A colourful compendium of tales, drawn from written and oral sources, which illustrate the instructional methods employed by Eastern wise men for thousands of years.
The Magic Monastery is a collection of entertaining teaching stories taken from the Sufi mystical tradition. The book differs from its predecessors in that it contains not only legends and fables, but also stories specially written by Shah to complete the book as a ‘course in non-linear thinking’.
The work, whose subtitle is ‘Analogical and Action Philosophy of the Middle East and Central Asia’, Shah tells us, ‘consists of a representative cross-section of Sufi teaching which constitutes a harmonised whole rather than a selection of typical extracts.’
As with all of his books, The Magic Monastery is rich in thought-provoking material, and can be read and enjoyed at many levels.
‘…an enormous amount of common sense.’
Worcester Evening News
‘You won't be quite the same person when you have read this book.’
Kingston Borough News
‘…remarkable for its precise response to the real and inner needs of the time.’
The Observer Review, Book of the Year
‘…offers much in the way of contemplation and hope, a respite from the ills of modern society.’
Huddersfield Daily Examiner
‘…the manner in which Sufi practice, with its devastating criticism of purely academic learning and its continuing Socratic search for truth at any cost, exercises a powerful appeal to many thoughtful people in the West.’
Journal of Asian Affairs
‘The Sufis transmit knowledge through direct intuition rather in the manner of the Zen masters, and one of the chief means of doing this is by means of brief stories and parables which work their way into the subconscious and activate its hidden forces.’
The Magic Monastery
The Self-Congratulating Fruit
Greed, Obligement and Impossibility
Cat and Rabbit
An Answer of Humanyun Adil
The Son of a Beggar
A Sufi of Pamiristan
Eating and Wonderment
Where it Starts
Night and Morning
Man and Animal
The Oatland Story
Zaky and the Dove
The Mirror, the Cup and the Goldsmith
The Sun and the Lamps
The Imbecile Teacher
The Fish and the Water
Six Lives in One
The Tristomachic Survival
Please Do This
The Slave Sufi
The Botanists: Land without Medicine
In Due Season
The Young Sufi
The Magical Book
Stop Og Now...
The Man and the Snail
The Letter of Thanks
Cheese for Choice
City of Storms
What to Shun
Cheetahs and Awarts
The Right Man
The Wisest Tiger
The Wrong Department
How Can It Mean Anything?
The Boy and the Wolf
Legend of the Nightingale
The Greatest Vanity
A House to which the Key Is Lost
Hali in Converse with an Inquirer
What Has to Be
Generous and Humble
Books and Sages
Two Scholars and a Sufi
Three Possible Reasons
At the Crossroads
Camels and Bridges
How to Become a Thief
A Thousandth Part
The Aim of the Nightingale
An Obscure Scholar
The Outward and the Inward
The Magic Horse
This tale is of great importance because it belongs to an instructional corpus of mystical materials with inner content but – beyond entertainment value – without immediate external significance.
The teaching-story was brought to perfection as a communication instrument many thousands of years ago. The fact that it has not developed greatly since then has caused people obsessed by some theories of our current civilisations to regard it as the product of a less enlightened time. They feel that it must surely be little more than a literary curiosity, something fit for children, the projection, perhaps, of infantile desires, a means of enacting a wish-fulfilment.
Hardly anything could be further from the truth than such pseudo-philosophical, certainly unscientific, imaginings. Many teaching-stories are entertaining to children and to naive peasants. Many of them in the forms in which they are viewed by conditioned theorists have been so processed by unregenerate amateurs that their effective content is distorted. Some apply only to certain communities, depending upon special circumstances for their correct unfolding: circumstances whose absence effectively prevents the action of which they are capable.
So little is known to the academics, the scholars and the intellectuals of this world about these materials, that there is no word in modern languages which has been set aside to describe them. But the teaching-story exists, nevertheless. It is a part of the most priceless heritage of mankind.
Real teaching-stories are not to be confused with parables; which are adequate enough in their intention, but still on a lower level of material, generally confined to the inculcation of moralistic principles, not the assistance of interior movement of the human mind. What we often take on the lower level of parable, however, can sometimes be seen by real specialists as teaching-stories; especially when experienced under the correct conditions.
