An Evil Eye

11

When Mullah Dede knocked on the wicket gate, a hatch slid back instantly. Eyes surveyed them through the grille. A moment later, the door opened and they stepped inside.

The monk quickly shot the bolts home and leaned back against the door.

“I am Brother Palamedes,” he gasped. “I will take you to the abbot.”

Brother Palamedes led the way through a door in the side of the gateway, and they entered a large, cool room with a flagged floor and a vaulted ceiling. In the middle stood a long oak table, flanked by benches, and at its head stood the abbot.

“You are most welcome,” he said. “You will take coffee?”

Mullah Dede smiled. “I do not touch stimulants,” he said. “But if my friend Yashim wishes…?”

Yashim shook his head. “Thank you, no.”

The abbot leaned on the table. “For several days, my friends, the brothers have been falling sick. They have stomach pains, vomiting. One of our oldest monks has died.”

Mullah Dede murmured an invocation.

“In the end, I had to suspect the water. So yesterday we sent a monk down the well to investigate. He found the body of a man.”

The mullah raised his eyebrows.

The abbot nodded. “He was-far gone, efendi. It was by no means easy to bring him out of the well, and so-” He wrinkled his nose and snorted, as if expelling an unhappy memory. “We are at a loss.”

“But you informed the civil authorities?”

“We sent word to the governor, but at a time like this…”The abbot spread his hands, and shrugged. “The sultan has died. Perhaps this death seems small. We need to bury him, God rest his soul.”

Mullah Dede coughed. “The people are saying that the man is a Muslim.”

“We do not think he is a Muslim, mullah,” the abbot said. “If he were to be a Muslim, that would cause difficulties. It would be out of our hands.”

The mullah nodded, and stroked his white beard. “I am thinking of the man’s soul.”

Yashim said: “You have taken steps to determine the man’s faith?”

The abbot glanced at Brother Palamedes. “It is-indistinct, Yashim efendi. He must have been dead for quite some time.”

Yashim squared his shoulders. “It would be better if you let me see.”

“It is not a good sight.”

“I imagine not.” Yashim paused. “A riot on the island would not be pretty, either. Anger feeds on speculation.”

The abbot nodded. “Very well,” he said, in a low voice. “Mullah Dede?”

“You understand my position,” Mullah Dede said. “If the dead man is a Muslim, he must be buried with the appropriate prayers, and in the proper place. While there is doubt, speaking as a man of faith, this seems to me to be the safest course. But we will let Yashim efendi decide. I do not wish to make trouble for the monastery, but neither can I allow a Muslim to go unburied.”

The sun beat down mercilessly on the first court, bleaching it almost to invisibility as they stepped out of the dark gateway.

“I told the abbot we should have dealt with this ourselves,” the monk burst out. “I am sorry, Mullah Dede, but it is true.”