a stranger. His appearance is disturbing. I've never seen anyone like him. His eyes spit sparks—rage, anger, and…"
Antar sprang to his feet at once. He already knew who the stranger was. His head moved up and down like a hammer, issuing orders: bring the man in immediately, and let no one else enter while the two of them were together.
The chamberlain hurried away and carried out the order in a silence so complete it felt ominous.
The mysterious man entered at once and approached Antar, who was suddenly seized by alarm.
"What brings you here now, Shamshon? Out of nowhere? And how did you allow the chamberlain to see you? Didn't we agree that what passes between us is a secret known only to me, you, and Minister Qandil?"
Shamshon smiled slyly. The sharp tips of his teeth flashed beneath his lips, giving off a faint whistle like wind announcing a coming storm. A dim light glimmered in his small, narrow eyes.
"Learn this well: I can do anything. Anything at all. In any shape I choose, and at any time I choose."
Antar's voice came out tense and hoarse, broken like the slow grinding of a millstone crushing coarse grain.
"But the chamberlain saw you. And the guards saw you, too, and—"
Shamshon cut him off with the confidence of a man who considered fear someone else's problem.
"No need for all this panic. You know perfectly well that I brought my masks—the ones I use when necessary. I can erase my image from this chamberlain's mind, or anyone else's, so completely that he'll forget the whole thing after I recite a few of my cursed spells. But that isn't why I came. Don't distract me from what I'm here to discuss."
Antar asked eagerly, curiosity taking over his fear. "And what exactly is that? Why have you rushed in like this?"
Shamshon answered reproachfully, with a hidden blaze of anger beneath every word.
"How dare you begin writing a law, a religious code, texts, or scriptures without coming to me? Do you really think you can do without my services?"
He turned in a sweeping half-circle, showing Antar his back, then continued in a tone that carried threat, warning, and menace all at once.
"Have you forgotten yourself? Or have you merely pretended to? Have you actually started believing that you are the One and Only, with no king and no master above you? Or have you decided you deserve to be a god—genuinely worshiped?"
His voice hardened.
"Don't forget that this whole thing is a set I invented. We are the ones who built your authority. I gave you this grandeur. I created the glitter, the majesty, the inflated image. Without me, you would…"
Antar answered in a stammer, glancing nervously left and right as though the walls of his enormous palace might overhear him. Suddenly those walls seemed to close in around him, squeezing his ribs and grinding his bones.
"I know that. I don't deny it. But why are you saying all this? Why is there that anger in your eyes, flashing like sparks flying from a blacksmith's file? If you think I was going to do this without your knowledge or advice, you're completely wrong."
He paused, then added in genuine astonishment, "How did you know? The idea is brand-new. It hasn't even been a day!"
Shamshon answered with confidence mixed with irritation.
"Do you still not understand that I can know everything that happens in your palace, everything you tell anyone? I can disguise myself. I can disappear. Have you forgotten that? Or are you doing what you always do—pretending to forget? And, unfortunately, I've seen very little gratitude for what I've done for you, or loyalty to the one whose help you're now planning to use without him. You—"
Antar interrupted, trying to soothe him.
"Of course not! How could you even imagine such nonsense? Would I ever do anything without your mind directing it, without you being the one who plans and commands everything I do? It's nothing more than an idea that crossed my mind. I only wanted to consult Minister Qandil about it. The action, the execution—that is always yours, my dear. Always. What would I do without you? Does that even make sense?"
A breath of anger escaped Shamshon like steam from a volcano that had nearly erupted but had somehow been forced to obey the laws of nature.
"Fine. I'll forgive you this time. Consider your slip overlooked. But remember: what you have done, or intend to do, is dangerous. It must be carefully designed and tightly managed."
Then he looked at Antar with a calculating gaze, greed dripping from his eyes like blood dripping from a freshly struck carcass.
"And, of course, everyone should benefit. Everyone."
He let the word hang there.
"Understand? So take your time. Don't rush this."
Antar eagerly agreed. "Of course. I'll leave the planning and the details to you. We need solid ideas—and a solid doctrine."
"For it to be solid," Shamshon said, "it needs a plot, a narrative, a story powerful enough to shake everyone who hears it. And you will be its hero. I'll begin work this very moment."
Antar was swollen with vanity. His bulging eyes gleamed like those of a hungry beast about to tear into its prey.
"How long I've waited for this. I've always dreamed of being the hero of a story—its first and last name, the one everything revolves around."
"Leave it to me," Shamshon said. "You won't regret it. I'll make everyone on the planet of Antrototo sing your praises. I'll turn you into a real god."
Antar could barely contain himself.
"I'll give you the largest suite in the palace. Start writing the whole story now. I want heated events—blazing events. I want to be the sole hero of this tale. I want to be a real god, worshiped by every creature and feared by every existing thing, even inanimate objects."
And so Shamshon began writing and shaping the events of this farcical play. Antar gave him the largest suite in the palace, and Shamshon lived there almost permanently. Naturally, no one knew he was there except Minister Qandil, the only person allowed to enter whenever he pleased. The two of them would sit together, plotting and composing the narrative, shaping the story into the version that would satisfy this foolish, vain Antar. They had an interest in the outcome, too, and expected to collect their share of the good fortune that would come from it.
The work proceeded at full speed, while Antar waited as though sitting on hot coals. Time passed—days, nights, entire stretches of life—without meaning anything to him. Time itself seemed not to exist yet. And still he felt every hour dragging over his head, hammering him with an iron mallet, as though he were crossing a long, heavy stretch of road paved with stones of boredom and anxiety. The waiting piled up inside him like a gigantic pyramid, crushing his chest and nearly silencing his breath forever.
