Ibrahim al-Koni - Gold Dust

The honor of breaking from that cage went to the piebald. And now God had rewarded the camel for his patience and led him to this treasure — to these hidden pastures. The pastures that the passing clouds had made so verdant. The green was heaven’s gift in the desert. Even the barren desert knew how to hide surprises to reward those who are patient. It had rewarded the Mahri with sweet grasses, and Ukhayyad with truffles.

If truffles were not precious treasure, then what was? A fruit that fell from heaven? It is nothingness that brings truffles forth in great abundance. The earth splits apart to let them come up. Their strong earthy scent wafts across the land. The winds scatter them and carry them back to earth. Then lightning mixes with thunder and suddenly the magical fruit is born again in the heart of the void. To enjoy truffles at the outset of summer — that was a mercy from heaven. This was paradise on earth.

But had paradise lasted even until the days of the ancients? And had God’s blessings survived even into the age of the Prophets?

One day, one of the deep desert herdsmen stumbled into Ukhayyad’s paradise. The man rode in at nightfall on a stout, disheveled camel. He tethered the beast in the field and called out, “Praise God!” three times before greeting Ukhayyad. He said he was looking for his lost camels. He also said that Ukhayyad must be a saint beloved of God, since he had been blessed above all others with such pasturage — especially with the other parts of the desert world suffering from such drought.

Ukhayyad invited him to share tea. “It’s best if you say nothing about this to anyone,” Ukhayyad said.

“I’ll keep it a secret if you let me graze my camels here,” the stranger laughed, and then added, “That is, if God helps me find them in His wide desert!”

“God willing, you will find them.”

“No doubt I will. God answers the prayers of His saints.”

He wiped his beard and leaned back contentedly on the pebbles beneath them. “I’ll keep it a secret if you let me graze,” he repeated. “As you can see, I don’t ask for much in exchange for my silence!”

Laughing again, he said, “To be content with what we have. The faqihs all agree in their condemnation of greed — and who am I to say otherwise? To hell with wealth! Did you hear the story about that man in Adrar oasis who sold his wife and child for a handful of gold dust?”

The blood froze in Ukhayyad’s veins. “What!” he gasped.

“The story is on everyone’s tongue. The man surrendered his wife and child to one of the rich foreigners for a handful of gold dust. Gold — it blinds the eye! Not until I heard that story did I realize how cursed that yellow copper truly is.”

Ukhayyad held his tongue. Cold sweat poured across his shoulders, soaking the skin. His hands trembled and tea spilled onto the ground. Soon, the perspiration began to seep from his forehead and from around his mouth. Beads of it dripped into the cups, mixing into the frothy crown of the green tea. Blood began to seep from his heart.

In that single instant, he forgot all about the burdens sons inherit from their fathers — the nooses that choke, the dolls that bring ruin, and the empty, empty illusions. The things of the world began to take on their old meanings again. The noose went back to being a beloved wife. The doll became, once more, his progeny and heir to his mantle. The sham illusion became, once again, shame — actual shame.

In the blink of an eye, the beautiful dream melted away. In the blink of an eye, a harsh, wretched truth settled in. As the vision disappeared, freedom dissolved and the shackles returned.

It seemed to him now that all he had thought about during his daring escape had been no more than a fantasy. His wife was no noose, but a refuge; his son, no plaything, but the awaited messiah. The illusion too was revealed for what it was. In an instant, every sign turned on its head.

There was nothing strange about this turn of events. When a person decides to oppose Satan, he should never let his guard down. In order to converse with another living creature, a person has to speak in the Devil’s tongue. And in that moment, all vision of the divine vanishes, and all signs of heaven disappear.

How did this wretched nomad know how to banish inspiration? How did that accursed man know so well how to drive him mad?

For three consecutive nights he dreamed of the same decrepit house.

He did not actually sleep. The burning that filled his heart left no room for slumber. But with the glow of each new dawn, he managed to drift off for a short spell. And there, in his sleep, he saw the wretched ruins. Though he knew this fitful sleep would be fleeting, his wanderings through the wrecked dwelling would last the whole night.

The dream was not new.

In his childhood, it had tortured him again and again, returning to torment him during the first years of his youth. At that time, he had not yet visited the oases, nor ever once seen a house built with adobe or stone. Even so, the vision haunted him. The dark, foreboding house had two stories, and was built of mud brick. Its roof was made of palm trunks, over which rested a layer of palm fronds, and clay mixed with earth. The ground floor was a shambles. A wall, and some of the rooms too, had partly collapsed. There was something else about the house: it was completely abandoned and had neither windows nor doors. It was strange: Ukhayyad always found himself trapped inside without knowing how he had got in. He was on the second floor walking along dark hallways looking for a way out — a door or window or even a glint of light. The ground beneath him shook and threatened to collapse, and he would step faster, holding his breath for fear of falling. At the same time, he instinctively felt the presence of a specter that never actually appeared, neither as substance nor shadow. In the dream, these two fears were always with him, that he would fall and that he would enrage the phantom being.

Later in his youth, the dream abruptly stopped. After that he forgot all about it.

This was the dream that came back the first night after talking with the traveler. That night, something snatched his sleep away. And now, only now, could he clearly make out the three things that had so frightened him: the obscurity, the rickety ceiling, and the shadowy being that had never — not in the past, nor in the latest visitations — announced itself by word or by sign. Ukhayyad knew that it was present somewhere in the house, at the end of one of the hallways, in the corner of one of the rooms, in the ceiling, on the rooftop, or on the ground floor below amid the debris and piles of fallen bricks. He dreaded this being — its mere presence filled his heart with a terror, a dread that made him feel ashamed upon awaking. He had never experienced this kind of fear in his waking life. Even death never aroused feelings like this in him. What was he afraid of? Who, or what was this being? Was it human or jinn? Angel or devil?

As he struggled, searching for the being, the same two things stood in his way: the gloom and the ceiling that was always on the verge of collapse. His steps were anxious and hesitant. The sweat poured out of him, he panted, and groped along the empty hallways like a blind man. For some reason, he would not use his hands to feel his way along the walls. Instead, he walked feebly and alone into the void, always about to tumble into the abyss. Whenever he awoke from the vision, he took a deep breath and thanked God that he had not fallen, and that what had taken place in the dream had not happened here in his waking life.

Likewise, what troubled and baffled him was his inability to understand how he came to be inside the crumbling house, since it had no door, nor windows. He could not have dropped from the sky. He simply appeared there, inside, and did not emerge again until he woke up. He wandered about in the darkness like a blind man. He trembled, terrified of falling, dreading the being and unable to escape this phantom place until he awoke.