Ibrahim al-Koni - The Puppet

He descended into Retem Valley, where he walked a long distance along the valley bottom. In the retem shrubs, a bird warbled a song, an ancient, touching melody that the tribes commonly scrutinized for omens, because this species of bird was heard but not seen. If one ever happened to show itself, the observer became incorporeal too, because he would not be able to accompany the bird to its realm in the Spirit World without losing his body in the human realm.

As he wandered, he listened carefully to the nameless song. The melody echoed in his ears for a long distance, until he had passed the Oases Gate and made the circuit of the empty area that bounded the wall on the southwest, in order to enter the oasis by the Western Hamada Gate. The singing continued to reverberate in his ears, reminding him at times of the leader. The bird’s mysterious melody did not fade until he traversed the alley to find a throng of commoners at the door to his house.

3

The council convened in the temple.

The men sat in a circle in the oblation chamber on mats woven from diss. 2 Slaves carried in the venerable elder on a palm-branch litter and placed him at the front of the council after setting around him leather pillows decorated with designs and talismanic drawings. Propped up in this way, he looked even punier and more emaciated. Imaswan Wandarran leaned toward him and shouted in his ear, “Has this heresy reached our master’s ears? Have they told you they intend to replace the leader from eternity with a puppet selected from earthly people?”

Emmamma swayed from side to side. His beady eyes, which had lost the brilliance that had long glowed in them, hung in the void. He mumbled the obscure cry that in recent years had become his mantra. It was a melodious chant reminiscent of a song of longing: “Hi-y-y-yeh.”

The hero entered, decked out in blue robes. His waist was encircled by an expensive leather belt meticulously decorated and ornamented with small beads. At his left side hung an impressive scabbard, which was also covered with ridges of rich embellishment. In this lengthy scabbard was thrust his mighty sword, although its hilt, which was wrapped with strips of colored leather, jutted up haughtily. In his right hand rested an even more majestic weapon: a spear decorated with fascinating dangling leather straps that flowed down from the upper part of the shaft and quivered with a lovely tremor each time the spear’s blade struck the earth as it kept time to the steps of the warrior, who used his fearsome weapon as a walking stick in peaceful times.

He stood at the entrance and cast an all-encompassing look at the council. He spoke as if intending to stifle the song of longing in the venerable elder’s chest. “It would be best if you began. There’s a crowd following me. They’re swarming outside. If you don’t expedite matters, I can’t guarantee that they won’t storm the council.”

Amasis the Younger shouted censoriously, “Storm the council?”

The hero squatted beside Aghulli and asked, “What’s to prevent them? Haven’t you noticed that times have changed?”

“How have times changed?”

“Times have changed because the location has changed. The desert has a law but settlements have another.”

“I don’t know what the hero’s talking about.”

“We ought to start at once.”

Amasis the Younger straightened his veil and fastened the top over his nose. Turning toward the hero, he said, “The fact is, we didn’t wait on you. We began a little while ago. Imaswan said they intend to replace eternity’s leader with a puppet chosen from the earthly folk.”

Ahallum replied at once, “A change of place brings a change in the times. Only the wasteland’s people need the voice of the Spirit World, which you refer to as eternity. Worldly people want nothing from their world but worldly puppets.”

Silence reigned. The nobles exchanged stealthy glances, as they normally did whenever they disapproved of something, were biding their time, or were preparing to pounce on a proposal they opposed.

Imaswan Wandarran interjected, “Does the hero mean what he says or have I misunderstood him?”

Ahallum responded with the frigidity that tribes encounter only from true heroes whose exploits are transmitted by successive generations. “No, my stalwart comrade has understood correctly.”

“Do you think we should abandon the path of the one who — while he reposes — has left us this land and surrender control to a creature like one of us?”

“If you hadn’t acknowledged that we possess land, there would have remained at least one argument in your quiver; or, was your acknowledgment a slip of the tongue?”

“Does the possession of land change anything?”

“Yes, it does, comrade. Possession is also a choice. Didn’t the wasteland’s law teach us that a person who possesses land is possessed by his land? Didn’t our forefathers advise us to beware of remaining in one location for more than forty nights? The ancients included this among their precepts because they understood land’s secret nature, because they perceived that the wasteland’s law differs from that of the oasis.”

Outside, voices grew louder, but Imaswan Wandarran waved his hand in the air as if shooing away flies. Then he said emotionally, “Does the hero think we ought to agree to pick a leader from among us to humor the mob assembled outside this sanctuary?”

“What’s fated is inevitable.”

“Doesn’t the hero know that relinquishing our leader actually means relinquishing the prophecy?”

“What’s fated is inevitable.”

“Why do you think this is inevitable?”

“Because I know that settled people will never be satisfied with a prophetic leader. They have a greater need for a puppet chosen from the people of this world.”

“What are you saying?”

“They claim they want a leader they can see with their own eyes and touch with their hands, someone who will walk among them on two feet, who will resolve their disputes, supervise their affairs, make decrees to benefit them, and set penalties for fraud, burglary, plunder, and acts of vandalism. They say they want a leader, not merely because they need someone to whom they can submit their concerns, but because they can’t feel secure and sleep won’t find a path to their eyes unless they know that a creature of this kind exists somewhere inside the walls of this oasis.”

Imaswan looked at him in astonishment, and the members of the council gazed at him with even greater surprise. Meanwhile, Aghulli was smiling secretly and enigmatically while his fingers fiddled with the diss mat. Finally, Imaswan spoke. “You should have attempted to sway them rather than deliver their heresy to our ears.”

“My comrade can try to sway them, because they’ve come to tell you today exactly what they told me yesterday.”

Silence reigned over the oblation chamber. Outside, the people’s clamor grew louder. Imaswan asked, “Do you really want me to go out to them?”

“If you don’t, we’ll be forced to choose someone who will act for you and all the rest of us.”

“I’ve never been good at public speaking.”

“You’ve never been at a loss for an argument. You’ve never lacked eloquence.”

“But, my voice. …”

“We’ll call the herald. I’ve sent someone to search for him.”

“I see you’ve thought of everything.”

“I consider this the lesser evil than civil strife consuming the oasis.”

“Civil strife?”

“It would be wrong to underestimate the common people. It’s said they’re like children before a sage and like an inferno before a fool.”

The seated man pressed the diss mat with his palms to control his emotions and cast a sweeping glance round the council as if asking for help from its members. The hero gestured to him encouragingly, but Imaswan Wandarran looked off in another direction and addressed the venerable elder with words that blended earnestness and jest. “Have you heard, master? They’re set on replacing eternity’s leader with the fool’s leader. Does our master find any point to their bickering?”