Five Strangers | a Short Story by Jon Passi As ash-brown dusk began to seep night, five travelers struggled, one by one, up a steep, dusty Turkish hill. The late-summer crescent moon began to rise in a clear, starry sky, as the last traveler made his way to the aged inn at the hill's crest. The venerable wood and stone building was well weathered, seemingly resting its own old bones as it squatting atop the cobbled hill on the outskirts of town. It was a simple inn overlooking the hillside, which was dotted with small shops and a local bazaar alive at all hours with merchants selling tobacco, soup, handicrafts, wooden chairs, and people sitting in small cafes drinking strong coffee and chai. The owner of the inn and his wife were as much a part of the town as the surrounding hillsides, and they smiled with that deep familiarity that only peace, togetherness and sense of place can bring. The couple asked little and talked little, as though words were a sacred privilege. Their faces, though aged, seemed to radiate serenity and warmth as they welcomed each new visitor to their hilltop home. Upon arriving, the old couple greeted every one of their guests with a slight bow, and showed them to their separate rooms, each equipped with a cot, table, lamp and blanket. All the guests went quietly to their own rooms. And as they had each arrived at different times, not one soul met or even saw another. One by one, they had come, as five strangers. Mohammed was from Egypt. He was visiting friends in the area. Having grown up as an Islamic fundamentalist, he was on a pilgrimage to visit the holy shrines of Islam, before journeying to Mecca. He carried the sacred Koran with him, and each day he renewed his vows of faith. Some nights he would stay up far past midnight reading the sacred texts. Jesse was an evangelical Christian on his first trip out of the USA and away from Ohio. This journey had been one of his dreams. Ever since enrolling in the seminary, he had imagined himself in the Holy Land. After having spent a short time in Greece, he was on his way to Constantinople, and then to Jerusalem and other parts of Israel to explore what he had so often read about in his most sacred book, the Bible. Ram was a practicing Shaivite Hindu from Calcutta. He also was on his first tour outside of his native country. He had saved all his money for years, and his family had sold a parcel of their land in order for him to be able to visit a friend who was staying at an ashram near the Turkish border. He reveled in the sights and sounds of this new and foreign culture, yet each night, true to his faith, he lit his shrine to Shiva and the other deities as he offered his prayers and meditations. Ling was half Chinese and half Tibetan. His parents were Buddhists and had lived in Tibet until the Red Chinese invasion. Both parents had escaped to India in order to start life anew. After years of struggle and hard work, they had earned enough money to send Ling on this, the trip of his dreams. He had planned to see some of the wonders of the Middle East and Europe before crossing the Atlantic to be with a group of Buddhist monks who were building a monastery in Minnesota. As much as the freedom of the new world drew him onward, the roots of Buddhism pulled him back to his traditions, and each night he set up his own shrine and chanted the elaborate rituals and rites that he had learned as a youth. Moshe came last to the inn. He was the oldest and most well-traveled of the five. He had come from Tel Aviv and was quite familiar with the region. Because his family was well-to-do, he had been given the opportunity to travel extensively throughout Europe, the Middle East and parts of Africa as a youth. Wherever he went, he brought the Torah and studied the works of his Jewish ancestors, enveloped in the words of his God, until his candle extinguished itself each night. By 7 p.m., all five guests had arrived, unpacked and were feeling quite at ease, due to the quiet peace at the inn. The five men all arrived for their evening meals shortly after the supper bell rang. They made their way to the dining room and sat around a plain, round table, handmade of rough, local wood, and set with metal cups and plates. The air was tinged with the welcome smell of food and cedar, and the familiar din of buying and selling that drifted up from the bazaar below. Food was served and little was said. Finally Jesse spoke up, breaking an awkward silence. "Does anyone here speak English? I've got maps, but I can't figure out where the train station is located?" There was an awkward pause, and then as if on cue, all four spoke in broken English at once. There was laughter all around, and finally Moshe, who was the most well-versed in English, spoke out. "There is a train station about four kilometers from here. If you show me your map, I can tell you how to get there." That exchange started a trickle, which soon became a steady flow of pigeon English, Arabic, Hindi and sign language. Throughout the rest of the evening, each visitor gave his companions a rough idea of his background, beliefs and destinations. They all smiled and laughed at each other as they stumbled over language barriers in between coffee and cigarettes. After some time, the owners of the inn came in, smiling, with another huge, steaming plate of food, and brass urns of coffee and tea. After dinner, in a relaxed and satisfied atmosphere, over games of chess and