Ibrahim al-Koni - Seven Veils of Seth

In the entryway to one of these vaults clinging to the surface of the mountain, the intellect’s patron visited him one evening. He was an elderly man of uncertain age, tall, pale-complexioned, lean — apparently a wayfarer from the desert’s labyrinths. He seemed not to have imbibed the oases’ loathsome water, which upsets the body and the mind. He was veiled with a faded, striped cloth and brandished — rather than leaned on — a gloomy staff. With audible zeal, he was debating with creatures no one else could see. He publicly cursed the fertile land’s humidity, which had inflamed his arthritis.

He stood outside the mausoleum at sunset, and the stranger heard him say — as if he were rebutting a ghost from the spirit world, “We should never say: ‘Let’s do what our fathers did.’ ”

He went out to his visitor, whom he discovered beside a tomb that had crumbled to bits of stone, except for its marker. Gazing at the horizon, which was cloaked in sunset red, and clasping his stick with both hands, he asked, “Does my master propose a different maxim?”

The other man promptly responded, “Of course; we ought to proclaim, ‘Let’s do what the intellect says.’”

“What, pray tell, does the intellect say?”

“It says: ‘Beware of surrendering control of your affairs to oasis women, for they will become pegs that tie you to the land.’ ”

“Everything on earth ties us down. The body and even the earth do. Where can you flee a destiny of restraining commitments?”

“I’m sad to hear this from a stranger who has arrived in the oasis as a wayfarer.”

Deciding to enjoy the sunset, he squatted down beside the other man and observed, “I’ve heard that our master also arrived in the oasis one day as a transient from the desert.”

“I arrived in the oasis as a transient, intending to leave. But I betrayed my intellect and told myself one day when I took a fancy to a girl, ‘It’s time for me to do what my forefathers before me did.’ So I buried myself alive.”

Glancing circumspectly at his companion from behind his veil, he asked, “Did you say you’ve buried yourself alive?”

“Sedentary life is lethargy followed by death, don’t you think?”

He smiled behind his veil, and the smile showed in his mischievous eyes. The mind’s proponent, however, did not notice this, because he was still traversing the horizons, as he had done since first settling on the tomb.

He agreed with his guest: “I’m happy to hear a man who chose one day to settle in the oasis say this.”

“The matter could easily be tolerated if only our bodies were affected, but the frightening thing is that our minds are too.”

“I like what I hear! I like it a lot!”

“Our bodies are subjected to arthritis, bloating, obesity, and epidemics, but worse than all this is the harm done to our minds.”

He waited for the other man to offer a clarification, but the guest remained silent. He was silent for a long time. So he asked mischievously, “Is idiocy a manifestation of this syndrome?”

“Idiocy?”

“I had a delightful visit from a cheerful fellow who proclaimed himself an idiot. So I thought he might be a victim of the disease you just mentioned.”

He attempted to suppress a wicked laugh, but it escaped. His throat rattled for a while. Then he explained, “Naturally I didn’t believe him. Doing so would have made me the greater fool. Just as we should not believe anyone who claims to be wise, we should not credit the assertion of a person calling himself a fool. The conventions of concealment teach us that a thing’s reality lies in its opposite, not its mate.”

The man with the striped veil, however, was still preoccupied by his voyage to the horizons. From an ever-distant homeland, he observed, “Do you know that all the farmers I’ve seen were once nomads?”

“What evidence is there for that?”

He fell silent. Stillness prevailed, the evening stillness. Along the horizon that lay beyond the fields and that encircled the low-lying, sword-type dunes to the extreme west, a reddish gloom advanced. The specter, who was dubbed the intellect’s advocate, spoke: “Tip your ears my way, so I can tell you a tale.”

“We’re all ears.”

“In ancient times, the oasis wasn’t an oasis. It was a lake. Like all bodies of water, it was swathed in solitude and stillness and its waters glittered with light from the heavens. The ancient Law referred to the creatures living in the lake as water nymphs. These jinnis excelled at singing. Their singing was not like that we hear from girls today. What we hear now is merely a poor imitation of the songs of these aquatic sorceresses. Indeed, any man who heard their songs forever lost his mind and his way. The men of that age were nomadic and destined to live happily, provided that they did not settle down. This was specified by clauses of a secret covenant of which later generations knew little. It is reported that the man with the despicable jenny led them to the lake to hear the water nymphs sing in a soirée they held whenever the moon turned full. The men heard the singing once, went insane, and lost their way, forever. They lost their way and clung to the location reserved for every wayfarer who has lost his way. For this reason, you will observe that whenever they hear singing they become tense and rowdy, try to break free of their fetters, and lapse into altered states of consciousness. The singing awakens within them their ancient reality, which they call ‘Longing.’ Then they try to escape from their bonds and to regain their lost selves.”

“What a story!”

“Each nation’s reality is encapsulated in a story; beware of mocking stories.”

“I have no intention of slighting stories. I just don’t like to hear wretches blame their sins on the man with the jenny every time that passion blinds them or that a caprice overwhelms them.”

He turned to face his host for the first time, returning from his journey to the horizon. He stared at him with wandering eyes, as if noticing his presence for the first time, as if all the while he had been addressing ghosts, not the man seated beside him. He inquired skeptically, “Do you think they accuse the man with the jenny unfairly?”

“I’ve never doubted that. People inevitably make many more false accusations against those who wish them well than against those who wish them ill. Hasn’t my master learned from experience that they’re quick to fault him whenever he invites them to submit to the intellect’s guidance?”

He stared silently at his face. Then he leaned forward to say sorrowfully, “The truth is that they fuss more at someone who asks them to submit to the intellect’s guidance than at anyone else.”

His companion said approvingly, “You see? This should prompt us to revise the story. So we will say, ‘It was their passions that led them to fall into the embrace of the waterjinnis.’ We won’t say, ‘The man with the jenny subjected them to singing’s seduction.’ All the same. . let’s set aside the story of the first people. Tell me about the intellect’s sovereign rule. Didn’t you visit me this evening to lead me down the intellect’s path?” His throat rattled with malicious laughter.

Then intellect’s advocate replied, “The intellect is a messenger that leads but is not led. I did not come to convince you; you can satisfy yourself concerning it.”

“I’m not a diviner. I can’t read the secret thoughts you detect in human breasts.”

“Every intellectual is a diviner. In our world, the intellect is the greatest diviner.”

“But a prophecy from the tongue of a diviner is more powerful. A prophetic maxim is nobler when spoken.”

Darkness crept over the oasis, devouring the horizon as it went. Then it subdued the fields on its trek. In its grasp, the structures of the homes and huts of the farmers — scattered here and there — changed into ghosts. After a silence, the visitor said, “Let me mention then the intellect’s first maxim: ‘Don’t ever violate local custom. Never violate the customary law of a land where you settle as a guest.’ Am I wrong?”