The Oracle

by Jonathan Cahn

  “Did you?”

  “There were those who didn’t speak the language. There were others who said they had never heard of him. Then there were those who told me they had heard of him but only through others, who in turn had only heard of him through others. They knew someone who knew someone who had once encountered him. And then there were those eager to speak of him, but what they shared was so fanciful, the stuff of legends, that it was useless.

  “Finally I came across the one person who was able to give me something to go on, an old shopkeeper. He didn’t claim to know much about the Oracle except for the region in which he was reputed to dwell. He was the one who directed me into the desert and to the most dangerous part of the journey. But he didn’t do so without preparing me. He sold me some used paraphernalia of the nomads of the region, survival gear, a small cloth tent, and rations of dried food. I did wonder whether he really knew of the Oracle’s whereabouts or if he just wanted to make a sale. But having nothing else to go on, I went with it.

  “So I set off in the desert in the direction I was told to go in. I knew it was a risk. In the daytime my chief goal was to find a source of water and to preserve the little I carried. At night it was to stay on guard against the animals of the region and the possibility of robbers. But the greatest danger would become evident on the third day. It was then that I realized I had no idea where I was. Thus I could no longer pace myself. Nor could I tell if it was safer to head back or keep going.

  “It was the night of the third day, a cool and windy night. I was sitting on a rock in front of my tent by a small campfire I had, with much effort, managed to ignite. I noticed, in the distance, a dark figure with a long black coat or cloak and a hood covering his head. He made his way over to the fire.”

  “Might I join you?” he asked.

  He was an older man, his features chiseled and desert worn, his voice rich and with a noticeable accent. But I couldn’t place its origin.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  He sat down beside me, staring into the fire as he spoke.

  “You’re on a journey?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re looking for the Oracle?”

  “How did you know that?” I asked.

  “I just do. So why do you seek him? What do you want?”

  “I need to ask him something . . . about something I saw. I believe he’s the only one who can answer it.”

  “And are you seeking gain?”

  “Just an answer.”

  “And if you get your answer, what will you do with it?”

  “I don’t know. I just know that I need to know it.”

  It was then that he turned away from the fire and gazed directly into my eyes.

  “You must keep going, and in the direction in which you’ve begun. You’ll find the remnant of a trail, the caravan path of nomads. Follow it. In a day or two you’ll come to their encampment. Don’t set up your tent inside the camp but just outside it, at the foot of the nearest mountain.”

  At that he rose to his feet.

  “I wish you well,” he said as he walked away from the fire.

  “What about the Oracle?” I asked.

  “If you are meant to find him,” he said, “you’ll find him . . . or he’ll find you.”

  “He disappeared into the darkness as quickly as he had appeared.

  “The following day I set out on the next phase of the journey in accordance with what I was told. I found the caravan path, or what remained of it. At times it would disappear in the sand, but there was always just enough to keep me going.

  “It was late in the afternoon when I saw the tent encampment. It seemed as if it was from another age. The people of the camp had to have lived much the same way as they would have thousands of years in the past . . . in a world of their own. Their tents were made of dark brown and black cloth. The men were clothed in similar cloth and colors, but the women were dressed in more varied cloths and colors and patterns.

  “I was, of course, a total stranger to them. But they were welcoming. They found me a continual source of fascination. That night I ate a meal prepared by the women. The communication was challenging since there was no common language between us, not even a shared word. So we spoke mostly with our hands. I asked them to point me to the nearest mountain. They did.

  “It was now dark, but I was able to discern its outline. They implored me to stay, to spend the night with them. But I insisted on continuing to my destination. It wasn’t long before I reached it, and there, a few feet from the rock of the mountain’s base, I set up my tent. I was by now beyond exhaustion. I lay down in my tent on the cloths that formed my pillow. I stayed awake for a time. I couldn’t stop wondering what lay ahead. I had reached the end of the instructions.

  “It was only when I woke up the next morning that the precariousness of my situation dawned on me. My food and water supply was nearly exhausted. It was then that I noticed a covered object by the entrance of my tent. I uncovered it. It was a plate of food. The women from the camp had brought it out to me. After finishing the meal, I placed the plate in the sand outside the tent. Underneath it I left some money. That evening I found another plate by the tent entrance—dinner. After eating, I did the same thing, leaving the plate just outside the entrance with a second payment underneath it. This went on every day. They never announced their coming, as if to make sure they didn’t interrupt me. And they never asked me for anything in return, but I felt it right to pay them. The food was different from anything I had been accustomed to. But over time I grew accustomed to it, and it kept me alive.”

  “That’s why he told you to go there, to stay by the camp . . . so you would survive.”

  “That was one reason. The next morning, I began exploring the area, being careful to keep my bearings and not wander too far away from the tent.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Valleys, plains, and mountains but no sign of anything else. This went on for several days. But then something happened. It was morning. I emerged from my tent to discover I had company.”

  “Who?”

  “A little boy dressed in brown cloth. He was sitting in the distance outside my tent, as if waiting for me to come out.”

