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an intense light; afterward; two beautiful and smiling angels with faces bright 
as the sun—such as I’d read about countless times in the Book of the Soul—
slowly approached me within this ethereal brilliance; grabbed me by my arms; 
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as if I were still a body; and began their ascent。 Ever so serenely and gently; ever 
so quickly we ascended as if in a blissful dream! We passed through forests of 
fire; forded rivers of light and forged dark seas and mountains of snow and ice。 
Each crossing took us thousands of years; though it seemed no more than the 
blink of an eye。 
We  ascended  through  the  seven  Heavens;  passing  varieties  of  gatherings; 
peculiar  creatures;  marshes  and  clouds  swarming  with  an  infinite  variety  of 
insects  and  birds。  At  each  level  of  Heaven;  the  angel  who  led  the  way  would 
knock  on  a  portal;  and  when  the  question;  “Who  goes  there?”  came  from 
beyond; the angel would describe me including all my names and attributes; 
summing up by saying; “An obedient servant of Exalted Allah!”—which would 
bring tears of joy to my eyes。 I knew; however; that there were yet thousands 
of years before the Day of Judgment when those destined for Heaven would be 
separated from those destined for Hell。 
My  ascension;  except  for  a  few  minor  differences;  happened  just  the  way 
Gazzali; El Jevziyye and other legendary scholars described in their passages on 
death。 Eternal puzzles and dark enigmas that only the dead might understand 
were now being revealed and illuminated; bursting forth brilliantly one by one 
in thousands of colors。 
Oh; how might I adequately describe the hues I saw during this exquisite 
journey? The whole world was made up of color; everything was color。 Just as I 
sensed that the force separating me from all other beings and objects consisted 
of color; I now knew that it was color itself that had affectionately embraced 
me and bound me to the world。 I saw orange…hued skies; beautiful leaf…green 
bodies;  brown  eggs  and  legendary  sky…blue  horses。  The  world  was  faithful  to 
the illustrations and legends that I’d avidly scrutinized over the years。 I beheld 
Creation  with  awe  and  surprise  as  if  for  the  first  time;  but  also  as  if  it’d 
somehow emerged from my memory。 What I called “memory” contained an 
entire  world:  With  time  spread  out  infinitely  before  me  in  both  directions;  I 
understood how the world as I first experienced it could persist afterward as 
memory。 As I died surrounded by this festival of color; I also discovered why I 
felt  so  relaxed;  as  if  I’d  been  liberated  from  a  straitjacket:  From  now  on; 
nothing  was  restricted;  and  I  had  unlimited  time  and  space  in  which  to 
experience all eras and all places。 
As soon as I realized this freedom; with fear and ecstasy I knew I was close 
to  Him;  at  the  same  time;  I  humbly  felt  the  presence  of  an  absolutely 
matchless red。 
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Within a short period; red imbued all。 The beauty of this color suffused me 
and the whole universe。 As I approached His Being in this manner; I had the 
urge  to  cry  out  in  jubilation。  I  was  suddenly  ashamed  to  be  taken  into  His 
presence; drenched in blood as I was。 Another part of my mind recalled what 
I’d read in books on death; that He would enlist Azrael and His other angels to 
summon me to His presence。 
Would I be able to see Him? I wasn’t able to breathe out of excitement。 
The red approaching me—the omnipresent red within which all the images 
of the universe played—was so magnificent and beautiful that it quickened my 
tears to think I would bee part of it and be so close to Him。 
But  I  also  knew  He’d  e  no  closer  to  me  than  He  already  had;  He’d 
inquired  about  me  from  His  angels  and  they’d  praised  me;  He  saw  me  as  a 
loyal  servant  bound  to  His  mandments  and  prohibitions;  and  He  loved 
me。 
My mounting joy and flowing tears were abruptly poisoned by a nagging 
doubt。 Guilt…ridden and impatient in my uncertainty; I asked Him: 
“Over  the  last  twenty  years  of  my  life;  I’ve  been  influenced  by  the  infidel 
illustrations  that  I  saw  in  Venice。  There  was  even  a  time  when  I  wanted  my 
own portrait painted in that method and style; but I was afraid。 Instead; I later 
had  Your  World;  Your  Subjects  and  Our  Sultan;  Your  Shadow  on  Earth; 
depicted in the manner of the infidel Franks。” 
I didn’t remember His voice; but I recalled the answer He gave me in my 
thoughts。 
“East and West belong to me。” 
I could barely contain my excitement。 
“All right then; what is the meaning of it all; of this…of this world?” 
“Mystery;”  I  heard  in  my  thoughts;  or  perhaps;  “mercy;”  but  I  wasn’t 
certain of either。 
By the way the angels had e near me; I knew some sort of decision had 
been made about me at this height of the heavens; but I’d have to wait in the 
divine balance of Berzah with the mass of other souls who’d died over the last 
