The Architect's Apprentice Part 34

Together Balaban and Jahan hatched a plan, deciding it would be safer to arrive at the port in disguise.

'I could pa.s.s as a Roma,' Jahan suggested. If they went around in similar attire and banded together, they might pull it off.

Balaban wasn't convinced. This could make things harder on land and in the water. 'You don't want to be treated like us, brother. It's no paradise being a Roma.'

Next they considered dressing him up as a merchant. If he gave the impression of being wealthy and important, he might have less trouble while boarding. But as soon as the ship was riding the waves, the sailors would rob him blind. Jahan had to look respectable without looking rich. In the end, it was decided he would pose as an Italian artist a dreamer of sorts, who had been roaming the Orient selling his talents and was now returning home, older and wiser. Should anyone inquire about his paintings, he would say they had been shipped earlier. If things went as expected, he should reach Florence in ten days.

Finding him the right costume was no problem for Balaban and his men, though getting the correct size proved tricky. They handed Jahan a sack of clothes a shirt of linen, a doublet with odd sleeves, a leather jerkin and breeches that could be tied above the knee. Each of fine fabric and each too big.

Balaban grinned when he saw Jahan. 'Signori Jahanioni, you've shrunk!'

They laughed like the boys they were deep inside. Balaban's men had robbed the Venetian Doge's clerk in plain daylight a man clearly st.u.r.dier than Jahan. Yet, after a few alterations by Balaban's wife, everything fit perfectly. She insisted on dyeing Jahan's hair and beard with henna. When she had finished, Sinan's apprentice could barely recognize himself in the mirror. His outfit was crowned with a velvet hat purple on black. By now his bruises had healed. Only the scar on his cheek remained, a reminder of a night he would rather forget.

On the day of Jahan's departure, Balaban and his men climbed on a carriage pulled by a donkey. In his honour it was garlanded with flowers and ribbons. So many had huddled into the wagon that the poor donkey could barely move, let alone trot. Cursing the law that forbade Gypsies from riding horses, then quarrelling among themselves, they tried to persuade one another to stay behind to no avail. Everyone wanted to escort Jahan. In the end, they arranged three carriages. Up and down the streets they proceeded in a gaudy convoy, ignoring the stares of the townspeople, who gaped at them, half in amazement, half in disdain, as if they had descended from a different Adam and a different Eve.

Midway through, Balaban's uncle began to sing; his voice rough and hoa.r.s.e but mellow carried in the breeze. One of the boys produced a reed pipe from his sash and picked out the melody.

When Jahan asked what the song was about, Balaban said in a whisper so quiet that Jahan had to crane forward to hear him, 'This man goes to a wedding. Everyone is happy, dancin', drinkin'. So he dances, too. He cries.'

'Why does he cry?'

''Cause he loves the girl, dolt. And she loves him. They are marrying her to another fella.'

Jahan's chest felt heavy as the music subsided first the lyrics, then the tune. The gloom must have been contagious. An awkward silence fell. Close to the port, on a lush hill, the carriages came to a halt.

'We'll drop you here; better this way,' said Balaban.

One by one, they hopped down. Jahan took off the cloak he had been wearing to hide the Italian garments underneath. He hugged each of them, kissing the hands of the elderly and the cheeks of the children. Balaban, meanwhile, didn't budge, leaning against the cart, chewing a straw. When Jahan had said farewell to all, he strode towards Balaban; then he noticed the Gypsy had something in his hand, round and blue as a robin's egg.

'What's this?'

'An amulet. Daki dey made it for you to protect you from the evil eye. Wear it upside down on the sea; and the right way up when you reach the sh.o.r.e.'

Jahan bit his lip to choke back the sob rising in his throat. 'I'm grateful.'

'Listen, about the harlot ... We made inquiries. Seems there were eight women in that hamam of sorrows.'

'Right?'

'Well, there're still eight, I hear. No one left, no one came.'

'What are you saying?'

'I'm sayin', there was no funeral. Something's queer. I don't want you to suffer all your life. Maybe you didn't kill anyone, brother. It was a fraud.'

'But the dwarf lady ...' said Jahan. 'She was on my side.'

Balaban sighed. 'Sad you're goin'. Glad you're goin'. You are too trusting to survive in Istanbul, brother.'

