Join us at the campfire for tales from around the world, told by storytellers of all backgrounds and creeds. From the heros and heroines of old, let us relearn and rediscover the wisdom of our ancestors. Shhh..the story begins..

There was once a young chieftain powerful enough to be called "Sultan." His was a wealthy tribe, rich in camels, goats, slaves, and the glossy-coated horses that were the Arabs' pride. The Sultan's fortress, high above the desert known as Rub'al Khali ...or "Empty Quarter," was resplendent with exquisite rugs, vessels crafted of fine silver, and coffers made of ivory and bronze.

The Sultan was a skilled warrior, wise in the ways of the world around him. He could tell time by the position of the sun and determine direction by observing the patterns of stars as they wheeled in the clear night skies.

A practical man, the Sultan had little patience with tales of fancy. He therefore permitted himself a loud chuckle one day when a pious elder of his tribe made reference to the legend of the Prophet Muhammad who, it was said, rode through all the seven heavens on the back of al-Buraq...a wondrous beast which possessed the head of a woman, the body of a mule and the tail of a peacock...to stand at last before the throne of God. The journey, according to the fable, lasted no longer than the tenth part of a night.

Silence fell when the Sultan laughed. This was blasphemy. But the old sage who had spoken remained unperturbed.

"Lord," he said, "would you like to see how swiftly a mortal man might travel?"

Diverted, the chieftain nodded his assent. The elder rose from the rug where he had been sitting, poured water into a golden bowl, and then murmured over it. Smiling, he offered the bowl to his chief.

The Sultan stared down into the water and saw nothing but the shimmer of the gold in which it was contained. He bent closer. Shapes took form within the gilded depths, and a miniature city began to materialize in the liquid. Not a stronghold like his own massive aerie, but a sunny, whitewashed town graced with high domes and slender towers, fringed by green palms, and lapped by a gentle sea. Entranced, the Sultan bent closer still until his face touched the cool water.

At that instant, it seized him. Down he went into the water, his ears filled with roaring and darkness covering his eyes. As though in a dream, he struggled slowly, pushing against the rolling swells. He gasped and recognized the taste of salt on his tongue.

As quickly as he had been captured, he was suddenly set free. His head broke the surface, and his feet found firm footing once more. Inhaling deeply, he blinked the water from his eyes. He stood chest-deep in the ocean he had seen in the golden bowl, facing a sandy coast fringed with green. Behind it, set against lofty clouds, rose the city with its white walls. The air was warm and very still.

He waded ashore, a stranger in a strange land, but someone awaited his arrival. In the shadows of the palms, a young woman stood. She was pale and beautiful with dark eyes. She regarded him gravely for several moments and then smiled.

"You are the man from the sea," she said. "It was foretold that this day you would come to me to be my husband. I am the daughter of the goldsmith." She extended her hand and, at her touch, all memories of his own life faded until they were no more than pallid images...only fleeting glimpses of a childhood lived long ago.

The goldsmith's daughter led him into a seaboard town, not unlike those that bordered the domain in his own world. Dusty date palms lined its dirty streets and behind the palms were erected high, blank walls...silent facades masking the busy lives within.

"What country is this, lady?" inquired the Sultan, who was a sultan no longer.

"Why," she replied, "this is the Country."

"Has it no name?" he questioned.

She shook her head. "It needs no name."

"Who foretold that I would rise from the sea today?" he asked, consumed with curiosity.

"My mother," she answered, with a glance of surprise. "Our husbands always come from the sea and return to the sea when they die. Our mothers tell us the day."

The Sultan thought of men he had known...men who had disappeared without warning or explanation. He said nothing. There seemed to be nothing to say.

The goldsmith's daughter paused by a high wooden gate and rang a bell. At once, the gate swung open into the courtyard of the goldsmith's house. Here, all was cool, lush, and shady. A fountain bubbled in the center of the tiled court and at the fountain's edge stood the goldsmith...a tall man robed in fine white linen. He greeted the Sultan with equanimity. Indeed, his words had the ring of ritual.

"Welcome, my son from the sea," he said.

Thus was the Arabian ruler received into a family in a world that was alien to him. A fatalist, he accepted his lot which, in all truth, was not a hard one. The daughter of the goldsmith was exceedingly beautiful, and she was blessed with a gentle nature. As for the goldsmith himself, he was a wealthy man, and the quarters he had built for his daughter and his future son-in-law were bright, airy rooms which opened onto the tranquil courtyard.

The Sultan married the goldsmith's daughter, according to the custom of the realm, and he took up his father-in-law's craft. The crucible, anvil, and graver of the goldsmith replaced the spear and sword of the Sultan's youth.

He was happy in that place. After a year, his wife bore him a daughter, as dark-eyed as her mother. By the time the child was walking, another had been born. His wife bore a third child a year later, but this child died, and the difficulties of birth killed the goldsmith's daughter.

After the burial ceremonies were completed and the wails of mourning had stilled, late in the afternoon when his daughters was quiet in the care of their nurses, the young widower stood alone in the courtyard, spent with sorrow and numb with grief. A step sounded on the tiles. He raised his eyes to meet the gaze of his father-in-law.

"The gate stands open, son of the sea," the goldsmith told him.

The younger man understood that, by the custom, he must now seek his own death. He nodded dully and then walked out of the gate and into the dusty streets of the town. Nobody appeared. No voice called to bid him farewell. Through the bordering palms he walked, across the hot sand. Without hesitation, he waded into the welcoming waters, which tugged at his robes, drawing him onward until the waves closed over his head. He raised his face to catch the last of the light.

When he did so, he saw not watery shafts, but the stone walls of the fortress chamber of his youth, exactly as he had left them years before. Even the patches of amber sun upon the floor were the same. In his hands, he held a golden bowl. Across its rim, the dim eyes of the tribe elder met his own.

"Have you journeyed long, lord?" the old man asked.

"For many years," replied the Sultan wonderingly.

The savant shook his head. "For seconds only," he said. "Merely the space between one breath and the next. As the Prophet knew, there are places where time marches to a different rhythm from that made by the rising and setting of our sun."

What country he had entered through the water in the golden bowl, the Sultan could not say. He never found it again, nor did he ever learn the fate of the children he had fathered. All he knew from his adventure was that another world besides his own existed. A world whose patterns and rules were different and where he had been allowed no more than the briefest sojourn. He had returned only with memories...and a yearning which remained with him for the rest of his life.

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