One day, after several months had passed, Shamshon finally emerged from his room, staggering like a drunk from exhaustion. Qandil was beside him, staring in astonishment. The two stood before Antar.
Shamshon stepped forward. A thought had suddenly flashed through his mind like lightning in a stormy night.
"I found it."
Antar leaned forward. "Found what? Have you finished your work or not?"
Shamshon gave a sly laugh, half-closing his eyes as though he were half asleep.
"Soon. Very soon, my lord. Don't rush me. The work is nearly done, and the writing is almost finished. But two very important things remain. Without them, the work will never be complete and the events will never fully ripen. In other words, they won't be convincing enough for your waiting slaves, my lord."
Antar nearly snatched the words straight from Shamshon's mouth.
"What two things? Tell me quickly. I'm almost out of patience."
Shamshon answered with great interest and enthusiasm.
"First, there must be a stage—a place where the events can actually happen and the characters can play their roles. Second, since you are the hero of the story, the hero of the whole narrative, every hero needs a sworn enemy who tries to fight him. That will make the events hotter and more convincing for the audience—or, excuse me, your slaves, your deluded slaves, I mean your believers, of course, my lord.
"Otherwise, how will we present the story to them? How will we convince them that you are the all-powerful, all-conquering, all-wise, all-merciful hero, capable of everything, if there is no accursed enemy for you to defeat? You will appear heroic before him—or like a mighty god, if you prefer."
Minister Qandil quickly joined in.
"And to make the story even more convincing, hotter, and more compelling for these poor slaves—I mean believers—and to increase their faith, their piety, their reverence, and their fear, the enemy must spend all his time regretting the fact that he fought you and refused to obey you, my lord. Better still, we should make him outside your rule after once being under your command. That way his regret will be greater and his punishment harsher."
Shamshon nodded.
"And to make it even more believable, this enemy must be portrayed as miserable and remorseful for defying a hero like you. He knows he will inevitably lose, and that once you withdraw your favor from him, he will remain forever deprived. And for your believing slaves—your loyal, sincere believers—to accept this central event in the story, we must persuade them that the enemy behaved this way because he was either an idiot, a lunatic, or completely insane!
"So your enemy must spend all his time trying to lure your slaves toward him. He must seduce them by every possible means, disguise himself in different shapes and forms, drag them into his camp, and make them suffer the same fate he does—so they will regret what they have done just as he does!"
Antar clapped enthusiastically with both of his enormous, extraordinary hands.
"Brilliant! Brilliant! What a plot! It will suggest my power, confirm my authority, and increase my prestige. Everyone will submit to me."
Shamshon leaned toward him.
"And don't forget—it's my idea, too."
They all laughed loudly, their laughter echoing through every corner of the palace.
The next day, Minister Qandil slipped in quietly, keeping his distance from Shamshon, and approached Antar.
"But, my lord, you haven't decided where the story will take place. You haven't chosen the stage, the setting where this whole tale will begin."
"Here," Antar said. "Here, on the planet of Antrototo."
Qandil stared at him. "Here only?"
Antar, already certain of his decision, replied, "Yes. Here only."
Qandil sighed in frustration.
"But, my lord, you have allocated enormous sums, treasures, and expenses for this project. This huge story could cover other planets in the space around us. Or Shamshon could go searching and perhaps discover a suitable place. He could consult his books and magical talismans, decode some unknown location. You know he is a magician. He can do anything."
Then Qandil moved closer to Antar and whispered in a hiss that smelled of his hidden hatred and jealousy of Shamshon.
"You know Shamshon is extremely greedy. He will demand enormous sums for writing and weaving all these events. Why not make use of that? Let what he gets be proportionate to what he gives."
Antar waved him off with a bored sigh.
"Forget that for now. You always resent him, with or without reason. I want to concentrate all my strength and effort here—here on Antrototo, in my name. Later, perhaps, I'll think about what you've said. But I make no promises that I'll do it."
Then, as though remembering something important, he continued enthusiastically.
"And don't forget that he is writing me a very important doctrine—a law, in fact laws—that all my slaves will follow, and their children and grandchildren after them. Doesn't that make it worth paying him well?"
Antar's throat tightened with suppressed anger.
"But, my lord, Shamshon is greedy and—"
Antar cut him off sharply.
"Enough. I don't want to hear another word about it. I've decided. That settles it. Shamshon has every right to do whatever he wants and demand whatever he wants until he finishes writing the entire story. I've always longed to be the one and only hero—me, and nobody else—in a grand story packed with events like the ones Shamshon writes.
"Now get out of my sight. Go help him. He needs you, and he will certainly notice when you're gone."
Minister Qandil bowed before Antar and left with reluctant, heavy steps, the words locked behind iron chains in his mouth—chains that seemed close to rusting there.
After a short while, Shamshon and Qandil stood again before Antar. Shamshon had a huge book in his hands, wrapped in a thick, durable black cover.
"Here you are, my lord. Your doctrine is ready. This is the Engraved Confession."
Antar reached for the book eagerly.
"The what? The Engraved Confession?"
Shamshon looked toward Qandil with a confident smile, then turned back to Antar.
"Yes, my lord. The Engraved Confession. That's what I called it. And before you ask me why, I'll tell you.
