The Sleeping Man

by EvelynHail

The common division of the world into subject and object, inner world and outer world, body and wings, is no longer adequate.

Werner Heisemberg

When the Traveller stopped to drink the iridescent water from the spring, she did not notice the tree. But then the tree spoke, so that the Traveller was obliged to follow the most elementary rules of politeness and chat with it for a while.

"It's rare to meet people passing through," said the tree (a horse chestnut, actually). "Where are you going?"

"I don't know," replied the Traveller, "I'm looking for someone."

"Oh...!" The tree plucked whispers of starch from its branches. Then it added: "So you're looking for someone, are you? Well... I'll never..."

The Traveller moistened her face and took a couple of sips. The water tasted like cherry wine scented with cinnamon.

"Aren't you too isolated here?" asked the Traveller, contemplating the solitude of the plateau. "You are the only tree for miles around."

"Loneliness is sometimes the best companion, so that a short retreat hastens a sweet return. Milton, Paradise Lost," the tree cleared its throat, "I am also accompanied by my dreams."

"Ah, you dream... What do you dream of?"

"I dream that I am a traveling salesman and that I am constantly moving from town to town with a collection of jewelry."

The Traveller nodded and thought that, surely, the horse chestnut was in fact a traveling salesman. But she was very careful not to tell him, because she did not wish to offend him.

"You said earlier that you were looking for someone," continued the tree. "Would it be wrong to ask who?"

"Not at all. I am looking for the Sleeping Man."

"Oh, oh, oh, oh...!" The tree winked at the moss and cork. "A great search that is! I have heard that the Sleeping Man lies under a great crystal dome in a palace in Agartha."

"Agartha?"

"Agartha, yes. The city that guards the golden throne with the images of two million gods, the seat of the University of Knowledge. If you look to the west you can see the glow of Agartha on the horizon."

"Yes," said the Traveller, gazing westward. I knew that city by other names," she sighed. "The trouble is, I can never get close. No matter how far I walk, the city is always the same distance from me."

"You have to travel by topophobia, to flee from every place, not looking for the one you are going to, but escaping from the one you are starting from. Miguel de Unamuno. The important thing is the journey, not the goal."

The Traveller nodded appreciatively. She picked up her pack and slung it on her back. "I must go now. It was a pleasure to meet you. "

"Let me ask you one last question," said the tree: "Why are you looking for the Sleeping Man?"

"I want to know who he is; I want to know his name."

"Hmm, his name... Well, I wish you the best of luck."

"Thank you," the Traveller began to walk away, but after a few yards she stopped.

"Do you like being a tree? she asked.

"It's not bad," replied the horse chestnut. "You know, there comes a time in life when you have to put down roots."

The Traveller didn't think that time in life necessarily had to come but she kept that thought entirely to herself.

The Traveller had been walking for a long time, though "time" was a word with little meaning in this place.

At first, her wandering was erratic, and the Traveller merely explored new territory. Thus she discovered the swamps of despair, and the jungles of desire, and the dark valleys of hatred, and the sunny meadows of sanity. But then the Traveller turned wandering into pilgrimage and made the search for the Sleeping Man her obsession.

That is why, whenever she met someone on the road, which was very rare in those lonely places, she kept asking for the Sleeping Man, and always got the same answer: look for him in the city of snow and crystal.

The city had a thousand names. It was called Agartha, MO, Babel, Kôr, Leuké, Oz, Hyperborea, Inquanok, Amaurota, Shangri La, Sivapuram, Nova Solima, Opar....

The city, they said, was an enchanted place, with huge buildings of ice and glass, pools of dew, gardens of exotic plants and temples of mahogany and ivory.

But the city was built on the horizon, and the horizon is an unreachable line. That was why no one had ever managed to reach the city.

However, the Traveller thought that if the Sleeping Man had managed to get there, why not her?

And so the Traveller fixed her gaze on the glow in the west and, day after day, walked stubbornly on.

But the horizon always preceded her.

One day, the Traveller came to a place called Lascivia. It was a vast Renaissance garden, with Greek temples (dedicated to Priapus and Aphrodite, to Eros and Narcissus), and hidden pavilions that allowed the desire for love to be satiated discreetly.

Although, to tell the truth, those who lived in Lascivia were far from discreet: the men were endowed with huge, ever-erect phalluses; the women, on the other hand, had large breasts and wide hips. And all of them, men and women, lived naked, tenaciously engaged in the most varied sexual practices.

In fact, while crossing Lascivia, the Traveller was accosted by an excited crowd who wanted to make him participate in their erotic games. So she was forced into a constant refusal of the most delirious propositions imaginable.

And yet, while the Traveller refused caresses and embraces, she kept asking: "Does anyone know how I can find the Sleeping Man?"

But in reply he got only lewd words and libidinous invitations.

Finally, just as she was about to leave Lascivia, someone crossed his path. It was a beautiful man with an inconceivably sized penis.

"Are you the Traveller in search of the Sleeping Man?"

"Yes. "

"Well, someone is looking for you. "

"Someone is looking for me...? Who?"

"A man, I don't know his name," the man began to rub his penis. "I used to live in Virtud, but it was a drag. So I decided to move to Lascivia. On the way I passed a place called the Desert of the Moon. There I met a man who asked me about you. That's all. Do you want to fuck?"

"No, thanks," said the Traveller. "Another day."

