posted on Aug, 14 2003 @ 12:42 AM
Centuries ago in Anatolia a sage lived with his small son in a hut beside a ziarat-a shrine where a holy man was buried. Over the years, the
place had acquired such sanctity that pilgrims came from as far as Africa and the Indies to say a prayer and invoke the sanctity of the unknown saint.
The boy, on the threshold of manhood, decided that he would travel in search of knowledge; go to seek his fortune, as the Prophet Mohammed had once
said, “yeah, even unto China journey-for knowledge is the most excellent of all things.” His father gave him a donkey to ride upon and the youth set
off. He passed through the famed cities of Islamic learning, through Isfahan, Bokhara, Samarkand, sitting at the feet of teachers: and then turned his
steps towards China. It was in Kashmir, several years later, that the donkey suddenly lay down and died. The young man was beside himself with grief.
Unable to decide what to do, he buried his only friend and sat in mourning upon the mound.
Certain travelers passing by asked what ailed him. “My only friend and companion is buried here: he who never failed me, who inspired me and who was
my means of progress.” Deeply impressed by this, they assumed that he spoke of a spiritual teacher. They donated some money for a dome to be built
over the grave of an individual who must have been of much merit if he could inspire the sorrow which they had seen. The youth-Mustafa-never looked
back. More years passed, and his father found that the revenues of his own shrine were suffering through the diversion of pilgrims to this new and
highly sanctified one in Kashmir. He decided to travel thence, in order to ascertain who this revered sheikh might be. As soon as Mustafa saw him, he
broke down and confessed the truth, “Know, my son,” said the sage, “that all is ordained in advance. It was fated that there should be a shrine here
and that you should become a shrine keeper. For let it not be concealed from you that the grave of the Unknown Sage which is my own Shrine, marks the
spot where, under similar circumstances exactly, the father of that donkey of yours expired.
A History of Secret Societies