"I was able to infer—using powers you know very well—everything that any one of your believing slaves might confess. Every thought that might cross a man's or woman's mind: anything that could anger you, diminish your prestige, weaken their fear of your power, or reduce their eagerness for your mercy, forgiveness, and favor.
"So I wrote down what each slave might think, every punishment that might befall them if they disobeyed you, and every reward they would receive if they obeyed you and earned your favor. I predicted everything that could happen to all your slaves, from birth to death. It's all engraved here, between the covers of this book, according to carefully designed laws and solid rules."
Antar asked with sudden concern, "And what about him? What about my enemy? You haven't mentioned him. How can I become a hero if I have no enemy to defeat and no followers to gain?"
Shamshon answered with complete confidence.
"Relax, my lord. I haven't forgotten him. I have actually given him the most important part of the story—the central part. He will be a being whom I will convince the believing slaves truly exists. He will be made of a frightening, harmful thermal substance. I will make them believe they can never see him, no matter how hard they try. His only purpose is to lure them away from your straight path, my lord. I'll call him Samaan."
Antar drifted into fantasy, ambition carrying him far away.
"Samaan… Samaan."
Shamshon continued.
"And naturally, the more devoted they become to you, the more they will believe. Anything connected to you, directly or indirectly, they will accept as truth and obey. They will hate your accursed enemy even though they have never seen him, and without a shred of evidence or certainty beyond what I tell them."
Antar frowned uneasily.
"But suppose one of them asks questions—or demands proof, or some kind of certainty. What will we do then?"
Shamshon answered with mocking amusement.
"Have you forgotten, my lord? They believe in you. They surrender to you. They obey you. So that moment will never come—as long as they believe."
They both laughed at the same time.
Qandil, however, stood watching them thoughtfully. His eyes held a mixture of spite and anger beneath a pale smile that spread across his face like a patch of earth soaked by heavy rain until it turned to mud.
Then Shamshon suddenly spoke with renewed attention.
"But I want to remind you of something important, my lord."
"What?" Antar asked.
"Do you remember when Qandil told you we must keep these poor believers divided and in constant disagreement, so they remain trapped in a permanent race—always eager and thirsty to know you and draw closer to you? That will never happen unless they remain scattered and confused."
Antar thought deeply.
"Yes. Yes, I remember. To guarantee their loyalty, they must remain permanently confused, forever searching for me, trying to earn my favor and escape my punishment. And they must never unite around a single principle, or they may eventually expose my secret."
Shamshon nodded.
"And to achieve that, they must imagine you in many forms, with many meanings, many faces, and many names. They must always feel they are searching for you, while you remain hidden so your true nature cannot be exposed.
"They know you as the king and ruler of Antrototo. But turning you into a god to be worshiped is another matter. So we must make them believe you have a thousand forms, a thousand images, a thousand names—anything that will keep them forever running after your true identity, always wondering where it is and how to find it."
Antar's vanity swelled.
"That guarantees their loyalty and their blind, unseen faith in me. They will never uncover my secret, no matter how hard they try."
Minister Qandil stepped closer and joined the conversation.
"And to make this absolutely secure, my lord, Shamshon and I have divided your book and your doctrine into three forms. Other forms may branch off from them later, but these will be the essential building blocks—the foundations we will call divine law, if we may put it that way.
"We have assigned each one a primary color. The first is white, because it is the basis from which all the other colors emerge. It will be the core doctrine.
"The second is red, symbolizing strength, warmth, sacrifice, the shedding of blood and the giving of oneself for others, and pure love without reward.
"The third is an irregular mixture of the previous colors and several others—strange, confused, violent, authoritarian colors that do not seem to make sense. But you will claim, my lord, that these are the final form into which all your earlier laws evolved, and that they contain every virtue, even when they clearly seem not to."
Antar raised the book and pressed it against his broad chest without saying a word. Then he burst into a thick, harsh laugh like a madman who had finally found the treasure he had been desperately searching for.
He hugged the book tightly and lifted it above his head as though he had just acquired the greatest treasure in existence. Then he climbed onto his throne, standing on the seat itself like a lunatic, book in hand, spinning and dancing in delight at his supposed divinity.
He shouted with joy like a madman, while Minister Qandil and the magician Shamshon watched him in silence.
Chapter Four
"They Said: 'The Proof?'"
The herald marched through the planet, beating his enormous drums, with the soldiers of Antar's palace following behind him. The drumbeats pierced the ears of everyone who passed, announcing that an examination and test would begin for all the inhabitants of the planet.
There would be a great reward for anyone who passed the test—and severe punishment for anyone tempted to disobey Antar's orders, Antar who was now being proclaimed a god.
At the time, the inhabitants of the planet had no real concept of gods or divinity. They saw Antar as a powerful, tyrannical ruler whom they feared, and their thoughts had never gone much farther than that. It had never occurred to them that Antar might one day be their creator—that he might have created them from nothing and brought them into existence out of absolute nothingness.
That was the message being promoted by those who preached Antar's divinity, his followers, and his soldiers, all of whom had learned the lesson well. Shamshon, using his magical methods, together with Minister Qandil, worked tirelessly to spread the idea and plant it in the minds of every creature and person on Antrototo. Eventually they even promoted the claim that Antar was responsible for creating the animals and plants as well.
As with most beginnings, the idea was strange, difficult, and unwelcome. Everyone was stunned. They fell silent. Yet inside that silence, questions froze on their lips like a river or waterfall waiting for the heat of a blazing sun to release it in a furious rush.
