The Choosing E-Book

alastair macleod

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

"the sun was fierce outside but a gentle breeze lazily teased the filmy curtains. Hypnotically they moved to and fro. She dozed and slipped into a dream. She was standing in the corner of the courtyard, looking at a large terracotta olive oil jar. It had a voluptuous shape; moving from its narrow foot, curving gently up, and out, then round the big oval belly to the wide mouth. She looked in - it was empty except for a few stray leaves and stones - somehow she felt compelled, and, with a struggle she reached in and took them out. There, it was ready, ready to be filled. She awoke with a start - the dream had been vivid."

Leseprobe

Alastair Macleod

The Choosing

To the Wisdom of the SufisBookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Istifa

(The Choosing)

“The Choosing is the emptying of the heart of all the things other than the search for completion. This takes the form of a visualisation that the body is empty and that all thoughts have left it for a moment, during which time true thoughts flood in “

HUJIWIRI, a Sufi Sage

As she lay by the side of the road she could taste the sand in her mouth, yet she was aware of the faint perfume of a flowering bush somewhere out there in the desert.

Cars continued to whoosh by; so close to her body that she could feel the hot dry wind as they passed. She wanted, needed, to move away from their path.

It was one of them that had struck her - hitting her backpack, spinning her round and down by the side of the main road to El Kebir. She felt angry at the car, at herself. Some of her friends had been right - this was a dangerous thing to do, hitchhike in this country - a girl dressed in European clothes commanded no respect when alone.

Had they aimed the car at her? She saw clearly in her mind the youths in the white Mercedes.

She heard a car stop, the doors slam and feet stepping quickly towards her - voices in Arabic, a face leaning over her, a young face, then another  - she could not find words.

“Mademoiselle how are you? Where does it hurt?”

They lifted the pack gently off her and then hands bore her into a car.

She remembered later the red seats and the smell of leather; she felt  herself drifting off, off into a deep blackness.

When she awoke it was to the sounds of birds chirping. She saw a ceiling above her, of latticed palm fronds, dappled with yellow shafts from a pierced screen window. Someone moved next to her bed. A woman dressed in a blue gandora spoke to her in Arabic, the tone suggesting she was relieved to see her awake.

A young man knocked and entered.

“I am Hasan. Be pleased to accept our hospitality. I ask your forgiveness.” She asked,

“For what?”

“I was driving the car that hit you. An oncoming car was approaching so close I had to pull over to my side of the road; too late, I saw you, and clipped your backpack. I turned round and drove back as soon as I could.

This is my mother’s house. A doctor is coming soon.”

Studying Hasan’s open countenance, Helena was aware of his gentle brown eyes, his strong beard-darkened jaw line and his full dark hair.

A small shiver of excitement ran through her body, but then he was gone. Hasan had said something about a doctor.

Did she need a doctor? She felt her bandaged head, tried to move her legs. They seemed O.K. Mostly she seemed tired, weak, helpless; too helpless to protest, to demand, to insist as she usually might have done.

This was obviously the house of people who were poor, she thought. The walls were bare red mud. Apart from the bed there was no furniture. Yet the room seemed clean.