backgammon, the boundaries between race and religion began to blur. When the evening ended, and each traveler drifted off to his own bed, a comradeship seemed to linger between the men. And even though they were headed toward different destinations, they seemed somehow united by their pilgrimages of faith. But the chasm that separated them loomed large again as the five sat alone in their rooms that night. Each man securely locked his own door, and prayed with added vigor for protection from the others' dangerous beliefs. Each redoubled his prayers and meditations in order to cleanse his mind of all false or heretical doctrines. In fact, they all slept a fitful sleep, troubled with the presence of so many infidels. Upon leaving the next morning, all five checked twice, to see that none of their possessions had been stolen or desecrated. As they packed and left, each gave the others a painted smile, hiding deep suspicions just beneath. In truth, unanimously, they had all prayed for each other's soul. Every one of them was certain that the others were headed for damnation of the worst sort. They all left the next day. The smiling innkeeper and his wife bid them all adieu one by one, at the arched wooden doorway, as the men trudged down the dusty hill in search of their own Gods. Mohammed arrived at Mecca after visiting several Mosques and shrines. In Mecca, he ran into a friend, who told him of an amazing Muslim holy man who could perform miracles. The holy man lived in a town quite some distance away. They vowed to travel together, using the rest of their money, to visit this saint in order to gain his audience and blessing. Journeying overland by bus and train, they finally reached the outskirts of the village where the holy man lived. As they arrived at the village of mud huts, his friend suddenly fell ill with such stomach pains that they decided to stay at a local inn until the sickness subsided. The next day, as his friend lay recuperating, he set out to see if he could arrange an audience, with this local imam. In the meantime, Jesse traveled down through Israel to Jerusalem. There, in the bowels of a sacred catacomb, he met an old man who told him that he knew of the secret lineage of Christ. He vowed Jesse to absolute secrecy, and then let him know the place where this modern-day relative of Jesus lived. He told Jesse that the lineage of Christ was about to be re-kindled. He also gave Jesse a map to a place where he could find the family of the new messiah. The old man said that only a few select others knew of this wondrous event, and that Jesse should tell no one. Jesse felt a bit unsure, yet decided to chance the journey. He was curious, and also honored that one day he might be considered one of the new disciples. After days of rugged travel, Jesse finally reached the outskirts of the town in which this miracle was about to occur. He was skeptical and nervous, as he approached his new Jerusalem. Ram had a vision of Shiva in a dream, the night after he left the inn. As he slept, Shiva came to him, trident ablaze, and told Ram that he must go to see a man who would become his master, and initiate him into the mysteries of consciousness. Ram was mightily affected by the dream, but did not quite understand what he was to do next. To make matters worse, when he arrived at the ashram he had come so far to see, he found that it had been relocated to the south, due to an earthquake. The buildings had been abandoned to vultures and nomadic herdsmen. One of the remaining devotees was still at the crumbling site, in a small house, which had remained intact. He gave Ram a hot meal, a place to stay the night, and directions to the site were the new ashram was being built. After several days of travel by train and bus, Ram arrived, tired and hungry, at the dusty town where the new ashram was to be located. A worker at the site of the new ashram gave Ram directions to a hostel where the other devotees were living. He also mentioned that there was a curious, older ascetic living nearby, that Ram might want to visit. The worker said that this old swami was quite wise. So that evening Ram decided to journey to the outskirts of town to pay homage, before taking up residence at the hostel. Moshe toured the region around the inn slowly, breathing in the beauty of the mountain vistas as he read from his scripture. His heart filled with love for the countryside and the simple people who clung to the mountainside and worked the fertile soil of the valleys. On one of his trips, he met a woman who was also from Israel. They traveled and talked together for two days. She was young and beautiful, with a simple grace to her movements. Her soft, clear, brown eyes shown with an innocence and compassion so strong that Moshe fell in love with her quiet shyness. She told him a story about her father, who was a very loving and pious rabbi. Now in his older years, he had contracted cancer. After this voyage, she said she was going to return home, to stay with him through his final months on earth. When they reached her destination, they parted ways. She gave Moshe a book of her favorite poems and lovingly kissed his cheek. His heart overflowed with love, full in its sadness. As the train pulled away from the station, he opened the book of poems and a piece of rose-colored paper fluttered to the floor. On the paper were directions to a house in a small town, far to the south. She had also written