The Deti Scrits – The Books of Ahmudd

translated by Larry Womack

Part One:  Achievement

I was led by two of my captors up a short path to a great hall with an elaborately carved facade. The captors didn’t speak. This was my first day of sunlight since I, along with three other men, were taken from my village a fortnight ago. No reason was given.  I never saw the others again.

My body was riffed with fear and trepidation.  Though no weapon was visible, their solemn demeanor and the firmness of their hold on my arms was sufficient evidence that escape was not a consideration.  My eyes were cloudy from the glare of the sun off the great hall, my legs taut with anxiety and my mind racing to understand my dilemma.

Once inside the hall, they let go of my arms and disappeared.  I crumbled to the floor.   Illuminated by sunlight pouring through a large opening in the roof, the dust in the cavernous room gave an illusion of being under the sea.  The dust was thick and smoky to taste, like foul remnants of a long ago feast.

As I tried to rise, my knees buckled.  I fell back to the floor.  There was a shriek in the distance of what sounded like a large bird.  It could have been a cry of human torture, but I convinced myself, it was a bird.

The room was as long as a score of elephants and half as wide.  As my eyes adjusted to the dusty light, the image of a pyre at the opposite end of the room came into focus.  The pyre sat directly below the opening in the roof.   This time, I steadied my rise from the dirt floor by outstretching my arms and stood facing the pyre.  The bird shrieked again.  The sound came from just beyond the opening in the roof above the pyre.  My fear subsided and I sensed a connection between my being there and the shriek of the creature.  The third shriek brought it closer to the opening.

Suddenly wind whipped through the opening in the ceiling, creating a deep mantra that was simultaneously ominous and soothing.  The wind cleared the sea of odorous dust from the hall.  Approaching the pyre, I could see it was covered with fresh straw and the aroma of that forgotten feast wafted from it.  Though it was raised from the floor to near my height, I could see the pyre’s triangular shape.  Its length across the front was twice my height.  The triangle’s apex stretched into the darkness of the back wall.  Another shriek.

This time I could feel the sound in the wind and realized that the wind and the shrieks were from a single source.  My emotions moved to high anxiety and anticipation.

The wind ceased as quickly as it had begun, yet the sound remained, muted but always there. I saw the giant head of a bird peer through the hole in the ceiling.  My fear returned.  The bird did not acknowledge my presence.  The head disappeared and then the entire magnificent red, winged creature descended in a flash and with a thud onto the pyre. I slowly sank to the floor in homage to the sight.

The bird was larger than the pyre, yet it managed to fold its wings close against its body as if to nest.  Its feathers were bright red.  Its daggerish beak was deep orange.  Its eyes were circles of white around piercing molten torches.  I could not look the giant creature in the eyes for fear of blindness.  The bird sat still for a few moments, as if gathering its strength or thoughts.  It then glared down at the straw in which it nestled causing smoke to rise from the straw, then flames to appear.  The searing flames rose to the ceiling; red feathers liquefied into bubbling oil; and the bird melted into the burning straw as if descending into a fiery sea.  In moments, the bird was consumed and in its place a small white egg.

I arose and walked to the smoldering alter as if it was my destiny picked up the warm egg and hold it above my head.  The egg stirred in my hand.  I held it high, in cupped palms, so as not to confine it.  Suddenly, it broke open.  A white dove appeared.  It looked down at me and flew through the opening in the vaulted ceiling.  When I lowered my hands, there were no remnants of the egg and the fragrance of spring rose from the spot where it once laid.

I left the great hall and took a familiar road here, where I tell you the story for the first and only time.

“Ahmudd, seer of the east, what does it mean?”

The old seer took a stick in his hand and drew hieroglyphics in the sand as he talked.

“Gandani, you experienced the phoenix,” he said, “Something few men have ever done.  You were obviously chosen to do so.  The mantra you heard is the sound of the past, echoing the wisdom of lessons learned.  It will be with you always.  The wind is the present, bringing freshness and clarity to what you see in the moment.  The pyre is the pyramid of knowledge found in connecting the past, present, and future. The fire is the sunrise of opportunity.  The dove is the hope that each morning brings.”

“Why was I chosen?” I asked.

