In the annals of the ancient world, where the boundaries between the mundane and the mystical were as thin as a silk veil, there existed a remote and prosperous kingdom. In the heart of its capital lived a merchant whose wealth was the stuff of legends. His warehouses overflowed with saffron and silk, his lands stretched beyond the horizon, and his servants were as numerous as the stars. He was a man of gravity and wisdom, yet he harbored a single, profound weakness: his adoration for his only son.
When the merchant’s time finally came to depart this fleeting world, he left behind a fortune that could have sustained a dynasty for generations. The son, however, was a youth possessed by the fire of vanity and the blindness of unearned privilege. He did not see gold as a tool for trade or a shield against misfortune; he saw it as a boundless ocean in which to drown his boredom.
The decline was swift and spectacular. Day and night, the mansion echoed with the laughter of sycophants and the clinking of crystal. He threw banquets where the wine flowed like the great rivers and gifted handfuls of rubies to performers for a single song. Within a few short years, the gold vanished. Then went the lands, the cattle, and the loyal servants. Finally, the great mansion itself was sold to pay off the debts of his debauchery.
The young man, once the envy of the city, found himself a pariah. He walked the streets in rags, his stomach a hollow pit of fire, his hands—once soft and perfumed—now trembling with the chill of poverty. He was forced to join the ranks of the day laborers, sitting in the dust by the city walls, hoping for a pittance of bread in exchange for backbreaking toil.
The Encounter with the Elegant Stranger
Years passed in this miserable rhythm. One afternoon, while the sun beat down mercilessly, the young man sat under the flickering shade of a crumbling wall. His eyes were downcast, tracing patterns in the dirt, when a pair of polished leather boots appeared in his field of vision.
He looked up to see an elderly man of extraordinary presence. The stranger wore robes of the finest linen, white as fallen snow, and a turban wound with precision. His face was etched with the lines of age, but his eyes held a piercing, sorrowful intelligence.
"Peace be upon you, young master," the Sheikh said, his voice like the resonance of a distant bell.
The young man, startled by the respectful address, stood up and bowed. "And upon you, sir. Have we met before? You speak to me as if I were still a man of standing."
The Sheikh smiled sadly. "I have never seen your face until this moment, but I see the traces of grace upon your brow. Even in these rags, the nobility of your lineage shines through the dust. Destiny has dealt you a harsh hand, has it not?"
"It has indeed," the young man replied with a heavy sigh. "I am a man who owned the sun and traded it for a candle that has now gone out. Do you have work for me, noble sir? I seek only to earn my bread honestly."
The Sheikh nodded slowly. "I have a proposal. I live with nine other elders in a secluded palace on the outskirts of the city. We are men of years and require someone of strength and discretion to attend to our needs. You shall have the finest food, garments of silk, a private chamber, and a wage that will make your former wealth seem like a pittance. But there is a condition."
The young man’s heart leaped. "I would accept any condition to escape this wretchedness! Speak it, and it shall be done."
The Sheikh’s expression turned grave. "You must never, under any circumstances, ask us about the source of our sorrow. You will see us weep; you will hear us wail in the dark of night. You must remain silent. You must never seek the secret of our grief, no matter how much curiosity gnaws at your soul. Do you swear?"
"I swear by the Heavens," the young man declared, thinking the old man’s request was merely the eccentricity of the aged.
The Palace of Perpetual Mourning
The Sheikh led the young man to a carpenter’s shop first. He purchased a heavy, intricately carved wooden door and commanded the youth to carry it. They walked for hours until they reached a high-walled estate. When the gates opened, the young man gasped.
The interior was a paradise. A vast courtyard featured a fountain of white marble that sang with the rhythm of falling water. Rooms lined the perimeter, their ceilings inlaid with gold and lapis lazuli. The air smelled of jasmine and expensive oud.
As they entered the main hall, the young man saw the other nine Shiekhs. They were dressed in identical white robes, sitting upon silken divans. Before them stood a table laden with roasted meats, exotic fruits, and honeyed cakes. Yet, despite this opulence, their faces were masks of agony. Tears streamed down their white beards.
"Sa’ya Faj! Sa’ya Faj! Sa’ya Faj!" they chanted in unison—a cryptic, mournful cry that chilled the young man to the bone.
The Sheikh who had hired him pointed to a blank wall in a secluded corner of the palace. "Fix the door here," he commanded. "Secure it with iron bolts and let it never be moved."
The young man was baffled. The wall was solid stone; the door led nowhere. It was a portal to a brick wall. Yet, remembering his oath, he labored in silence. Once the task was finished, the Sheikh handed him a heavy chest of gold dinars.
"Use this for our needs and yours. Be just, be honest, and remember your silence."
For years, the young man lived in this strange sanctuary. He was the steward of ghosts. He bought the finest supplies, managed the estate, and lived in luxury. Yet every night, the palace echoed with the "Sa’ya Faj" cries and the sound of ten old men weeping for a loss he could not comprehend.
One by one, the years took the elders. Each time a Sheikh felt his end approaching, his weeping intensified. When they died, the survivors would wash the body, wrap it in silk, and bury it in the palace garden without a word of explanation. Eventually, only the original Sheikh remained.
The Final Warning
Twelve years had passed since the young man first carried that useless door. He was no longer a youth, but a man in his prime, his curiosity now a raging fire. One evening, as the last Sheikh lay on his deathbed, the man approached him.