Unlike the parable, the meaning of the teaching-story cannot be unravelled by ordinary intellectual methods alone. Its action is direct and certain, upon the innermost part of the human being, an action incapable of manifestation by means of the emotional or intellectual apparatus.
The closest that we can come to describing its effect is to say that it connects with a part of the individual which cannot be reached by any other convention, and that it establishes in him or in her a means of communication with a non-verbalised truth beyond the customary limitations of our familiar dimensions.
Some teaching-stories cannot now be reclaimed because of the literary and traditionalistic, even ideological, processing to which they have been subjected. The worst of such processes is the historicising one, where a community comes to believe that one of their former teaching-stories represents literal historical truth.
This tale is given here in a form which is innocent of this and other kinds of maltreatment.
Once upon a time – not so very long ago – there was a realm in which the people were exceedingly prosperous. All kinds of discoveries had been made by them, in the growing of plants, in harvesting and preserving fruits, and in making objects for sale to other countries; and in many other practical arts.
Their ruler was unusually enlightened, and he encouraged new discoveries and activities, because he knew of their advantages for his people.
He had a son named Hoshyar, who was expert in using strange contrivances, and another – called Tambal – a dreamer, who seemed interested only in things which were of little value in the eyes of the citizens.
From time to time the king, who was named King Mumkin, circulated announcements to this effect:
'Let all those who have notable devices and useful artefacts present them to the palace for examination, so that they may be appropriately rewarded.'
Now there were two men of that country – an ironsmith and a woodworker – who were great rivals in most things, and each delighted in making strange contraptions. When they heard this announcement one day, they agreed to compete for an award, so that their relative merits could be decided once and for all, by their sovereign, and publicly recognised.
Accordingly, the smith worked day and night on a mighty engine, employing a multitude of talented specialists, and surrounding his workshop with high walls so that his devices and methods should not become known.
At the same time the woodworker took his simple tools and went into a forest where, after long and solitary reflection, he prepared his own masterpiece.
News of the rivalry spread, and people thought that the smith must easily win, for his cunning works had been seen before, and while the woodworker’s products were generally admired, they were only of occasional and undramatic use. When both were ready, the king received them in open court.
The smith produced an immense metallic fish which could, he said, swim in and under the water. It could carry large quantities of freight over the land. It could burrow into the earth; and it could even fly slowly through the air. At first the court found it hard to believe that there could be such a wonder made by man: but when the smith and his assistants demonstrated it, the king was overjoyed and declared the smith among the most honoured in the land, with a special rank and the title of 'Benefactor of the Community'.
Prince Hoshyar was placed in charge of the making of the wondrous fishes, and the services of this new device became available to all mankind.
Everyone blessed the smith and Hoshyar, as well as the benign and sagacious monarch whom they loved so much.
In the excitement, the self-effacing carpenter had been all but forgotten. Then, one day, someone said: 'But what about the contest? Where is the entry of the woodworker? We all know him to be an ingenious man. Perhaps he has produced something useful.'
'How could anything possibly be as useful as the Wondrous Fishes?' asked Hoshyar. And many of the courtiers and the people agreed with him.
But one day the king was bored. He had become accustomed to the novelty of the fishes and the reports of the wonders which they so regularly performed. He said: 'Call the woodcarver, for I would now like to see what he has made.'
The simple woodcarver came into the throne-room, carrying a parcel, wrapped in coarse cloth. As the whole court craned forward to see what he had, he took off the covering to reveal – a wooden horse. It was well enough carved, and it had some intricate patterning chiselled into it, as well as being decorated with coloured paints but it was only... 'A mere plaything!' snapped the king.
'But, Father,' said Prince Tambal, 'let us ask the man what it is for...'
'Very well,' said the king, 'what is it for?'
'Your majesty,' stammered the woodcarver, 'it is a magic horse. It does not look impressive, but it has, as it were, its own inner senses. Unlike the fish, which has to be directed, this horse can interpret the desires of the rider, and carry him wherever he needs to go.'
'Such a stupidity is fit only for Tambal,' murmured the chief minister at the king's elbow; 'it cannot have any real advantage when measured against the wondrous fish.'
