Seven Veils of Seth

by Ibrahim Al-Koni

  5 Physical Space

  Once night had settled, the guest he had long awaited halted by the door to his entryway. Like some spectral jinni, he stood at the entrance without uttering a word of greeting or making any gesture. He did not fall back on any commandment of the lost Law to justify his suspect stance, as nobles generally would have. He stood erect among the stones of the ancient cemetery: as alone, isolated, and deserted as if he were the stubborn holdout from a migratory caravan.

  He, too, did not make any movement or hasten to attend to his guest. He did not move a muscle to ease the awkwardness for the other man. Indeed, he continued to sit at the entrance to his vault, gazing out at the emptiness and spying on the spirit world in the stillness as he had learned to do during his eternal wanderings across the eternal desert. Finally, the specter spoke. He heard him declare with the clear enunciation of haughty folk who feel insulted: “I did not come either to beg for reconciliation or to request a truce. I have come to tell you something that the chaos prevented me from telling you once.”

  “I’m happy to hear Chief Ewar acknowledge the existence of a concept like ‘chaos.’”

  How could I not acknowledge chaos when our life is nothing but chaos in chaos, from beginning to end?”

  Without moving or fidgeting, he countered, “In the languages of oasis residents chaos is an innovation. In the language of the desert people, there is no word for chaos.”

  “Actually, I have not come to debate chaos theory with you but to ask about certainty.”

  He replied in a tone that suggested disapproval, “You ask about certainty?”

  “Of the nomadic life.”

  “Ha, ha . . . we have spoken more about wayfaring than about anything else in this transitory world of ours.”

  “I wanted to tell you that it is the desert that has abandoned us – not we who have abandoned the desert.”

  “The desert has never once abandoned anyone.”

  “The desert abandons us when it is stingy with its water.”

  “This argument is fit only for the masses. People always mention the desert’s stinginess with water whenever anyone needs an excuse to justify his own betrayal of the desert’s law. Despite all this, I’ve never heard of a creature who died there from hunger or thirst . . . except for that miserable faction seduced by their selfish interests to violate the desert’s customary laws.”

  “We’ll never agree as long as you continue to construe deliverance as transiting physical space.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that your misery is caused by your certainty that Waw exists in some physical place.”

  “I’ve never said that in so many words.”

  “Your entire world view is erected on this certainty.”

  “Do you want to sell me the fable about migrations of the heart, which I heard celebrated by your disciple the idiot?”

  “Migrations of the heart are easier than migrations of the body. A migration of the heart is of greater significance than a migration of the body. That’s certain.”

  “We don’t migrate across the desert in our heart unless we migrate across it with our body. An exodus of the heart is a heresy fit for fools. If we were to rely on a place free of space’s depredations, that would be much easier, but the place to which we resort while attempting to flee from chaos or when attempting to satisfy a yearning must inevitably take a bite out of our heart. Indeed, it may consume our whole heart, even though we possess but one, and a small, fragile heart at that.”

  “I would like to share a proverb with you: ‘Wretched is he who searches for deliverance in a physical location.’”

  “Ha, ha. . . . I think I’ve heard that proverb before. Have you borrowed that from the mouth of your disciple, the idiot, too?”

  “Wretched is he who searches for Waw in a geographical location. I shall never grow tired of repeating this charm, even if the strategist of all generations rejects it.”

  The strategist suddenly released his hoarse, alarming laughter but swallowed it just as suddenly. With surprising sadness, he said, “You should certainly not think that obedience to the call to nomadic migration is easy. Who can proclaim that travel is easy when our hateful but unique body pegs us to physical space in a thousand ways?”

  “I’m pleased to hear you move closer toward the truth.”

  “The difficulty of a matter, however, never justifies surrender. You know one of the Law’s commandments says we must only do what is difficult for us. Likewise, when a matter is difficult, that shows its nobility, since the ancients used to say: ‘The noblest matter is also the most difficult.’”

  “Here you grow colder again. Why don’t you answer my question: Does true reality exist in physical space or in some other place beyond physical space?”

  “Ha, ha . . . you shouldn’t have asked me this question.”

  “Why?”

  “Because to answer it in the negative is a mistake, whereas to answer it in the affirmative is also a mistake.”

  “There’s no question the master tactician cannot answer.”

  “If the master tactician answered every question, he would fall into diverse snares and would lose his title of ‘tactical strategist.’”

  “You may consider my question another riddle.”

  “I know that the heart is place’s secret soul just as I know that place is the heart’s veil. Does that suffice?”

  “Is this another riddle?”

  “The only way to answer a riddle is with a riddle. Similarly, a talisman can only be broken by another talisman.”

  “We’ll never reach an agreement without clarification of terms.”

  “Fine. How can space be the depository of true reality if place is merely a vessel for the heart?”

  “I like that.”

  “And how can true reality find a home for itself outside of physical space if what is beyond physical space is nothing more than a void in a void?”

  “I can grasp this too.”

  “In the end, the only alternative left for us is to embrace our truth within our hearts and to flee faraway, across the wasteland.”

