part 2: an oasis of shadowy, warm water

I fell asleep on top of that strange and alluring pattern, and was joined with my surroundings. I say that I fell asleep, because there is no better way to say it, but it was not really that.

My eyes were closed and my breath had softened. My wet clothes had lost their chill and I felt sure and safe. I sunk even deeper into the quiet embrace of the carpet beneath me, feeling the presence of the wizened man and the sleeping stranger.

The heavy blanket spread across my body, fused to the nocturnal design on the carpet. I felt the blanket crawl over my head and the new envelope of solid wool around me tightened. A pressure began to build, and I began to feel as if I were sinking into a night oasis of shadowy, warm water, descending deeper and deeper. In this trance I could not see, but I felt myself insignificant against a dark, vast expanse.

Altogether I was not uncomfortable. As I said, the water was black, but warm. The pressure built around me as I descended, but I was experiencing a tranquil act of change. I was sinking, but also floating, and the fiery anxieties of my soul had been momentarily doused. My awareness continued to fade, like the way that the glowing crimson dusk turns into a purple starlit night among the dunes.

The pressure was all-encompassing, and I continued to sink, until my motionless body softly landed on the bottom of the vast expanse. Prone and on my back, my body touched the floor of the depth, but the top and insides of my body continued in rich momentum, collapsing within itself. My body compressed and diffused until it was flat: my torso and limbs had all become one uniform sheet, like the plain blanket that covered me.

I could not tell if the pressure had abated, or if I had simple adjusted to its constant weight. My eyes could not open, but my vision gradually returned. I could think again, but my thoughts were cloudy. I had changed.

I curled up my head and looked at my new self. Where my body had been, I now saw the same, smothering blanket that had sealed me to the carpet in its powerful embrace. No longer flaccid, my blanket body seemed to hold rigidity like a rug. The plainness had vanished, replaced with the same irresistible pattern that had beckoned me.

I was of interwoven blue and white strands, colored like the small mountain city where I had sought refuge. A large blue medallion was stitched across my middle. I moved my toes and watched as the corner of the lower row of white tassels twitched. I looked at my hand, and saw my upper corner twist down, also covered in fringe. I felt for my head, and it was gone. My vision seemed to emanate from where it had once been, and I could see the entirety of my new body.

I had transformed. I had heard tales of Chefchaouen’s mysterious carpets, but I never expected to become one. But the unexpected was lost on me. I was not alarmed at the metamorphosis, for I did not entirely grasp what had happened. My state of mind found itself aligned on a new paradigm. It was I, after all, who had mistakenly knocked upon the plainer door on the left.

In the distance, I began to hear a grievous laugh. It reverberated, as if it had traveled through the depths of a writhing ocean to arrive. The laugh grew and filled my mind, as if to jolt me from the bottom of the vast expanse where I laid; the mysterious oasis of my soul. I felt myself pulled upwards, rolling up toward the surface at a great speed. I lost control entirely, and when I came to, I had returned to the very tall room where I had laid. The laughter had come from the sleeping stranger.

He was now visible, and I saw him standing tall next to the short pile of vacant blankets. His rich blue tunic flowed to his ankles and opened at the neck where I saw his naked chest. His beard was youthful and black, and his face bore a smile of rich importance, pleased at my new arrival. A dreadful, curved scimitar hung about his waist, tucked into a white sash.

He waved at me to come. I am not sure if I had choice in the matter. I was unable to speak, but I had gained control of my new woolen piles and moved towards him. I flew. He raised his hand and caressed my fringe. I was scared, still frightened from the tumultuous change, but I felt more at ease as he pet my woolen tassels.

Closely studying the design across my flat front, he addressed me clearly. You are the first in many years. Of the three great stables, the Soaring Rugs of Chefchaouen were once considered the grandest magic carpets in all the world. But now we are rare, few and far between. You are special: the last of a once noble heritage.

The stranger’s strong hands felt electric on my woolen form. I lowered my fringe so that he could more easily run his fingers across the blue and white of my ornate pattern. Lurking inside me unrecognized, I felt a dissonance between the evil laughter that had called me, and those gifted hands. His voice was firm as he spoke to me. He commanded me to lower myself, and I did. He then climbed on top of me, with strong hands, and I instinctively tensed so he could ride in peaceful ease.

I felt his command instinctively, and I rose in the air with him on my back, seated on the pattern of the blue medallion that adorned the center of my now woolen self. You will always fly with me, and for no one else, he said. Not even when you are alone. You must only fly for me. His words felt like old keys twisting the heavy mechanism of an ancient lock within me. All the Soaring Rugs of Chefchaouen have the same blue medallion, he told me, but the rest of the pattern is a reflection of your soul. All who look upon you will see your splendor.