The woodcarver was preparing sadly to depart when Tambal said: 'Father, let me have the wooden horse.'
'All right,' said the king, 'give it to him. Take the woodcarver away and tie him on a tree somewhere, so that he will realise that our time is valuable. Let him contemplate the prosperity which the wondrous fish has brought us, and perhaps after some time we shall let him go free, to practise whatever he may have learned of real industriousness, through true reflection.'
The woodcarver was taken away, and Prince Tambal left the court carrying the magic horse.
Tambal took the horse to his quarters, where he discovered that it had several knobs, cunningly concealed in the carved designs. When these were turned in a certain manner, the horse – together with anyone mounted on it – rose into the air and sped to whatever place was in the mind of the person who moved the knobs.
In this way, day after day, Tambal flew to places which he had never visited before. By this process he came to know a great many things. He took the horse everywhere with him. One day he met Hoshyar, who said to him: 'Carrying a wooden horse is a fit occupation for such as you. As for me, I am working for the good of all, towards my heart’s desire!'
Tambal thought: 'I wish I knew what was the good of all. And I wish I could know what my heart’s desire is.'
When he was next in his room, he sat upon the horse and thought: 'I would like to find my heart’s desire.' At the same time he moved some of the knobs on the horse’s neck. Swifter than light the horse rose into the air and carried the prince a thousand days' ordinary journey away, to a far kingdom, ruled by a magician-king.
The king, whose name was Kahana, had a beautiful daughter called Precious Pearl, Durri-Karima. In order to protect her, he had imprisoned her in a circling palace, which wheeled in the sky, higher than any mortal could reach. As he was approaching the magic land, Tambal saw the glittering palace in the heavens, and alighted there.
The princess and the young horseman met and fell in love.
'My father will never allow us to marry, she said; 'for he had ordained that I become the wife of the son of another magician-king who lives across the cold desert to the east of our homeland. He has vowed that when I am old enough I shall cement the unity of the two kingdoms by this marriage. His will has never been successfully opposed.'
'I will go and try to reason with him,' answered Tambal, as he mounted the magic horse again.
But when he descended into the magic land there were so many new and exciting things to see that he did not hurry to the palace. When at length he approached it, the drum at the gate, indicating the absence of the king, was already beating.
'He has gone to visit his daughter in the Whirling Palace,' said a passer-by when Tambal asked him when the king might be back; 'and he usually spends several hours at a time with her.'
Tambal went to a quiet place where he willed the horse to carry him to the king’s own apartment. 'I will approach him at his own home,' he thought to himself, 'for if I go to the Whirling Palace without his permission he may be angry.'
He hid behind some curtains in the palace when he got there, and lay down to sleep.
Meanwhile, unable to keep her secret, the princess Precious Pearl had confessed to her father that she had been visited by a man on a flying horse, and that he wanted to marry her. Kahana was furious.
He placed sentries around the Whirling Palace, and returned to his own apartment to think things over. As soon as he entered his bedchamber, one of the tongueless magic servants guarding it pointed to the wooden horse lying in a corner. 'Aha!' exclaimed the magician-king. 'Now I have him. Let us look at this horse and see what manner of thing it may be.'
As he and his servants were examining the horse, the prince managed to slip away and conceal himself in another part of the palace.
After twisting the knobs, tapping the horse and generally trying to understand how it worked, the king was baffled. 'Take that thing away. It has no virtue now, even if it ever had any,' he said. 'It is just a trifle, fit for children.'
The horse was put into a store-cupboard.
Now King Kahana thought that he should make arrangements for his daughter’s wedding without delay, in case the fugitive might have other powers or devices with which to try to win her. So he called her to his own palace and sent a message to the other magician-king, asking that the prince who was to marry her be sent to claim his bride.
Meanwhile Prince Tambal, escaping from the palace by night when some guards were asleep, decided that he must try to return to his own country. His quest for his heart’s desire now seemed almost hopeless. 'If it takes me the rest of my life,' he said to himself, 'I shall come back here, bringing troops to take this kingdom by force. I can only do that by convincing my father that I must have his help to attain my heart’s desire.'