As she left Lascivia behind, the Traveller wondered who the man looking for her could be. When she reached the first fork in the path, she stopped. As always, the city glowed far to the west. But the Traveller knew that the path to her left, heading south, led to the Desert of the Moon. She hesitated for a moment. Then she sighed.

"Anyway," she thought, "the city has always existed and will continue to exist as long as the horizon exists. I can make a detour, there's no hurry".

And, with a determined step, she took the southern road, towards the Desert of the Moon.

The Desert of the Moon was perhaps the most beautiful place in Shambhala. An immense expanse of dunes and rocks, eternally bathed in the posed light of a magical moon.

Night was perpetual in the desert, a warm and calm eve, full of peace and mystery. A night that welcomed into its bosom the weary spirits, the souls far from the din of passions. A night that offered the serene retreat of solitude.

The Traveller spent many days wandering through those places. The only creatures she met on her way were iridescent-rumped lizards. When he asked them about the man, they ignored him and rolled their emerald eyes indifferently.

After a while, the Traveller began to tire of the sterility of her search. This desert, true to its name, was empty, without the slightest trace of human life. So the Traveller decided to rest for a while, to regain her strength, and then to take the road west again, towards the city on the horizon.

She was preparing some fried taters to wash them down with wine, when she saw the faint glow of a campfire in the distance. The Traveller sat up and peered intently into the darkness. The fire was burning at the foot of a high ridge, about four kilometers away. The Traveller gathered her gear and set off.

An hour later, she reached the base of the mountain and found herself in a place full of megalithic remains. Menhirs, dolmens, cromlechs, stones swinging on gigantic slabs, endless alignments... it was undoubtedly a magical place, almost sacred.

The Traveller advanced a few meters and, behind an immense prehistoric altar, she discovered the place where the fire he had seen in the distance was burning.

In front of the fire was a red tent with white cross. The Traveller took a couple of steps forward and stumbled over something. She looked down and saw at her feet, two scarlet speckled ovoids.

"They are pre-boiled picnic eggs," said a voice beside her.

The Traveller looked up with a start and stared at the man who had spoken to her. He was a red haired youth, with large, dark, almond-shaped eyes and full lips, always laughing.

"You..." whispered the Traveller. "Is it really you?"

"You've taken so long. I've been waiting for you for years."

They shared the longest of hugs, cried with joy and held each other's hands, like two happy kids on their way to school.

Then they sat down by the fire.

"You have become a legend," said the man. "A myth in the kingdom of myths. You are the Traveller, the wandering pilgrim, the woman who seeks. What are you after?"

The Traveller shrugged her shoulders.

"I want to know the name of the Sleeping Man. "

"And why do you care about it so much? "

"I don't, I suppose. Maybe it's just a reason like any other to keep walking."

"That's sad." The man frowned slightly, "Don't you like it here in the dreamland?"

"Dreamland...! " The Traveller smiled mirthlessly. "Here people dream of what used to be in the real world. Here a man transformed into a tiger can dream of the time when he worked as a clerk in a dark office." She shook her head. "The realm of dreams, Shambhala, the world behind the looking glass.... Actually, I think I don't care anymore. Even the unpredictable can become monotonous."

"I guess it's hard to dream without hope.... " The man stroked her hand affectionately, engaging in a tender thumb war.

" Now let's talk about you. What are you doing here all alone? " The Traveller leaned forth with interest.

"We were touring some off-the-beaten-path places in Shambhala. We were travelling on winged horses, pegasus; a male and a female. The hatching season caught us in this desert," he gestured towards the two ovoids. "But it's good because we get plenty of picnic eggs. And here we will have to stay until the breeding is over." The man's eyes lit up.

"But I am not alone. Come with me: I want to introduce you to someone."

He got up, went to the tent and unzipped it. Before entering, she gestured to the Traveller to come closer. The Traveller obeyed.

Inside the tent, someone was sleeping in a camping bag. The man shook them gently.

"Wake up, wake up. We have a visitor."

The bag shook and stirred. From between the folds of satin fabric emerged a small hand, and then the sleepy face of a golden-brown eyed child.

The Traveller felt her heart stop between beats. A faint moan escaped her lips.

The buck-toothed girl sat up, blinked and tried to focus her gaze. When she saw The Traveller, her face glowed with joy.

"Mommy!" She cried out. She turned to the man. "Papa, Mommy is here!"

The Traveller dared not speak, nor move, as if fearing that the slightest gesture would break the spell and make her daughter's, their daughter's image disappear.

"Una is so happy to see you," said the man in a very low voice. "What you think happened is just a dream, a nightmare. Our separation happened in another world, on another Earth. Not this one. In this one, we're together."

"Where were you, Mommy?" The girl got out of her sleeping bag and approached the Traveller. I've missed you so much...."

And the girl's hand caressed her mother's cheek.

At that moment, the Traveller whispered: "Una", and embraced the small body of her daughter, holding her tightly.

And tears welled up in her eyes, like a rushing stream of relief that swept away what seemed like centuries of pain, eons of sadness.

And there, clinging to the body of her daughter, coveted by the adoring gaze of the man, the Traveller found home at last.

***

In the center of Agartha there was an immense palace of iron and crystal. It was so large that it sometimes snowed inside.

In the center of the palace floated the recumbent figure of a man. It was the Sleeping Man.

Amid the snowflakes that levitated around him, he turned his head slightly.

Softly, slowly, the Sleeping Man's lips curved into a smile. He was dreaming.

And his dreams were good.