Alexander conquered Darius, sacking this town and that, taking a Persia thought to be all of Asia, and his contemporaries believed it was grand. Thus they gave him the title of Great. Timothy Mandarin named his first son after him. Alexander Mandarin a good athlete and he lost his virginity at fifteen to Marsha Marie. Alex was a rare combination of physical talent and avid reader. He read all the books he could barrow and decided early he would either go Ivy League or Stanford, though his father had no mind to pay private school. “I went to State you can go to State.” Alex decided not to argue. He applied to Harvard and Princeton and got in, but Mr. Mandarin said “I’ll be damned if I raised an elitist.” And so Alex went to Penn State, good school anyhow. Marsha Marie went to the University of Maryland and they long-distanced for a moment but we all know how that goes. Marsha fell in love with young man at Annapolis. Alex wasn’t crushed. But he did feel lonely. His roommate flung open the shower curtain and laughed at Alex taking liberties. Though mortally embarrassed, he bore a belief that all men tend the easy need and therefore his roommate was an ass.
Alex read many books, and the majority infused him with an anger toward the system. He manifested what an uncle always said about universities: a hotbed of progressive values. Same reason uncle never gave money to his college or his father’s scholarship at Penn State. “Why would I give money to some kid who’s just gonna smoke maryjane and vote Democrat?” Alex, indeed, read important political tomes, philosophy books, revolutionary texts. Soon Bob Marley and Che Guevara dorm wall. Soon engaged in heated cafeteria debates with a Vietnamese American Republican who “didn’t know what he was talking about.” Alex fond of phrases like Imperial System, Babylon, the Man, the Establishment; pointed to Orwell and Marx, shouted slogans at protests. Took a bus to D.C. for a march. Signed petitions. Eager and young he began to collect ideas.
For one, he wondered why he should deal with the Institution, Straight Society or Squares. “Do my work outside the System,” he said. He read Beat poetry. He smoked clove cigarettes. Assumed the cat’s meow. One leg crossed over another the severe import of utmost seriousness. That summer after his sophomore year he even wore a beret. He began to grow his hair. Beard sprouted from his cheeks. Tune In and Drop Out the call. Black Power fists the Olympics. Armed revolt. Franz Fanon. Examples of American imperialism enraged; reports of Big Business up to no good convinced; stories of Vietnam and the corruption of man. He searched for his own cause.
One night, after two a.m., after sleeping with Birkenstocked Sally Williams from Philadelphia and their unshaven legs and hairy armpits, smelling one another and discussing Kant as relates Buddhism, Alex realized what was happening. Voices speaking to him. Angels of the universe leading him certain directions. His eyes closed for so long. But now open. He began reading Proverbs. He explored Zen Koans. Smoked a joint and listened to Jimi Hendrix through headphones. Climbed on the fire escape stared at the moon high above. He believed the dreamers of the world. He believed in following an Ideal. Optimism and Idealism, working for a cause, avoiding the standard old thing. He repeated over and again, “One Life, One Life,” and believed that his relationship to Mortality the answer to everything. No, he wouldn’t do what his father had done. To be a revolutionary you have to tear down the system. You can’t reform from within.
He sat up in bed, earnest panting. He could see it all; could feel it. Alex certain that he was chosen. Sure that he was a revolutionary prophet and it was his job to spread the word of Truth, Honesty and Love. “Every era had their men and women,” he said, “There was ’68 and all that, and now there is our time. I am one of the Chosen. I am a prophet. I know it.”
He was a psilanthropist, he was sure. And if this were the case, he reasoned, then any man is the son of God, and anybody can choose to do the good work. The word of God flows through me, he said. The signs are there, he said. The angels have been speaking. If Jesus Christ was a regular man and he was a God, and I am a regular man who has seen the Word, then I am a God, it’s that simple. Merely a choice of words, a way of thinking. I am a prophet and it’s time for me to do the work. I can no longer play this game. Society evil society needs to be cleansed. I shall find others work with. I’m going to do it now.