Only fear prevented them from speaking—their terror of Antar's brutality and overwhelming power. They had not accepted him as a god, or even as some great creator. Fear had simply shackled them. Weakness surrounded them, and ignorance settled over their minds. Fear—nothing but fear—became the only path available for obedience.
Fear even killed their desire for the rewards Antar had promised them. Fear itself became their ruler, taking command before Antar even had to.
Happiness was no longer their dream or ambition. The goal was simply to avoid pain. Hope was no longer about attaining happiness; hope became the hope of suffering as little as possible, of escaping misery.
Antar had imposed that condition upon them. He had created the suffering that awaited them if they failed to comply.
But this situation apparently did not satisfy Shamshon, and he refused to stop there. At once he called a closed emergency meeting with Antar and Minister Qandil. With eagerness and concern written into his voice, he looked thoughtfully at Antar.
"Things will not be convincing enough this way. Not for the purpose we are aiming at. Fear alone cannot be the only barrier—the giant monster standing between us and our mortal enemy."
At that, Antar leaped to his feet like a shell fired from the mouth of a volcano.
"Who is this enemy? Where is he? Tell me where he is and I'll kill him immediately. Come on!"
Shamshon gently took Antar by the arm and sat him back down, wearing his usual wicked smile.
"Calm yourself, O anticipated god. Nothing can threaten you while I'm here. This mortal enemy can be erased with a stroke of my pen—assuming he is actually standing in front of you in the first place!"
Antar stared at him in confusion.
"I don't understand. How can my enemy not be standing in front of me? How can my opponent be someone I cannot see? How am I supposed to destroy him?"
"By trickery, my lord. By trickery. What I mean is that our greatest enemy is hostile thinking. We must devise a careful plan to destroy that accursed enemy."
Minister Qandil joined in firmly.
"Exactly. If that enemy gets hold of the inhabitants of the planet and takes control of their simple minds—minds that will not remain simple forever—he will kill all their fear. Worse, he will defeat their fears. And once that happens, our entire operation will be exposed. That would never serve us. So we need an immediate solution and a carefully designed plan to confront and defeat this enemy."
Antar answered nervously, "Then we increase their fear. We intensify their terror until we completely block the way for that accursed enemy named Thinking, son of the vile Mind."
Shamshon shook his head.
"That will not be enough. Once thinking takes possession of their minds and tightens its grip, it will kill fear immediately. Fear itself will fall to its knees before thinking, and thinking will drive its sharp sword into its side."
Qandil asked, "So what is your plan now, Shamshon?"
Shamshon drifted into thought. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them repeatedly, looking upward as though watching the movement of a distant star. Suddenly his face lit up.
"I've got it! This is the perfect solution—the thing that will keep them under control in an eternal, endless enchanted world. It is the magic of imagination. It is… faith."
Antar stared at him.
"Faith? What is faith? And how will faith defeat thinking?"
"It is something like magic," Shamshon said. "A spell, like one of my own enchantments. It is the eternal secret that will bewitch them into a realm of nonexistence, illogic, and unconsciousness—yet they will believe it exists. Or at least, they will think it does."
Qandil frowned, frustration and skepticism hidden beneath his words.
"I don't understand you, Shamshon. Please explain. We don't understand what you mean. What exactly are you talking about?"
Shamshon answered calmly.
"Faith is the magical touch, the twisting master plan, the eternal promise offered to those who seek the favor of the god Antar and pursue his endless paradise. The allure of faith will be the magic key to the religious order.
"Therefore it must remain unseen. Its true nature must remain unclear, so that it becomes a mirage every believer follows.
"All they need to know about themselves is that they must believe—trust, and become absolutely certain, beyond any room for doubt—that you are the one and only living god who cannot be defeated and cannot die.
"Even if you have a thousand colors and a thousand forms, you are still one in every shape and every color. Even when that contradicts logic, reason, or what their eyes plainly tell them, faith in you will be enough to beautify and heal the damage caused by that contemptible thing called thinking."
Qandil answered with a tone laced with doubt and mockery.
"But acquiring the faith you describe will not be easy. Convincing them will not be simple. Faith may lose the battle to thinking and transform from belief into denial. Their desire to reject may overcome them, turning into the disease of that cursed thinking.
"They may feel, at times, that they need your supposed faith. But just as often their urge to reject may overpower them. Then a struggle begins between the need for faith and the inability to embrace it—a battle against rejection and the fever of thinking, that dangerous disease."
Shamshon disagreed.
"No, my dear. I don't agree. Perhaps for a while thinking will stand between them and the god like a barrier, and each person will run away. But the pink spell of faith will pull them back at once.
"I can scatter its powder into the open air until they all breathe it in. It will numb their minds, prevent the disease of thinking, crush it, and turn it to its own advantage. Even thinking itself will become a prisoner of the divine shadow, blinded by the overwhelming light, until it can see nothing but the light of faith.
"That light will blind it to everything else. They will become completely sedated, oblivious to reason and thought, asleep in a long, eternal nap filled with rosy dreams.
"And then all the inhabitants of the planet will become unaware, numbed, fooled—"
He turned toward Antar, whose narcissistic smile stretched across his broad jaws.
"—I mean, believers."
"Isn't that right, O great god?"
They all laughed, their laughter shaking the walls of Antar's palace.
But Qandil interrupted them after clearing his throat, as though a military commander preparing to issue an official statement.