“Why not you? . . . is a wiser question,” said the seer, pointing the stick at me.  “Come with me to my abode.  I will give you tea and fruit and a place to rest.”

 

Part Two:  Fulfillment

It was five years from my encounter with the phoenix and Ahmudd – the seer.   Each day upon awakening, I reflected on the experience and that mysterious sound representing the past; the wisdom of lessons learned.  Each day I honored the interrelatedness of the future, the present, and the past in reflection and gratitude.  Through meditation, my life was enriched and I accomplished great things.

But alas in recent months, memory of the grand experience in that great hall has faded and the words of the seer have become garbled and incoherent.  My time in reflection has waned as my fortunes have grown.  Most mornings I now arise, thinking first of my duties of the day, of my treasures and my wives – planning the daily events and calculating my investments.  Though my mind does snaps back to the phoenix, the time allotted to devotion is shorten.  Devotion has become disruption.  As my wealth and responsibilities have grown, I find myself increasingly hungry, thirsty, empty.  Instead of reflection, I now turn to present pleasures to satisfy my emptiness.  But with decreasing satisfaction.

This morning just before awakening, I thought I saw me with wings descending towards a smoking pyre.  Just as I felt the heat of the pyre on the soles of my feet, I awoke with a jerk, and the seer’s face flashed through my mind.  Today I begin that inevitable journey back to the seer.

In the five years since my first visit to the seer’s abode, the landscape had changed.   Agriculture replaces forests.  Narrow roads now cover the valleys and hillsides.  The terrain seems less expansive.  The whole area looks smaller and more confined. “Time,” I thought, “reduces grandeur.”

Suddenly there it is – the small door in the side of a hill; the home of the seer.  I looked at the door covered with vines and cobwebs and felt the sadness one feels in the guilt from inattention to friends and loved ones.  It had been too long.

“Come in, Gandani,” the old voice sang out.

“Thank you,” I said.  Wanting to add “my friend” but feeling unworthy.

“I was expecting you,” said the seer, sitting cross-legged on a rug by a small stove.  “Would you like some tea?”

Noting the sparseness of the surroundings, I could not decide whether to honor the old man in his offer or to respect the apparent scarcity of his provisions.

“Why thank you, Ahmudd.”

“You are a wise man, Gandani,” said the seer, pouring the tea.  “You honor me in accepting my invitation.”

They sat quietly, savoring the sweetness and pungency of the tea.

“I know the answer,” said the seer, breaking the silence.  “A fruitful life is a circle – a circle that connects the verticals with the horizontals.”

The old seer took his stick and drew a circle in the dust, dividing it into quarters.

“When one is experiencing growth and accumulation—the vertical, it is difficult to maintain relationship with the constants—the horizontals, one’s soul, one’s passion, one’s obligations.

“I’m afraid I do not understand.”

“I’m afraid you do not see.”

“I see you.”

“You see only what your two eyes allow you to see.  You can find true peace, true joy, true happiness, and true success only when you can see what your third eye sees, as well.

“You see only with eyesight.  You must also learn to see with mindsight.  The experience with the phoenix provided you with the wisdom to achieve mindsight.  Mindsight is the only source of fulfillment.  Come sit on the rug in front of me.  You are ready.  I know because you came.”

I sat on the dusty rug in the dark room, closed my eyes as the smells of curry, tallow, and age greeted my senses.  The seer did not speak.  His instruction, however, was clear and direct.  I began to feel energy rise from the base of my spine. My organic eyes rolled up into my head.  I became absorbed by the sensations just above the bridge of my nose.  My consciousness became polarized.  I could see myself by looking down on me.  I could feel myself in the experience.  There was no future.  There was no past.  There was no time, yet there was all the time that there had ever been.

“That’s it!” said the seer.  “You now have the tools for achievement and fulfillment.  The phoenix gave you the sky; the mind’s eye gives you the horizon. You can live in the circle.”

“I still don’t know what happened to me.  I thought the future was mine, but I somehow let it slip away,” I blurted out.

“The future can be built only on dreams,” calmly said the seer.  “You were attempting to build a future from the past and present.  When you left here last time, you were charged with vision.  As you thought and planned to achieve your vision, you became more energized and focused.  When you achieved that vision, you became complacent and satisfied, attentive only to the present.  That is an unhealthy state.  Life is a circle.  To be true to your growth and to your constants, you must live life as a circle.  Dream before you think.  Think before you plan.  Plan before you act.  Act and then beginning dreaming again.  A life of achievement is half a life.  To be whole, it must be balanced with fulfillment.”

