The Western Gate

I merged from the fall into the garden….
That is, I watched myself fall asleep and there felt as though I were rushing headlong underwater as if in a flume, usually most people would awake, but relaxed as I were I allowed the passage to continue. At last, though it were only a short time, my eyes succumb to the light and I stood amongst a familiar garden where I lucid dream. Sometimes I arrive at the reception of a hotel, I call that space the temple, but this, the temple betwixt nature and the human is more agreeable, it is easier to maintain a dream in this space, vibrant with colour and fragrance, yes! in dream I can smell.
Here I beckon discourse with whomsoever perhaps is needed.
I met as I have introduced him before an oriental looking man, who said his name is ‘Rumi’, I was vaguely aware of the poet or philosopher Rumi but as this person was almost Chinese looking I didn’t assume it to be him. However he said he shared my birthday, and Rumi the poet does. He called me “Bad Rue”, which was ominous. Am I bad? Other times he called me “Beloved” (the meaning of David), which in some ways was equally unsettling.
Rumi would often as not tell me a short story, or a story would be projected before me, as if I witness the story unfold, a dream within a dream.

One such story concerned a man of moderate wealth succumb to the brink of poverty. There is nothing worse than someone who has tasted the fruits and are to lose them, rather than someone who has never tasted the fruit at all.
His name was Amal, he lived a single life on the outskirts of a market in a thriving and noisy town, a place called Armanarezu (don’t look for it, it’s not there anymore).
His house was humble but adequate, he coveted his goods, the elaborately painted and glazed kitchenware, where others around had but terracotta, his thick bedding and tailored clothes, others settled for sack and rough hewn. Also, shining in the dim lit house, silverware and brass, copper and perhaps, hidden here and there some gold ornaments.
He made a living on one of the stalls in the nearby busy market, a prime position and there he would sell brass and silverware to merchants, and of course these he would frequently take to his home, to surround himself with the opulence they emanated. Not for him the trappings of a woman, and, oh the thought of children. It were the pleasures gained by luxuries that charted his path.

That his stall was on the main thoroughfare as opposed to the claustrophobic offshoot paths which were full of thieves and beggars, whores and drunkards, meant his stall fared particularly well from the travellers and tourists and also those who would buy his goods to sell at a higher price in the larger enclosed cities. His margins of profit were small however, his main rival ‘Hasad’ would often lower prices just to tempt buyers, he sold much the same as Amal. It were a war of bids, a subtle remarking of prices, two serpents vying for the single mouse.

The most auspicious and profitable time to sell goods was during the fasting, a week before the endurance were to end in point of fact. At this time many would buy gifts for their friends and neighbours and in particular at the weekend before the end of the fast, Hasad and Amal would pitch their stalls early, they each would festoon their stalls with banners, flags and rich flowing drapes and order their goods in such a way as to entice the eyes of buyers to relent the contents of their purse.
Amal awoke, his sleep had been broken many times, as it were the weekend many, so it would seem had stayed up late into the night feasting as the sun went down, the air thick with charcoal, spent wood and an odour altogether more disagreeable.
Amal, at once ran to his pitch, noticing as he hurried along the path to his stall many averted their eyes to him. “Jealous fools” he thought, they knowing, that this day Amal would reap rich rewards from the busiest day of trading.
The scene before him changed. Strange. Ahead he saw Hasad, the fat pot-bellied pig knotting ribbons across the veil of his stall. Hasad would never normally acknowledge his rival, but his eyes alike a rabbit in the sight of a predator seemed somewhat fixed on Amal.
Amal’s stall was a tangled mess, everything incinerated, the copper, brass and silver-plate ware, buckled and ravaged, all the wooden holdings fixings and benches gone. In the air the acrid stench, the air thick with charcoal, spent wood and an odour altogether more disagreeable.
Eventually after heaven heard his wailing, and the market heard his laments and cries the market holders offered their crocodile tears, the more honest of emotions were haughty remarks, jokes and hollow gestures. Hasad, stared blankly, unable to offer sincere compassion, his business would now double, he was unlikely to offer his innocence, for what reason would the innocence profess suchlike lest a finger accuse his guilt?

The fire, apparently had began in the early hours, an old woman with butter-lamp was seen to place her lantern by the stone pillar near to Amal’s stall. She had also placed there in cheesecloth some cake embellished with fruits. She had spotted one of the street cleaners she knew, and didn’t want her found friend to see the cake, because she was greedy and didn’t want to share any more than was absolutely necessary, she left it there as she went to greet the familiar face in the early hours of the morning. A stray dog, whose nose discovered the aroma of the cake as easily as a stream finds the ocean immediately leapt to plunder the prize and off it ran, the old woman, as pointless as she could hobbling after it waving her cane and the familiar faced friend with leaden steps following half-heartedly behind.
Now the frenzied dog in its thievery had caused the butter lamp to fall and its creamy oil had also like a stream to an ocean illuminated the great gallimaufry of burnable and solid fuel nearby. And up it all went, the prized candle holders on Amal’s stall already primed with oils or tallow or butter joined the party, and the night smouldered with a hue of oranges and reds and strange hues from the metals and alloys that gave off an odour that was altogether more disagreeable.