"But for the great faith plan to succeed, the test must have real weight and value. And for the inhabitants to believe in faith, people from among them—people of their own kind, ordinary humans like themselves—must explain it to them and make it simple.
"The closer the person delivering the message is to the people receiving it, the easier and faster the idea will be understood."
Antar asked, "And who exactly are these people you mean, Qandil? Please explain."
Shamshon jumped in quickly, as though he had understood Qandil's meaning, or perhaps had been about to say the very same thing. But Qandil spoke first.
"I'll explain the idea, O anticipated god. What Minister Qandil means is that you should send trusted representatives from your palace or soldiers you rely on. They will act as intermediaries. They will carry your message throughout the planet and introduce the people to your new nature.
"You are no longer merely a powerful tyrant. You have, in truth, been a god from time without beginning—an eternal god with neither origin nor end.
"We must convince them that you concealed this from them because you feared the shock of revealing it all at once. You wanted them to adjust gradually. You are responsible for them. You created them from nothing, and you created everything else as well.
"And in return, you place them under this test. They are obligated to pass it in order to win your approval and deserve your paradise, to save themselves from your anger and punishment, and to escape the severity of your torment.
"For this test to feel convincing and close to them, others like them must participate. They must tell the people that they, too, are taking the same test, and that they are required to believe in your divinity, worship you, remain loyal to you, and obey you."
Qandil, now carried away by the heat of the argument, continued.
"And naturally, these representatives and official spokesmen of yours, my lord, will be nothing more than your obedient soldiers. And the others will be special because they will convince the people that they themselves never sin, that they are above wrongdoing and guilt, so they can serve as role models for everyone else. Isn't that right, my lord?"
Antar was overwhelmed by happiness.
"Of course. You are both absolutely right. From this moment on, I will select the best of my men to become my finest representatives, carrying my purpose and my message to every inhabitant of Antrototo."
Shamshon added, "And some of the wives and mistresses of your palace men, my lord, have experience and skill and could—"
Antar cut him off with contempt.
"No. No women. I trust men more. They are stronger. They are leaders, chiefs, heads of households, pioneers. They stand above the rest. They are not like these females, whom I see only as objects of pleasure for men, sources of lust, or means of producing children. Beyond that, they are worth nothing to me."
Shamshon bowed obediently.
"As you command, my lord."
Several days later, the chamberlain entered Antar's presence and asked permission for the head of the guard to come in. Antar granted it.
The head of the guard was Noor, a man in his thirties: smooth-faced, tall, fair-skinned, brown-eyed, with thick, soft hair falling over his broad, pale forehead. His shoulders were broad, giving him the appearance of an athlete.
He entered Antar's presence boldly and bowed before him. Then, suddenly serious, he spoke with his usual confidence.
"My lord, there is something I wish to say."
Antar watched him closely.
"What brings you here, Noor? Speak. Why have you come in such a hurry?"
Noor answered frankly.
"My lord, we need a few plans and some adjustments if we are going to make the inhabitants believe the new message being carried through the streets and homes by your palace soldiers. They will not believe these claims so easily. They are not accustomed to them yet. To make them accept them, we need a dramatic plot—a carefully woven, convincing story."
Antar leaned forward eagerly.
"Get to the point. What are you trying to say?"
Noor continued.
"The matter requires a very high degree of persuasion. To accomplish that, all these people must believe. You need a representative who can stand in for you, someone they trust, someone they already know—in other words, one of their own, one of the people. That will make persuasion easier and make them accept what he tells them more quickly."
Antar answered confidently, "I know. I already discussed this with Minister Qandil."
"I know," Noor said. "I know that very well, my lord the ruler. But you still haven't decided who that representative will be—the person you'll send to deliver your laws and doctrine and teach them about this new identity you've given yourself: that you are a god, the creator and source of everything."
"I'll work that out with Minister Qandil," Antar said. "Surely our discussions will lead to a satisfying and convincing result."
Noor brightened.
"I have a proposal I am certain you will like."
"What is it?"
"I want to be the first representative."
Antar looked surprised.
"You? How?"
"Why not me? I see nothing strange or improper about it." Noor moved closer and lowered his voice as though revealing one of the greatest secrets in existence—or perhaps the ultimate confession.
"My lord, I am the head of the army and the guards. I have always been the person closest to the people. I know them personally. I know how and when to reach them and how to get to the heart of their thoughts.
"I am also the one most capable of persuading them. They all know me. As head of the guard, I am constantly among them. I know the good from the bad, the honest from the corrupt."
He paused.
"Well? What do you think, my lord?"
Antar fell silent for a moment that seemed to stretch into an entire age. His imagination wandered far away, as though Noor's words had transformed him into a real god and planted even deeper roots of narcissism and superiority inside him.
At last he turned toward Noor.
"I promise I will think seriously about it. I may very well accept your proposal. Rest assured."
He dismissed him.
Noor left confident that Antar would agree. He knew Antar well: selfish and narcissistic, desperate to claim every achievement for himself, hungry for praise and glorification, always eager to display his strength and greatness and polish his image before the people. Since Noor believed he could do exactly that, he was certain his request would be granted.
After consultations between Antar and Minister Qandil, with the decisive opinion coming—as always—from his greatest magician and mastermind, Shamshon, they settled on Noor, head of the guard, as the first official representative and messenger of Antar in this new identity the people had never known before.
Noor would tell them that Antar was a true god and must be worshiped, and that offerings should be made to him in his new capacity.
But during the discussion, Qandil suddenly leaped to his feet, apparently struck by panic.
