A silent despondency gripped the emissaries in deference to my sorrow, and Hur did not dare broach the main topic until after midnight. Then he said that they had come as messengers from the citizens of Targa, who invited me to return as their savior, for they would never accept anyone else as their ruler. He also said that the messengers had been asked to inform me that the oasis, which I had one day accepted as a gift from the spirit world, had, in the course of time, become a bequest for which I was the trustee. To allow it to become a prize snatched at by the hands of dilettantes, swindlers, and adventurers was an offense that could no longer be tolerated. The sages of the oasis when imploring my presence did not wish to weigh me down with the cares of the world but hoped I would agree to lend my authority to their efforts by sitting beside them, since the presence of those who have suffered much, in the opinion of the law, constitutes — in and of itself — wisdom, a protective charm, and a prophetic maxim. They left me no choice but to yield, and I did. I went to the oasis but did not stay in its settlements for long, because I was overcome by anxiety. Staying in one place suffocated me and left me prey to a lethal depression, from which I was unable to extricate myself save by resumption of my wandering, nomadic life. I entrusted the oasis to my servant Hur — advising him to continue the search for my lost child — on condition that he never allow the people to make him their supreme leader, since anyone who assumes supreme authority over a people becomes their slave. Only a creature who has renounced public office can claim control over his self and befriend the spirit world. A person who has been entrusted with prophetic counsel will fail unless he breaks away and retreats from the world. If in time he should find my son, he should encourage him to travel, because wandering is the fate of anyone destined to search for his father. “Amahagh” was the name he would bear as a talisman in the world and “Targa” would be the epithet by which his descendants would be known, for a prophecy of ancient times revealed that generations of foreigners would use the adjective “Targi” to refer to the nation, thinking this auspicious. Some peoples pronounce this “Tarqi” and others “Tarqi,” without knowing that it is Anubi’s curse to live among mankind as a stranger.
I returned to my solitude where its passages received me and brought home to me the true nature of my situation. I plunged far down tunnels, extracting from the depths spiritual treasures I carved on the bodies of the rocks. I did not cease searching until at last a shadowy apparition obscured by the darkness of night stood over my head, after arriving on foot. He was of slender build and gloomy coloring, tall, veiled by a well-worn scarf, covered with dust, and wrapped in a faded garment, which was also well worn. In his eyes, too, I detected a gloomy expression. No, no, that was not it. It was not gloom I detected in his eyes but the determined look of perpetual wanderers. No, that was not it. It was not the determination of perpetual wanderers but the suffering of exiles. Yes, that was right. It was the misery of those condemned to unending exile, the misery of searchers who have gone astray, the misery of those touched by longing, the misery of those confused by dreams, visions, and poetry, the misery of troubled people who have come to the desert, where they live as strangers, who find nothing better to do with themselves in this world than to flee and to keep moving. It was the misery of that mysterious community in whose veins flows Anubi’s blood. Yes, that was it. This wretch standing before me, as perplexed, apprehensive, and hesitant as if he were waiting for an opportunity to flee from my presence toward eternity, was none other than Anubi’s child.
He began to tremble as he begged, “A sip of water! Can you spare me a sip of water?”
I hurried to the nearby boulder and fetched a water-skin, which was half full. He grabbed it from me roughly but did not put the mouth of the water-skin to his mouth. Instead, he clung to it with both hands and began to scrutinize me with a vacant but determined look. I realized that he was battling his thirst. He was struggling, with a heroism seen in the desert only among perpetual voyagers who have long familiarity with thirst. Only a person who has had firsthand experience of thirst knows that for a thirsty person to resist his desire for water is more heroic than for a cavalryman to charge toward death’s portal, because only those with firsthand experience of thirst understand that thirst is death. Indeed, it is a fate worse than death.
He took his time. He grinned. In his eye gleamed a smile that had forced itself upon him and seemed improvised, as if he were apologizing to me. He seemed to be asking my forgiveness for bursting into my life and spoiling my solitude. Then, however, he looked gloomy again and the glint of eternal suffering flashed in his eyes. Then I saw him bring the water-skin to his mouth. His faded garment slipped down his lean forearms, which resembled sticks of firewood. My heart overflowed with compassion, not just for him but for me as well, and not only for me but for all the creatures of the desert. It was compassion for man, who came to earth to strive, leaving his heart behind him in some homeland, only to find himself suspended, gazing at the horizon that offers glad tidings of a homeland. It is, however, a horizon that does not fulfill its promise, for every horizon opens onto another. Man, therefore, searches for a reality beyond space in order to extinguish his empty belly’s insatiable appetite, or thirst, for his lost treasure. Who are you, man? Where are you heading, man?
He swallowed the water slowly, haughtily, and patiently, even though he craved water intensely. Then he suddenly stopped drinking. He stopped before he had drunk his fill, seized the mouth of the water-skin, and cast me a look requesting a tie. I handed him a strip of leather, and he tied it round the mouth of the water-skin, which he retained. I had him sit down by my kit and brought out some dates. He stared at the plate but did not take a single one. In a murky voice he said, “I’ve got to go.”
Without meaning to, I voiced a question that was racing through my heart, tormenting me: “Where to?”
“Hope lies in keeping moving.”
I felt certain that Anubi’s destiny reverberated in this wanderer’s heart. So I mused: “That’s the voice of longing. I bet I hear the voice of longing.”