THE MAHANDRA DERVISH
Our Earth is a magnificent place, with its variety of
landscapes and climates. Far in
the north, the cold mountains of Nargist are white with frost and snow, while
green and lush Boscodale has a milder clime with regular rain. And further
south, pine and chestnut forests run towards the Southern Sea, on the other
side of which temperatures rapidly rise, reaching their peak in the vast
stretches of the Mahandra desert.
Here, mountains and hills, rocks, stones and pebbles have
all been ground down, crumbled and crushed by the blazing sun to their tiniest form:
millions and millions of grains of sand. They say there are more grains of sand
in Mahandra than there are stars in the universe, and many of those stars can
be seen peeping through their nightly curtain when the sun sets over the
deserted desert.
Now, many people think sand is dead. But have you ever
wondered why sand encapsulates your feet when you tread it? Why it seems to
cling to absolutely everything; your clothes, your hair, the corners of your
eyes? It’s because sand wants to live, but can’t take shape of its own accord.
Of course, winds and storms pick it up, swishing and swirling it around, but
when the storm lifts, the sand helplessly falls and is doomed to wait patiently
for the next passer-by. But,
eventually, a passer-by will come.
Mooh-Ri was born in the city of Al-Amahad, situated between
the Southern Sea and the Mahandra Desert. Al-Amahad was a wondrous place, full
of palm and orange trees and wild figs growing in the town squares, where
fountains chattered jubilantly in the shade of yellow stone walls, adorned with
mysterious carvings and symmetrical symbols from ancient times. Mooh-Ri was a
philosopher, a wanderer, or, as others put it, a dreamer. He had big, dark,
almond-shaped eyes with long lashes and strongly defined features. He was a
beautiful young man and, whether we like it or not, life is easier on the
beautiful. Their sins are more quickly forgiven and their requests more
speedily granted. So, where others toiled, Mooh-Ri was allowed to dream.
His boundless curiosity took him all around town, listening
to the stories of old and playing haunting melodies on his al-ud (or lute, as we call it nowadays). What interested him most
of all were the carvings on the walls. He would trace them with his fingers and
study them for hours. He even had a little notebook, in which he drew the
symbols he came across most often, trying to discern a pattern. But every time
he thought he had a clue, it would slip through his fingers like the Mahandra
sand, though, obviously, like the sand, some of his thoughts would stick.
One night, Mooh-Ri was sitting on one of the city walls,
gazing out at the Mahandra desert in the fading light, the first stars
twinkling overhead. Absent-mindedly he touched the markings on the wall, tracing
and gazing, gazing and tracing, round and round. A whisper caressed his skin.
Goose bumps. Someone, or something was calling him. Without getting up, he
floated slowly down, until he stood outside the city wall, the sand ready to
meet his feet. He was not surprised. He had to go.
As soon as his feet touched the earth, his environment began to
change. From the corner of his eyes, he saw dim shadows taking shape. With each
step forward, the vision became clearer. He was walking on a golden road, and
as he walked, trees, houses, even sparkling castles sprouted into existence; a
golden world, glowing mildly underneath the night sky. He walked and walked
until Al-Amahad seemed a dim memory and when he was tired, he opened a golden
door, found a golden bed and laid himself down to sleep.
Even before opening his eyes, he sensed he was not alone. A
benign presence, though; something to look forward to. He kept his eyes shut a
moment longer, savouring the anticipation and … there she was, glowing in the
golden dawn. “Hi, I’m Sorra,’ she said. She looked familiar somehow. It came to
him that she reminded him of a girl he’d met in a fishing village on a trip to
the Southern Sea two years back. The girl had sold him some fish. Her father
had fried it up for him, but they had ended up eating it together. It had been
one of those perfect days of tranquility that you never forget, but never
think about much either.
From that moment on, Sorra and Mooh-Ri stayed by each-other’s
side all the time, laughing and happy while they created their own world. Time
did not exist. He knew there was a city called Al-Amahad, where he had once
lived, where he had friends and family, but all that seemed very far away now,
like it belonged to a different life. He felt he had finally come home.
Sorra taught him an amazing dance, where you just spin round
and round, your arms stretched out, one pointing upwards, one pointing
downwards. Round and round, until you feel nothing but your own heartbeat
aligning itself with the heartbeat of the universe. The sand adored this dance
too, it felt so alive. He had never experienced anything more true and
beautiful.
Life became blurry; days blending into nights, dance slowing into sleep and
he felt he needed to make more of an effort to stay focused. Because, dear reader, falling in
love is easy, but staying in love is another story altogether.
It’s easy to lose oneself in the desire to be connected. And it’s even easier
to get lost when one is in the desert.
He glimpsed
Sorra from the corner of his eye, moving away from him. She was walking into
the desert, the sun beating down on her. Was she getting smaller or further
away? He could not tell. Until eventually she completely melted into the sand
and was gone. He ran after her, trying to scream, but his throat was dry. All
around him the houses and trees and palaces were crumbling down, disappearing
before his eyes. He stumbled and crawled to the place where she had fallen, his
hands clawing the sand. But it merely slipped through his fingers. Had none of
it been real? Had it all just been a dream?
He sank down in despair, groping around blindly, his eyes
too dry for tears, his lips congealed by thirst. How long had he been in the
desert, without eating or drinking? His skin was burned and blistered. Just as
he thought he was going to lose his mind completely, his hand touched
something. The sun had melted the sand to glass and he held in his hand a
perfect figurine of Sorra, a little glass angel.
You see, dear reader, does the dreamer dream the dream, or
does the dream dream the dreamer? Had touching those symbols on the wall
somehow activated the dream, or awakened the sand? Mooh-Ri spent a lot of time
thinking about these things, sitting on the walls of Al-Amahad. He made music
and in his little notebook he wrote poetry about the sand, his beloved and
connecting with the universe, the source. Whenever he felt lost, he would dance
the whirling dance and over time, many came to join him. He was almost at
peace.
There was just one more journey he had to make. So, one
morning he borrowed a camel and travelled to the Southern Sea. There he sat,
watching the colourful fishing boats moving in and out of the little harbour,
listening to the waves lapping at his feet, the water bright blue. Finally,
when dusk was about to fall, a small caique moored and a young woman nimbly
jumped ashore. “Hi, I’m Mooh-Ri,” he said, blushing slightly. “I remember. My
name is Marie-Sor,” she laughed. She fished a little glass figurine from the
folds of her dress and said teasingly: ‘You sure took your time, didn’t you?”
And that’s when he learned that reality exceeds the dream
every time.
Long after Mooh-Ri and Marie-Sor had passed away, a merchant
found the two glass figurines, hidden in the Mahandra sand, and he sold them to
a sailor from the north, who had had a similar experience.
© Pep Mac Ruairi
© Pep Mac Ruairi