Clumsily, the Gypsy chief pulled Jahan close and punched him teasingly on his stomach, brother to brother. Balaban said, 'Who am I goin' to save from trouble now?'

'You can save Chota's son. Will you take care of him?'

'Oh, don't you fret. We'll tell him what a great pa he had.'

While Jahan fumbled for words that didn't come, Balaban jumped on the carriage, grabbed the reins, his eyes cast down. His men followed suit, patting Jahan on the shoulder. Once they had settled, the carriages sallied forth. Everybody waved but Balaban. Jahan waited for him to turn and glance back one last time. He didn't. His long, dark hair flapping in the wind, the Gypsy chief stared ahead. As they were about to round a bend, the carriage stopped and Balaban peered back. Although it was too far away for Jahan to be able to tell, he thought he saw the trace of a smile on the Gypsy chief's face. He raised his hand in valediction. Balaban did the same. Then they were gone.

Pain surged inside Jahan, sharp as a knife thrust into his flesh. He sat on a tree stump, thinking. He did not know what Providence had in store for him, and once again he was diving into it with the recklessness of the ignorant. Even so, there was no going back. As the sun made its way up, he, too, set forward on his way.

As always, the harbour was teeming with voyagers, seafarers and slaves. No sooner had he stepped on to the wharf than its vibrancy and vastness swallowed him. It was one of the best ports, they said. Ships could get in without having to use their oars or pray for the winds to fill their sails. Captains could trust the current to bring them in. The two opposite tides of the Bosphorus, unlike the city itself, were predictable, dependable. On this day, there were plenty of vessels about, though only a few kept their sails ready-rigged. There was a three-masted carrack, sleek and majestic, that was destined for Venice. That was the one Jahan was aiming for.

Now that he was an Italian artist, he stared with fascination at each curiosity and doffed his hat at every woman nun or damsel. He saw pilgrims, Jesuit priests with hair shirts and cowls, and dignitaries with the permanent stain of ink on their fingers. There was a scribe sitting behind a makeshift desk. People had gathered around him, watching his plume compose magic. Jahan struck up a conversation with an Albanian vendor, from whom he bought honey sherbet. A man was trying to lead a hooded horse a thoroughbred black stallion up the ramp from sh.o.r.e to ship. Where were they taking the animal, Jahan wondered, and would the beautiful creature survive the voyage.

It was as he was standing there watching the scene that Jahan noticed, at the periphery of his vision, Davud's two deaf-mutes. They were wending their way through the crowd, coming in his direction. Jahan held his breath, sipping his drink. They pa.s.sed by, paying him no attention.

A moment later the shrillest scream pierced the air. 'Stop, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!'

That magnificent horse had risen up on its hind legs and knocked the page straight into the water. Laughter rippled through the port, quickly m.u.f.fled by yells and cries as the horse, still hooded, cantered down the ramp, running headlong into the spectators. Blocked by bodies and boxes on every side, he was not able to bolt as freely as he could have wished. Still, unwilling to stop, he trampled whatever was in his way.

The page, saved from the water and dripping with fury, was shouting orders and curses. Jahan caught up with him. 'What's the horse's name?'

'What the h.e.l.l you askin'?'

'Tell me its name!' Jahan said, losing patience.

The man raised his eyebrows. 'Ebony.'

Jahan scurried after the horse. The hood had slipped off but seeing its surroundings had only increased its panic. 'Ebony,' Jahan called, over and again, keeping his voice as level as he could manage. Horses did not exactly recognize their names. Yet they could catch a familiar tone when they heard one, just as they could perceive the intention behind it.

Hemmed in, the stallion was revolving, neighing and tossing its head nervously. Jahan stood in front of it, showing his empty hands. He approached step by step, one soothing word after another. Had it not been tired, the horse would not have allowed him to get near. But it was. Grabbing it by the reins, Jahan caressed its neck tenderly.

On an impulse, Jahan turned back. There, only a few yards away, stood the deaf-mutes, staring at him without so much as blinking, their expressions impossible to read. Were they suspicious or simply intrigued? Having glanced once, Jahan dared not do so again. A knot gripped his chest. A trickle of sweat rolled down the nape of his neck. His clothes felt ridiculously heavy as it occurred to him what a nuisance they would become should he need to make off quickly. He had two pouches, one inside his robe, the other sewn into the hem of his shirt courtesy of Balaban's wife. If he were to run now, the coins would jingle, adding to his discomfort.

