“My desire is the same as yours, or even stronger—yet we have no choice.”
She sank into silence. In grief and regret, I told her, “In any case, our reunion is coming—there is no doubt about that. And time has no meaning to us.”
She smiled painfully as she receded slowly, until finally she had vanished completely. This time I did not surrender to mourning, as I had in my former existence.
Wary that anxiety might distract me, I redoubled my efforts at work and my enthusiasm for it. Neither the length of the road nor any problems bothered me. Nor did I fear the betrayals of time, or the creep of old age, or the threat of death. Then came yet more knocking at my door. My heart beating hard, I expected to see her beloved face—but this time it was a man, someone new, not the guide who had brought me to my home.
“I am the medium between this world and the one you have left,” he said, presenting himself to me.
The old world that I had forgotten utterly. I stared at him questioningly, and he continued matter-of-factly, “I have disrupted your labor, but I am faithful to my duty.”
Then he added, still neutrally, “There is someone calling to you from the people of the earth.”
What do they want? What have I to do with them? How could they not perceive the importance of the work for which our past lives had prepared us?
“Who is calling for me?” I inquired.
“Your son, Ahmad.”
“Ah … who was still in his mother’s womb when I left their world,” I recalled.
My heart pounded despite myself, and I asked, “Would you counsel me to answer his call?”
With polite indifference, he replied, “That is not my affair. You must decide on your own.”
A conflict erupted within me, yet I quickly surrendered to this catastrophe, the possibility of which had not previously occurred to me. Under the weight of wicked feelings, I mumbled quietly, “I see that I’d best respond to this plea.”
Immediately I found myself peering into a closed courtroom immersed in a kind of darkness. Before me were seats arranged in a semi-circle, on which a group of men were sitting. Among them was Ahmad—whom I knew by my inner sight—who had taken his seat on the right. At the same time, I saw my intermediary reposed on a cushion, a transparent curtain separating him from the rest of those present.
“Ahmad,” I called to my son softly.
“Father!” he said, leaping up from his seat.
“Yes, I am your father.”
With burning curiosity, he asked me, “How are you, father?”
“God be praised,” I answered.
“What is life like where you are?”
“We do not have a language in common for me to convey it to you. But everything here is fine.”
Sighing, he rejoined, “Life here seems cruel. Nothing good is left to us.”
“You yourselves must change that until all of it is good.”
“But how, father?”
“The question is yours, and so is the answer,” I said. “All live according to their own ambition.”
“Yet all are wondering, what is hidden from us tomorrow?”
“God knows tomorrow, but the human being creates it.”
“There’s no possibility we can count on your aid?”
“I have already rendered it,” I replied.
In a plaintive voice, he exclaimed, “They accuse me of loving only myself!”
“You do not know how to love yourself,” I told him, feeling the urge to leave.
Faster than lightning, I was back in my house. There, sharp pangs of repentance and remorse assailed me. How could it not upset me that I should be taken from my noble endeavors to be engrossed in the affairs of the world that is gone? Yet what did I know but the somber guide should then regard me again with his shining visage. The agonies of guilt growing stronger, I appealed to him, “I know that I have faltered, but I will make amends for my fault by working even harder!”
He showed no interest in what I said; his untroubled expression remained unchanged. Then he departed just as he had come, without uttering a word. Yet he left behind him a flower, the likes of which I had never before seen: huge in size, with luxuriant leaves and an enchanting color, emitting a fragrance of unprecedented beauty and power. It dawned on me that he could not have left it without a cause—but certainly had meant it as a gift for me.
A serene happiness overwhelmed me, and I mused to myself, No doubt, my journey—contrary to what had worried me—has won me such favor.
The Haunted Woods
Over and over again they point to it and warn me. “Don’t go near the wood,” they say. “It’s haunted by demons!”
The wood stands at the southern edge of the Desert of the Prophet’s Birthday in Abbasiya. From a distance it looks like a many-peaked mountain of gloomy green, three tram stops in length, and nearly as wide. Overhead the sky perhaps is streaked with smoke borne by the breeze from the rubbish tips, where garbage is always burning. Of what kind are these lofty trees, and what is the reason for their presence in this place? Who planted them here, and why? The Desert of the Prophet’s Birthday is where all the young people of Abbasiya go to play football, and where a number of amateur teams practice at the same time. When we finish our friendly matches wendent pull on our gallabiyas over our everyday athletic clothes, then return to our neighborhood—skirting the wood on the way.
Childhood gives way to adolescence. New passions are ignited within me, including the love of reading. In my soul there dawns an enlightenment that celebrates all things new and novel, as many old myths are dispelled from my mind. I no longer believe in the demons of the wood—yet I fail to free myself completely of the latent dregs of fear deep down. I often used to withdraw by myself to the desert, especially during the summer vacations, reading, contemplating, and smoking cigarettes, far from any censorious eye. I would gaze at the forest from afar, smiling sarcastically at my memories. Still, I kept my distance. Finally I grew annoyed with my own attitude, and felt driven to challenge it by asking myself, Isn’t it time you discovered the truth about the wood?