  “It does us no harm to preserve our truth wherever we settle, if its place is in our hearts, not in some physical location.”

  “But the ‘color’ of the vessel is affected by the color of the container; so beware!”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Truth in a heart – like a date at the bottom of a brackish well – is a body requiring physical support, and both are destined to perish sooner or later.”

  The specter was silent. He was silent for a long time. Then he asked: “Does this mark the parting of our ways?”

  The strategist immediately replied, “Our parting did not begin today. It began the day I brought you back to life after the epidemic felled you.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean that ingratitude for a good deed always motivates us to take revenge.”

  “I can match your unjust suspicion by asking: Isn’t it a violation of the Law’s code to bring back to life someone the fates desire dead?”

  “Bringing the dead back to life is a sin, but to save a person on the brink of annihilation is a duty for the elite.”

  “You did not know whether I was not merely on the brink of death that day. You did not know whether I had crossed the tipping point that day. So why did you bring me back to life once I was as good as dead?”

  “I fulfilled a debt I have never regretted.”

  “Why did you expose me to annihilation again after the fates had granted me repose?”

  The strategist did not reply. Turning his back on the specter standing above him, he continued to gaze at the gloom. He heard the specter exhale and inhale. He heard his heavy breathing, the beat of his heart, his certainty, his yearning, and his choked voice, which resembled the rattling of a snake: “The spirit world granted me life the day it banished me. You killed me the day you saved me. Why? For wha
t reason?”

  For the first time he budged. He jumped to his feet and took a step toward his ancient mate, then a second. He came so close he almost bumped against his chest but did nudge him with his turban. He puffed jets of hot air in his face before flinging this prophecy at him: “Don’t you know that I kill only those I love and revive only those I hate?”

  PART III Section 2: Propitiatory Sacrifice

  1 Metamorphosis

  When Edahi slipped into the entryway toward the end of the night, the setting moon still shed its wan light on the depressing empty area adjacent to the base of the mountain. Because the light was so feeble, he had difficulty making out the steps that led down into the vault, but as he progressed further he could see clearly once more, for he found himself in a space illuminated by a hole overhead. He closed his eyes, held his breath, and listened carefully. The whispered breathing of the ignoble man sounded like a viper’s hiss to him. The strategist! His breathing was like a viper’s. His laughter sounded like a viper’s. His conduct was like a viper’s. His cunning resembled a viper’s. The tribes’ elders were not mistaken when they labeled him ‘the strategist’ nor were those sages of previous generations mistaken in calling the viper a strategist as well. Each of these two was formed from the same substance and derived from the same stock. The offspring of the desert would never flourish until they exterminated both with this magical knife. He felt for the knife, which was concealed in his sleeve. He opened his eyes and the room seemed even lighter. He drew a deep breath. He gazed at the corner where the bare-headed strategist was curled up. His large ears resembled those of a she-ass. O Tanit, Goddess of the Desert, how large his ears are! How hideous his ears are! Temarit had told him about these alarming ears, but he had not believed her. The man’s close ties to the hateful she-ass were not accidental. In his substitution of the she-ass for the camel lay concealed a secret truth that no one who ever saw these ears would question. Ha, ha, ha! Here the evil fellow lay at his feet. Here the ruse master was stretched out limply beside him, lost in his frightening dreams, plotting new snares even as he slept. He did not stop working even in his sleep. The scoundrel! The wretch! But this magical knife will put an end to his work, his dreams, his snares, and his evil. Slaying him will save the desert. First off, the oasis will be saved, but the desert will be saved as well. His own hands would wreak this salvation. He had warned people they needed to slaughter this scoundrel the first day he intruded into their settlement, but the people had hesitated. As they always did, the people had gotten caught up in a debate and had neglected their duty. Groups of people always prefer debate over action. Groups of people always spend their lives debating, not doing. For this reason, groups of people perish, because they have emphasized debate over action. He had, however, taken charge of the matter. He had decided to take charge of the matter some time ago. He had decided to take charge of the matter on the sly. No one had guessed his intentions except the strategist Ewar, who had attempted to get him to confess once, but he had escaped. Ewar had tried a second time, but he had ignored the look. But Ewar knew. And he knew that he knew, just as Ewar himself knew that he knew that he also knew. But the noblest affair was one known without having transited a tongue. What was known and also said was inevitably badly tarnished. The noblest matter was concealed even if it was known. He had gone to intercept one of the caravans and there had discovered a sorcerer from the forest lands far to the south. He had told him about the true nature of the strategist. Thus he had learned from him that unlike other beings the ignoble creature could not be slain with just any weapon. From his sleeve, the man had extracted an extraordinary knife with secret designs carved on its handle. He had told him that it was the only one that could spill the blood of strategists. He had exchanged for the knife a bag of precious Madjezzan salt. Here it was now in his possession, in his palm; its hilt in his hand. Its tongue gleamed in the sinister light from the opening overhead. Its tongue was as ravenous as a viper’s tongue. It was as symbolic as a viper’s tongue. The blade was coated with poison like the venom of a viper, because the strategist was a viper. The knife was a viper. And only a viper could kill a viper.