these words. "This is the home where my heart and soul will reside forever. Come and see the ones I have grown to know and love." Thinking that this must be her father's home, he decided to make that strange new destination his next stop. Meanwhile, Ling set forth after his stay at the inn with a troubled mind. He could not concentrate on anything, and he felt like he was going in the wrong direction for some reason. Each day the train took him closer to his new life he felt sadder and sadder. An old oriental woman sat next to him. She smiled and said nothing. He felt as though she were swimming in a sea of loving peace. Her eyes seemed to express an inexpressible joy. As she fell asleep next to him, Ling finally felt at ease. With calm determination, he decided to make a detour. With a resoluteness that was a bit shocking, he got out at he next station, and not quite sure what he was doing, got on the next train going south. All he knew was that some feeling was pulling him, and for once in his life, he dare not resist the calling. After a long sleep, he was jolted awake as though he'd been shaken. The train had stopped at a small station in the middle of nowhere. Even though he was due to continue on, he picked up his bags and got off the train. It was a though he were being drawn magnetically to something so powerful that he could not, with all his logic, resist. Strangely, Ling did not question it, or feel all that unusual as he carried his bags through the outskirts of the small mud-brick town to an adobe hut that drew him closer, as though by unseen lines of force. He felt that whatever was drawing him was now close at hand. He approached the door of a squat, round home in order to ask directions to a place of lodging for the night. If this were an illusion, he would be on his way toward America tomorrow. The inside of the hut seemed dark, perhaps deserted. He thought that it might be an abandoned house in which he could at least lay his blanket for the night. He knocked on the door in the growing darkness, and hearing no reply, pushed the wooden door open with a squeak. In the near darkness, he noticed several unmoving shapes, which he assumed to be furnishings. He observed other doors around the outer, curving walls. As he grew accustomed to the darkness, he saw doors opening noiselessly, as people cautiously entered through them. He got the feeling that this building might be a place that the local community used for worship. Perhaps it was a small church or mosque. Each person that entered seemed to have the same reaction he did. Each time the door opened, a figure would step in hesitantly, and pause to adjust to the lack of light. Everyone kept silent, leading Ling to think that this must, indeed be a holy place. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a match was struck in the middle of the room and a candle lit. By the dim candlelight, Ling saw the outline of an old man sitting cross-legged in prayer, in the middle of the floor. For a moment he wondered if he was behaving improperly, for he did not want to desecrate this local worship service. Soon, he also made out the outline of a woman, seated next to the old man in the same position. For minutes they sat, silently absorbed in meditation in the candle-lit darkness. He could not make out their features, nor the features of the others in the room. In the dim light he noticed a small straw mat in front of him, and sat down in silence, as did all the others. No one made a sound, so as not to disturb the prayerful silence in the room. For two or three minutes, they all sat quietly as peace and serenity slowly filled the chamber. Suddenly, the eyes of the old man and woman opened, as if from a deep reverie. The old man spoke, and as he spoke, each of the people in the room seemed to hear him in their own tongue. "I have brought you all back together, my friends, because you left me with fear and separation in your hearts," he said in a gentle voice. "I gave you a chance to experience the truth, that there is only one God, though we seek the spirit in different ways. This is something that each of your religions should have taught you long ago: that God is embodied in all things and peoples, and that the spirit has a home in all hearts, no matter which race, religion or belief. God is embodied in the spirit of each one of you, yet you could not see. Only the darkness of ignorance made you see your brothers as five strangers. Only fear and separatist dogma kept you from realizing this universal love. God is for all, a pure and humble love that destroys all false boundaries and distinctions of any sort. Only when you know that, will you see and understand the light of true wisdom." With that, the old lady lit a second candle, and in the glow of the light, they each saw seven faces. The old man and lady were the innkeepers, and the five others were the strangers at the inn. "Now I send you to begin the healing of this world," she said. "Know from this day forth that you are not five strangers, but part of one spirit." And like the candles aflame, each closed heart was lit with the truth of compassion, each veil of fear was lifted, and each mind was opened to a bigger world. Jon Passi is a writer and musician, and a Yoga and conflict resolution instructor, living in South Minneapolis. Contact him by e-mailing j_passi@yahoo.com. Copyright © 2002 Jon Passi |
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