"Master," he whispered, "I have served you faithfully for twelve years. I have been your shadow and your hands. You are departing this world. I beg of you, extinguish the fire in my chest. Why have you spent your lives in such misery amidst such wealth? What is the secret?"
The dying Sheikh gripped the man’s hand with surprising strength. "My son, I loved you as a father loves a child. That is why I warn you: do not seek what we sought. Our grief is the price of a joy that cannot be regained. The secret lies behind that door—the very door you installed. If you wish to remain in peace, never touch its latch. If you open it, you will know the reason for our tears, but you will also inherit our doom. You will regret it, even if the regret comes after a lifetime of bliss."
With those words, the Sheikh breathed his last. The man was now the sole master of the palace and its immense riches. Visit WWW.JANATNA.COM for more legendary tales of wisdom and mystery.
The Journey Through the Void
For three days, the man fought himself. He walked the halls of the empty palace, the silence louder than the weeping had ever been. On the third night, he could endure it no longer. "Whatever destiny has written for me must come to pass," he muttered.
He took a sledgehammer and broke the bolts he had installed twelve years prior. As the door swung open, he expected to see the cold stone of the wall. Instead, the bricks began to crumble and dissolve like mist, revealing a dark, narrow tunnel that smelled of ancient earth and ozone.
Armed with a lamp and a sack of provisions, he entered. He crawled and walked for a full day through the lightless passage until he emerged into a world that defied logic. He stood on the shore of a river where the pebbles were raw emeralds and the sands were grains of gold.
A small mud hut stood nearby. An old woman in black garments stepped out. Her eyes seemed to see through time itself. "I have been waiting for you," she said. "You seek the source of the 'Sa’ya Faj'?"
"I do," the man replied, trembling.
"Follow the mountain path until you reach a narrow cleft in the rock," she instructed. "When you stand before it, say the words: Sa’ya Faj, wa-itas’a (O Narrow Path, Expand). Only then can you pass."
The man followed her directions. At the mountain, he spoke the incantation. The solid rock groaned and parted like a heavy curtain. He stepped through, and the mountain sealed shut behind him.
The Kingdom of Queens
He emerged into a valley of such breathtaking beauty that he fell to his knees. Ten maidens, beautiful as the rising moon, approached him. They bathed him in scented oils, dressed him in robes of woven sunlight, and placed a crown of diamonds upon his head.
"Welcome, King," they whispered.
They carried him on a golden litter to a vast meadow where a literal sea of soldiers waited. To his shock, every soldier, every captain, and every guard was a woman of stunning beauty and fierce grace. At the center of the host was a figure on a white stallion.
The King (who was actually a Queen) approached. When she removed her silk veil, the man felt his breath leave his body. She was the personification of every dream he had ever had.
"I am the Queen of this land," she said. "In this realm, women rule, protect, and judge. Men are our beloved companions, our builders, and our farmers. I have watched your journey. If you wish, I shall be your wife, and all that you see—this army, these treasures, this kingdom—shall be yours."
The man, overwhelmed, could only bow. "I am but a servant compared to your majesty."
"There is but one condition," she said, her voice turning serious as she pointed to a small, silver-bound door in the throne room. "You may rule all, but you must never open that door. That is the boundary of our world."
The Seven Years of Bliss
For seven years, the man lived in a state of ecstasy. He forgot the palace of the weeping elders. He forgot his life of poverty. He was a King, loved by a celestial Queen, ruling a land of eternal spring.
But as the seventh year drew to a close, the old demon of curiosity returned. He began to look at the silver door. "The Sheikh warned me about a door, and it led me to this paradise," he reasoned. "Surely, this door leads to something even more magnificent. Perhaps it is the path to the divine itself."
One afternoon, while the Queen was reviewing her troops, he turned the silver key.
Instantly, a howling wind erupted from the room—not a wind of air, but a vacuum of fate. It seized him, lifting him from the ground. He screamed for his Queen, but his voice was swallowed by the roar. He was flung through a vortex of shadows and light until he hit the hard, dusty earth.
The Return to Dust
He woke up in front of the old woman’s mud hut. The river of emeralds was gone. The mountains were barren. He rushed to the hut and pounded on the door, but it was empty and rotting.
"Sa’ya Faj! Sa’ya Faj!" he screamed at the mountain, but the rocks remained silent.
A voice, cold and disembodied, echoed through the valley. It was the voice of the old woman in black. "Cease your wailing. The decree of fate is final. You were given paradise, and you traded it for a moment of curiosity. You are now the eleventh. Return to your palace of stone and wait for the end."
The man returned to the city, to the palace of the ten Sheikhs. He was broken, his soul shattered. He hired a new servant, a young man from the streets, and commanded him to wall up the tunnel forever.
He spent the remainder of his days sitting on a silken divan in a room filled with gold he no longer valued. He wore white robes and wept until his eyes grew dim. Whenever the young servant entered the room, he would see his master rocking back and forth, staring at a door that led to nowhere, chanting the words that had haunted him for a lifetime:
"Sa’ya Faj... Sa’ya Faj... Sa’ya Faj..."
He finally understood the tears of the elders. They were not mourning a loss of wealth, but the loss of a soul-mate and a kingdom they had reached—and then thrown away.
Keywords
Ancient Tale, Mystery, Forbidden Door, Greed and Regret, Queen of the Hidden Realm, Lost Paradise, The Ten Weeping Sheikhs, Sa'ya Faj, Arabic Folklore, Moral Story, Destiny and Fate, Wealth to Poverty, The Cost of Curiosity, Supernatural Journey, Golden Dinar.
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