After not a short discussion, I boldly resolved to do something about it. I chose to act in mid-afternoon, in broad daylight, since the night in any case would not be safe. The place where I used to sit was close to the water pumping station, inside which bustled workers and engineers. Once I greeted one of them and asked him about the secret of the wood. He told me it belonged to the station. He said it was planted a long time ago, taking advantage of the abundant water. It did not extend any further, perhaps, due to the annual celebrations of the Prophet’s Birthday next door.
“They say,” I remarked, “that the wood’s filled with ‘afari—evil spirits.”
“The only demons are human beings,” he rejoined.
For the first time I made for the wood. I stopped at its edge peering inward, and saw the towering trees in orderly rows, like soldierly battalions, and the weeds blanketing the ground with their ripe, luscious verdure. A canal cut through them widthwise, shimmering streams branching away from it. Once accustomed to everything, I advanced without trepidation. I met no human being, but became intoxicated on the solitude and tranquility. “What a waste,” I thought. “So much time lost—may God suffer those who imagine that Paradise is a refuge for demons.” At roughly the center of the wood, some laughter reached me—and in truth, my heart shuddered. Yet my dread vanished in seconds—for there was no doubt this laughter came from a descendant of Adam. I inspected my surroundings with care, and in the distance, made out a small band of youths. Just as quickly I realized they were not strangers, but neighbors and colleagues from my school. I went toward them, clearing my throat—and their heads turned in my direction until I greeted them and stopped, smiling. After a silence, one of them said, “Welcome. What fortunate coincidence brought you here?”
“And what brought all of you here?” I asked instead.
“As you see—we chat with one another, or we read
, or have serious discussions.”
“Have you been doing this for a long time?”
“Not a short time, in any case.”
After some hesitation, I ventured, “I’d be pleased to join you, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Do you love study and debate?”
“I adore them with all my heart.”
“Then you’re welcome, if you wish.”
From that time on, I began a new life, that perhaps I could call the life of the wood. During the whole summer vacation, I spent two hours at least each day in this circle, as, with the calling of the birds, thoughts and opinions descended from above. The world had changed, changed utterly. This wasn’t merely a diversion or a game, or an intellectual exercise for its own sake. Rather, it led to a journey, an adventure—an experience encompassing all things possible….
By habit I sat with my father and mother after supper. We would listen to the phonograph, talking with one another. I had been concealing the secret of the wood, not revealing it to anyone—and my parents were the last persons I ever imagined to tell about it. A very long time ago— I no longer remember just how long—they went to their eternal rest, and were granted everlasting peace. My father does not get excited unless prodded by news of politics, which he relishes to follow and comment upon. One day he concluded his conversation by exclaiming, “How many wonders there are in this country!”
“Wonders without end!” I rushed to affirm.
He fixed me with an inquiring look. “Let me tell you some of the ideas that circulate in our society,” I said.
I spoke concisely, with concentration. He listened in confusion. “I seek refuge in God,” he shouted. “The people who hold those views aren’t humans—they’re demons!”
Only then I understood: I had become one of the demons of the haunted wood.
The Vapor of Darkness
I saw myself on a delightful excursion, like those of our earliest times. Seemingly it was a fair day in winter, for the sky was clear and the sun mild. We arrived together at the square, just as we agreed to meet despite death having parted us. In our hands were little bags made of dyed, woven palm leaves, filled with food and drink. Our throats chirped with laughter as we crossed the eastern limits of the square, heading into the desert nearby, to take our ease by the water springs, the date palms, and the henna trees there. As usual, we spent the day in amusing banter and song, until we were all consumed with pleasure. Then, just before sunset, we returned with our bags depleted to the square, the sun slanting down toward the horizon, as waves of coolness washed over us, tenderly and sweetly. We traded waves of farewell, as the dear ones went down the vacant byways to their homes.
Coming from the square, I lingered quietly for some time near my own home, and—due to the paucity of people out and about at the end of the day—found myself evidently alone. Enjoying the sense of satiety, like a wanderer on the roads, I trekked along my everyday route that passed through the square, running between two rows of markets and commercial agencies, plus workshops for handicrafts and manufacturing. From their midst arose a cacophony of customers’ voices, the humming of ovens and the pounding of hammers. Their racket and commotion went on without a lull until well after nightfall, the departure of the busses and the settling of the cash in the registers.
This was the street on which I dreamt when growing up, and when I was working—and it made me very happy to roam its parts. But when its end came in sight, I was surprised to see a barricade of stones completely blocking its exit. Confused and angry, I wondered, when did this obstruction appear? Who had made it? And what was the purpose for making it? Looking around, I noticed that at the barrier’s right-hand corner a person was sitting behind a desk on which there was only a telephone. When my eyes settled on him, I was nailed where I stood by a terror I had never before beheld. A coarse face with an aspect that defied all imagination was inspecting me closely. In place of the nose was a short trunk like that of an elephant, while one sunken eye stared out of the middle of its forehead. I did a double take in revulsion and asked myself, Is that human or animal? What kind of beast could it be? Yet when I saw the people were undisturbed, engrossed in their affairs, I became confused—and focused all my thoughts on getting myself out of this street that I had mistakenly believed led to my house. I found myself once again in the square, as—just by chance— someone was crossing my path. I blocked the road in front of him, pleading for help. I pointed to the blockaded road and asked, “What’s happening on this street?”