It was as he was contemplating his options that the crowd, as if slit from side to side by an invisible knife, parted. The French amba.s.sador was coming. The man who had dissected Chota's body with a dispa.s.sionate curiosity. Beside him was his wife, attired in an embroidered jacket-bodice and the greenest velvet gown, holding a handkerchief to her nose against the stench, her eyebrows puckered. They sauntered by without recognizing him, heading for the ship he had set his sights on. A flock of servants were at their heels, carrying boxes and cages in which hissed, cooed and squawked creatures of all kinds. Monsieur and Madame Breves were returning to France, taking their private menagerie with them.

There were peac.o.c.ks, nightingales and parrots, their feathers bright as springtime. There was a falcon, a hawk and an exotic bird with an enormous beak a gift from the Sultan. But it was the monkeys that everyone was jostling one another in order to see a female and a male, dressed as a miniature n.o.blewoman and n.o.bleman. Clad in silk and velvet, the two monkeys were watching the crowd with partly frightened, partly mirthful eyes. The female monkey bared her teeth from time to time, as if she were laughing at the humans the way they were laughing at her.

Taking advantage of the commotion, Jahan slipped away, setting a steady, swift pace. Not once did he glance back. He steered a zigzag path through crates, ropes and planks, amid sailors, porters and beggars. There was another carrack far ahead. He had no idea where it was bound, but he felt pulled towards it. It occurred to him that Davud might have guessed his intention to go back to Rome, and advised his guards to keep a close eye on all vessels to Italian ports. It would probably be wiser to take a ship in a different direction. He could then disembark at the first port and make his way to Michelangelo's land. With this conviction he reached the carrack and climbed up the plank.

'We don't take on strangers,' said the Captain after listening to him. 'How do I know you're no criminal?'

'I'm an artist,' Jahan said and, fearing he might ask him to paint his portrait as proof, he added, 'I draw landscapes.'

'Funny trade you've got. You get paid for that?'

'If I find a generous patron '

'Fancy that!' the man remarked dourly. 'Some of us break our backs. You live a dainty life. Nay, you can't come. You'll bring us bad luck.'

'I bring good luck, I can a.s.sure you,' Jahan said. 'To prove my trustworthiness, allow me to offer this.'

Taking out his pouch, he emptied it on the table. The Captain's eyes glinted; he reached out for a coin and bit its edge. 'Fine, get a move on. Stay in the hold. You may eat with the men. Make sure I don't see you around.'

Jahan gave a tight nod. 'I promise you won't.'

They were not raising anchor for another day. Jahan spent this time waiting below in an airless cabin. Only when they set sail did he muster the courage to go upstairs. The city glimmered in the distance the bazaars, the coffee-houses and the graveyards with cypress trees and upright stones with turbehs. The place where he had learned to love and learned never to trust love. He saw the minarets of the Suleimaniye and the Shehzade mosques, the father and the son. He saw the dome of the Hagia Sophia, a glint on the horizon. And he saw Mihrimah's Mosque, as secretive as the woman it was named after.

Putting his right hand on his heart, Jahan saluted them, acknowledging the sweat and the prayers and the hopes that had gone into building them. He hailed not only the people but also the stone, the wood, the marble and the gla.s.s, the way his master had taught him. The seagulls followed them for a while, shrieking their goodbyes. When the gusts blew more strongly, they returned to the city. Strangely, their leave-taking felt as gloomy as his own.

The curse ... How could she call it such when it was a gift, Jahan thought at the beginning. Gradually he would recognize how life had outwitted him. What he had taken to be a gift he would learn, later on, was a scourge; what he had received as a bane he would come to see as a blessing. But back then, following dada's advice, he was thinking, who among all the artists and architects in the world would not wish to live a hundred years or more, never fearing that time would come to an end in the midst of a new work, which could, for all one knew, turn out to be the best he had ever done. Without fear of death, Jahan was spared fear of failure. Exempt from such apprehension, Jahan could design more, design better, perhaps even surpa.s.s his master. Determined, excited, he travelled to one port after another. He went to Rome, France, England and Salamanca, where he expected to find Sancha, but there was no trace of her.