He shook Sally awake and told her everything. She wasn’t so sure. She said one could change things from within the system and that he should go to graduate school. As she was. They got into an argument. “You can’t have it both ways,” Alex said. “All or nothing. You either do it or you don’t.” He was adamant; he shouted; Sally started to cry. Their paths diverged. She went to Princeton and received a Ph.D., and Alex walked the land in search of followers. Some travel to India to find a guru. Alex believed he was the guru. Alex dressed in a hurry and left Sally’s room via the fire escape.
His parents were not happy to hear he was dropping out of college. They pleaded with him, attempted reason, and then Mr. Mandarin decided to play hardball. You’ll receive no money from us. If you decide to go back you’ll get no money from me. You’re on drugs, his mother said, worried. You look like a terrorist. Brainwashed by communists, dad said, adding, Your uncle was right. Alex during the barrage tried to remember Zen Koans. He sincerely wished to broaden their minds. He suggested they allow him to brew mushroom tea then they would see what he saw. “What is mushroom tea?” his dad yelled. “ I knew it, you’re doing drugs,” mom said. “They’re not drugs. They’re organic.” “Organic drugs!” dad thundered. “You need to see somebody.” He reached for the phone book. Alex scrambled, forgetting Zen Koans. He was sure Confucius had something to say about this. Shouts of Godammit from dad and The system is corrupt from Alex. “What’s happened to you?” his mother finally asked dabbing tears. “I can hardly recognize you with all the hair. And your language. You used to be such a good boy. You did as you were told.”
“It’s the goddam books! The goddam Marxists got ahold of you.” He turned to Alex. “Son, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, but I do,” he countered. “I’ve had proper visions.”
“Visions!” his mother cried. “Oh, God. He’s on drugs. My first born is on drugs.”
“This is your fault,” his dad said, accusing her.
“My fault?” She was confused.
“Yes. You’re the one who encouraged him to read. You’re the artsy one. You’re the one who made him take piano lessons.” He waved his hands in the air. The truth comes out.
“Yes, Alex, you’ve taken it too far. That’s not what I meant.”
“Stop!” Alex shouted it. He stood up from the kitchen table. Explained he was going to get a job and take care of himself, that he didn’t need their money. Reiterated he was not on drugs. He tried to talk about Carlos Castaneda doing actual anthropological work, but this was counterproductive. Mentioning Timothy Leary on LSD while dying didn’t help.
“Sex, drugs and that book God Damn White Man,” his dad muttered. “My son has been corrupted.”
“Dad, I’m not corrupted. I’m doing the right thing. I’ve been chosen. I’m a prophet and have to do this work. There’s a revolution happening. Look at Hong Kong.”
“Mary, do you hear that? He’s been chosen.” Dad paused.
“Oh my God.”
“Chosen? And, Mary, there’s apparently a revolution happening.”
“You did march during Vietnam,” she reminded her husband. He bristled. This was not the time.
“That was different,” he hissed. “All I did was march. I still had my degree and still had a job and still voted and still owned property and never burned the flag.”
“Dad, come on.”
“Oh, the prophet has spoken. Mary, come, let us bow.”
“Stop, Tim!”
“Shall we repeat after you?” Alex’s dad asked, looking at him. “Are you a swami now? Going to wear a turban? I know, move to California and meditate? Start a commune? You going to grow organic pumpkins now, son, hmm? Have a following? Change your name to Ram fucking Dass? Seduce impressionable blondes with marijuana joints? You going to wear robes now, hmm?” He stood up from the table. On a roll. “My son, Swami Ram Ram, sitting in the lotus position.” He changed the intonation to sound like the stereotype of a homosexual. “You going to be a veeeegan? You going to wear sandals. Going to sit on your throne and hold a commie council, voting about the pumpkins? You going to have them sex orgies high on drugs with that crazy music? You think we don’t know these things?”
“Tim. . .” Mary cautioned.