tens of thousands of years until the Day of Judgment; when the final decision 
about us would be made。 That everything transpired the way it was recorded 
in  books  pleased  me。  I  recalled  from  my  readings  as  I  descended  that  I’d  be 
reunited with my body during my burial。 
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But  I  quickly  understood  that  the  phenomenon  of  “reentering  my  lifeless 
body” was just a figure of speech; thank goodness。 Despite their sorrow; the 
dignified  funeral  congregation  that  filled  me  with  pride  was  astonishingly 
organized as it shouldered my coffin after the prayers and descended into the 
little  Hillock  Cemetery  beside  the  mosque。  From  above;  the  procession 
appeared like a thin and delicate length of string。 
Let  me  clarify  my  situation:  As  might  be  inferred  from  the  well…known 
legend  of  Our  Prophet—which  states  “The  soul  of  the  faithful  is  a  bird  that 
feeds from the trees of Heaven”—after death; the soul roams the firmament。 
As  claimed  by  Abu  ?mer  bin  Abdülber;  the  interpretation  of  this  legend 
doesn’t mean that the soul will possess a bird or even bee a bird itself; but 
as the learned El Jevziyye aptly clarifies; it means that the soul can be found 
where  birds  gather。  The  spot  from  which  I  was  observing  things;  what  the 
Veian  masters  who  love  perspective  would  call  my  “point  of  view;” 
confirmed El Jevziyye’s interpretation。 
From  where  I  was;  for  example;  I  could  both  see  the  threadlike  funeral 
procession  entering  the  cemetery;  and  with  the  pleasure  of  analyzing  a 
painting; watch a sailboat gaining speed; its sails gorging on wind as it tacked 
toward  Palace  Point;  where  the  Golden  Horn  met  the  Bosphorus。  Looking 
down from the height of a minaret; the whole world resembled a magnificent 
book whose pages I was examining one by one。 
Still;  I  could  see  much  more  than  a  man  who’d  simply  ascended  to  such 
heights without his soul having left his body; and furthermore; I could see it 
all  at  once:  On  the  other  side  of  the  Bosphorus;  beyond  üsküdar;  among 
gravestones   in   an   empty   yard;   children   playing   leapfrog;   the   graceful 
progression of the Vizier of Diplomatic Affair’s ca?que propelled by seven pairs 
of  oarsmen  twelve  years  and  seven  months  ago;  when  we  acpanied  the 
Veian  ambassador  from  his  seaside  mansion  to  be  received  by  the  Grand 
Vizier; Bald Ragip Pasha; a portly woman in the new Langa bazaar holding a 
huge head of cabbage like a child she was about to nurse; my elation when the 
Divan   Herald   Ramazan   Effendi   died;   opening   the   way   for   my   own 
advancement; how I stared as a child from my grandmother’s lap at red shirts 
while  my  mother  hung  the  laundry  to  dry  in  the  courtyard;  how  I  ran  to 
distant neighborhoods in search of the midwife when Shekure’s mother; may 
she rest in peace; had gone into labor; the location of the red belt I’d lost over 
forty  years  ago  (I  know  now  that  Vasfi  stole  it);  the  splendid  garden  in  the 
distance that I’d dreamed about once twenty…one years ago; which I pray Allah 
will  one  day  confirm  is  Heaven;  the  severed  heads;  noses;  and  ears  sent  to 
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Istanbul  by  Ali  Bey;  the  Governor…General  of  Georgia;  who  suppressed  the 
rebels in the fortress of Gori; and my beautiful; dear Shekure; who separated 
herself  from  the  neighborhood  women  mourning  over  me  in  the  house  and 
stared into the flames of the brick stove in our courtyard。 
As is recorded in books and confirmed by scholars; the soul dwells in four 
realms: 1。 the womb; 2。 the terrestrial world; 3。 Berzah; or divine limbo; where 
I now await Judgment Day; and 4。 Heaven or Hell; where I will arrive after the 
Judgment。 
From  the  intermediate  state  of  Berzah;  past  and  present  time  appear  at 
once; and as long as the soul remains within its memories; limitations of place 
do not obtain。 Only when one escapes the dungeons of time and space does it 
bees  evident  that  life  is  a  straitjacket。  However  blissful  it  is  being  a  soul 
without a body in the realm of the dead; so too is being a body without a soul 
among  the  living;  what  a  pity  nobody  realizes  this  before  dying。  Therefore; 
during my lovely funeral; as I grievously watched my dear Shekure wear herself 
out weeping in vain; I begged of Exalted Allah to grant us souls…without…bodies 
in Heaven and bodies…without…souls in life。 
 
 
   
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IT IS I; MASTER OSMAN 
 
You know about those ornery old men who’ve charitably devoted their lives to 
art。 They’ll attack anyone who gets in their way。 They’re usually gaunt; bony 
and tall。 They’ll want the dwindling number of days before them to be just like 
the  long  period  they’ve  left  behind。  They’re  short…tempered;  and  they 
plain  about  everything。  They’ll  try  to  grab  the  reins  in  all  situations; 
causing  everyone  around  them  to  throw  up  their  hands  in  

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