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on 18-03-2007 12:31
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By Tavis J. Hampton
A dimly lit flame danced atop a candle in the evening breeze. It was all that separated those in the gathering from complete darkness on that moonless night. The Storyteller seemed to float above the fog-covered ground, taking a seat in front of his already captivated audience. Four young men, or perhaps they would be called boys in our world, settled themselves in anticipation of the fable that was about to be woven into their minds like a loom that slowly gives birth to a new exquisite rug.
"Where is Nestor?" the Storyteller unexpectedly grumbled.
One of the young men, Elian, pointed into the misty eastern darkness. "He is in the tower, preparing for a test. He wanted you to know hes sorry he could not make it tonight."
"If only he had known," remarked the Storyteller.
"Known what, Storyteller?"
"The story of Babak, the lost dervish."
Babak, the Lost Dervish
Dressed in tattered clothes and sandals worn thin, Babak was quite the spectacle when he entered the golden city, Solistia. As he dredged along the golden cobble-stone path, dragging his cloak, which was speckled with holes, his eyes did not waver from the massive pyramid at the roads end. Despite the heckling of townspeople and the occasional charitable donation from kind old ladies, he persisted, barely able to remain standing, throat parched, and heart thumping like a thoroughbred.
As he finally neared the entrance of the awe-inspiring pyramid, two bulky guards stepped into his path, blocking his entrance. "Halt!" the bigger of the two guards demanded.
"I have halted and waited for far too long," Babak answered, "Now, I must continue."
The guard forced his staff out horizontally, nudging Babak backwards. "If you have an arrangement with the Master, you may enter. Otherwise, leave this place and do not return."
Babak nodded. "The Master is expecting me."
"Then show your proof," argued the guard, "the sealed scroll used to summon you."
"I need no scroll to be summoned. I was called from within my own soul."
The guards glanced at each other and then back at Babak. They had never heard such words. Was this old awfully-clothed man telling the truth, or had he come to deceive them and con his way into the Masters chambers?
"What is your name, old man?"
The dervish smiled. "My name is Babak."
"Surely that is not your whole name!"
"That is the only name I remember for myself. If I have, at some other time in my life, used a different name, I do not remember it now."
“How could you not remember your own name, old man?”
“I am an old man, as you have pointed out more than once.”
"Very well," grumbled the guard, "but do not take up too much of the Masters time. He is extremely busy."
"Time indeed is nothing on the path to realization. Nay, time itself does not even exist in the Real Realm."
The other guard, who had been silent until that moment, leaned over and whispered to his comrade, "He must be a student of the Master. I cant understand a word hes saying."
The guards stepped aside, pushing the enormous wooden double doors open behind them. The hallway in front of Babak seemed endless. Every step of it was adorned with exquisite golden tiles, and every other tile had the insignia of the Master engraved into it. Babak stepped carefully, avoiding the engraved tiles. The journey would have been completely silent, if not for the tapping of his tattered sandals on the smooth tiles and the clicking of the string of beads in his pocket.
When he finally arrived at the entrance to the Masters chamber, a scribe stepped before him, blocking his path. "State your business with the Master."
"I am here to receive eternal truth."
"Why have you waited so long?"
Babaks left eyebrow rose. "What?" he answered, not expecting such a question.
"Why have you waited nearly to the end of your long life to seek the Master?"
"Young man," Babak argued, "I have been seeking the Master all of my life. It is only now, in my old age, that I have received enough knowledge and guidance to achieve my goal. It has been a lifelong journey."
The youthful scribe, who barely had fuzz on his face, shook his head and chuckled. "Yet the answers have been in front of you all along!"
Babak hung his head. How had such a young boy seen straight through to his heart? "I am lost."
"You are lost?"
"I do not know what to do. I have studied every book, every science, every meditation technique, every..."
The scribe held up his hand. "That is enough. The Master is very busy. If you are to see him, you must do it now."
The scribe bowed slightly to the dervish and stepped aside. As Babak walked closer to the door, it opened by itself into an unusually small and dusky room. There was a wooden chair in front of him. The back of the chair was high, too high for Babak to see who was sitting in it. He walked around it and found it to be completely empty. His eyes circled the room for any sign of anything at all. "What is the meaning of this?" he called out.
"Have I come this far only to be deceived? Where are you?"
In frustration, he fell into the chair and rested his chin in his hand. In front of him, he saw a mirror hanging on the wall. It was a small mirror that he would not have noticed at all if he had not plopped himself into the chair. There was an engraving above the mirror, written in cursive and difficult to read. Babak pulled his eyeglasses out of his front pocket and leaned forward to examine the writing. As he did so, the outline of his face fit perfectly into the image of the mirror, as though it was a portrait of himself. Finally, he read aloud the engraving above the mirror, to his utter shock, "The Master."
The Storyteller straightened his back and leaned forward. “So you see, my sons, that which you seek can only be found within yourselves.”
One of the boys raised his hand.
“Yes, Minari?”
“Storyteller, so what if we are seeking chocolate drops? How are we to find those in ourselves?”
The boys burst in laughter, and the Storyteller chuckled. “My son, if chocolate drops are all you desire, you need only ask.”
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a large sack filled with chocolate drops, tossing one at each of the boys, who hurriedly scarfed them down. He turned his attention again to the tower. “Perhaps one of you should go and fetch Nestor. I am concerned for his well-being.”
But no sooner had the Storyteller spoken those words than Nestor stumbled in from the darkness, holding a loosely stacked pile of papers, some of them floating to the ground. “My apologies, Storyteller. I have been studying all day. I simply lost track of time.”
“Time is what we make of it, Nestor. You can only lose it if you lose yourself. That reminds me of the story of the gazelle and the wild hyenas.”
Elian smiled. “Dear Storyteller, please tell us the story of the gazelle and the wild hyenas.”
He sighed and winked at Elian. “Very well, if you insist...”
Read more fables of the Storyteller and purchase The Golden Scrolls at GoldenScrolls.com
Last update : 18-03-2007 12:31
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