At dawn the caravan left the land of Ghuroub. For the first time it was made up wholly of travelers and emigrants: not a single merchant was to be found in it. We were enfolded in anxiety, sadness, and apprehension because of what had occurred in the land of Ghuroub, where we had been forcibly cut off from our training. I wished that on the way opportunities might be afforded us for resuming meditation and exertion in order to lessen the hardship that awaited us.
The rising of the sun revealed a flat desert throughout which were scattered many wells. For a month we continued until our way was barred by the Green Mountain, stretching in both directions as far as the eye could see. We had to cross the mountain, ascending it, then going down the other side. In front of us lay a wide pathway that rose gently upwards, so the caravan headed towards it. At infrequent intervals there were bouts of light rain which kept us company in our loneliness. We would travel by day and encamp at night. Then, after three weeks, we reached the highest part of the mountain. It was a broad, flat area rich with vegetation. “There is the land of Gebel for you,” said the old man, standing at the edge and pointing.
He was indicating another mountain separated from the Green Mountain by a desert. On the top of it stood the city, tall and extensive, with vast domes and buildings bespeaking sublime majesty. I looked in its direction with stunned fascination. It was no longer a dream but a reality, a reality that was close at hand, for there was nothing between us and it except for us to descend the mountainside, cross the short space of desert, and ascend the other mountain. We would then find ourselves in front of the city entrance, with its director of customs saying to us, “Welcome to the land of Gebel, the land of perfection.”
Our patience had diminished and we hastened to be on our way. It took the caravan two weeks to descend the side of the mountain and reach the desert. I was taken aback when I saw the desert stretching away as though endlessly in front of us. We could hardly see the other mountain, so immersed was it in the distance. Astonished at how our eyes had deceived us, I was sure that many days and weeks would pass before we reached the other mountain, on the top of which was to be found the land of Gebel. And we did in fact journey for many weeks, the distance increased by the hills and elevations that barred our way, forcing us to turn sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left, until it seemed to me that a whole lifetime had gone by before we reached the base of the other mountain. We stood below it looking upwards and found that it was as high as the clouds themselves, defying our longings. Then the master of the caravan said, “Here is where the caravan ends, gentlemen.”
I could not believe my ears.
“But take us up,” I said, “to the land of Gebel.”
“The mountain pass is narrow, as you can see,” replied the man, “and gives no room for a camel.”
We hurried off to our spiritual master and he said gently, “The man is speaking the truth.”
“And how shall we continue our journey?”
“On foot, as those before us have done,” he said casually.
“For those who find the going too difficult, let them return with the caravan,” said the master of the caravan.
But nobody’s determination weakened and we all decided to venture forward. I thought about myself and those I had left behind, and about the circumstances I would meet that might prevent my returning. With all this in mind, it occurred to me to write out a journal of my travels and to give it to the master of the caravan to hand over to my mother or to the custodian of the House of Wisdom, for there are aspects that deserve to be known. There are even references to the land of Gebel itself which will disperse some of the darkness that has settled over it and will stir the imagination to picture things about it that are not yet known. After this it would be no bad idea to set aside a special journal for the land of Gebel, should I be destined to visit it and return to my homeland.
The man agreed to undertake the task, so I made him a present of a hundred dinars and we recited together the opening chapter of the Quran to seal the agreement. After that, freeing myself of my misgivings, I made ready for the final adventure with unabated determination.
With these words ends the manuscript of the voyage of Qindil Muhammad al-Innabi, known as Ibn Fattouma.
No history book makes any mention further of this traveler.
Did he complete his journey or did he perish on the way?
Did he enter the land of Gebel? How did he fare there?
Did he stay there till the end of his life, or did he return to his homeland as he intended?
Will one day a further manuscript be found describing his last journey?
Knowledge of all this lies with the Knower of what is unseen and of what is seen.