“Got-damn Tom Wolfe electric acid. I read that book, too, son. I know all about that Hunter Thompson fellow, crackhead addict. I know all about Kesey sexing that Mountain Girl while his wife and kids were in the kitchen, rolling around ‘like, hey man, everything’s cool, man, we’re open.’ You going to be open?” His voice constricted with red rage.
“Tim, sit down.”
“I’ll sit down when it’s time to sit down. You a Beat poet now, son? Hmm? Lemme see some of yer homosexil poetry?”
“Dad, Jesus.”
“That’s why I was born, to give service to this homosexual prophet, my son. Oh, your worship, where shall I hand over my worldly possessions? You going to drive a fleet of Rolls Royces now? My Moonie?”
Alex recited Zen Koans about great insight and allowed his father rant. After all, the Squares will do that. You have to survive the Squares. Alex decided to leave as soon as possible. His mother asked him, begged him, to not get any tattoos.
“You should wear a thong, too,” his dad shouted from the den.
Alex climbed the stairs and packed a duffel. He walked out the door and hitchhiked to Los Angeles. Alex believed the New Testament when it said that to be a proper prophet you’ve got to leave your family and worldly possessions behind. He lived hand to mouth and occasionally ate bread from the trash. He attended church soup kitchens. Read Emerson on the road and pondered how he would save the world.
Alex Mandarin visited all the cool places in the United States, localities of like-minded individuals: He explored Santa Fe, Boulder, Austin, Asheville, Ann Arbor, Madison, Cambridge, Amherst-Northampton, Berkeley, Seattle, Canadian lefties in Vancouver, Rainbow Gatherings, Burning Man, a few Dead shows before Jerry died, Burlington and Phish, wool sweaters, kind bud and whiteboy dreadlocks. He searched for followers. He played bongo drums in T stations in Boston.
One evening while reading the Bhagavad Gita he had another vision. Instead of traveling to India, as some do, instead of studying yoga as some do, no Pilates and no Aikido and no Woodstock New York to open a New Age bookstore, serious, you see, that he was chosen to save the world, he decided to visit Jerusalem. To find a mystic. To speak to the oracle of his dreams. To learn what the next step would be. To pay for the ticket he grew some cannabis sativa in Arcata and sold green buds on campus. He earned $4,600 for a little over two pounds of kind. He grabbed his King James and his Tagore and his Emerson and he hopped a high security El Al from London.
The voice inside of him was strong. He knew that the angels were leading him to the proper Guide, a spiritual tether that would swing him to the next step. Alex left America behind and soon he was closer to the Source. Soon the Energy flowed through him like never before. He popped some E for the flight and wigged out silently to Ravi Shankar, feeling it, feeling it.
He had to go out and meet the people, to proselytize from the streets. Alex was meant to be on a mission. Alex with all the answers. Walk not with the wicked; be with the wise. A slothful man says there’s a lion out there, beyond the wall, and therefore he shall today be slain. The mind, the mind: everything in the mind. Convince ourselves of anything and everything. Your religion and my religion and all the men of history on missions. We are what we think, and think again. An inculcation of a lifetime. Alex felt that wisdom was flowing through him and him alone. He needed followers. Somebody mentioned a fool’s mission, but he didn’t listen.
He smiled at the naysayers and looked down upon them haughtily. Thoughts turgid and magniloquent. Some character named Kurtz gone native, or perhaps even Lawrence did. “But obsession is a good thing,” Alex said to his father upon leaving. “Obsession and belief make the world go round.” His father sullen and dejected; he’d decided since nothing was getting through his son’s head that he would remain quiet, a sort of perfunctory support.