  He brought the knife down on the man’s breast. It plunged into his breast with alarming ease. It plunged into the man’s chest as if into a pile of dirt or a sack stuffed with wool. When he drew it out, it emerged all bloody. He smelled a strange odor. He observed the color of blood coat the blade of the knife. The strategist emitted a hoarse, choked, rattling groan and shivered like a meek hare. He brought the knife down this time on the throat of the man, who groaned with pain. He shook violently and rolled over in bed.

  He struggled to free himself. He lay on his back and the gurgling rattle in his throat continued on and on till it changed into a hiss. It became a genuine, protracted hiss capable of giving a person goose flesh. While he waited for the body to cease its hideous hissing he felt little bumps all over. But the hissing grew louder. Then he witnessed the body go through a terrifying transformation. It suddenly took on a pale color and matted hair swept over it too. It finally revealed itself as a terrifying serpent that was writhing and complaining with a hideous hiss. He tried to leap back, out of the vault, but . . . but another transformation stopped him. The serpent began to disperse and dissolve the way a mirage does. The hissing too became muffled and began to die away until it ceased. At that time . . . at that moment, he could not believe his eyes. The viper that had enveloped the body had vanished and another body had taken its place . . . a body he detested finding there . . . a body he could not believe he would be capable of allowing even a breeze to profane. It was inconceivable that he would attack it with a magic knife. The body swimming in a pool of blood before him was Temarit’s; it was not the strategist’s body, not the viper’s.

  2 The Elegy

  Vassals led the fool, who was bound with ropes of palm fiber, to the council of elders. He had a crazed look in his eyes and was foaming at the mouth. From his tongue came a repeated refrain like a charm: “It dispersed like a mirage. It dispersed from her like a mirage.” He repeated this to the council many times over before the sage Elelli was able to quiet him with a wave of his hand. Edahi fell silent but his wheezing did not cease. Indeed, it may have intensified, and he exhaled liberally on the nobles’ faces.

  The men consulted one another with their eyes. Ewar retreated behind his blue veil, which he had drawn across his face until even his nose and eyes were concealed. In a corner Amghar whispered with the warrior Emmar. The sage and the diviner exchanged a dejected glance. Yazzal signaled with his eyes and the sage began the proceedings. He motioned for the vassals to untie the fool. The poor wretch started to repeat his charm, but sage gestured for him to desist.

  The interrogation commenced.

  The diviner asked tersely, “Did you kill the girl?”

  The fool answered with certainty: “Absolutely not!”

  “But you left the stranger’s residence holding a knife smeared with blood and when people hurried into the tomb they found the belle, slain.”

  The fool glanced round the circle of eyes as if seeking support. He was looking even more squint-eyed than usual. His eyes showed the misery of someone frustrated by the inability to express himself. He said, “I did not kill Temarit. How could I kill Temarit? But I . . . killed the strategist. I swear by the Law that I killed only the strategist.”

  “Do you want to say that you meant to kill the strategist but killed the girl, because it was so dark?”

  The fool looked around the circle of eyes again, as if to search for an answer there, but all he discovered in the nobles’ eyes were question marks. So he said, “Not at all. Darkness was not to blame. The moon illuminated the area through a hole overhead. I saw the strategist, who was asleep and bareheaded. The ears on his head resemble those of a donkey colt. You can check on that yourselves. This ignoble fellow’s head has two donkey ears hanging from it. Then. . . .”

  “Then what?”

  “The
n he changed into a snake after I stabbed him with the knife.”

  “A snake?”

  A murmur ran through the group. Voices were raised. The warrior laughed, but Ewar did not make a sound or join the uproar. The fool shouted, “I swear he changed into a hideous snake before he turned into a girl.”

  The group murmured amongst themselves once more. The sage Elelli said disapprovingly, “At times you say he changed into a snake. At other times you say he changed into a girl.”

  “At first he morphed into a snake. Then he morphed into a girl. When I saw Temarit flailing around in a pool of blood, I couldn’t believe it.”

  The diviner asked, “Why don’t you confess that you went to the home of the jenny master to kill your sweetheart in revenge?”

  “I did not go to kill the girl. I went to kill the stranger who has devastated our oasis, but he dispersed like a mirage to leave behind. . . .”

  The diviner interrupted, “Do you admit that you went to the stranger’s home to kill him?”

  Again the fool searched their eyes for assistance but encountered only disapproval or indifference. He turned for help to the ruler in the corner, but Ewar hid his eyes behind his veil, as if he had decided to absent himself. He said desperately, “I don’t deny that I wanted to kill the stranger. I told you from the first day that he had ulterior motives, but you did not believe me. You did not believe me even after he caused the women to miscarry with his lethal herbs, which I saw him throw into the spring’s water with my own eyes. Yes, certainly, I wanted to kill the strategist, but he defeated me, because I thought he was only a cunning strategist. I did not suspect that he was also a sorcerer; but I never thought of killing Temarit.”

  The diviner and the sage exchanged a glance. Elelli asked, “But who gave you permission to kill the stranger?”

  Edahi immediately replied, “Do I need to wait for permission from the council to kill a killer?”