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

by Annie F. Johnston

Only the bees knew, and, following the bee, Shapur found himself in the old alchemist’s presence. Now Shapur was a youth of gracious mien, and pleasing withal. With straightforward speech he told his story, and Omar, who could read the minds of men as readily as unrolled parchments, was touched by his tale. He bade him come in and be his guest until sundown.

So Shapur sat at his board and shared his bread, and rose refreshed by his wine and his wise words. And at parting, the old man said with a keen glance into his eyes: “Thou thinkest that because I am Omar, with the power to transmute all common things into precious ones, how easily I could take the remnant of salt that is still left to thee in thy sack, and change it into gold. Then couldst thou go joyfully on to the City of thy Desire, as soon as thy camel is able to carry thee, far richer for thy delay.”

Shapur’s heart gave a bound of hope, for that is truly what he had been thinking. But at the next words it sank.

“Nay, Shapur, each man must be his own alchemist. Believe me, for thee the desert holds a greater opportunity than kings’ houses could offer. Give me but thy patient service in this time of waiting, and I will share such secrets with thee that when thou dost finally win thee to the Golden Gate, it shall be with wares that shall gain for thee a royal entrance.”

Then Shapur went back to his camel, and in the cool of the evening urged it to its feet, and led it slowly across the sands; and because it could bear no burdens he lifted the remaining sack of salt to his own back and carried it on his shoulders all the way. When the moon shone white and full in the zenith he reached the rose gardens of Omar. He knocked on the gate, calling, “Here am I, Omar, at thy bidding, and here is the remnant of my salt. All that I have left I bring to thee, and stand ready now, to yield my patient service.”

Then Omar bade him lead his camel to the fountain, and leave him to browse upon the herbage around it. Pointing to a row of great stone jars he said, “There is thy work. Every morning, before the sunrise, they must be filled with rose-petals plucked from the myriad roses of the garden, and the petals covered with water from the fountain.”

“A task for poets,” thought Shapur, as he began. “What more delightful than to stand in the moonlighted garden and pluck the velvet leaves?”

But after awhile the thorns tore his hands and the rustle and hiss underfoot betrayed the presence of serpents, and sleep weighed heavily upon his eyelids. It grew monotonous standing hour after hour, stripping the rose-leaves from the calyxes, until thousands and thousands and thousands had been dropped into the great jars. The very sweetness of the task began to cloy his senses.

When the stars had faded and the East was beginning to brighten, old Omar came out. “’Tis well,” he said, viewing his work. “Now break thy fast and then to slumber, to prepare for another sleepless night.”

So long months went by, till it seemed to Shapur that the garden must surely become exhausted. But for every rose he plucked another bloomed in its stead, and night after night he filled the jars. Still he was learning no secrets, and as the deadly monotony of his task began to eat into his soul he grew restless and began to ask himself questions. “Was he not wasting his life? Would it not have been better to have waited by the other fountain until some caravan passed by that would have carried him out of the desert solitude to the dwellings of men? What opportunity was the desert offering him greater than kings’ houses could give?”