In Jerusalem Alex repeated to himself “I don’t want my work to be corrupted. To get anything noble accomplished one must be a rebel. Jesus was a rebel.” He began looking for a guide who would show him the passage to the vault of Wisdom. He quickly ran out of money and removed himself from his Christian boarding house to a religious mission run by Syrians. He touched the hard, ancient stone over which generations of your idea and my idea have fought. In his satchel he had whittled down to three books, the Bible, the Bhagavad Gita, and the Oxford Complete Works of Shakespeare. He contemplated the proverbs in Don Quixote and smiled. He reasoned that if in literature we were encouraged to be brave, wise and noble, then he would dedicate his life to the same. Proud to be engaged in his own quixotic quest, an adventurer, an Argonaut. Alex shall survive as the lilies in the field, as the daisies. What he would tell you were you to inquire about survival in the real world.
Alex read by an oil lamp. He memorized fancy quotations and, during the day, he repeated them to anyone who would listen, dabbing enthusiastic conversations with these quotations. He was certain he could bring peace to the Middle East. Lived on bread and water and occasional fruits. He began to ask around for the path to the wise one who knew all. He inquired first with the Syrian nun who ran the mission, in a room off a silent courtyard, cool from the day’s intense heat. She led him to a Lebanese mystic with long curls. The Lebanese mystic was married to three beautiful women. They sat around in the shadowy depths of their home, behind a concourse of walls and long alleys, and offered wisdom to petitioners. The mystic attempted to convert Alex, but Alex was headstrong and wary. “No,” he said, “Tell me how to find the One I am looking for.”
The man with the long curls of black hair spit on the floor. He refused to answer any more of Alex’s questions, calling him impertinent and a fool. He was shown the door by a Sudanese servant. As Alex was about to enter the streets outside a hand caught his arm. He turned. It was one of the wives. She held a finger to her lips. She handed him an address. He thanked her and walked away. Alex said to himself, “See, the angels are looking out for me.” He believed he was watched from above. An obstacle was thrown in my path, he thought, and then arrived an answer on the wind. This is how it is, this is how it shall be.
He waited to find the mat in his cool, dark room to read the note. It was an address. He looked again: it was two addresses. One in Be’er Sheva’, which Lawrence had called Beersheba, and one inside Jordan in Al Karak. The contact in Be’er Sheva would inform him how to get to Al Karak and how to find the Old Blind Man, an ancient Arab who knew the path to the final gate. At this point Alex did not know there was a place for the Chosen to go, one had to sign the list, had to do this properly. A form of official sanction, spiritual imprimatur, permission from the highest authority in the universe. Alex was excited. He was on a pilgrimage, finally: a spiritual journey.
With manic enthusiasm he prepared. He left behind the last remaining personal possessions, his books and some clothes. Felt it the highest order that he traveled merely with the clothes on his back. He repeated “clothes on my back” again and again and smiled. His Syrian nun landlady gave him a contact in Jerusalem who would get him to Be’er Sheva, the angels blowing him along a path as a steady wind.
Alex arrived at a low building on the outskirts of town. He’d walked. The building was brick and mud. A truck idled outside as the sun set with due brilliance. The driver made sure he was clean, no drugs, weapons and no identification, motion of his thumb indicated he was to climb into the sleeper, inside the cab. The truck pulled away from Jerusalem and drove through the occupied territories of the West Bank. The driver was silent for most of the journey, almost a harsh, chilled eeriness. Alex was not uncomfortable because he felt that he was in the hands of Meant to Be. He was, after all, touched. The driver mentioned the 1967 war, however, and the cease fire line along the Jordan River. He lapsed into more silence, and drove quickly through Bethlehem, Solomon’s pool, Hebron and finally into Be’er Sheva.
The driver looked at the address on Alex’s torn sheet of paper, flashed an odd grin whose meaning he kept to himself, and finally stopped in a dirty, deserted street. Without a word, mysterious, Alex stepped to the street. He couldn’t tell where to go. He turned to look at the driver quizzically. The driver pointed to a low, blue door. And then he tore the truck away, exhaust and dust and fading noise.
