The Futile Getaway

In the golden light of early evening, the bazaar pulsed with life and amid the commotion, a single figure moved with anxious purpose: the trusted servant of King Solomon, his arms heavy with the finest fruits and breads for his master's table.

As he turned to leave the market, the servant felt a sudden stillness in the air, as if time itself held its breath. He lifted his gaze and met a pair of eyes—unblinking, ancient, filled with a fire not of this world. The eyes pierced him with a gaze so potent, it drained the blood from his face and the strength from his limbs. He dropped the rug he carried and staggered back, drenched in sweat.

He knew at once: it was the Angel of Death.

Terrified beyond speech, he abandoned the food, the coins, the bustling streets—all of it. With trembling hands and a pounding heart, he fled to the palace, whispering prayers as he passed under the high arches.

Bursting into the king’s chamber, he fell to his knees. King Solomon looked up from his writing with calm eyes.

“Peace, my friend,” said Solomon gently. “You seem possessed. What spirit has disturbed you so?”

“My king,” the servant gasped, “I have seen a horror beyond words. I was in the bazaar, buying your supper, when suddenly I felt it—a presence. I turned, and there he was—the Angel of Death! His gaze struck me like a blade. There was wrath in his eyes, a hatred so raw I knew he had come for me. I ran, my lord. I ran as fast as I could. Please—help me!”

Solomon nodded thoughtfully, “And what would you have me do?”

“Send me away!” cried the servant. “Command the winds. Carry me to India, to the farthest edge of the earth, where even death cannot find me. I beg you, master—hide me from my fate!”

The wise king looked at the man with pity and spoke softly. “Ah, you wish to flee death, not knowing that it is death itself which places the desire to flee in your heart. Still, if this is your wish, I shall not refuse you.”

With a word, Solomon summoned the wind. Obedient as always, the wind arrived in a swirl of dust and fragrance, and with a bow, lifted the servant high into the air. Like a leaf caught in a storm, he was carried over mountains and oceans, beyond deserts and jungles, to a mountaintop in the hidden heart of India.

That evening Solomon received his customary guests—travellers, scholars, petitioners, seekers of truth. Among them came the Angel of Death.

Solomon greeted him with honor and offered him a seat beside him. After their matters were concluded, the king leaned closer.

“May I ask you a question that touches another matter?” he inquired.

The Angel inclined his head. “You may.”

“This morning, one of my servants saw you in the marketplace. He claimed that your gaze was filled with wrath. He believed you meant to take him, and he fled in terror. Why such a look?”

The Angel of Death raised his brow in surprise. “Wrath? No, O Solomon, not wrath—astonishment. I saw him there and was struck with awe. For God had commanded me, ‘Tomorrow, take this man’s soul from a mountaintop in the farthest reaches of India.’ And seeing him in your city, I wondered how it could be. Even if he grew a hundred wings, how could he reach India by then? Yet now I understand—he has gone there of his own will. I shall find him, as destined.”

King Solomon lowered his eyes and smiled with quiet reverence. “Indeed,” he said. “You shall.”

O darvish, in such a manner deem,
All the affairs of this world:
Open your eyes and see!

From whom shall you flee?
From yourself? Impossible!
From God? What a crime!

Endeavour is not a struggle
against Destiny,
for Destiny itself
has laid this endeavour upon us!