region and the possibility of robbers. But the greatest danger would become evident on the third day. It was then that I realized I had no idea where I was. Thus I could no longer pace myself. Nor could I tell if it was safer to head back or keep going.
“It was the night of the third day, a cool and windy night. I was sitting on a rock in front of my tent by a small campfire I had, with much effort, managed to ignite. I noticed, in the distance, a dark figure with a long black coat or cloak and a hood covering his head. He made his way over to the fire.”
“Might I join you?” he asked.
He was an older man, his features chiseled and desert worn, his voice rich and with a noticeable accent. But I couldn’t place its origin.
“Yes,” I replied.
He sat down beside me, staring into the fire as he spoke.
“You’re on a journey?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re looking for the Oracle?”
“How did you know that?” I asked.
“I just do. So why do you seek him? What do you want?”
“I need to ask him something . . . about something I saw. I believe he’s the only one who can answer it.”
“And are you seeking gain?”
“Just an answer.”
“And if you get your answer, what will you do with it?”
“I don’t know. I just know that I need to know it.”
It was then that he turned away from the fire and gazed directly into my eyes.
“You must keep going, and in the direction in which you’ve begun. You’ll find the remnant of a trail, the caravan path of nomads. Follow it. In a day or two you’ll come to their encampment. Don’t set up your tent inside the camp but just outside it, at the foot of the nearest mountain.”
At that he rose to his feet.
“I wish you well,” he said as he walked away from the fire.
“What about the Oracle?” I asked.
“If you are meant to find him,” he said, “you’ll find him . . . or he’ll find you.”
“He disappeared into the darkness as quickly as he had appeared.
“The following day I set out on the next phase of the journey in accordance with what I was told. I found the caravan path, or what remained of it. At times it would disappear in the sand, but there was always just enough to keep me going.
“It was late in the afternoon when I saw the tent encampment. It seemed as if it was from another age. The people of the camp had to have lived much the same way as they would have thousands of years in the past . . . in a world of their own. Their tents were made of dark brown and black cloth. The men were clothed in similar cloth and colors, but the women were dressed in more varied cloths and colors and patterns.
“I was, of course, a total stranger to them. But they were welcoming. They found me a continual source of fascination. That night I ate a meal prepared by the women. The communication was challenging since there was no common language between us, not even a shared word. So we spoke mostly with our hands. I asked them to point me to the nearest mountain. They did.
“It was now dark, but I was able to discern its outline. They implored me to stay, to spend the night with them. But I insisted on continuing to my destination. It wasn’t long before I reached it, and there, a few feet from the rock of the mountain’s base, I set up my tent. I was by now beyond exhaustion. I lay down in my tent on the cloths that formed my pillow. I stayed awake for a time. I couldn’t stop wondering what lay ahead. I had reached the end of the instructions.
“It was only when I woke up the next morning that the precariousness of my situation dawned on me. My food and water supply was nearly exhausted. It was then that I noticed a covered object by the entrance of my tent. I uncovered it. It was a plate of food. The women from the camp had brought it out to me. After finishing the meal, I placed the plate in the sand outside the tent. Underneath it I left some money. That evening I found another plate by the tent entrance—dinner. After eating, I did the same thing, leaving the plate just outside the entrance