* * *
The weaver fell in love with a girl. It is not important what the girl looked like or what her qualities were, nor is it important how the whole thing happened; it is important that this love refined the weaver, and several manifestations of this feeling appeared in him. First of all, he was less attentive to the weaving, so errors showed up in the haiks. This in turn brought admonishing looks from the family, especially from his father. But if love is blind, then it is blind to reproaches from the surroundings. Second, and to a certain extent a cause of these errors, the weaver more often saw the image of the girl in the haik he was weaving at a given moment, and that image was their only medium of communication. The eyes of the girl were in that image, but the soul within them constantly eluded the weaver’s gaze. So, he looked into part of her body, yearning for her entire soul. Some say that yearning is one of the things that propels us forward. The weaver worked patiently, but even more mechanically, and he looked into the eyes of the girl before him. He went to the river, but it seemed that the river no longer frightened him. He felt as though he stood before a large, calm lake. He went into the river, and nothing happened, nothing changed. He feared that he had lost the stories, but as soon as he began to recite them to himself he understood that everything was here, and the idea was clearer to him than ever. He thought that now, finally, he could weave a haik from words, but confusion tossed that idea into the current of the river.
He wove patiently, or rather fell into a kind of lethargy, and even stopped considering the sanctity of the creation. He looked into those eyes. When he finally succeeded in discerning the first glow in them, something changed. It was as though he had needed stimulus from some other place. As though alone he was incapable of producing the magic. It alarmed him. He no longer wished to be confronted by such doubt. Some say that Doubt is a signpost toward Truth. He wanted to know that everything he had made was his creation. This confused him. Something compelled him to sit and get on with the work as he should, but at that moment he understood that he might be dependent on some other person. The thought raged within him, and it seemed to him that he was being torn to pieces from many directions. Nevertheless, he sat down and began to work. Perhaps he felt some kind of obligation to the creation. Stories poured out of it, but he could not keep up with the torrent. Events intermingled in the haik of words, and it seemed that everything was scrambled together. Complete sentences did not form, and it was clear to the weaver that no one would succeed in reading his stories this way. Still, something did not let him weave in a more deliberate way. It seemed to him the sooner he finished the haik, the sooner he would greet the girl. That thought, of course, was not very logical; the lover casts aside logic as if it is something occasionally attractive but always completely useless. He began to believe utterly that he would see her after the completion of the weaving, so much so that her eyes never left his sight. Sometimes he thought that he was hearing her singing, and it so strongly burned in his bowels that he had to try to escape from it all. Of course, that did not work. Nothing worked for him. Her songs began to call out from the deepest corners of the night, and his sleep became interrupted and bad. He dreamt that he planted flowers for her, but it was as though somebody kept stealing the buds of every blossom, and he had to start over and over again, in a perfectly endless circle. There was no way he could pick one of the flowers, no way to present one to her. When he opened his eyes, dawn would be arriving from the river, and he would sit down to work. He rushed toward the end, with a feeling that he was on a two-humped camel galloping through a hellish desert. He rushed almost blindly, occasionally thinking that in his haste he had not noticed some oasis, but he consoled himself that he would see the next one. However, he went on seeing nothing but fine golden sand and the bright sun. That which came out from under his fingers was very different: it contained all colors, and all the colors fit together in perfect harmony. The words were jumbled together, and the stories in the haik became completely incomprehensible, but the colors were part and parcel of the divine. The haik was ready and it was magical. He assumed that one who might want to read his creation would require a special key, and for a long time he considered how he might provide one. That which made this haik different from all others was exactly that key: the weaver decided that the haik would be for dancing.
* * *
Lake Haik was agitated, and to Jasus Moa it seemed to dance before his eyes. He was pleased about what he had accomplished. Very pleased. Things in Lasta had developed just as he desired, and now they had a new king. Now he could calmly go about doing as he had planned. To build a city according to his own liking, upon a religion that he believed everyone should profess. The old king had not possessed it. To him it had been important to build stone churches, and the blinded people even named the place after him. Lallibela, damn it! Such an ugly name.
* * *
What had compelled him to start is still cause for wonder. They were nomads, and the idea of building something was hardly logical. But he had begun and did not let up, as long as he continued thinking it was still not enough. Only she knew why. His wife knew. The church had forced her into that marriage. The church tore her away from her family and town, so she would be that nomad’s wife. He, in fact, had to build in repayment, and his stupid citizens believed that he had become pious overnight and had begun to worship Christ. He built all kinds of monuments to Him, from churches to ordinary wayside crosses. The people separated stones from the earth, chiseled them so they would fit together better, and they raised themselves toward heaven, propped up on those stones. They said that work is easier when the purpose is known in advance. He, Lallibela the Nomad from the line of Zagve, convinced them that it would be better this way: God would have mercy on them and grant them many more pleasant days, so they could travel much farther and much faster. In every direction an oasis would welcome them, with rich fruits, and the sky would be calm when they slept under it. Surely, not all believed, but the infidels vanished so quickly into the foundations of the new buildings that, in general, they are not worth mentioning.
* * *
I left Debre Damo in order to become a better man. I left that town in order to carry the message among the people, so they would see. I was glad when they told me that he had begun to build, and anyone in my position would leave there.
He welcomed me graciously when I arrived, and he let me begin teaching and spreading His message. I gathered people around me, and we all trusted in what the Nomad had envisioned. We encouraged the people in the building, telling them what was required and that it should be worthy of The Merciful One. I was the one who ordered that infidels be walled up in the foundations. I thought there was no greater sacrifice than one’s life. I had to maintain the faith among the people. I had it within myself, and passed it along to all. The Nomad gave me complete support. Oh, when I think of how naive I was!
* * *
They are telling me about wild hordes that will be tempted by my buildings. Their power is as wild as they are, their faith different from that of those who gave me a woman and peace for my people, and their music is devilishly licentious. Like my woman in her thoughts.
Perhaps we will need to move from Bunja.
* * *
He knows my thoughts. He found out somehow. Maybe that horrible monk saw something in my eyes. I will have to find a way to be free of him. It will be a grave sin if the monk is a prophet… No! No one must know my thoughts.
* * *
I see her in the morning, when she greets the day. She is in my prayers, but the Great Jasus told me that it is a sin to fall in love with someone else’s wife. He threatens to banish me from Bunja if I don’t tame my thoughts. I should not have told him. Now he says he has a mission for me. He will appoint me permanent escort of the King.
That’s not what I need. I need to look at her when the King is not around. I should not have told him.
* * *
He said that to me so plainly, as though it was about something very ordinary. Then I realized that he lacked true faith. I was angry, but I kept quiet and contained myself. We left to relocate. Tekle Hajman was like one stunned that day. That morning he saw her and she glanced toward him, and the smile she directed at him still glowed in his eyes. I assumed a clever pose when I ordered that they follow him. I realized that I would have to get rid of him. We departed to resettle, and all the great buildings dedicated to Him were left abandoned. I realized that he lacked true faith.