Free Maps by Nuruddin Farah Page B

Askar saw that the horse did not condescend to eat the grass at all, but waited, its ears pricked, blessed with the foreknowledge that it would be fed on nobler food, on something ambrosial perhaps.
    â€œGreetings,” said the man, his voice golden and sweet and deep. “Greetings, young man, from our land of mysteries, snakes, spiders, and horses and men in coarse garments of wool. Welcome amongst us, traveller. Greetings,’ he repeated.
    There was a brief silence which appeared endless to Askar, for it was during this period that he was to cross from the darkened area of a dreamscape to that of light. Uninitiated, it took him longer and the man repeated the greetings formula a couple of times until Askar was ready to hear and understand. The man continued: “We met but briefly, you and I, my son. My vision had just begun to grow mistier and the fog had descended on my soul, and thus I could not see nor comprehend. Greetings.”
    Askar stared at him in silence.
    The man went on, “And I have a message. Would you like to receive it? And will you promise to deliver it to its rightful recipient, my son?”
    Askar nodded his head, but didn’t ask who the rightful recipient of the message was.
    â€œThe Prophet has said, may God bless his soul, that men are asleep. It is only at their death that they are awoken. Can you repeat that to me, word for word, my son?”
    Askar nodded his head.
    â€œPlease repeat it to me, word for word.”
    Askar repeated it.
    â€œAnd there is another message.”
    Askar indicated that he was waiting to receive it, even if it were on behalf of someone else.
    â€œPlease listen very carefully.”
    Askar waited.
    The man said, “An eagle builds a nest with its own claws.” There followed a slight pause. And the man waited. Askar repeated, “An eagle builds a nest with its own claws.” Then the man in the coarse garments of wool took Askar by the hand and the horse, without being called, joined them, but kept a distance, awaiting instructions. The man walked to where the horse was and he whispered something into its ear. And the horse nodded. The horse then indicated to Askar that it was ready to be ridden. Askar, as he mounted the horse, wondered to himself if it would grow wings as bright as dawn and fly in the direction of the morning sun. Whereupon, as they bid each other farewell, the man said to Askar, “May you be awoken in peace.”
    And Askar awoke.
    II
    Awake and washed, handsome, shaven and seventeen years old, he now stood behind a window in a house in Mogadiscio—Uncle Hilaal’s house. To his right, a writing desk on which lay, not as yet filled out, a form from the Somali National University Admissions Committee, a form he hadn’t had the peace of mind to look at, because he didn’t know whether he would, after all, choose to go to university although he had passed his school certificate examination with distinction and-was within his rights to say which course or faculty he wanted. There were, besides the unfilled-out form, two other notes—one from Uncle Hilaal, in whose charge he lived, telling him that Misra had been seen in town and that she had been looking for the whereabouts of Askar and was likely to turn up any day at this doorstep; the other from the Western Liberation Front Headquarters, in Mogadiscio, requesting that he appear before the recruitment board for an interview. He stood behind the window, contemplative and very still—resembling a man who has come to a new, alien land. Presently, he left the window and picked up the forms and the notes in turn. He realized that he couldn’t depersonalize his worries as he had believed he might. It occurred to him, as an afterthought, that on reading the note from Uncle Hilaal last night when he got back (he had spent a most pleasant evening out in the company of Riyo, his girlfriend), his soul, out of despair, had shrunk in size while his