Story - A Prodigal Tale

He left at night, taking with him a changeof clothes, a blanket, and a
small bag of money which he found in his father's room. He travelled
until dawn and then all of the next day and well into the following
night, pursued by thoughts of his angry and vengeful father. His route
led south towards the holy city, following the roads he knew from the
yearly pilgrimage his family were rich enough to make. The land rose
around him in broken shadows, ragged heights of limestone, sparse
ground, uncultivated andsporadically populated, the occasional
shepherds'village buried in the valleys where goats roamed the scrub.
On the evening of the third day, exhausted and hungry, he stood
watching the sun slip beyond the horizon, casting its last rays over
the broad expanse of a lake. His sense of guilt had not left him but
thoughts of his angry father had ceased to torment him, diminishingin
intensity as the distance from home increased. A mist was rising off
the lake. Grass tufts, long and heavy with seeds, stood dry
andyellow-silvery in the fading light. Autumn flowers thrust their
crowns above the grass, including one of which he did not know the
name, a head of pale trumpets spread out on along stalk, its white
petals glowing faintly in the dusk. A tent flap clattered in the
rising wind and sand drifted across the clearing, driven in little
runs and gusts. He drew the edge of his cloak tighter acrosshis mouth.
The sounds of the caravan he had joined earlier that afternoon were to
his back. He could hear the mutter of conversation. Blue smoke coiled
away from a fire of camel dung. Some of the women were tending a stew
of meat and vegetables.
The sound of feet approaching awakened him. One of the men had
come over to ask if he would like some food. Hefollowed to where a
group of travellers sat in a circle around the fire and ate
gratefully. It was his first meal since leaving home. He watched the
others, theirfaces mostly in shadow, wondering what they thought of
him, a stranger who had come amongst them from the hills. Had they
believed his story about a religious obligation, a prayer answered?
They had accepted him easily enough. They could know nothing for
certain.
< 2 >
On the eighth day the caravan approached the walls of the city,
climbingthe steep slopes through small peasant fields and olive
groves, past square,flat-roofed, mud houses, the hills stretching away
into the distance. His firstthought on entering the gate was to find a
room. He approached a small inn in one of the unpaved lanes off the
main thoroughfare. The room he was offered wassmall, but he had little
money and did not yet know where more wouldcome from. He planned to
look for work, to live quietly for a while, until he had thought out
whatto do. The woman of the inn regarded him out of her round, black
eyes, her grey hair tied back from her darkly freckled face. He felt
suddenly fearful of her. It was almost as though she knew his reason
for being there, knew the whole story of how he came to be standing
before her with his cloak and few bundled possessions. Worse still,
she seemed complicit in his secret. He had thought to pass as a simple
traveller but suddenly confronting thiswoman's mocking gaze he knew he
was marked. A feeling of dread possessed him. He made an excuse about
having to change money and went out. She made no reply.
The shadows of the northern wall engulfed him, its bleak
battlementstowering above him. The memory of the old woman clung to
him like a horrible dream. It was agood hour before he could shake off
the sense of panic and fear. He wandered, drifting aboutthe city,
until tiredness overcame him. Now he rested on his haunches, his back
against a wall in a small street of fruit and vegetable stalls. Out of
the passing multitude appeared a dishevelled youth, a dirty blanket
around his shoulders. Theyouth sat beside him and they exchanged
hesitant greetings. The other had been longer on the road and his face
was thin andlined. They spent the night in a field on the outskirts of
the city, the earth uncultivated and full of weeds. His new companion
was to show him much in those first few days, opening to himthe
streets and alleys of the city.
< 3 >
That night he had the first of the dreams which for months
plagued his sleep; dreams filled with violent and erotic images. In
this first dream he was trying to save a child from a life of
prostitution and shame. He rode away with her on a mule but then lost
her in the darkness only to find her mutilated body lying naked in the
road. Many of these dreams were populated with dead women as wellas
with swords, snakes and flight; ciphers of his guilt. Because the
presence of these imageswas so shocking, he imagined that his secret
must be transparent to everyone around him. At night he slept lightly,
part of him always mindful lest he should give something away in his
mutterings, or wake screaming.
But at first the effect of these dreams was nothing compared to
the poverty. Destitution camehard to him having known only luxury all
his life. The small amount of money he had brought with him soon ran
out and he was forced to begin order to feed himself. Then one day he
found himself a party to theft. Standing by a butcher's stall, his
companion suddenly said to him, 'Quick, run'. Looking up he saw that
the boy had seized a chicken from beside the stall. He felt his
stomach tense as he broke into a run. They dived into the first
alleyway to the right, descending into the shadows, turning right
again through a low arch, across a courtyard and over a low wall.
Thenthey ran on down the adjoining lane. His companion must have
thought the route out beforehand. They kept running until they were
sure they were not beingfollowed. There had beenshouts and a
half-heartedattempt at pursuit but that seemed all.
When they eventually stopped it was because they could not run
any further. His side was doubled with a stitch, his lungs bursting,
his heart swelling as though it would explode. He felt sick and
vomited while his chest continued to heave painfully. His companion
lay sprawled in a doorway holding his sides. He was laughing and
pointing at the pool of vomit. 'Hell, what wereyou running from?' he
asked.

--


- - - - -

And Allah Knows the Best!

- - - - -

Published by :->
M NajimudeeN Bsc- INDIA

- - - - - - -