"But, my lord the ruler—excuse me, I mean the god—perhaps Noor will find it difficult to convince all the inhabitants of Antrototo, your kingdom and state. The planet is large, at least from our perspective, and its population is enormous. Its borders stretch across many distant, diverse regions.
"We may run into a problem. Our plans could fail, and all our preparations could be wasted."
The three men fell silent and exchanged looks. It was as though a tongue of flame were already approaching the soil where they had planted their ideas, where the seeds of their sinister—excuse me, their benevolent—doctrine had begun to sprout, ready to tear them from the ground with sharp teeth of fire, leaving neither green nor dry blade behind.
But Shamshon broke the silence with a voice that shook the palace. He sprang to his feet like a cannon about to fire.
"I've got it."
Antar, in his usual narcissistic impatience, said, "Quickly. What's the solution?"
"First, we send Noor to one single place, one specific region of the planet. Since the planet is so vast, we leave the rest without any representative or messenger."
Qandil stared at him in disbelief.
"What are you talking about? What will we do with everyone else? Even if Noor manages to convince the people in that one region, there will still be many other regions that have received no messenger. What will we tell them? How will we convince them that we simply left them without an official representative? On what grounds will we answer them?"
Shamshon half-closed one eye and opened the other like a predatory wolf, wearing the cold smile of a clever fox.
"Don't rush to judgment. That is your problem, Qandil—you are always impatient. When I said we would begin by sending Noor, the head of the army, to one particular region only, I did not mean we would never send anyone else.
"We will send other representatives to the remaining regions you mentioned. Not a single corner of Antrototo will remain without a messenger. But we must not do it all at once. Haste would never serve us in a matter like this.
"I think there should be intervals of several years between the messengers, so each one has time to preach about the god, introduce him to the people, and change their view of him—from a mere ruler and king into something else. When one messenger dies, another will be sent shortly afterward."
Antar looked uneasy.
"But what if the later people don't believe what happened with the first group? What if they call every messenger a liar and say there was no one before him? What will prove that what he tells them is true? They will certainly accuse him of lying, and our plan to control the planet and bring it under our authority will fail."
As always, when anxiety struck, Antar tapped his thick fingers nervously against the arm of his throne.
"And what frightens me most is that one day the inhabitants of this planet could turn against me or rebel, and I would end up as nothing—scattered debris."
While Qandil exchanged worried, suspicious looks with Antar, Shamshon reassured them both with complete confidence.
"Fear nothing. Neither of those things will happen. Every messenger we send has a major shared interest with us. He will work hard to convince whichever people he is assigned to.
"He will persuade them—or at least some of them—once he wins their trust with stories and tales that have been carefully woven with your permission and will, O glorious one. He will tell them about the messengers who came before him, his peers and counterparts, and how they suffered as he suffers, struggled as he struggles.
"Because he will win their trust, and because they will be lured by the paradise promised by their new god, frightened by his punishment, seduced by the hope of reward, and held by blind faith, they will follow him and accept—or rather, believe—everything he tells them: sayings, myths, and stories that will touch the hearts of their believing listeners.
"And in the end, every time we send a new messenger—an emissary of mercy to us, I mean, 'a mercy to the worlds'—his followers will slowly gather into a large group. With time, their words will be trusted and obeyed. Their stories and legends will become familiar, desirable, even eagerly sought after.
"Didn't I tell you? It is the magic of the blind—I mean, the magic of strong, unshakable faith."
The three men burst into thunderous laughter and raised a toast to victory.
Chapter Five
The Hidden, the Lofty, the Exalted
Preparations began in Antar's palace. Minister Qandil and the head of the guard, Noor, worked on them, naturally with Shamshon present in disguise so no one would notice him. Only Qandil knew he was there.
After some time, during which they instructed Noor on what he should say to the region where he would be sent, how he should begin speaking to its inhabitants, how he should guide them, and how he should draw their attention to the claim that Antar was a god—eternal, immortal, the creator and sustaining presence behind everything, all-powerful and exalted—the journey finally began.
Noor set out and walked through the streets, homes, alleys, and narrow lanes of the region where he had been assigned.
But this time was different.
Normally he went through the area in his capacity as head of the army and guards, checking reports, investigating thefts, following up on mistakes, and uncovering violations committed by the people of Antrototo.
This time he surprised them with something no one had expected.
At first they assumed he was rambling, suffering from some illness, or perhaps trying to trap them in order to identify criminals among the innocent.
But they were astonished to find Noor standing in the middle of the town's large square, known as Fishermen's Square because it was the main gathering place for the local fishermen.
Noor recognized a golden opportunity. This was the ideal place to launch his new message. The square was the center of movement in the region targeted for his mission, and it stood near the city's great lake, around which the inhabitants' livelihoods and daily lives revolved.
It was also where the most powerful and influential figures of the region could be found—the people who controlled the population's food, drink, livelihoods, and everyday survival.
Noor thought to himself: This is the perfect place to begin with the great men, the people who control the interests of the powerless and hold their livelihoods in their hands. And behind them, of course, stands Antar. They can become powerful tools in his hand, crushing anyone wherever he goes and however he wishes.
That was how things had always worked.
So if he used these powerful men, they would become an effective means of achieving the objective quickly and forcefully.
Conviction was not important here. The result was what mattered. The objective had to be achieved as quickly as possible.
And then there was faith—the magical answer to every question, the shortcut around every difficulty, the quick, comforting answer that silenced thought itself. Faith could dress submission and surrender in the robes of peace, then pull the curtain down over every doubt, every question, every astonishment.