Alex knocked on the low, blue door. Nothing happened. A chill in the air. He knocked again. At long length the door opened with a creak, and there stood a tall, almost purple Ethiopian Jew, the purest of the race. He wore his hair long and it curled along his temple. He wore a yarmulke. His teeth were solid gold. He smiled and asked, “So, you are the Chosen?”
Without hesitation Alex said, “Yes. I have arrived.”
“Good. I have been expecting you. You are on time.”
“Time is a good thing.”
“Yes, standing on time as we do.”
“I seek a way to . . .” the tall man held up a hand.
“I know, I know. We must leave at once. I will drive you myself. Then there’s a camel train for you near the Dead Sea.”
“Will I know what to do?”
“Oh, yes,” the man smiled. “For you are guided by the light.”
“Yes, yes I am.”
“Follow me.”
The tall Ethiopian Jew, not a Cohen nor a Levi but the final genetic purity of religion and the Semitic race, a long lost traveler of the Twelve Tribes, led Alex possessionless through a series of labyrinthine corridors, inscrutable and seemingly random, turning here and there. At last they came to a courtyard with a gate. There an old Volkswagen van. “Drink this,” the man said. Alex did as he was told. A thick tea, almost a chai. “Some bread,” the man said, extending a hand and a loaf. “Come,” and he turned. Alex followed.
A servant opened the gate and the two drove into the alley, again turning here and there, tall mud walls and fronds of date palms. They drove past Nevatim, past Dimona, moving downward toward the Dead Sea depression, an impressive geosyncline 1,200 feet below sea level. Alex fell asleep and he awoke when the vibrating van stopped. They were in Sodeom. “Come, Chosen,” the man commanded. He moved fluidly, quickly. He wore sandals and his padding silent.
They seemed to walk for a half hour, away from the town on whose edge they had parked. They were walking in a wash, a dry stream bed that looked like it could flood at any time. They came to a Bedouin tent. Next to the tent camels. A thickset Arab handed Alex a headdress, and said “Ah, you are my Chosen for today.” He turned and looked at the Ethiopian, who nodded. “Well then, we leave at once. We shall travel up Wadi al Hasa, into the mountains. It may get very cold.” The man laughed and then spit. A young boy prepared a third camel. “We slip into Jordan without a problem,” the Arab said. “There are no roads entering here. This one goes down to the Gulf of Aqaba, to the Israeli Elat. There are no roads, therefore no guards. The Jews here do not go into Jordan. Only Bedouins in camel trains, crossing the Negev into Sinai, into brother Egypt.” The man looked at the other completing preparations; he was his son; and then he said, “It is time.”
They traveled up an ancient wash which turned into a steep canyon. High mountainous walls surrounded them. The camels moved easily. Like a proper chosen one, Alex accomplished his first camel ride by following example: here angels guiding him. He crossed his right leg over, almost a side-saddle, and bobbed easily with the camel’s gait. The beasts surprisingly agile and swift. The Arab and his son chatted. The man turned to Alex and said, “We are now in Jordan. We are safe.” They climbed and they climbed, now out of the canyon to a ridge trail, then to a pass at 4,000 feet. It was indeed cold. Alex wrapped his cloak around him and recited Zen Koans that he’d memorized. They were paraphrases, such was the element of his mind.
They found an old mountain pass in the heights. This a road that paralleled the old Turkish railroad that moved from Damascus to Amman to Maan, the dying embers of the Ottoman Empire, the final loss in World War I. “We will not take our camels on the road,” the man said. “But we travel near it, on to Al Karak.” He told an old story about the siege of Tafilah, its conquest by the Arab tribes and then its successful defense. “This was the beginning of our present day,” he said. His son listened intently. “The old man will be pleased to see you,” he said suddenly. “And do not be alarmed, for he is blind. And though he is blind, he sees everything. I am not Chosen, otherwise I would go to his line. Yes, there is a long line. Alas, I am but a humble guide. We guide nicely, right?”
