قصة قصيرة..القوقعة الكبرى / The Grand Conch

Sada Misr

13-05-2025

The Grand Conch
Published by Damascus University Journal / By Samer Khalid Mansour*
The Conch
I descended upon this planet and felt like a drop of water falling into the sea. An immense harmony with my surroundings enveloped me, and for hours, I lost all sense of self. I became pure perception—ears, eyes, intuition, and touch—interwoven with beauty as clouds intertwine with clouds. Everything around me was a melody from a flute, carried by breezes of color, its notes sculpted by the hands of beauty. The depths of my soul soared toward this melody, which wove around me a strange, unfamiliar joy—a joy so profound it verged on sorrow. I had not known until then that sorrow could be a shade of joy.
Suddenly, an inexplicable force ruptured my tranquil awareness, yanking me back into my self. No—it was as though I had been torn from my greater essence and hurled into a diminutive form, kissed by hues that stained me with their traces. A strange shudder ran through me, as if a string had snapped, choking a melody into dissonance. The cause was the sight of a conch, the largest shell on this planet, unmatched in the abyssal dark of seas or mountain depths untouched by light. It loomed before me like a severed chord, and as I entered it, the word 'depth' took on new meaning. I thought I would see nothing within, but when I summoned the radiant light of existence—blazing in its brilliance—I glimpsed fragments of the conch's dimensions. Inside, a frail, trembling shadow quivered. I approached and asked:
'Who are you?'
It rose and replied in a voice that gnawed at my senses: 'I am the sovereign of all creatures on this planet. I am *human*.'
I said, 'Describe yourself, for this conch admits too little of existence's searing light. Your image wavers before me; I cannot discern your essence.'
It answered, 'I… I… There is nothing like me in existence to which I might compare myself. It is not my fault if your eyes and insight are too feeble to perceive me.'
Suddenly, the shadow convulsed, leaping and muttering. Peering through the conch's walls, I saw Nature stretch, yawn, and shake living beings from its shoulders. Nature never folds a page of life without unfolding others.
The shadow, cloaked in panic, cried:
'Earthquakes! Volcanoes! Floods! I must take refuge in my armor to survive!'
I said, 'You are *inside* a conch—part of it.'
It retorted, 'No conch! This is a mighty shield, born within me, a part of me! It will elevate me above all creatures, shielding me from Nature's wrath.'
I did not understand why it called Nature 'wrathful.' The frail shadow fell silent, then added:
'Look—my armor has gaping holes. Forged in seas of ignorance, saturated with the salt of frailty, it corrodes as ignorance devours it. My greatest task is to shrink these holes, though it will take ages.'
I replied, 'You are a marvel. I can only watch from curiosity's waves, hoping they carry me to the cliffs of understanding and unyielding truth.'
For a time, I observed the quivering shadow within its conch, nearly invisible in existence's ocean. It listened to the echo of its deluded thoughts, declaring:
'I hear divine revelation!' And so, the wretch sanctified echoes, never finding guidance.
One night, it pointed to a creature outside and sneered:
'What an ugly, wicked being.'
I asked the meaning of 'ugly' and 'wicked.' It explained:
'Ugliness is what you wish erased from existence—the opposite of beauty. As for 'wicked'…' It strained to define it, stringing words into incoherence, ending with:
'It is the opposite of 'good'—though even that word seems invented and strange.'
I tried to show the shadow its error: the conch's walls distorted reality. Beyond them, existence was a seamless circle—a bracelet on the wrist of perfection, not a necklace of beads dyed with hues of evil, ugliness, falsehood, and weakness alongside good, beauty, truth, and strength. But my efforts were futile.
Our parting neared as the shadow erupted into grating laughter—a collapsing mountain's roar—its raucous mirth merely masking the shrinking holes in its conch. Poor fool, swaddled in delusion, believing his feet tread existence's summit! I often asked what he saw, hoping my vision—untainted by the conch's long exile—might clarify.
**Updated passage per your request:**
Once, I gestured to a forested plot **containing about a hundred trees** and asked, 'What do you see?'
He answered, 'A pillar, flanked by two circles.'
Pressed to elaborate, he said:
'One hundred trees. Thirty-seven bear fruit; sixty-three are fit for furniture.'
Poor wretch! He saw only numbers, his ambition confined to their ascent. Creatures were pounds of flesh, yards of wool and fur, ornaments of ivory. His utmost joy was not the sun's blaze on the sky's cheek, the sea's lips kissing light before night's curtain fell. No—his pinnacle of joy and depth of grief hinged on numbers. Even in sufficiency, his happiness lay in their growth, tools to monopolize existence. But what melody seeks to claim every breath of the great flute?
I left the conch of the human mind and gazed from without. The black holes had not shrunk; the entire shell had withered with time, unnoticed by the shadow. Nearby, I beheld a majestic being—perfectly formed, likely human. Yet, alas! It was cold and rigid, staring with vacant, idol's eyes, kneeling before the conch. Soul lost, it strained to cram vast existence into that shell, perhaps confounding its noble essence with its monstrous shadow. Now, its body was but a shadow of the shadow festering inside—that wondrous conch humans deem life's greatest treasure, though it often blinds them to existence's enchanting melody.
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