I strained under the burden of his body, but the new experience of flight was magnificent. I was able to explore the entirety of the voluminous room, banking upward in rich, concentric circles. The stranger riding upon my back was relaxed, seated cross-legged. His sword curved behind him, resting where my legs had been before. I was compelled to ensure his comfort and he did not grasp my sides. I felt proud, but distantly I also sensed my own disquiet.

The flame within the lantern was no longer motionless, violently flickering at us as we rose higher inside the tall room. A legion of shadows darted and fought on the pale blue canvas of the gently sloping walls. The wizened old man was fixed on his pillow and did not open his eyes to witness the magic above. His weathered face had lowered and darkened. He stroked his long, white beard, and a puff of smoke emitted again from his lungs, swirling beneath us as we flew.

part 1: an irresistible pattern

If you must know, I took the plainer door on the left. Too often I have chosen the most beautiful door, and been left disappointed by what I found inside. But this time, it was an accident. I had knocked on the wrong door.

It was raining that night. Did you notice that the left door had a small shelter above? In the darkness I missed the sign above the portal in the middle: Riad Yazid, where I was supposed to stay.

The rain was driving, and I sought relief. I was told that heavy rain was very unusual for that time of year. My clothing was soaked. I knocked at the door and huddled against it, seeking refuge from a weeping sky.

I was leaning against the door, and when it opened, I stumbled into the old man who had opened it. He was sturdier than he looked and he caught me with a strong arm, hidden beneath his white beard and flowing robes. With his other arm he held a glass lantern. The flame was still and safe against the wind and rain.

The man said nothing. The glass lantern illuminated his billowy shadow against the wall. I collected myself and watched him turn around, slowly plodding back towards the unknown depths. He seemed to invite me inside, through his slow steps. He paused and turned, pointing back towards the entrance. I listened and returned to close the plain blue door. It swung closed flawlessly, as if the solid wood enjoyed the sweeping motion, reminded of younger days when grand branches would swing in the wind. The lockset chimed in happy satisfaction as it found its resting place.

I looked back and the bearded old man was gone. I was alone in the smooth, blue-painted passageway. All the edges were rounded: floor disappearing into wall, wall rounding into ceiling. It was as if a tunnel inside an enormous hive. Regardless of the rain, the passage was dry. Light danced on the pale-blue surfaces, past a soft bend in the far end of the passage. I followed it.

Turning the corner, I found myself entering into a very strange room. It was far taller than I expected, and the light danced high up on the gently sloping ceiling. The room’s ceiling was like the inside of an enormous dome to a far larger building, yet the room itself was not altogether large, excepting the high ceiling. Indeed, this was a strange city, formed at the steep mouth of a mountain pass, holding volumes unseen.

The old man sat in the middle of the room, eyes closed, seated on a colorful pillow atop an enormous carpet. He seemed like a piece of delicate furniture. The intricate carpet spanned almost the entirety of the room, which seemed to be a kind of foyer or atrium. There was another passageway in the back, and as I looked I felt the hint of moving air. The old man was silent and smoking from an antique brass shisha, the mouthpiece dangling at the edge of his mouth.

Standing at the entrance of the unusual chamber, I saw in the back another man curled up, asleep on the carpet. Next to him was a small pile of heavy blankets. All I could see was the stranger’s back, and then nothing at all, as an enormous cloud of smoke escaped from the lungs of the old wizened man who had brought me inside. The white smoke rose toward the impossibly tall, conical ceiling, obscuring much of the room. The lantern lay on the woven carpet next to the meditative man, and the light folded itself in and out of the white cloud of smoke, to the slow rhythm of a quiet dance.

I was tired and wet, ready to rest my feet. The smoke had partially dissipated and I saw a stack of blankets, near the sleeping man. I quietly crossed the room and took one, ready for sleep. Holding the heavy cloth in my hand, a person-sized pattern emerged on the room’s large carpet, as if presented itself to me. Perhaps I had simply not noticed it before. It beckoned to me, a place destined for sleep. I laid down my leather satchel and lowered myself into position, laying on my back on top of the nocturnal design. I pulled the blanket over my cold, damp body.

Closing my eyes, I drew a heavy breath through my nose, bringing in the scent of the cleansing rain and perfumed tobacco. I exhaled from my mouth, and I felt myself sinking into the rich carpet’s irresistible pattern. The wool blanket felt even heavier than before, as if it were sealing itself around me, joining me to the carpet and the tall room itself.

I felt the quiet presence of the old man, and the stranger sleeping near me, before I too fell asleep.