In the Desert of Waiting: The Legend of Camel-back Mountain

by Annie F. Johnston

Only to a privileged few would the Golden Gate swing open at any other time. It would turn on its hinges for a messenger sent at a king’s behest, or to any one bearing wares so rare and precious that only princes could purchase, but no common vendor could hope to pass its shining portal, save in the rear of the train that yearly followed the Rajahs.

So they urged their beasts with all diligence. Foremost in the caravan and most zealous of all was Shapur. In his heart burned the desire to be the first one to enter the Golden Gate, and the first one at the palace with his wares. But half way across the desert, as they paused at an oasis to rest, a dire lameness fell upon his camel, and it sank upon the sand. In vain he urged it to continue its journey. The poor beast could not rise under its great load.

Sack by sack he lessened its burden, throwing it off grudgingly and with sighs, for he was minded to lose as little as possible of his prospective fortune. But even rid of the entire load the camel could not rise, and Shapur was forced to let his companions go on without him.

For long days and nights he watched beside his camel, bringing it water from the fountain, and feeding it with the herbage of the oasis, and at last was rewarded by seeing it struggle to its feet and take a few limping steps. In his distress of mind at being left behind by the caravan he had not noticed where he had thrown his load. A tiny rill trickling down from the fountain had run through the sacks and dissolved the salt, and when he went to gather up his load only a paltry portion was left, a single sackful.

“Now Allah has indeed forgotten me!” he cried, and, cursing the day he was born, he rent his mantle and beat upon his breast. Even if his camel were able to set out across the desert it would be useless to seek a market, now that his merchandise was destroyed.

So he sat upon the ground, his head bowed in his hands. Water there was for him to drink, and the fruit of the date palm, and the cooling shade of many trees; but he counted them all as naught. A fever of unrest consumed him. A baffled ambition bowed his head in the dust. When he looked at his poor camel kneeling in the sand he cried out, “Ah, woe is me! Of all men I am most miserable! Of all dooms mine is most unjust! Why should I, with life beating strong in my veins, and ambition like a burning simoon in my breast, be left here helpless on the sands, where I can achieve nothing and make no progress towards the City of my Desire?”

One day, as he sat thus under the palms, a bee buzzed about him. He brushed it away, but it returned so persistently that he looked up with languid interest.

“Where there are bees there must be honey,” he said. “If there be any sweetness in this desert, better that I should go in its quest than sit here bewailing my fate.”

Leaving the camel browsing by the fountain he followed the bee. For many miles he pursued it, till far in the distance he beheld the palm trees of another oasis. He quickened his steps, for an odor rare as the perfumes of Paradise floated out to meet him. The bee had led him to the rose gardens of Omar.

Now Omar was an alchemist, a sage with the miraculous power of transmuting the most common things of earth into something precious. The fame of his skill had travelled to far countries. So many pilgrims sought him to beg his wizard touch, that the question, “Where is the house of Omar?” was heard daily at the gates of the city. But for a generation that question had remained unanswered. No man knew the place of the house of Omar since he had taken upon himself the life of a hermit. Somewhere, they knew, in the solitude of the desert, he was practising the mysteries of his art, and probing deeper into its secrets, but no one could point to the path leading thither.