“What’s the difference between achievement and fulfillment?” I asked.

“A better question would be, what is life without both?” queried the seer, as he pointed the stick at me.

 

Part Three:  Beginning

To the king on the first mountain there was no north, south, east, and west, only here and there.  Out there were two distinct worlds:  one world was bleak and odious, the other lush and tranquil.  Hedonistic nomads, vermin, vipers, and beetles inhabited the vicious world.  The serene world was populated with sleek tigers, mammoth woollies, hoofed creatures, birds, and amphibians.

Osiris was born on the mountain; the child of the earth and the sky.  His navel was connected to the earth by a vine and his soul connected to the sky by spirit.  In his early days, Osiris was content to walk in circles on the mountaintop until darkness fell.  Then he would sit on the earth and look at the moon through his mind’s eye until sleep covered him like the lush foliage in the peaceful valley.  At sunrise, he would awaken to the sounds of agony and anguish from the ever-moving inhabitants of the barren plain.  And to the sounds of serenity – birds, streams, and purring – from the vegetated peacefulness of the other side of the mountain.

But as Osiris grew older, the power of his vision grew sharper and deeper, and his compassion for the wandering souls on the barren plain increased.  Every day for the nomads was just like the day before.  Arising from a stuporous sleep, they would forage for food. If vermin or beetles were not available, they would devour one another without regard for relation or station.  Only the most fit survived.  There were no poets.  The poets were eaten first.  Each man was a judge and jurist. Each day was filled with hunting, grunting, and violence.

In the evening, when fatigue set in, they ate rotten berries fallen from the gnarled vines that dotted the desolation, and then fell asleep.  Each night, they feared the sun would not come again.  Each day, they awoke with antagonism and anger at its rising.

“Why do they curse the darkness?” Osiris would ponder.  “The majesty of light is drawn from the contrast.”

But then he would witness the nomads’ days of wandering and enmity, and the reality of their discontent provided the answer.

At mid-life, Osiris realized his calling.  He would lead the nomads out of their desolation into the fertile valley of peace and continuity.  But how?  He was rooted to the mountain through the vine.

One night while in deep visioning, he witnessed his birth and saw the yin and yang – himself and his alter-self copulating passionately in his mother’s womb.  When he awoke, there beside him was himself – untethered.

“You are Horis,” he said.  “Like me, you have the wisdom to lead the nomads to culture and away from barbarianism.  Unlike me, you are not tied to the earth.  You are, therefore, subject to the adversities of mortality.  Be careful.”

Without adieu, Horis leaped from the mountain that overlooked the barren plain and let out a terrifying cry.  The nomads gave chase.  They pursued him vigorously until dusk, when they arrived at the juncture of the barren plain and fertile valley.  He turned to them and made a grotesque face in mockery.  Then slipped into the forest at the edge of the valley– disappearing into the foliage and the darkness.  One by one the nomads trickled in behind him.

The next day, the nomads continued their search for him, but at a more patient gait.  The beauty around them – the bountiful aromatic fruit, the dazzling sounds and colors of the birds often distracted them, the softness of the greenery beneath their feet, and the coolness of the shade from the eucalyptus and the palm.  By the end of the day, their search for Horis became one of thanksgiving instead of consumption.

Horis was unsure of their motives, though.  He took refuge in a small cave, in the side of the mountain.  In the cave he could feel the connection with the earth.  At night, he would walk in the forest and listen to the sounds of the new agrarians.  He heard their songs and their poetry – odes to the mystery that led them there; poems of reverence for the mountain and the fertile land.

In time, he came to know them and they, him.  He taught them law, agriculture, religion, and other endowments of civilization. They valued his wisdom and counsel, calling him Ahmudd – the seer.  But after awhile, they forgot the mystery of how they came to this sweet land, and they began to see themselves as the source of wisdom.  Ahmudd retreated to the sanctity and solitude of his cave, only to speak wisdom when it is requested of him.  That is the blessing of both achievement and fulfillment.