Seven Veils of Seth (7 page)

Fragments of skulls crumble away gradually to form part of the dirt of the road, walls collapse, sinking to the level of the ground from which they rose, and the bits of pottery will fritter away to return eventually to clay, so that nothing remains on the earth save earth. How then can the arrogant creature doubt that he is no more than one of the earth's vulnerable sprouts that cause havoc on the earth?

Nevertheless, he had always admired this creature, simply because man had the courage to thrust his head toward the stars while hiding out among the grains of dirt. His humblest utensils in this world provide his elegy, but despite that fact, he feels arrogant, never losing his certainty that the trip will eventually lead him to occupy the throne of heaven. What is most amazing, however, is not man's preoccupation with the celestial but his tenacious adherence to the worldly, the way he clings to the lowlands and surrenders to the earth, from which he should flee, instead of relying on it, since he understands that one day he will become a morsel in the earth's belly. Man betrayed the prophetic advice of his ancestors, who adopted the law of migration, believing that sedentary people are the only dead ones, since they alone possess bodies that arouse the earth's greed. Nomadic people, who never stay anywhere or settle down on the earth, own nothing to provoke the earth or arouse its greed. They possess nothing: no gear, no walls, no bodies, not even dreams. All they possess is their voyage, nothing more. They possess a single riddle, over which the earth holds no sway and for which the lowlands can offer no explanation. This is deliverance.

Was he acting rashly now – fettered by the weight of an amulet (known as deliverance) that generations had fastened to his neck – when he descended to the lowly arena to remind people of a commandment?

From the north came a breeze moistened by the breath of a distant rain. He inhaled this with thirsty lungs and then exhaled it in a hissing puff.

Before he passed by the mud-brick buildings on the way to the market square, an impudent creature jumped from behind a ruined wall to obstruct his way. At first he did not recognize the fellow, but his expression softened once he identified the fool in his coarse rags. He decided to tease him: “Is this your house to which you once came to invite me?”

He answered tersely, “This isn't my house.” He was silent for a moment and then added, “That day I invited you to another house.”

“A house for strangers?”

“No, a house for the elite.”

“The elite?”

Letting his fist fall on his chest, he explained, “Here! In my heart!”

“I asked you about your house in the physical world, not a house in the land of Longing.”

“I possess no other house.”

“But a man must have some refuge unless he continually moves and sets course for the horizons.”

“The only refuge a man can rely on is the heart.”

They walked side-by-side on their way toward the market square and proceeded along a narrow alley lined on either side by houses. In the distance they heard the hurly-burly of the jostling throngs in the market. He continued needling the fool, “Where would you take me then, if I decided to accept your invitation?”

“To my heart. Is there a residence in this world more secure than the heart?”

“Let's skip this tale of the heart.”

“That day I wanted to introduce you to my heart, but you were arrogant. I came to you that day as a messenger for everyone's hearts, but you put on airs for some secret reason that will not remain hidden for too long.”

“Ha, ha . . . here you are talking about unseen mysteries, claiming a diviner's role too.”

“Who in the desert is not a diviner?”

“But don't you think the best topic of conversation for two men is women?”

Edahi glanced at him anxiously before asking, “Did you say ‘women'?”

He winked slyly and replied, “That covey of she-jinnis. I was told in the oasis that there are six gorgeous she-jinnis, who resemble each other like so many barleycorns and who sing even more beautifully than the birds.”

“I think you must be talking about the water nymphs.”

“Water nymphs?”

“Haven't you heard the story of the water nymphs who were responsible for founding the oasis, once upon a time?”

“I think I've heard something along these lines. But I haven't heard of a definite link between the she-jinnis of the oasis and the water nymphs.”

“Those six maidens are descendants of the water nymphs.”

He stopped his companion, hoping he would say more, but they had reached the market's outskirts, where a short, stout man in frayed garments approached them, introducing himself as Amghar. He described himself as the chief merchant.