Amal at once began his protestations. Why hadn’t the security guard placed at each end of the street been vigilant? Not that he received any satisfactory answers save that the combustion was fast and furious. Though the fact that each guard had been bribed to allow an old woman to short cut through the market each evening with a morsel of rich fruitcake, sending them into a comfortable nap wasn’t relayed.
When the fire finally awoke them, it was too late and the fire was dancing high in the heavens, roaring.
After much chest beating and vocal profanities Amal collapsed at the pile of smouldering deitrius, many of the ornaments had moulded, buckled and fused together. All the shiney bits and pieces from his home, everything was bought to the stall in preparation for the weekends event. All ruined. Everything gone. He walked around the back of his stall, the scene wasn’t much better, his silver plated stall that he sat upon and bartered or haggled over. A crooked and cruel mockery which at once Amal kicked over. There, underneath, protected somewhat by the circular base of the stall, another oil lamp, he remembered it and had yet to clean it so hid it away from the discerning customers eyes.
All that was salvageable amongst the heap was the least ornate object, the object that was hidden, the stone that the builders rejected. His first reaction was to toss the object into the pile, but a little spark inside of him welled. Alike him, alone.

Now the traders would receive a new stall courtesy of the taxes and insurances they paid for the stall placement, but, what use if there was nothing to sell?

Amal at last returned home. His resolve was to start again. Perhaps he would have to grovel to Hasad and sell his goods too, for a small fee, a franchise endeavour that would make Hasad his master.
He sat upon his floor with his cleaning cloth and rubbed at the survivor of the pyre. As he did so he looked at the only other ornament in his humble abode, the set of scales upon which he would weigh gold nuggets or clusters of rare and raw materials or crystals or spices to fill ornate receptacles. “The weight of injustice is heavy,” he remarked, “my worth is as a the weight of a feather” he mused.
unbeknown to Amal, he had unwittingly uttered a prayer towards that which cannot be beaten , the highest judge of the old kingdoms. Unbeknown to Amal the lamp which he cleaned of grime and ages of neglect had, likewise, come from the old temple of Ma-at in upper Neburia (don’t look for it, it’s not there anymore).

Within Amal’s hut a strange swirling mist, and at once a column of smoke that was neither noxious nor odorous arose.
Amal let out a cry of helplessness that was but a whimper amidst the frightening apparition that swirled in front of him.
”oh for the trials of Job,” lamented Amal, “is this suffering to cease!”
The column of smoke shimmered somewhat before a soothing voice arose, “Amal,” it seemed to whisper, “Does thou know me?”
Amal had heard of the Jinn. Those born before man, the entities crafted by fire as opposed to clay. Those that stood before the throne, upon which sat the highest that cannot be comprehended. So close to the throne that they wanted to touch it, sit upon it, be it.
Some were cast into the wilderness, some enchanted into geometric temples, some by spells into brass vessels such that Amal had now unwittingly released.
“I know that which you are, but can barely believe, has thou arrived to more increase my pain?”

The column twisted and from within light seemed to flash, a stroke of lightning twisted around the column as a serpent upon a branch or an elaborately carved column, both beautiful and yet realising an overwhelming dread within.
“Amal,” answered the softly spoke Jinn, “in your plight you have uttered wisdom arcane, and held within your hand my captivity, whose ears heard the old words, and I am not here to strip you more of what little you have, but to manifest that which you desire.”
”Trickster!,” called Amal, “ lies, you will deceive me, mock me…”
“If that were so,” the apparition spoke, “already you would be dust, and I would flee from here to rent chaos and calamity in the world.”
“I don’t believe….!”

The column of smoke seemed to burst for a moment as the spirit interrupted, “Arise, Amal, do not prostrate before me, as I would not prostrate before you. Tell me that which you would desire and it shall be.”

Amal, slowly arose from his quivering and blubbering, the more he grew less fearful, the less the column of smoke seemed malignant, softer and the vibrant colours subdued to a pastel shade of merging colours like broken pictures in the reflections of a fast running stream. Amal stood before the column which now appeared as a beautiful apparition of a waterfall shimmering.
“Would thou grant before me my weight in gold?”
The column pulsated a little and answered, “ gold is heavy, and would be a fair block before you, but I fear you would be displeased with its measure? If that is what you desire it shall be, but I grant you redress to ask again, but no more will I advise or caution.”
“Then,” called Amal, “make gold appear, a structure, a statue even, in my likeness!”

No sooner had Amal asked this, than the column was gone, an eerie silence pervaded the hut , indeed it seemed as if everything in his vicinity were stilled and silent. Amal quickly scoured the corners of his home, no statue of gold, “liar!” He yelled and as he stepped forward an immense pain ripped through his soul, his foot tortured, an excruciating rip as the gold skeleton within pulled every tendon, muscle and fibre of skin from its station and there before Amal’s eyes, where once his foot had been, a golden skeleton, a foot and his shin, the skin of which now dragged downwards as an old blood drenched rag. He lifted his hands and outstretching his fingers which tore through each digit until each golden finger burst through. With each movement the idol of gold replaced where skin, bone, tendon had been. …….but don’t look for it, for the golden statue and Amal are not there anymore.

Rumi looked over at the far end of the garden, there was a small ornamental fountain, I awaited the parable, the hook, the finale but he left it there. I remarked it was a bit final, and Rumi then said, “ perhaps I should change the ending, perhaps Amal were able to live with a golden skeleton inside, but each time he grew desirous of something he could not afford, he’d chop off a finger tip or toe and measure it’s worth upon those scales to profit from a decreasing body and likewise a diminishing soul.”