The Seventh Heaven

The Haunted Woods

Over and over again they point to it and warn me. “Don’t go near the wood,” they say. “It’s haunted by demons!”

The wood stands at the southern edge of the Desert of the Prophet’s Birthday in Abbasiya. From a distance it looks like a many-peaked mountain of gloomy green, three tram stops in length, and nearly as wide. Overhead the sky perhaps is streaked with smoke borne by the breeze from the rubbish tips, where garbage is always burning. Of what kind are these lofty trees, and what is the reason for their presence in this place? Who planted them here, and why? The Desert of the Prophet’s Birthday is where all the young people of Abbasiya go to play football, and where a number of amateur teams practice at the same time. When we finish our friendly matches wendent pull on our gallabiyas over our everyday athletic clothes, then return to our neighborhood — skirting the wood on the way.

Childhood gives way to adolescence. New passions are ignited within me, including the love of reading. In my soul there dawns an enlightenment that celebrates all things new and novel, as many old myths are dispelled from my mind. I no longer believe in the demons of the wood — yet I fail to free myself completely of the latent dregs of fear deep down. I often used to withdraw by myself to the desert, especially during the summer vacations, reading, contemplating, and smoking cigarettes, far from any censorious eye. I would gaze at the forest from afar, smiling sarcastically at my memories. Still, I kept my distance. Finally I grew annoyed with my own attitude, and felt driven to challenge it by asking myself, Isn’t it time you discovered the truth about the wood?

After not a short discussion, I boldly resolved to do something about it. I chose to act in mid-afternoon, in broad daylight, since the night in any case would not be safe. The place where I used to sit was close to the water pumping station, inside which bustled workers and engineers. Once I greeted one of them and asked him about the secret of the wood. He told me it belonged to the station. He said it was planted a long time ago, taking advantage of the abundant water. It did not extend any further, perhaps, due to the annual celebrations of the Prophet’s Birthday next door.

“They say,” I remarked, “that the wood’s filled with ‘afari—evil spirits.”

“The only demons are human beings,” he rejoined.

For the first time I made for the wood. I stopped at its edge peering inward, and saw the towering trees in orderly rows, like soldierly battalions, and the weeds blanketing the ground with their ripe, luscious verdure. A canal cut through them widthwise, shimmering streams branching away from it. Once accustomed to everything, I advanced without trepidation. I met no human being, but became intoxicated on the solitude and tranquility. “What a waste,” I thought. “So much time lost — may God suffer those who imagine that Paradise is a refuge for demons.” At roughly the center of the wood, some laughter reached me — and in truth, my heart shuddered. Yet my dread vanished in seconds — for there was no doubt this laughter came from a descendant of Adam. I inspected my surroundings with care, and in the distance, made out a small band of youths. Just as quickly I realized they were not strangers, but neighbors and colleagues from my school. I went toward them, clearing my throat — and their heads turned in my direction until I greeted them and stopped, smiling. After a silence, one of them said, “Welcome. What fortunate coincidence brought you here?”

“And what brought all of you here?” I asked instead.

“As you see — we chat with one another, or we read, or have serious discussions.”

“Have you been doing this for a long time?”

“Not a short time, in any case.”

After some hesitation, I ventured, “I’d be pleased to join you, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Do you love study and debate?”

“I adore them with all my heart.”

“Then you’re welcome, if you wish.”

From that time on, I began a new life, that perhaps I could call the life of the wood. During the whole summer vacation, I spent two hours at least each day in this circle, as, with the calling of the birds, thoughts and opinions descended from above. The world had changed, changed utterly. This wasn’t merely a diversion or a game, or an intellectual exercise for its own sake. Rather, it led to a journey, an adventure — an experience encompassing all things possible….

By habit I sat with my father and mother after supper. We would listen to the phonograph, talking with one another. I had been concealing the secret of the wood, not revealing it to anyone — and my parents were the last persons I ever imagined to tell about it. A very long time ago— I no longer remember just how long — they went to their eternal rest, and were granted everlasting peace. My father does not get excited unless prodded by news of politics, which he relishes to follow and comment upon. One day he concluded his conversation by exclaiming, “How many wonders there are in this country!”

“Wonders without end!” I rushed to affirm.

He fixed me with an inquiring look. “Let me tell you some of the ideas that circulate in our society,” I said.

I spoke concisely, with concentration. He listened in confusion. “I seek refuge in God,” he shouted. “The people who hold those views aren’t humans — they’re demons!”

Only then I understood: I had become one of the demons of the haunted wood.