So saying, he set off. Never was a man worse equipped for such a journey. An alien, travelling on foot, without any kind of provisions, facing pitiless heat and freezing nights interspersed with sandstorms, he soon became hopelessly lost in the desert.
Now, in his delirium, Tambal started to blame himself, his father, the magician-king, the woodcarver, even the princess and the magic horse itself. Sometimes he thought he saw water ahead of him, sometimes fair cities, sometimes he felt elated, sometimes incomparably sad. Sometimes he even thought that he had companions in his difficulties, but when he shook himself he saw that he was quite alone.
He seemed to have been travelling for an eternity. Suddenly, when he had given up and started again several times, he saw something directly in front of him. It looked like a mirage: a garden, full of delicious fruits, sparkling and almost, as it were, beckoning him towards them.
Tambal did not at first take much notice of this, but soon, as he walked, he saw that he was indeed passing through such a garden. He gathered some of the fruits and tasted them cautiously. They were delicious. They took away his fear as well as his hunger and thirst. When he was full, he lay down in the shade of a huge and welcoming tree and fell asleep.
When he woke up he felt well enough, but something seemed to be wrong. Running to a nearby pool, he looked at his reflection in the water. Staring up at him was a horrible apparition. It had a long beard, curved horns, ears a foot long. He looked down at his hands. They were covered with fur.
Was it a nightmare? He tried to wake himself, but all the pinching and pummelling had no effect. Now, almost bereft of his senses, beside himself with fear and horror, thrown into transports of screaming, racked with sobs, he threw himself on the ground.
'Whether I live or die,' he thought, 'these accursed fruits have finally ruined me. Even with the greatest army of all time, conquest will not help me. Nobody would marry me now, much less the Princess Precious Pearl. And I cannot imagine the beast who would not be terrified at the sight of me – let alone my heart’s desire!' And he lost consciousness.
When he woke again, it was dark and a light was approaching through the groves of silent trees. Fear and hope struggled in him. As it came closer he saw that the light was from a lamp enclosed in a brilliant starlike shape, and it was carried by a bearded man, who walked in the pool of brightness which it cast around.
The man saw him. 'My son,' he said, 'you have been affected by the influences of this place. If I had not come past, you would have remained just another beast of this enchanted grove, for there are many more like you. But I can help you.'
Tambal wondered whether this man was a fiend in disguise, perhaps the very owner of the evil trees. But, as his sense came back he realised that he had nothing to lose.
'Help me, father,' he said to the sage.
'If you really want your heart’s desire,' said the other man, 'you have only to fix this desire firmly in your mind, not thinking of the fruit. You then have to take up some of the dried fruits, not the fresh, delicious ones, lying at the foot of all these trees, and eat them. Then follow your destiny.'
So saying, he walked away.
While the sage’s light disappeared into the darkness, Tambal saw that the moon was rising, and in its rays he could see that there were indeed piles of dried fruits under every tree.
He gathered some and ate them as quickly as he could.
Slowly, as he watched, the fur disappeared from his hands and arms. The horns first shrank, then vanished. The beard fell away. He was himself again. By now it was first light, and in the dawn he heard the tinkling of camel bells. A procession was coming through the enchanted forest.
It was undoubtedly the cavalcade of some important personage, on a long journey. As Tambal stood there, two outriders detached themselves from the glittering escort and galloped up to him.
'In the name of the Prince, our lord, we demand some of your fruit. His celestial Highness is thirsty and has indicated a desire for some of these strange apricots,' said an officer.
Still Tambal did not move, such was his numbed condition after his recent experiences. Now the Prince himself came down from his palanquin and said:
'I am Jadugarzada, son of the magician-king of the East. Here is a bag of gold, oaf. I am having some of your fruit, because I am desirous of it. I am in a hurry, hastening to claim my bride, Princess Precious Pearl, daughter of Kahana, magician-king of the West.'
At these words Tambal's heart turned over. But, realising that this must be his destiny which the sage had told him to follow, he offered the Prince as much of the fruit as he could eat.
When he had eaten, the Prince began to fall asleep. As he did so, horns, fur and huge ears started to grow out of him. The soldiers shook him, and the Prince began to behave in a strange way. He claimed that he was normal, and that they were deformed.