Accompanied by the two other men, he entered the crowd and was distracted by watching people buying, selling, pitching their wares, and shilling. Some forgot the item they had come to the market to buy and spent their money on another product they had not even considered buying, only to feel the pangs of remorse later. Others were busy haggling, speculating, and bargaining. They would sell, because they had come expressly to sell, because the law of commerce is for the merchant to sell. Even if a seller discovers he has lost money, he will not be discouraged, since he knows he will make up with a deal the next day the amount he lost the day before. He also realizes that he will ruin the game and violate the customary law of trade if he ever hesitates and declines to sell for fear of taking a loss, since cowardice is the one offense commerce does not excuse, because buying and selling are even more important than making a profit. The game's most important aspect is motion – whether it is winning and losing or charging and retreating – because motion, because winning and losing, because charging and retreating are not simply a set of rules for the game of trade but a legal code for the puppet that is the entire world. For this reason, commerce has always been the mate of its bedfellow, the material world; neither ever lives far from the other.

The head merchant, who might almost have been reading his mind, observed, “Commerce is the secret heart of our world. Had trade not been invented, the physical world could not have come into existence.”

“Trade is my archenemy.”

The other man inquired in a disapproving tone, “What did you say?”

“Trade is the archenemy of all wild refuges. Commerce is the enemy of deliverance, and any enemy of deliverance is my enemy.”

“I don't understand what kind of deliverance you're discussing. What I know is that the existence of this oasis is pawn to the spirit people call exchange, barter, or trade.”

He offered a chilly rebuttal, “It truly is a spirit, but an evil one. It truly is an enchantress, but one that braids her tresses into fetters for us.”

“I've never heard a man anywhere use such language about the queen of the world.”

The strategist, however, wanted to end this debate. So he asked, as he turned around, “Where's the fool?”

“Never mind him. The fool appears suddenly and disappears suddenly.”

He paused by a herbalist who was touting a rag full of herbs and calling out his wares as loudly as possible: “Aphrodisiac! Aphrodisiac! Erectile dysfunction cured with herbal remedy: Ezer. It will make your sex drive sizzle.”

He casually asked the herbalist the price and then ignored the response to turn to tell his companion, “Do you know? What I love best out of all your commerce is your fool.” The head merchant stared at him in astonishment. So he repeated, “Indeed, what I love most in this world of yours is that fool of yours. Ha, ha . . . .”

“I don't like to make trouble between folks, but I gathered from something the fool said once that he doesn't feel the same way about you.”

“Ha, ha . . . I know, I know. That's because he doesn't understand that I'm the kind of person who is happier loving than being loved.”

“I don't understand.”

“I don't love those who love me. I love those whom I love. Do you know why?” He did not wait for a response but continued as if to himself: “Whoever loves me places fetters around my neck. Anyone I love gets shackles around his neck.”

“Amazing! I've always thought we fell captive to those we love, not to those who love us.”

“That's the logic of the masses. That's the language of weaklings, who don't know why they love the ones they love. They have no strength or ability to stop loving those they loved when they realize the truth about them.”

“Does my master have the power to extirpate love for one he loves on discovering that person's true character?”

“The ability to extirpate love belongs to the loser, not to the person who hits the mark. Normally I don't ever love until I have first grasped the true character of the one I love.”

A giant confronted them. He was turbaned with twin veils, which were doubled over, and armed with twin swords stuffed into twin scabbards stamped with amulets and ancient magical signs. In his right hand he gripped a long, gloomy-colored lance with a deadly tip. The chief merchant introduced him respectfully: “This is our master the warrior Emmar.”

With a palm the size of a camel's hoof, he shook the stranger's hand with noble condescension, but said nothing, in keeping with the nobleman's etiquette. Therefore, the wayfarer decided to employ praise to make him speak: “Meeting warriors is always a good omen. In which campaign did our master gain his exalted title?”