  “Where did he come from?”

  “Maybe from the encampment, maybe from another encampment, from a family of nomads. I don’t know. As with those in the tent village, we didn’t speak the same language. He got up and motioned for me to follow him. I wasn’t sure if I should. On the other hand, I didn’t think I had anything to lose by doing so. So I began walking behind him. He would occasionally stop and look back, just to make sure I was there or to allow me time to catch up.

  “I couldn’t tell which was more absurd, the fact that a little boy was leading me or the fact that I was following him. There was always the possibility that I was being led nowhere in the middle of a barren wilderness. All the more, I tried my best to keep track of all the turns and landmarks along the way. But the bottom line was I had nothing else to go on.

  “He led me through a valley, a deep, winding ravine, a plain, and finally to the bottom of the mountain, where he paused to allow me to catch up. Then we began the ascent. His steps followed the outline of a winding mountain path. The terrain was such that I often lost sight of the boy before spotting him again on the other side of a bend or ledge.

  “Finally we arrived at the top. It was then that I saw the figure of a man sitting on a large rock near the mountain’s pinnacle. At first I could only see his outline, a silhouette against the sunlight. The boy receded to the side as if to indicate that I was to approach the man on my own. So I did. When I looked back, the boy had vanished. I continued the approach. The man was turned away from me, looking into the light of the desert landscape. I don’t know if he heard me coming or not, but it was just at that moment that he turned around. He said nothing. But I couldn’t hold back.”

  “Are you the one I’ve been seeking?”

&nbs
p; “That would depend,” he replied.

  “The one who can answer my questions.”

  “How could I answer before hearing them?”

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “I’m known by many names,” he replied.

  “What do the people of this region call you?”

  “Most of them have no idea who I am.”

  “But those that do, do they have a name for you?”

  “I’ve heard they do.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Oracle.”

  Chapter 4

  THE ORACLE

  HE WASN’T YOUNG. That much I expected. The legend of the Oracle had been around for some time. And as I had expected, he had a distinctly mystical appearance. The hair on his head was snow white, as was his beard. He was wearing an off-white robe-like garment on top of an off-white inner garment, what you might expect to see in ancient times or on a member of some religious order.

  “There was a rock opposite the one on which he was sitting. He motioned for me to sit there. So I did.”

  “You’ve been searching for how long?” he asked.

  “On foot,” I said, “for several weeks and, before that, several months.”

  “How did you hear of me?”

  “I read about you in an article.”

  “There couldn’t have been much. There isn’t much known of me . . . and I don’t give interviews.”

  “No,” I replied, “it wasn’t much. It spoke more of your legend than of you.”

  “So how did you know I was real?”

  “I wasn’t sure. I believed you were.”

  “You came all this way because of a legend you read about in an article. Why?”

  “Because I thought you could help me.”

  He was silent.

  “Can you?” I asked.

  “That depends on what kind of help you need.”

  “Answers . . . truth . . . an explanation.”

  “It is possible,” he replied, “that I could be of some help. But I can’t promise you anything without hearing. How serious are you about finding the truth?”

  “Would I be sitting here in the middle of the desert if I weren’t?”

  “And how long do you have?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  There was a long pause.

  “So then,” he said, “where shall we begin?”

  “Where it all began,” I replied. “Do you believe in visions?”

  “You’ve seen a vision?”

  “I’m not the type to be seeing them.”

  “Who is the type?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, but not me. I never had one before. And now I’ve had three.”

  “Three different visions?”

  “One vision, three times.”

  “The exact same vision?” he asked.

  “The exact same vision.”

  “So what did you see?”

  I paused to collect my thoughts.

  “I was standing inside a temple, an ancient-looking temple with large stone pillars, capitals, steps, a roof . . . everything pure white, more than pure white. Everything was glowing, radiant. I wasn’t alone. I could see figures, clothed in white and likewise radiant, moving around me. In front of me was a man clothed, as were the others, in a white robe. I couldn’t see his face at first, as he was turned away from me. He opened a white marble chest and retrieved a key.”

  “A radiant white key?”

  “Yes, like everything else. He turned around, placed the key in my hand, then led me outside the temple. We were standing on its marble steps, looking out into a vast desert landscape of valleys, plains, and mountains. He walked down the steps and into the desert. I followed him.

  “He led me to a mountain. As we neared its base, I noticed a massive door in the rock face. He motioned for me to approach it. The door had a small keyhole. I looked back. He nodded as if to give me the go-ahead. I placed the key in the hole and turned it. There was a loud rumbling. The massive door began to open inward. We went inside. The door closed behind us. We were now standing in a gigantic chamber of hewn rock, lit up by the light of torches set in holders along the wall. The chamber was circular. Spaced evenly around the chamber were seven doors, each of a slightly different color. On each door was a symbol different from the others. Seeping through the cracks of each door was light of the color and intensity one would expect of the midday sun.

  “‘Where are we?’ I asked the man.