The councillors who accompanied the party restrained the prince and held a hurried debate. Tambal claimed that all would have been well if the prince had not fallen asleep. Eventually it was decided to put Tambal in the palanquin to play the part of the prince. The horned Jadugarzada was tied to a horse with a veil thrown over his face, disguised as a serving-woman.
'He may recover his wits eventually,' said the councillors, 'and in any case he is still our Prince. Tambal shall marry the girl. Then, as soon as possible, we shall carry them all back to our own country for our king to unravel the problem.'
Tambal, biding his time and following his destiny, agreed to his own part in the masquerade.
When the party arrived at the capital of the West, the king himself came out to meet them. Tambal was taken to the princess as her bridegroom, and she was so astonished that she nearly fainted. But Tambal managed to whisper to her rapidly what had happened, and they were duly married, amid great jubilations.
In the meantime the horned prince had half recovered his wits, but not his human form, and his escort still kept him under cover. As soon as the feasting was over, the chief of the horned prince’s party (who had been keeping Tambal and the princess under a very close watch) presented himself to the court. He said: 'O just and glorious monarch, fountain of wisdom; the time has now come, according to the pronouncements of our astrologers and soothsayers, to conduct the bridal pair back to our own land, so that they may be established in their new home under the most felicitous circumstances and influences.'
The princess turned to Tambal in alarm, for she knew that Jadugarzada would claim her as soon as they were on the open road – and make an end of Tambal into the bargain.
Tambal whispered to her, 'Fear nothing. We must act as best we can, following our destiny. Agree to go, making only the condition that you will not travel without the wooden horse.'
At first the magician-king was annoyed at this foible of his daughter's. He realised that she wanted the horse because it was connected with her first suitor. But the chief minister of the horned prince said: 'Majesty, I cannot see that this is anything worse than a whim for a toy, such as any young girl might have. I hope that you will allow her to have her plaything, so that we may make haste homeward.'
So the magician-king agreed, and soon the cavalcade was resplendently on its way. After the king's escort had withdrawn, and before the time of the first night-halt, the hideous Jadugarzada threw off his veil and cried out to Tambal:
'Miserable author of my misfortunes! I now intend to bind you hand and foot, to take you captive back to my own land. If, when we arrive there, you do not tell me how to remove this enchantment, I will have you flayed alive, inch by inch. Now, give me the Princess Precious Pearl.'
Tambal ran to the princess and, in front of the astonished party, rose into the sky on the wooden horse with Precious Pearl mounted behind him.
Within a matter of minutes the couple alighted at the palace of King Mumkin. They related everything that had happened to them, and the king was almost overcome with delight at their safe return. He at once gave orders for the hapless woodcarver to be released, recompensed and applauded by the entire populace.
When the king was gathered to his fathers, Princess Precious Pearl and Prince Tambal succeeded him. Prince Hoshyar was quite pleased, too, because he was still entranced by the wondrous fish.
'I am glad for your own sakes, if you are happy,' he used to say to them, 'but, for my own part, nothing is more rewarding than concerning myself with the wondrous fish.'
And this history is the origin of a strange saying current among the people of that land, yet whose beginnings have now been forgotten. The saying is: 'Those who want fish can achieve much through fish, and those who do not know their heart’s desire may first have to hear the story of the wooden horse.'
From Caravan of Dreams by Idries Shah
Copyright © The Estate of Idries Shah
Idries Shah was born in India in 1924 into an aristocratic Afghan family. He was an author and teacher in the Sufi tradition and is considered one of the leading thinkers of the 20th century.
Shah devoted his life to collecting, translating and adapting key works of Sufi classical literature for the needs of the West. Called by some 'practical philosophy' - these works represent centuries of Sufi and Islamic thought aimed at developing human potential. His best-known works include the seminal book The Sufis, several collections of teaching stories featuring the ‘wise fool’ Nasrudin, Reflections and Knowing How to Know.
Shah's corpus - over three dozen books on topics ranging from psychology and spirituality to travelogues and cultural studies - have been translated into two dozen languages and have sold millions of copies around the world. They are regarded as an important bridge between the cultures of East and West.