He stared at me furiously for impeding his way. “Excuse me,” he shouted, “but I’ve no time for idle talk!”
Then he walked around me and disappeared. For my part, I could think of nothing but getting back home— everything else could bide its time. No doubt the journey had made me giddy—perhaps the next road would prove my true path. How surprised my friends would be when I told them what I saw! Then I entered the start of another street. Narrow at first, it lacked any of the features to show it was really my road. Yet even my urgent doubts of my memory’s soundness didn’t distract me from my course. This one, too, seemed to be empty. True, both sides were lined with little, well-spaced coffeehouses, yet there was hardly anyone on it. From these cafés floated strange, provocative, and disturbing aromas. Those sitting in them did not seem to hear or see, nor to pay attention to anything. Nor did they look in any way bound to life itself. My strides lengthened as I continued to flee with a creeping unease. Yet when I drew close to the end, my feet were nailed where I stood for the second time. A shiver spread through my limbs, and I couldn’t believe my eyes—as watched a troupe of skeletons doing a popular dance. Yes, Death itself was dancing before my sight, without musical accompaniment! Quickly I retreated before I would faint. What’s happening to the world? I wondered. How can I, in all this destruction, find the police in order to take refuge with them? I should go to the police station before heading to my house in order to escape this stifling predicament—while there are still no pedestrians in the square. But then I remembered the cruel lesson I received from the first man, besides the fact that I had no confidence in anything anymore. There was no serious goal left for me but to get back to my home. And here was the third way—so I resolved to try it out, leaving my fate in the hands of God. Regardless, it was a bustling road beating with the breaths of scores of human beings. Perhaps this was, indeed, my true path, from which I had strayed. From it echoed the cries of those hawking every sort of thing to eat and drink. Customers came empty-handed, and left loaded down with paper sacks, plastic bags, and wrappers. Quickly I sensed a glimmer of hope. But what do I see now, O Lord? One of the customers is drying his tears as he leaves. Another is bent over in agony, screaming as though he’d been fatally stung. And another has thrown a flaming ember into his paper sack—and is now sucking his fingers to cool them off. Though tormented by these evil omens, I did not stop—not until I saw, at the end of the way, a meat seller laying out a row of human heads on his tray. I let out a horrific scream. The buyers, alerted to my presence, began to stare at my own head with interest. Then my body took off and I found myself fleeing, not heedingy anything until I again reached the square. O God— have I gone mad? I raved. Nothing remained but to try the fourth road—and this was the last. What could I do if this one, too, betrayed me?
“What’s happened to the world?” I called out aloud.
An angry voice shrieked back at me, “You’re frightening me—may God never forgive you!”
I looked at the man apologetically, and motioned toward the final road. “I beg your pardon,” I entreated, “I’m exhausted and I need someone to go with me.”
He stared at me doubtfully. “I’m sorry,” he reproved. “Entrust yourself to God.”
He turned about menacingly as he moved away from me. There was nothing left but to try my luck on my own. Sunset was descending without any escape. The road wasn’t my normal way, but it seemed to lead to civilization. This was a big, exciting street, remarka
ble for its magnificence and splendor; one could call it the Avenue of the Grand Cafés. The names of its coffeehouses, painted in electric signs, were frank and defiant: Café of the Pickpockets, Café of the Con Men, Café of the Pimps, Exclusive Café of the Bribe. For the first time I smiled—and whatever would be, would be. The important thing was to return to my house, and let the cafés—with their brazen, openly touted shamelessness, and whoever was in them—go to damnation. I kept up my pace, propelled by both worry and hope. For the first time, I glimpsed at the end of the street something that reassured my heart and calmed my imagination. I saw a band of security men led by a fearsome brute—and had no doubt they were about to launch a vigorous attack to clean the place up and put things in order. With exuberance I sputtered, “May God preserve you! Have you heard what’s happening on the other streets?”
I was met with a hail of cold, dry looks that warned of malice and woe. In my stunned dismay, I imagined they were getting ready to arrest me. I began to question their real identities, and sped off without stopping—all too aware that there remained for me no new passage to salvation. I reached the square as darkness was spreading— drowning in a quagmire of confusion, without a life preserver. The place was not empty, as it appeared, but its precincts were occupied with numerous spirits, the atmosphere filled with obscure murmurings. Then cries boomed out, clashing and conflicting to the utmost—raging, threatening, and preparing for combat in the jet-black gloom. I felt myself endangered, though I had no weapon beyond my empty bag. From where did all these creatures come? And what do they want? Are they friend or foe? Did they spring from the desert or from the wild, riotous roads? Then the shouts were permeated with sounds of different kinds—songs of debauchery, religious anthems, and military airs. My chest tightened and I was about to smother, as feelings of annihilation, loss, and despair lashed me onward—until, in the climax of my exasperation, I balled up my fist and struck myself on the skull….
The Seventh Heaven: Supernatural Tales Page 11