That he worked hard and asked for little money, together with his knowledge, kept him in demand. Although he was no member of any guild and could not be employed, he was able to ply his trade indirectly, sketching for other architects, always underpaid. It troubled him slightly that the spell, though it gave him strength and additional years, had not made him look a day younger. While he showed no sign either of debility or of senility, he visibly carried his age. People, sensing something unusual, something dark, asked him how old he was. When Jahan said he was ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight ... they stared at him wide-eyed. A glint of suspicion flickered in their eyes, as they wondered whether he had made a pact with the devil albeit only once had he heard anyone voice this aloud. Whichever way he travelled, south or north, it was the same: human beings sharing a lack of trust, if not a lack of sympathy, for anyone who lived beyond the allotted number of years.

That was when Jahan began to think maybe the witch was right. Maybe his master had made a pledge with her. Sinan had lived longer than every major craftsman in the empire. He had raised more buildings than any mortal could ever have dreamed of raising. At some point, he must have smelled like Hesna Khatun's herbs, though, no matter how hard Jahan racked his brains, he could not recall this. Then, having tired of everything, he must have asked for it to be brought to an end. Shortly before his death, he must have visited the witch. For the last time. If so, there must have been a way to break the spell, and by leaving Istanbul Jahan had lost this chance.

Years pa.s.sed by. Almost a hundred, he took a ship to Portugal, from where, he had heard, one could sail to the New World. One sunny afternoon, on the front deck, he noticed a man willowy and slender. His heart leaped. It was Balaban, sitting between a coiled rope and a cleat. Unthinking, he lunged forward, chuckling, until he noticed, too late, that it wasn't him.

'I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else.'

'A friend, I hope,' the stranger said. 'Come, sit, enjoy the sun while it lasts.'

He rambled on about his troubles, his voice rising and falling. He claimed to have had too many sins from which to flee. He was going back to his family a wiser man. Tired of talking, he asked, 'What is your skill?'

'I build. I am an architect.'

'You should go to Agra, then. Shah Jahan, your namesake, is building a palace in memory of his wife.'

Although he shrugged, Jahan was intrigued. 'What happened to her?'

'She died in childbirth,' the stranger said sadly. 'He was quite devoted to her.'

'It's not exactly my route.'

'Change your route,' he said. Just like that.

In the year 1632 Jahan arrived in Hindustan, in order to see what the plans for this palace, which everyone was raving about, were actually like.

Some cities you go to because you want to; some cities you go to because they want you to. The moment he set foot there, Jahan had the feeling that Agra had been pulling him, leading him all along. On the way there he had heard so much about the Shah and the city he wished to glorify that when he reached Agra it was almost as if he were returning to a place where he had been before. He wandered around, inhaling the smells, which were bountiful and pungent, the sunlight stroking his skin, the faintest ache on his scar.

Jahan went to see the construction on the bank of the Yamuna. There, with the help of a traveller who spoke a bit of Turkish, he was introduced to one of the draughtsmen. After hearing his credentials and seeing the seal of Sinan, the labourer took Jahan to their overseer. A strapping man with a protruding nose, bushy eyebrows and a bashful smile, Jahan instantly liked him. His name was Mir Abdul Karim.

'Your master was a great man,' he said in a voice strengthened from explaining things to people, inferiors and superiors alike.

He pored over the few designs Jahan had brought along, inspecting them with meticulous care. Placing a cup of honeyed milk and a set of quill pens on the table, Mir Abdul Karim showed him several drawings of the construction project, asking his opinion of each, which Jahan gave in earnest. The overseer said nothing, though a mirthful glitter in his eyes suggested his satisfaction at the answers. Next Karim asked Jahan to draw a floor plan based on the measurements he provided there and then. When Jahan had finished, the overseer seemed content. Taking a quiet breath, he remarked, 'You cannot go anywhere before you meet the Grand Vizier.'

In this way, after another round of introductions, Jahan found himself summoned by the Shah. Seated high on his Peac.o.c.k Throne, his heavy-lidded eyes gleaming with loss and pride, his beard and moustache white with grief, and his attire devoid of jewellery and ornaments, he reminded Jahan, in more than one way, of Sultan Suleiman. The Shah sorrowed over the death of his beloved wife, Mumtaz Mahal the Paragon of the Palace the woman who had borne him fourteen children in eighteen years. Her body had been buried on the banks of the River Tapti. Now they were bringing her to Agra to be reburied for eternity.

