THE WELL

2006-08-10T22:09:00.000-07:00

Every year at the same time, as summer turns to winter and the long drought begins, a man comes from the east. From beyond the palm trees and the mango trees he comes, beyond the stout baobabs, grown strong from trying to hold back the encroaching sand. From behind the distant mountains and the desert he comes. From Mali he comes, this traveller, on a unique pilgrimage.

He sleeps outdoors under a spreading acacia tree. There he is not disturbed by the patrolling buki, the hyena that prowl around the cattle camp close by, threatening man and beast. He sits in the shade of the tree and every evening he joins the villagers in their daily trips to the well. What for them is a daily chore, for him is his sacred quest. For it is to the well he has pilgrimaged.

As he stands at the well having his cup filled by one of the village children, an old villager passes on the way to the fields. The pilgrim greets the old man. The old man says – you are my slave and the pilgrim says that in another lifetime it will be the other way around. Then the old man asks how his home is and how his wife is even though he doesn’t know them. The old man has never been to Mali. He was at sea for a while so he knows what endless distance is. The pilgrim bids the old man goodbye. But the old man didn’t seem to hear as he had never stopped walking. He wanted to get home from the fields to his dinner.

Only now does the pilgrim take a drink. Water slops over the edge of the well, drawn by youths who flirt, while not paying attention to their task. The pilgrim asks for a small blessing. Bismillah- he whispers as he puts the cup to his lips. The water is cool and sweet as if scented by rose-water. He feels how that water is almost oily as it coats his tongue. He makes sure he follows the water’s path as it cools his throat. He tries to imagine what this first drop tasted like all those years ago. How it cools the throat right down to the stomach. He has come to experience this. The youths at the water tank have become quiet just for a second, as the rich liquid is appreciated. Then, as the pilgrim lowers his cup, the chatter continues.

He finishes the cup and contemplates the trip home. That is the long journey. It seems to get longer every year. But what is a pilgrimage, he thinks, if it isn’t the journey back. Most people would say that the act pilgrimage is the journey to. He knew from years of experience that is was perhaps the journey back that was the act of faith. That was where it was so easy to falter. Without the hallowed goal before you, what was there to sustain you?

He knew he would need to be stronger to be able to go back. He would have to stay a week or two longer, drinking from the well to gain resolve.

He remembered his first pilgrimage. The parents of these children were children then. He asked the way to the well as his predecessor had told him to do. He stayed a night then returned home. He was much younger then. So was his wife and they missed each other. She said the trip aged him. But she also said he was younger too. Now he and his wife were used to each other and they savoured the expectation of the reunion as much as the reunion itself. He could stay as long as he needed.

It wasn’t until he had completed his first pilgrimage that he started to understand what it meant. He and those that had gone before followed the journey of a holy man, you might say a prophet, from their village. He was renowned far and wide for his teachings, his prophecies and his travels.

On one of his travels, the prophet had left his home in Mali to go west to the sea. He was called and he went. No one remembers why he went, whether it was a quest, or whether he visited villages along the way. All anyone remembers is that as he approached his destination a large delta out west he had not had water for a day. Some said it was in the month of Ramadan, others said not. The fact of the matter was that he was very thirsty. The earth raged red hot around him as he sniffed the scent of water that came from the delta. It was brackish and undrinkable. He knew that to drink it he would become very ill. But the prophet’s spirits lifted as he saw smoke from home fires rising above the trees. He realised there must be a village ahead. His steps quickened as he entered the village. It was the children who noticed him first. They viewed him guardedly from behind reed fences. A woman looked over a low wall and saw the prophet and commanded her child to get indoors. All of a sudden there was no one in the streets. Then heads appeared around walls and fences, always at a distance. There were no children there, only adults. The prophet walked on towards the well. Behind him people gathered. The prophet tried to greet the people he saw but was only met with stony silence.

He saw the well ahead of him. There was a man who had just filled a gourd from the well. He was taking a sip. He passed the cup on to a friend, who enjoyed the cool water that had come from the depths of the earth. The prophet could smell the water as he approached. He greeted the people in a friendly manner as was his custom. The man at the well replied, - What do you want slave? The prophet was taken aback. He asked if he might have a sip of water, but the man said no. The prophet thought that he must surely be joking, because in all the world it is known that to deny a person water is to deny them life. But the man at the well was adamant. And when the prophet tried to appeal to the friend he was even more hostile. Then a voice from the gathering crowd behind him told him that there would be no water for him in that village. They told him to go back where he came from.

But the prophet was on his way to the sea. He carried on walking. Besides to turn back now he would have to retrace his steps through the hostile crowd that had gathered behind him. He didn’t want to run the gauntlet though people who called him slave. The sun was high in the sky and his thirst was only exaggerated by a growing anger. He was not only angered by the way he was treated but also for those who had been turned away in the past and those who would be turned away in the future.

He walked on, following a path that led him alongside the delta. He was so thirsty that he had to remind himself that the water that he saw was not drinkable. His senses started to betray him. At times it was as if the sun faded. He imagined himself underground in a cool cave with water that abounded. But the image kept fading as he was about to drink from it. He was very weak. Several times he stumbled or tripped over the smallest stone.

