I AWOKE FROM my sleep, feeling shattered … the way a person feels when wresting himself from the jumbled confusions of a nightmare. My body seemed sunk in the ground, as if buried under a mountain, and my limbs felt like rocks. My head throbbed with unbearable pain, and my tongue was paralyzed. Although I could open my eyes, my tongue refused to budge. What was the meaning of this?
I found myself imprisoned inside a tent within a tent. Even though I was restrained, I could see outside, through the entrance, and discern the time of day. I observed that the prophecy of Ragh was a timid flow moving through the empty countryside and therefore assumed it was morning. Was it a birth? Was it my first birth or my second? If it really was a birth, it must have been my second, since a quiet voice informed me that I had been born before. Light’s prophetic message, which my eyes discerned outside, was not a lie, because its root was a hidden revelation, planted so deep in my heart that I had no right to doubt it. Another revelation was unveiled in my chest, saying that I could doubt anything except my inspiration, no matter how much I wanted to, since this would mean betraying myself.
Then … then my heart’s revelation unveiled another treasure, for I remembered a matter of sublime importance; I remembered that I had been free. How had I become a captive? I remembered that I had liberated myself from all my burdens and had shot off. I remembered that I had floated freely through space, because I had been able to rid myself of the snail’s shell that harbored me. What cunning had trapped me in the snare once again? How had my liberation been effected, how had it so transformed me that I could roam freely with neither body nor tongue, and how had this liberation changed into a tribulation that constricted my breathing as if I were weighed down by a mountain?
Then I heard a voice say clearly, “This is the price of departure.”
At first, I thought that this voice issued from my chest rather than my tongue, because I was certain that my tongue was paralyzed and had not stirred. This prophecy, however, was repeated with even greater clarity, and I was able, with some effort, to ascertain that it originated with a figure—crouching in a corner of the tent—who had borrowed his features from the denizens of the spirit world. A black veil enveloped his head, and an amulet chain, which was thrust into a leather pouch, protected his body. His head was crowned with a talisman, as were his shoulders. His chest was decorated with an awe-inspiring string of these talismans. His forearms were also safeguarded by two more. Had it not been for this alarming concentration of charms, I would have assumed he belonged to one of the jinn tribes that populate the desert from Tinghart to Tiniri, but concern with the forefathers’ symbols buried in these districts is a matter reserved for human priests alone.
At that moment my tongue sprang to life with a facility that took me by surprise. I heard myself ask, “To which departure does my master refer?”
The question did not surprise him, I sensed, nor was he surprised by the liberation of my tongue. He proceeded to draw some designs on the ground. Then he replied, without looking my way, “A departure to search for a father.”
“But … who are you?”
He glanced at me for the first time, and I saw in his eyes everything that should appear in the eye of a genuine priest: mystery, sorrow, prophecy, and the pain that is said to be married to every prophecy.
He replied, “You would do well to ask yourself, ‘Who am I?’ instead of asking me, ‘Who are you?’”
I thought that the pained look in his eyes intensified then and almost turned into real suffering. I was touched by his pain but could not grasp its cause. Then I discovered he was correct: I could not say anything for certain about myself or the world, despite the precious revelation granted me that I had been born one day, had gained knowledge one day, and had been liberated one day.
I said, “You’re right, master. Who might I be?”
“I almost lost the world to return you to the world.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you remember anything at all?”
“I remember that I was free!”
I caught the gleam of a smile in his eyes. He faced toward the entrance to allow his eyes to roam the vacant wasteland. He replied, “You’re not mistaken about that. You truly were free. You were so free that you almost lost yourself on account of this freedom.”
“Does freedom cause us to lose ourselves, master?”
“Freedom, my son, is about living, not about dying.”
“But I was happy.”
“Happy like a living person or a dead one?”
“Enshrined in my memory is the treasured saying of a wise man who claimed that in happiness life becomes equivalent to death.”
“Watch out! True heroism is to live, not to die.”
“Are you saying that heroism is living, not dying?”