He had loved her more than any woman and at the expense of his other wives. They said such was his devotion to, and confidence in, her that she would read all his firmans and, should she approve, put the regal seal on them. She was not only his consort, but also his companion, confidante and counsellor. In her absence he was inconsolable. He still visited her private apartments at nights, as though chasing her fragrance or apparition and when confronted with the emptiness of the chambers, he burst into tears.

A younger Jahan would have been nervous to meet the bereaved Shah whose name he shared. His face would burn, his palms would feel clammy and his voice would quiver for fear of saying something wrong. Not any longer. Having neither secrets nor expectations, he could stop railing at himself and be simply an observer, calm and unruffled and free. Wherever this new temperament had come from, he wished, belatedly, he had attained it before, while standing in front of every Sultan, Sultana and Vizier who had appeared in his life. The placid humour of his master that he once so disparaged he now held dear.

The Shah inquired about Sinan's works, of which, surprisingly, he was well aware. Each question Jahan answered briefly but candidly. Unlike the ruler's ancestor, Babur whose mother tongue was the same as Jahan's the Shah spoke no Turkish. They communicated with the help of a dragoman, who translated from Persian to Turkish, Turkish to Persian; words in common were captured and held, like b.u.t.terflies caught in a net between them.

The meeting having reached an end, Jahan was being ushered out, walking backwards, when the Shah said, 'You never married, I heard. Why is that?'

Jahan stopped, his eyes cast down. Silence thicker than honey covered the hall. It was as though the entire court was waiting to hear what he had to say.

'I had pledged my heart to someone, your Highness '

'What happened?'

'Nothing,' Jahan said. Those who grew up with stories of love that inevitably ended in rapture, revelry, chivalry or calamity could not fathom why for many people love amounted to naught, eventually. 'She was beyond my reach and did not love me. It was not meant to be.'

'There're plenty of women,' the Shah said.

Jahan would have liked to say the same thing to him. Why did he still mourn his wife? What he could not put into words, the Shah understood. A thin smile etched on his lips as he said, 'Maybe not.'

The next afternoon, Jahan received a letter from the palace nominating him as one of the two Chief Royal Architects for the Illuminated Tomb the rauza-i-munavvara. He would be paid generously in rupees and ashrafis, and every six months rewarded accordingly. But it was one line, in particular, that stayed with him: I hereby ask you, Jahan Khan Rumi, the builder of memories, the descendant of the respectable Master Sinan, who was second to none, and was followed worldwide, to contribute to the raising of this most glorious tomb, which will invoke the admiration of generations after generations, until the Day of Judgement, when no stone will stand upon another under the vault of heaven.

Jahan accepted, despite himself. He joined the team of builders and, even though he was in a foreign land where he knew not a single soul and had no past to recall should the present prove too gruelling, he felt strangely at home.

The project was ma.s.sive. Expensive. Fraught with difficulties. Thousands of labourers, masons, stone-cutters, quarries, bricklayers, tile-setters and carpenters were toiling at full tilt. It was possible to hear a babel of languages moving from one place to another. There were sculptors from Bukhara, quarrymen from Isfahan, carvers from Tabriz, calligraphers from Kashmir, painters from Samarkand, decorators from Florence and jewellers from Venice. It was almost as if the Shah, in his determination to see the building completed as quickly as possible, had called on every craftsman on earth who might be of use to him. Implacable, stubborn, he held sway over everyone to the point just short of drawing the designs himself. That he had some knowledge in the craft made life harder for his architects. Jahan had never met a monarch so involved in a construction. Every two days the Shah would hold a conference with them, asking questions, stating opinions and coming up with new impossible demands, as crowned heads often tended to do.

Shah Jahan was a man who pledged his wrath in steel, his love in diamonds and his grief in white marble. Under his auspices Jahan wrote to a number of masons in Istanbul, inviting them over. He was delighted when Isa, his favourite student, agreed to come. He felt compa.s.sion and admiration for him and for all that he could achieve with his talents and his youth. He wondered if Master Sinan had regarded them with similar feelings. If so, it was a pity that Jahan had not understood.