That was where the beginning lay.
Noor stood among the crowd after they realized that he had not gathered them to perform his usual duties as head of the army.
Instead, he astonished them by appearing in a new role—as Antar's messenger and envoy.
Their surprise deepened. Their mouths fell open as though birds had nested on their heads when Noor told them that Antar was not the Antar they thought they knew.
He went on to describe Antar in his new form.
Antar, Noor told them, had never been what they had assumed. He had concealed his true nature from them all this time because he feared the shock of the revelation. If he had appeared before them in his true, divine form, their human nature and the way they had been made—brought into existence from nothing—would never have allowed them to endure the sight.
What Noor said exploded among them like a bomb dropped into mountains of astonishment, mixed with indifference and irritation.
Some thought he was joking.
"We know Antar," they told him. "He is a powerful, tyrannical ruler. We don't need you to make us fear him even more than we already do."
But Noor insisted.
He kept repeating that Antar was not merely the ruler they knew. He possessed another, eternal nature, a true nature that he had hidden from them out of mercy and concern for their inability to endure his divine presence.
Had he not been merciful, Noor claimed, he would have appeared before them in his true face—as a god.
Noor began describing Antar's wisdom, power, and greatness, which were supposedly revealed through the creation of everything around them: galaxies, stars, the atmosphere, and the entire chain of life across the vast regions of the planet that appeared to have no end.
His power, Noor claimed, extended even farther. There might be places the inhabitants had not yet discovered, but Antar had created those places too. That was only natural, since he was all-powerful, all-knowing, and aware of the unseen.
His words spread like fire through dry grass, at lightning speed, through the blackness of a stormy night.
Cries and shouts rose from the people of the region. Their voices mingled with astonishment, objection, disbelief, and confusion—especially when Noor began explaining the paradise and favor they would receive if they believed, accepted, and followed Antar the god in his new identity.
He told them that Antar was the one and only being deserving of loyalty, allegiance, obedience, surrender, and submission.
Then he described the doom and destruction that would fall upon them under this god's anger and wrath—punishments beyond anything their minds could imagine if they refused to believe that Antar alone deserved worship and absolute obedience, without argument or discussion.
The people found themselves caught between the hammer and the anvil, crushed like grain beneath a millstone.
Or perhaps, Noor's words suggested, they were expected to become overnight creatures with the mind of a bewildered donkey, forever caught between the stick and the carrot—afraid of the stick one moment, running after the carrot the next, exhausting themselves in the chase while fleeing the threat behind them.
They would never get what they wanted, and they would never escape the stick. Their wishes would never be fulfilled.
All that remained was surrender.
There seemed to be no escape, no matter how much remained hidden or unclear.
Suddenly, among the astonished and protesting voices, another voice rose above the crowd.
It belonged to Abu al-Hikmah.
Abu al-Hikmah was a fisherman of modest means—neither rich nor poor. He was a humorous man who loved jokes and satire and made a point of doing the opposite of what everyone else did.
For example, he wore two skullcaps on his feet instead of sandals or slippers.
He loved joking about everything around him. Sometimes he even mocked himself, laughing at his own pain and sorrow with outrageous comments designed to provoke laughter.
Abu al-Hikmah was about forty years old. His hair was curly and rarely combed, as though he feared that combing it might cause the thick mass to collapse between his shoulders.
His wide gray eyes carried a deep sadness wrapped in a mocking, comic look that matched his words perfectly. His eyes seemed to drip indifference more than they revealed the worries and sorrows hiding in his wandering gaze.
He was of average height—not tall, not short.
Every morning he dressed in the clothes of a fisherman and sat on the lake shore. But before fishing, he would bring a pen and a large sheet of paper. He had learned to read and write as a child, and he would carefully record every word and every letter spoken by anyone passing around the lake.
When he had filled the sheet on both sides, he would cut it across the middle and paste the back half onto the front sheet from behind.
The result was a collection of statements that were simultaneously different, distorted, and wildly inconsistent.
A sentence might begin with a ship and suddenly veer into an apple, or leap from black to white, from north to south, all at once. Beginning and conclusion could collide in the same sentence—fish, milk, tamarind juice.
Abu al-Ibr called these "paradoxes": words from the East glued to words from the West.
Then Abu al-Ibr would repeat them among the people until the strange combinations became familiar enough to make everyone laugh.
That was how Abu al-Hikmah became known among the people: the laughing, crying satirist.
And all of that belonged to his comedy of words.
But he did not stop there.
He perfected the comedy of actions as well.
Sometimes he walked along carrying a fish he had caught in one hand and an old shoe or sandal—a single one—in the other.
And he loved nothing more than wearing on his head whatever belonged on his feet, and wearing on his feet whatever normally belonged on the head.
Anyone who saw him burst out laughing.
Now, Abu al-Hikmah raised his voice and made it ring through the crowd gathered around Noor.
"True enough. Actions speak louder than words."
Everyone looked at him.
He pointed to the slipper he was wearing on his head and the skullcap he wore on his feet. In one hand he carried a ladder and a stick; in the other he carried a plunger whose drain had been clogged.
Then he stood straight and, with the same outrageous mix of wit and nonsense, declared:
"If what I'm wearing on my head really belongs there, and what I'm wearing on my feet really belongs there"—he pointed to the two skullcaps on his feet—"then each thing is in its proper place. Which means my brain must also be exactly where it belongs.