“Absolutely.”
“I like that, but is it possible for us to find a place for freedom in this heroism?”
“Where did you get your ability to debate? Unless he’s well along in years, it’s inappropriate for a man to pelt a priest with questions.”
“The child isn’t the author of his questions, master. The author of his questions is the freedom dormant in the child’s breast.”
“This is a malady. It’s a curse. Watch out!”
“Yes, of course, master. Freedom is always a disease, always a curse, but—like prophecy—it’s a curse we worship.”
“For boys to utter prophecy is a sign of misfortune, even if their prophecy is genuine.”
“Am I a boy?”
“Your tongue has actually made me wonder whether you are.”
Silence reigned. Outside, the light’s color faded. So I asked, “Is it dawn or dusk?”
“Late afternoon.”
“I’ve been feeling I’m experiencing my birth.”
“Yes, that’s right. You are experiencing your birth. There’s no doubt about that.”
“Is it my second birth?”
“Yes, indeed. You have every right to feel sure of that.”
“Is the second birth paradise?”
“We cannot live once without hoping we’ll be born a second time.”
I repeated after him: “‘We cannot live once without hoping we’ll be born a second time’ … but, master, you speak of the price we must pay for departing to search for our fathers.”
“The price of searching for fathers is metamorphosis.”
“Metamorphosis?”
“Yes, indeed. I had to wage a lethal combat with the most wicked jinn before I could liberate you from the evil of metamorphoses.”
“Of what metamorphoses are you speaking, master?”
“Some shepherds were peacefully pasturing their flocks in Retem Ravine when they were taken by surprise by a despicable specter that terrified their animals.”
“A despicable specter?”
“It was an ugly, composite creature, half-man, half-beast.”
“Was it a jinni?”
Ignoring my question, he continued his tale. “He was creeping on all fours, competing for grass with the livestock. Around his neck hung some talismans. Wretch, did you drink gazelle urine?”
“Did you say ‘gazelle urine’? I think I saw something wondrous in the gazelle’s eye. I drank the urine and then saw the wondrous thing. Now I remember. The despicable hare crossed my path and led me off the trail. My thirst robbed me of my reason and I drank. I admit I drank gazelle urine. Had it not been for the gazelle’s urine, I would not have been liberated. Had it not been for the gazelle’s urine, I would not have been saved. Had it not been for the gazelle’s urine, I would not have witnessed my second birth.”
“You achieved your second birth, but your departure cost you your mother.”
“What?”
“You will never see her again, from this day on.”
I remembered again. I remembered that I had burst forth from the womb of my Ma one day. I remembered that she had taught me the names one day. I remembered that she had forbidden my search for my father, explaining that the homeland of fathers is the sky, not the desert. I remembered. I remembered.
“You set forth to find your father and thus lost both your mother and father.”
“From my mother I came. By my mother I lived, and to the embrace of my mother I will return. How can I believe that I could ever lose my mother?”
“From today onwards, you will never see her again.”
“I shall never believe that. But … what happened?”
“She only forbade you to search for your father because she was afraid of being separated from you. When she was told that you had fled to search for your father, she realized that she had lost you for good. When she went with the other women to draw water from the well, she surprised them and threw herself down its shaft.”
“No!”
“You killed her.”
“No!”
“You’re not just any kind of killer; you’re a matricide.”
At that moment I liberated myself. I liberated my body this time. The oppressive weight on my chest was lifted. I sprang up like someone springing free of a nightmare.
Yes, yes, it had to be another nightmare. The nightmare had continued, and the priest crouching opposite me was just the spectral figure of one of the jinn at whom I should throw a rock or a handful of pebbles. I reached to fill my hand with pebbles, which I threw at the figure’s face, but he did not disappear or dissolve the way an apparition would have. I recited a charm so ancient I did not know the meaning of the words, but he did not budge. I crept toward him until I could almost touch his intimidating turban with my head. I stared into his eyes for a long time and then asked, “Why don’t you tell me how you liberated me from the metamorphoses?”