al-Jirrafa and the Opening

"No man's knowledge here can go past his experience."
- John Locke


The emir was sitting proud in the atrium, smelling the aroma of meat and sauces, bread and spice being mixed and battered, sizzled and assembled by four of his cooks. al-Jirrafa was lost in his thoughts, dreaming of places he wanted to be, food he wanted to have served to him by cooks, and women that he wanted to meet. He turned the meat over with his wooden spoon, eying the emir with contemplation, not sour, but in a way that was questioning; "who are you, really? What put me in this position of cooking your food, and strangling my sense of adventure with domesticity?"

al-Jirrafa continued to stare at the emir when suddenly, the emir glimpsed his servant's curiosity. Their connection was uncanny, as the royalty and loyalty blurred until one man couldn't tell where his own status began and ended. al-Jirrafa was perplexed, still turning the meat and staring into the eyes of the emir. The emir was frightened; something about this man threatened his safety, for he saw great strength and power that was concealed by his obligation to work as a servant.

Instead of looking away, the emir pointed at al-Jiraffa and yelled out from his billowing throat, "Seize that man! He has violated the laws of our God and must be punished!"

al-Jirrafa, figuring that the only violation might be that he was not wearing his attire properly, dropped the meat in a click and sprinted out to the balcony. He jumped off without second thought as the emir's men chased him whole-heartedly, heading for a vast patch of manzanita that went on for miles. They would not find him in there.

The freedom runner bolted into the manzanita and ran until his breathing began to throb sharply, and he ducked in a small canal in the dirt. Frantically, he looked around for sharp rocks. If he had to, he would rip his pursuers into chunks, just like the lamb back at the palace. He was hoping that he wouldn't have to, but all he could do was hope that the groove was deep enough to stay out of sight.

Suddenly, he heard a shout. "Over there! There!" al-Jirrafa leapt from his spot and ran further, he felt like crying from the pain shooting up and down his legs, and his mouth was cottony and hot like a lion's den. He kept running, running, running, further into the manzanita, further into what he did not know, deeper and deeper to escape his doom, his imprisonment, the ultimate seal on his fate as a slave. Nothing could stop him, as his mouth shot flame and phlegm, his eyes squinted to focus on survival, his legs churned power for his safety. Farther, farther, running into what he only knew was his chance of coming out alive. The voices behind him were gone. The rock in his hand had bloodied his palm, and he stopped running. Breathing hard, he stopped running and flung the rock into the brush. Silence was all around him. The manzanita was his cage. He crept into quiet.

Ahead of al-Jirrafa was a tunnel, lit by a source other than the moon. Mist swirled around the opening, and he got down on his hands and knees to see more. He was safe, he knew, so far from his pursuers that he felt as though he had run into another country entirely. What he saw in the tunnel of silence was mystifying. He sat stunned, still breathing, but peaceful, as if staring into a scene from the past playing out in a dream or a memory that he had since forgotten. Down the tunnel was a pathway to the left, crooked and fogged over with a glow. A picket fence lined its periphery, beckoning travel. To the right, a heavy-bodied ogre was walking, slunched over as if he had just finished a hard job. He appeared tired, weary, bored by life. He surveyed the right road of the tunnel, which led to a road, paved by rocks and lined with weeds. al-Jirrafa squinted into the silent picture.

Above the two roads was an opening in the sky, and two large eyes draped over it. They were staring straight into al-Jirrafa, and at first, he was alarmed. Then, he realized that his body was drifting towards this strange opening, and he could do nothing to control himself. The eyes sliced his will to ribbons.

"You must know what you are and what you will do. What are you, and what will you do?" said the eyes.

"I... I do not know... I have only recently escaped my captors, and there are so many tasks that my abilities can complete. Why must you know this? Why do you have to ask this question to a man who just escaped his slavery and closely escaped death?"

"You have time, do not worry. But you must know before entering. You must know before coming into this world. But you have time..."

Then, he was able to perceive himself out of his own body, as his stature and clothing flashed a hundred times a second: warrior, cook, merchant, sailor, pirate, emir, sheep herder, farmer, fletcher, blacksmith... they flashed over and over, each persona making him feel older and older, closer and closer to the opening, older and older, closer and closer...

"But you have time... you have time..." and he fell to the ground, a sack of clothing and skin at the mouth of the path and the road. The ogre was nowhere to be seen, the eyes were nowhere, the opening invisible. It was al-Jirrafa, and the reality of what he had observed in the clearing of the manzanita. It was only him, a path, and a road.