The alleged warrior did not respond, however. He sauntered along beside him in the crush of people, kicking a stone with his sandal and shoving people aside with his colossal shoulders with admirable indifference.

He waited a long time for a response. Finally the head merchant volunteered an answer for him: “The hero Emmar has never participated in a military campaign.”

“Then hasn't he defended the oasis against raiders?”

“No, never.”

“Hasn't he hanged miscreants from palm trunks?”

“He's never hanged a miscreant from a palm.”

“Hasn't he punished highwaymen with his lance?”

The chief merchant and the warrior glanced stealthily at one another. He noticed in the giant's eye a mocking smile, as if he were granting the other man the right to speak for him. “He hasn't struck down any highwaymen with his lance, either.”

At this point the visitor suddenly stopped and adjusted his turban with his hand, “I remember: our comrade inherited his imposing title from his ancestors; that's for sure.”

The chief merchant, however, denied that too: “No, not at all. The warrior didn't inherit his title from his grandfathers.”

He released a throaty cough before saying, “This is a riddle! I swear it's a cunning riddle. Save me from trying to undo the talisman, for I confess I can't.”

He suppressed his hideous laugh, and the head merchant replied nonchalantly, “Our master Emmar felled a gigantic jinni in a competition and thus earned this heroic and fitting epithet.”

He glanced at him from behind his veil, but the chief merchant did not respond. So he asked, “Is this a joke?”

“Not at all!”

“I thought you were kidding.”

“Why should I kid you? Do you think that casting down a giant from the spirit world is a negligible feat?”

“Ha, ha . . . I don't consider it a heroic one, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Heroism's something else. Heroism is felling your self, not felling the jinn.”

“Explain.”

“Heroism's doing what you don't want to do.”

“I thought heroism's doing what you want – not what you don't want.”

“Nonsense! A person who does whatever he wants in this world will eventually fail.”

“I remember wanting to have a fortune when I was barely more than a babe in the cradle. I heard a voice urging me to join the caravans and to become a merchant. So I did. I did what I wanted, because I realized that I was destined to be a merchant and that the whispering voice was my prophecy. Had I not been certain of this, I would not have succeeded. I would not have become – as you see me today – the chief merchant in the oasis and possibly in all the oases.”

“Ha, ha . . . but commerce isn't heroism. Indeed commerce's the opposite of heroism. Heroism, chief merchant, is the renunciation of trade and the divestiture of wealth.”

“Divestiture! Divestiture! If we all embraced divestiture, the world would not exist as we know it and the oasis wouldn't pulse with life the way you see before you now. Commerce, Mr. Stranger, is life.”

“If commerce is life, then there's no doubt that heroism's the opposite of life.”

“Do you mean that heroism's tantamount to death?”

“Right. Heroism is to die, not to live, but . . . not so fast; not so fast, why doesn't our master the warrior answer my questions? Is he dumb?”

“It's because warriors don't speak.”

“You're kidding?”

“Didn't you just say that heroism is death and that heroes are dead men?”

“Ha, ha. . . .”

A group of nobles blocked their way. A portly man of medium height, enveloped in dignified blue robes stood in the center. The chief merchant hailed him reverently, as if reciting a panegyric ode: “This is our chief, our sovereign, our master, the Venerable Ewar.”

With smiling eyes, the tribe's chief advanced toward him and came so close he almost bumped into the stranger with his imposing turban. Then he noticed pockmarks left by smallpox on the cheeks of the chief, who gazed at him with laughing eyes before teasing him, “Do I behold the stranger who came to our community on a jenny's back?” He pulled the bottom of his veil tighter and higher and then folded it over to provide a double covering for his lips in the fashion affected by nobles and tribal leaders. Then he threw back his head as he attempted to suppress a merry laugh before continuing: “How can you expect our elders not to think ill of you when you arrive on the back of a jenny, as if you were the accursed Wantahet, who has been the butt of jokes for generations?”