There were elephants on the site. Restlessly, they carried the heaviest marbles and planks. Sometimes in the afternoons, under the setting sun, Jahan would watch them wallow in puddles, a thrill of affection running through him. He could not help but think if human beings could only live more like animals, without a thought to the past or the future, and without rounds of lies and deceit, this world would be a more peaceful place, and perhaps a happier one.

I got married. The Shah, having remembered our exchange, had given orders to find me a good-hearted bride. They did. My wife, sixty-six years younger than me, was a woman of a kind disposition and wise words. When she was two months with child, she had lost all her family in a flood. As Mirabai the poetess had once done, she declined to join her husband on his funeral pyre. Her eyes were darker than all my secrets, her smile was always ready to blossom; her black, l.u.s.trous hair flew between my fingers like perfumed waters. Many a night, admiring her profile in the candlelight, I told her what she already knew: 'I'm too old for you, Amina. When I die, you must marry a young man.'

'Don't put a curse on us, husband,' she would say each time. 'Hush, now.'

The next autumn Amina's baby was born, a boy with dimpled cheeks. I loved him as if he were my own. I named him Sinan; and, remembering my master's first appellation, I added Joseph; and, out of respect for my wife's family, I named him Mutamid, after my father-in-law. Here he was, our son, Sinan Joseph Mutamid; no other like him in this vast expanse of countless souls and even more G.o.ds, thriving under the Agra sky, each day growing taller, stronger; an Ottoman lad in India, although I had been a fake Indian in the Ottoman lands.

He has his mother's radiant complexion and hazel eyes. The occasional frowns on the broad sweep of his forehead hint at his impatience and curiosity about the inner workings of each thing he observes. When he began cutting teeth, his mother and his many aunts placed several objects in front of him to divine the path he would follow in life a silvered mirror, a plume, a golden bracelet and sealing wax. If he chose the mirror, he would be keen on beauty, a painter or a poet. The plume: he would be a scribe. The bracelet: a merchant. The wax: a high official.

Sinan Joseph Mutamid was still for a moment, scowling at the items scattered at his feet, as if they contained a riddle to solve. The women, in the meantime, kept cooing and calling him, so that he would pick what they had in mind for him. He ignored them. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he reached out and grabbed the amulet on my neck, Daki dey's protection against the evil eye.

'What does that mean?' Amina said, looking worried.

I chuckled, pulling her close to me, regardless of what her sisters might think. I said, 'Nothing bad, trust me.' It just meant that he would make his own decisions, no matter what they laid out in front of him.

When we go out, the three of us, the whole town gawks at us. At times I come across men who, with their lewd jokes and jarring laughs, insinuate what a lucky rotter I am for having such a wife; or they ask how I manage to satisfy her at my age. So we find another way of walking on the streets. My wife, with the child in her arms, saunters ahead of me. I fall behind, trudging slowly, contemplating them her tenderness as she caresses the boy's head; his trusting, winsome smile; their murmurs like the distant soughing of waves from a city now far away. I take it all in, conjuring another moment in time, knowing that after I am gone they will still be strolling; nothing will change. And the knowledge of this, instead of filling me with sorrow, fills me with hope, yes, tremendous hope.

There is nothing about my wife that reminds me of Mihrimah. Neither her voice, nor her mien, nor her temperament. On starry nights when she lies on top of me, her warmth covering my skin like a mantle, when I am ashamed of my age and aroused by her softness, she slides on to me like a sheath on to a sword, her beauty swallowing my ugliness, whispering into my ear, 'G.o.d sent you to me.' I know that I would have never heard such words from Mihrimah, even if we had been destined to be together. No, my wife could not have been more different from her. And I could not have been more content. Yet ... not a single day has pa.s.sed since I left Istanbul without Mihrimah crossing my mind. I still remember her. I still ache. A travelling pain that moves so fast from one limb to another that I cannot say whether it exists. She is the shadow that follows me everywhere, towering above me when I feel low, draining the light from my soul.

A year after I started working for the great Shah, I was asked to design the dome of the Illuminated Tomb, which they now name the Taj Mahal. I, too, have had a change of name. Though they still call me Jahan Khan Rumi, everyone, even little children, knows me as the Dome Maker.

I inspect the site every morning. It is a long walk and takes me a while. The other day, a novice turned up with an elephant by his side. 'Why don't you let the beast carry you, master?'