“Oh yes,” Alex said. He had no idea where he was, could have been led to a gang of robbers a quick death for all he knew, but he answered affirmatively because he felt cared for, he sensed a presence. He started to ask about the line that the man had mentioned, but was interrupted by a sudden stop of the camels and a finger to the man’s lips. “Shh,” he said. “We cannot ride into the town. We must leave the camels here.”
Alex found himself walking beside the man. The boy stayed behind to guard the camels. The man moved with surprising suppleness. Soon, there were flicking lights ahead of them. Then they found the road they’d been avoiding. They walked on the road into Al Karak. For the first time Alex felt fear. But he carried the fear as best he could. A strange land, and he was far, far out of what might be termed his element. He contemplated the old blind Arab who could see everything. And he worried about this long line. He felt that God was watching. He sensed a guiding hand.
The town and the old man and soon Ba’ir, deep in the desert without roads, a sort of Juneau in the desert. The desert as vast expanse of ocean with flying, playful winds. Alex’s guide guided him down unknowable streets. If released and asked to repeat the route there’s no way Alex could. He placed one step in front of the other accompanied by blind faith. Anything could happen now. Torture? Robbery? But I’ve nothing to steal, he said. Ah, kidnapping, an attempt to extort money from rich Western parents, from the United States government, something. Why are they guiding me like this? And then, perhaps . . . perhaps he really was the Chosen One. There could be no other explanation.
Alex’s mind continued washing here and there. He made a valiant attempt to hold its line. He followed his guide, smooth mud walls higher than a man’s head, an occasional door, date palms reaching from behind them, hinting at something beyond.
At last his guide knocked on an old door. A Sudanese answered it quickly, as if he’d been waiting all night. Without word they entered a courtyard. A smoky fire in the middle, around which sat a few men, smoking pipes reflectively without speaking. A very large woman brought a man with her by his hand, across the courtyard and through a door. Momentary laughter. Alex and the guide passed through a room. Another room, ducking lower now. Then a voice hissed from the darkness. “God is Great. God be thy guide.” Alex squinted but could see nothing.
The guide replied “May God hold your life.” Motions with his hands and then bowed. He squatted on the floor. Watching, trying to see in the murky darkness, Alex did the same. His eyes adjusted. He noticed the outline of a figure. He heard an old man’s voice “God brings us light, yes?” The question was rhetorical. The old man held a staff, and didn’t move; he stared into space, off to the left. The guide used the man’s words as influence, and he clapped his hands twice. Soon the Sudanese returned with an oil lamp. He lighted the lamp. Alex was looking at an ancient, wrinkled man with wispy white beard. His eyes open, glaucous and misty, and he stared at the spot where the wall met the floor.
“You are chosen, yes?” the old man asked. The guide looked at Alex.
“Yes, sir,” Alex said. The old man laughed.
“An American?”
“Yes.”
“This is uncommon. Not rare, but unusual. You are lucky. The world is a large place.”
“Yes it is.”
“Where is he to go?” the guide asked.
“He is to go to Ba’ir,” the ancient man whispered. “He is to leave two hours before the rising sun.”
“Who shall guide him?”
“We have a man and two camels. We have been expecting him.”
“May I go now? My son is waiting.”
The man answered with a question, “It is good to prepare now, yes?”
The guide clapped his hands twice again. The Sudanese arrived, lowering his head. The old man spoke, “Take the Chosen to Nasir. It is time to prepare.” The tall, silent Sudanese touched Alex’s shoulder. Alex rose and said, “Thank you, sir. May God continue to grant you life.” The old man smiled. Alex forgot to thank the guide with the boy. He never saw them again.