"And for my brain to remain healthy and sound, it must be down there in the soles of my feet.
"So if that is the case, then the messenger Noor has spoken the truth."
The crowd erupted in laughter.
They had all expected something like this from Abu al-Hikmah. They were used to him.
One of those present turned toward him and said, laughing, "For the first time, Abu al-Hikmah, I actually understand something you've said. Maybe this is the first time you've described something correctly—with all your words, paradoxes, strange actions, and peculiar habits."
Noor looked at him with suspicion mixed with sadness—a sadness colored by despair, pale and gray like his own confusion and fear.
He knew that once Abu al-Hikmah took aim at someone, that person would not escape his satire and his words.
Perhaps the others considered Abu al-Hikmah one of those harmless fools who mixed hidden wisdom with humor and deliberate stupidity—or perhaps with stupidity that was not deliberate at all.
People tended to leave such characters alone. Perhaps it was useful. Perhaps it was political. Perhaps it distracted the public, entertained them, or simply gave their pent-up frustrations somewhere to go.
But this time Noor wondered whether Abu al-Hikmah's words—at this particular moment, in this particular context—were helping or harming the mission and obstructing the desired objective.
His confusion deepened as he watched everyone, astonished by what Noor had said, applauding Abu al-Hikmah and delighting in his sarcastic observations, which were now being poured into their minds and ringing in their ears.
They had just heard about the new god embodied in the person of their tyrannical ruler—about his supposed hidden nature, which they were supposedly meant to have known from the beginning; about how he was the true creator of everything, the primary cause behind every event, and the only one who could answer prayers, pleas, and desperate appeals.
Nothing else could help them.
Everything around them—the natural world, living beings, even still objects, mountains, rivers, oceans, everything on Antrototo—was supposedly created by him.
He had given everything the spark of beginning and the seed of formation and simply said, "Be," and it was.
Astonishment filled the place.
The inhabitants had always believed that the natural things around them simply interacted with one another in a chain of causes in which they found themselves.
When they could not explain the mysterious conditions of their world or planet—storms, lightning, fires, earthquakes, volcanoes, violent winds—they invented explanations involving angry spirits, mysterious monsters, hostile gods, or perhaps angels.
They drew all of this from myths, folk tales, and stories circulating among them about kings of spirits, beasts of fire, and hidden creatures.
Creatures such as the Flying Spaghetti Monster, Batman, or Tarzan might be responsible—or so their imaginations told them—for the mysterious natural events they could not explain.
They had no bigger or better explanation. This was the highest achievement their minds had reached.
These ideas gave them a particular sense of spirituality: the feeling that mysterious, hidden, powerful beings existed beyond the limits of their minds, beings they could not see, perhaps expressions of a single mighty entity with limitless power that could not be seen, proved, or directly understood except through these other mysterious beings—sometimes angry, sometimes merciful.
But to imagine Antar himself as that god was another matter entirely.
They had known him only as a tyrant: brutal, authoritarian, pathologically devoted to himself, threatening them whenever they disobeyed, and tempting them with pleasures—not for their own welfare or happiness, but for the sole purpose of satisfying himself and making them submit to his unjust, irrational laws, even while he described himself as just and merciful.
He used the basest methods even to tempt them: sex, drink, and money for anyone who carried out his orders without question.
Antar, the ruler who answered to nobody, asked no permission for anything he did or said.
What a narcissistic dictator.
Throughout his reign he had trained them to believe that everything had a price and everything required something in return.
Even obedience was not supposed to be an expression of love for him, nor did he want it as proof of affection. He wanted fear.
He wanted them to fear him so he could constantly feel his own power and arrogance.
He offered pleasures almost as if he already knew they hated him, as if he understood that they would never obey him simply because of who he was, or out of respect, admiration, or affection.
They obeyed because of what they could get out of it—not because he had a pleasing face.
Antar was a materialist of the most extreme kind. Despite his generosity and extravagance with money, he was miserly with emotion, stingy with tenderness and compassion.
He spent fortunes, but always for his own purposes and his own vanity. He wanted to be praised, glorified, and immortalized at every moment.
And yet—astonishingly—there came a time when these people were told that their ruler Antar was, in truth, a hidden, mysterious, powerful god who had concealed his divine ability and heavenly authority from them all this time out of fear for them and compassion toward them.
They were told that he had a sacred book containing new laws unlike those they had known before, a book called the Doctrine, meant to introduce them to his new characteristics and attributes.
This, of course, was what Noor kept explaining to them, repeating, elaborating, adding emphasis.
Neither Abu al-Hikmah's jokes and paradoxes nor the people's rejection or astonishment could turn him from his course.
He continued calling them day and night, telling them about the new, one and only god deserving reverence, loyalty, obedience, worship, and absolute submission.
He told them that he was Antar's messenger, sent to them because he was close to them, lived among them, belonged to them, and would therefore be easy for them to understand.
But Noor was shocked to discover that his preaching did nothing but increase their stubbornness, disbelief, and refusal.
They closed their ears, grew arrogant, and turned away.
Eventually despair reached Noor's limit. Disappointment and sorrow took over.
And in truth, they could hardly be blamed.
They were already frightened—frightened every day by the brutality of this unjust regime, by the suppressed rage and restrained fury of its ruler.
They did not need more brutality, more fear, more promises, or more threats. What they already endured from Antar was more than enough.
Noor fell into deep sadness and, after losing even the last distant hope, decided to return to Antar and complain about them—their stubbornness and their refusal.