At last he saw another village. He pulled himself together. He did not expect a better reception at this village but he dusted off his clothes and stood straight. He resolved to pass this village with dignity. And if he was allowed to drink some water he would be grateful.

As he drew closer, a child who was playing on a bank of the delta caught sight of him as he took his shoes off to wade across the shallows. The boy ran off and the prophet thought that it was about to start all over again. He was tired and thirsty and the cool of the water as he walked to the other side was more torture than relief. He was tempted to reach down and take one mouthful. Just one. He bent down but at the last minute he came to his senses and wiped his wet hand across his forehead. He had to get out of the water. He knew that the longer he was in it the more chance there was that he would drink and to drink was to die. He had to move to dry land, he had to get away. He was thinking of the night. Tonight there might be dew he thought. But night was so far away.

As he climbed out on the bank where the child had been playing he put on his shoes. He noted with a smile that the child had been herding cattle. It was a game he’d played at that age. The speckled stones were cattle and the twigs planted in the soil sand were the enclosures. There was an ugly stone that the prophet assumed represented a hyena that threatened the herd. People aren’t so different he smiled to himself as he thought of his childhood many worlds away.

Suddenly he became aware that a couple of men had approached him while his thoughts were elsewhere. Hidden behind the one was the small boy who had fled the game. The prophet’s mouth was too dry to speak. Instead he lifted the ugly rock in a feeble gesture. It was only then that he realised how weak he was.

You poor man the older of the two said. You look in a state. You must come with us. You need water. At the mention of the word the prophet fell to his knees. He felt that he could not move another step.

The two men rushed and grabbed him under his arms. They lifted him and he struggled to walk between them. We can’t leave you in the sun, the men explained in a language that the prophet could understand. It seemed like ages before they reached the cool of the veranda. All the while the young boy stared at him.

On the veranda they lowered the prophet onto a mat. The men the prophet discovered, were the father and grandfather of the little boy. While the old man saw to the prophet’s comfort, the other fetched a gourd from its cooling place. The young man, holding the water, apologised, saying that the water in the village tasted very bad, that it was almost as bad as the delta itself. But the prophet said though his cracked lips that to him it would be nectar from heaven.

The man dipped into the gourd and gave the sage the cup. He cautioned that he should drink slowly, so the water didn’t poison him. Again they apologised for their poor water. The prophet took a sip and then another. Tears welled in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. What is wrong, the men asked with great concern. But the prophet smiled. As I thought, he said, it tastes like nectar from heaven.

The prophet was still weak as he lay on the mat. He fell asleep and when he woke it was getting late in the afternoon. It was then that the prophet noticed that he was still holding the little boy’s hyena. He asked the older man where the boy was so he could return the toy. The man said that he had gone with his older sister to the well to get water.

The prophet suddenly needed to go to the well where the sweet water had come from. The old man protested, but on the prophet’s insistence he went with him to the well. On the way the prophet praised the sweetness of the water, while the grandfather apologized for its saltiness.

Eventually they got to the well. When the children saw the stranger they stopped talking. The prophet recognised the small boy from the household. He held out the hyena stone and the boy came forward and confirmed that it was buki. The prophet smiled as the boy said he could keep it.

The grandfather while being very apologetic about the quality of the well’s water, insisted that the prophet take a sip now that he no longer was thirsty. He wanted to prove a point. He pulled up a fresh load of water, poured it into the gourd and then offered it to the prophet. The prophet put the gourd to his lips and tasted. The nectar of Heaven he exclaimed more fervently than ever. The old man could not believe that the visitor was so stubborn. He put the gourd to his lips. The children were silent, expecting him to curse at any moment. But he didn’t. Instead he took another sip and another. At last he emptied the gourd. You are right my friend, he exclaimed, that is truly the nectar of Heaven.

Then the children tasted the water and they all beamed. For what had once been salty was now sweet. As the sun started to set they headed back to the village. The news that the well was now sweet had spread and the prophet was greeted by a large gathering from the village. They were so thankful for their change of fortune. The prophet was invited to have dinner with all the main families in the village, so it took several weeks before he was able to politely take his leave.

The well in the other village, on the other hand, had turned sour. Travellers now avoided the village, but that is another story

So from that time on, a pilgrim has followed in the prophet’s footsteps to drink from the well, as homage to the miraculous event. The pilgrim, always sleeps under the same tree within sight of the well. When the villagers ask why he isn’t afraid of the hyenas, he shows them an ugly old stone. I have one of my own, he says.

On the last evening the prophet was sitting on the same veranda, on the same mat as he had sat on when he first arrived. The old man, his son and the little boy asked him where he would go from there. The prophet said he would return home. But, they asked him, what about the quest? What about his sacred journey to the sea?

Then the prophet looked up and told them that he had seen what he was meant to see. Back in his little village a voice had told him to walk west towards the sea and he would see a bit of heaven.

Well, asked the child, did you see heaven?

I might have seen a bit, the prophet said with a smile, but I certainly tasted it.

the elusive spirit

THE WELL