Alex on a camel, following a regal Bedouin, elegantly dressed in silk and cashmere, and lithe. They rode toward the rising sun. They rode south of Manzil, across the great desert plateau. A trip of about 60 miles. The neophyte American could not ride this in a day, not like a native, not like the insane Lawrence. They moved toward the Ard as Sawwan. It was a forced march for Alex. He briefly contemplated how a notion, a mere idea, had brought him on a most incredible adventure. He was curious about the relationship between the mind and the body. As a youth he was more inclined to rely on the latter to tend the former. Now Alex was certain that his wits should carry the physical and not the other way around. A life should be saved by one’s wits, he reasoned. “I get an idea and follow its tether and now I’m on a camel,” he whispered. He was afraid again. He tried forcefully to set the thought down. He imagined his mother. One must leave the trappings behind if one is to do this work, he reasoned.
Nasir brought them up a ridge. It was blazingly hot. They pitched down the other side of the ridge, on a mixture of loose shale and sand, and there was an overhang to the lithosphere. A lone tree jutted from the position. The only growing thing for many miles. “Shejerat al Tayar,” the man said.
“What?” Alex asked. He was surprised by the sudden break of the deep silence.
“Shejerat al Tayar,” the man repeated, this time pointing to the tree.
“The tree?”
The man nodded his head gravely. He unfolded a blanket and jabbed its edges on the tree’s thorns. Under its meager shade they rested on the ground directly. Nasir quickly fell asleep. Alex was left with his thoughts.
It seemed to be a long time and Alex grew anxious. Still the man slept. The sun began to set behind them. Alex made a coughing sound, hoping to wake the man. It worked, and Nasir stirred, opened his eyes. He stood without a sound and went over to the calm, folded camel. He retrieved a sack from a camel bag and began to serve a meal. The sun set. Alex was nervous: he thought there should be some forward momentum. He was afraid to say anything, feeling that a Chosen would simply know. He affected an outward calm while internally he was all over the place. Finally, Nasir stood and beckoned Alex to do the same. It was night and they alive underneath an infinite arrangement of stars. Nasir pointed to one in particular. He said, “This will guide you now. From here you are alone. You follow this Guide-Star and only it and you make it. You do not leave this star.”
Alex squinted his eyes and looked. He pointed to the star and asked, “That one?” Nasir nodded. He said, “I leave and go back. I cannot go where you are going. You must not leave that star. Do not let your camel wander and do not fall asleep. Tap her shoulder one or the other to show her the way. You are master.”
“Yes.” Alone? Alex hadn’t imagined. Fear rose inside of him. He thought of his mother again and wanted to ask, Jesus, mom, what am I doing? He thought of a fool’s errand. He contemplated insanity. He visualized dying in the desert. He imagined that kid who went to Alaska on a similar adventure, built upon a notion, and then died berry-poisoned in an old school bus, keeping a diary while he went down and down. Jesus, I don’t even have a pen or paper. What if I die alone in this desert? Get lost and the sun eats me alive? What if I’m robbed by wandering vagabonds with guns? What if I’m enslaved? His mind raced and a voice inside reminded him that this was unbecoming of a Chosen. Nasir read his face and said, “You will be fine. Follow the star. You will find friends where you are going.”
“Okay.”
“I leave,” and with that Nasir raised his camel and trotted off in the direction they’d come, back over the ridge to the west.
Alex watched the man’s retreat. Now Alex alone. He turned and looked at the camel, his only tether to a sentient being. The camel gazed back placidly. “Shit,” Alex said. He turned and looked at the Guide-Star. He memorized its position and general direction. With difficulty he mounted camel, turned her, and clicked her forward with the riding stick. The march resumed.
Through the night he followed the star. It slowly sank in the heavens and finally set. With stellar concatenation he continued in the same direction, replacing the set star with another, and another. His mount moved rhythmically and beads and ropes moved in easy pendulum, swaying to the beat of perpetual motion.
The first light skimming the horizon. And then the sun. He was walking into the rising sun, into Arabia, toward Persia, the Gulf, the Arabian Sea, the Indian Ocean. He feared the heat of the day and he feared his destination. Riding, swaying, he sipped some water. The land dipped toward a ravine. The ravine spread about and turned into a bowl. Here Wadi Ba’ir ripped northeastwardly along its dry run, occasionally, during winter weather, filled with floods. Nomads don’t camp in the bottom of the basin. They camp on the ridges, just in case. Alex felt spectacularly lost, and entirely in the hands of the Great Spirit.