  “‘In the house of Oracle,’ he answered.

  “‘And this room?’

  “‘The Hall of the Seven Doors.’

  “I stood in front of the first door, wanting to know what was waiting on the other side. I slipped the key into the hole, but it wouldn’t turn. I tried again, but nothing.

  “‘How do I open it?’ I asked the man.

  “‘There’s only one way to open the seven doors,’ he said. ‘You must find the owner of the house. Find the owner, and you will open the mysteries. Find the owner, and you will have your answer.’

  “And with that the vision ended . . . Each time, that’s where it ended. And that’s why I’m here.”

  “Did you write down what the symbols on the seven doors looked like?”

  “Yes, after seeing the vision for the third time.”

  “If I give you a piece of paper, can you write them down for me in the order they appeared?”

  “I believe I can.”

  He handed me a piece of paper, and I drew the seven symbols in the order in which they appeared, as best I could remember. I handed him back the paper. He sat there for some time studying it. Then he looked up and stared out into the distance a few more moments.

  Finally he spoke.

  “Your vision began in a temple where everything was filled with light. Light is a symbol of truth and revelation of divine origin. You were given a key of light. That was to tell you of a revelation, a mystery to be unlocked.”

  “And the desert?”

  “It represented the desert you’ve journeyed to, this desert.”

  “I had to open the door myself.”

  “Yes, because you have a part in it. What is to be revealed requires your seeking it, your unlocking it.”

  “And the mountain . . . I was told it was the house of the Oracle.”

  “It signified the place of my dwelling.”

  “This mountain.”

  “Whatever mountain, wherever I dwell.”

  “And the seven doors?”

  “The mystery has seven parts, seven streams. Each door will open up one of them.”

  “But the key I was given couldn’t open them.”

  “You were meant to open them,” said the Oracle, “but you would need help.”

  “So I was told to find the owner of the house. I was told to find you. And here I am. Now what?”

  “Do you mean do I have more to tell you?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. It must come from you.”

  “But I don’t have anything else.”

  “If it’s meant for you to be here, then you will. It all began with a vision. There are seven doors. I would suspect there are more visions for you to see.”

  “So what do I do now?”

  “What did you do before the vision came to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “So that’s what you do now. You’ve come this far. You just need to stay open . . . ”

  “Until how long?”

  “Until the time.”

  THE FIRST DOOR

  Chapter 5

  THE FIRST DOOR

  SO WHAT DID you do?”

  “I went back to my tent. In the days that followed, I pondered the Oracle’s words. I still had no idea what it was all about. And yet the vision had led me to the Oracle. In at least that much it had proved true. The Oracle was real. Beyond that, I could only imagine where it was all going. So I’m in the middle of a desert with no idea what was to happen next. . . and th
en it did.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was in my tent. It was night. Outside the wind was howling and beating against the tent curtains. I was afraid at one point that the wooden frame wouldn’t hold out. And while I could still see the shaking of the tent curtains, the sound of the wind and the flapping of the curtains began subsiding.”

  “The wind was lessening.”

  “No, just the sound of it, until it faded to silence, as when I saw the first vision. I was about to see another. The tent disappeared. I found myself back in the Hall of the Seven Doors.”

  “Where the last vision left off.”

  “Yes. I was standing in front of the first door but now aware of a presence to my right. I never turned to look, but I knew intuitively that it wasn’t the man I saw in the first vision. It was the Oracle. He placed a key in my right hand. The key I had been given in the other vision was gone. I inserted it into the lock, and it turned. The door opened. What was behind the door was almost blinding until my eyes adjusted to it . . . the light of a midday sun on a desert landscape. Only after I stepped through the door could I make out what it was.

  “I found myself on top of a high mountain overlooking the vast expanse of a desert plain. The plain was filled with multitudes of people, hundreds of thousands of them, maybe more, all dressed in ancient garments. Everyone was looking up to the mountaintop on which I stood. But they weren’t looking at me. As far as I know, I was invisible to them. They were looking at an ancient figure who stood in front of me. He had white hair and a flowing white beard and was clothed in a dark red robe. In his arms was a scroll.”

  “What kind of scroll?”

  “The kind I would associate with the Jewish people . . . a parchment covered with writing and wound around two wooden rollers. The man walked over to what looked like some sort of natural lectern formed out of the mountain rock, on which he laid the scroll and rolled it to the section he was looking for. One of the two rolls was now almost completely unrolled. It was either at its beginning or its end.

  “The old man lifted up his arms and began chanting the words of the parchment that was spread out before him. The language was foreign, and the melody sounded ancient. As he sang, a transformation began. The sky began to darken. Then the appearance of the people in the plain began changing. Most were now dressed in the garments of varied ages and lands. Some were still dressed in robes as from ancient times, but others were now in medieval dress, some in black jackets and hats; others were wearing the clothes of more modern times, overcoats, dresses, and caps. Nearly all of them had some sort of baggage at their side as diverse as their clothing.