“This is it,” he said. If I don’t find my destination I’m going to die, I know it.” He looked for a sign, anything, the way a breeze kicks some flint, the way a mirage may speak. Alex was afraid. The unknown, the true, deep Unknown, was frightening when you actually venture into it. It’s deeper and darker than your most vivid imagination. Here, consumed by this fearsome worry, Alex saw a man. Must be a mirage. “Maybe it’s an angel,” Alex said to the camel.
The man was attached to another man. And to another. The man turned into men, a long line. A few women, too. As he approached, the man at the end of the line turned and glared at Alex. As he neared Alex saw that the line was single file and extended as far as he could see, toward the east, to the rising sun on the horizon, gone from view and absorbed by the curve of the earth. The line was not straight, but staggered a bit in a natural way, tending to geography and the ways of tired people.
“What is this?” Alex asked the nearest.
He turned and hissed, “Get in line!”
“What do you mean?”
“Get in line and ditch the camel! They will eat the camel, hurry.”
“What’s going on?” Alex insisted, still mounted.
“This is the Line of the Chosen. You have to wait in line. When you get up there maybe they’ll let you in. We’ve all been waiting.”
“The Line of the Chosen?” The man didn’t answer. “Who’s in charge?”
“Up at the front,” he spit, as in Duh. “By the Gate. There is a gatekeeper. You wait in line like all of us. Maybe you make the cut.”
“But I’m the Chosen One. I’m the Chosen. I don’t need to wait in line. They’re waiting for me!”
The man choked back his laughter. Others standing in line began to titter. “Ha!” said the last man, “Ha! Go see the gatekeeper. Perhaps he’ll let you in.” Again laughter from the bodies in line. Alex dismounted, curious, nervous. “There can be only one Chosen,” he said, defiant and proud, sure of his position.
“Okay hotshot, tell it to the gatekeeper.”
“I’ll show you.”
“I’m ready to be shown.”
Alex slapped his camel’s ass. Men had been eyeing it hungrily. The camel jolted away and hightailed it back to the Hejaz Railroad. Alex kept his water sack. Alex turned and brought a hand to his forehead to shade his eyes. Far as he could see wavered line, until it disappeared in the blazing shimmering horizon, heat and light.
“They’re expecting me,” Alex said. “This is merely another test.”
“I’m so sure,” the man said. His sarcasm not appreciated. Alex the Chosen began to walk. The walk turned into a hike. It was hot, oppressive. He took a sip of water.
He walked and walked and the line extended as far as light. The men young and younger at the back of the line; older as he moved forward. “How long is the line?” he asked a man in his fifties. “I don’t know,” the man replied. “How long have you been waiting?” he asked. “Twenty winters, at least,” the man said. “I’ve lost count.”
Murmuring that Alex should move to the back of the line. “But I’m the chosen one!” he shouted. He continued to walk. Nobody chased him or attempted to stop him, for fear of losing their place in the long line. Somebody shouted a volley of curses upon him. And still Alex marched. Wished for his camel. Grew older with time. His beard very long now. Desired a cane if he couldn’t have the camel. Okay, a stool. Years passed and eventually he saw a stool. He took a seat. Line beyond sight, over the horizon both directions. He wheezed on the stool. Next to the stool, where the man fell off, an old skeleton, flesh rotted away. Men ancient this far up the line. Many long beards and tattered clothes. A few dropped to the dirt. Two lean upon one another. More bodies collapsed on the ground up there. “How long is it?” he asked an ancient. “Just a little further,” man rasped. A gate up there, Alex thought; he squinted, slits. Maybe that’s the gate. He stood on this stool, his last refuge. No more places to rest, save the ground. The wind picked up. He walked and walked toward the front of the line, repeating he’s the chosen one. He marched until no longer.
