Close enough?

This is not a story. I am not sure it is about a caravanserai.
But perhaps it is close enough. My father was killed in 1976 in a mysterious plane crash while on a diplomatic mission to Iran. There was a letter to my mother in his personal belongings that included these pages from a "journal" which has never been found. Some words are faint and others in a language I do not know, but I have transcribed it "bestly" as I can.

Nessie

IN SILENCE

Journal entry: Sept 7, 1961

We are to journey by night to a place in the mountains. I have been given old robes and hood and cautioned not to talk at all. I am to stay close to Rizan at all time (cousin to the Shah). I am in some danger as I will carry no identification. We arrive before dawn and must sleep half sitting up in a pile of rock above the ancient caravan trail. The site of the encampment is marked by a large circle of stones and a couple of rough tents are already up. By nightfall there are supposed to be hundreds. We will go down then and mix in and watch.

Journal entry: Sept 8, 1961.

Most of the trading stalls were closed when we walked in carrying baskets of figs and small, bitter oranges. These were set out near the great fire pit with me in the middle with the task of keeping flies away. I would be able to see everything. Understanding was a different matter as I speak only two of the many dialects used by the travelers. I picked up an occasional word of French or Russian mixed in with unknown phrases. Rizan had told me some travelers were from thousands of miles away to come here every two years. This was not a normal "travel camp" at a crossroads of old caravan trails. Somehow the purpose is to tell stories. These started at sundown and continued through the night. It was interesting to watch the reaction of the crowd to some of the stories. Perhaps it is better that I did not understand the words and could observe the gestures and ways in which the story tellers captivated the listeners. One story had no words at all.

The man was small and not dressed like others here. His caftan robe was of raw silk with brocade ends on the sleeves. The color was a strange greenish grey like the ocean. His sash and hood-wrap were of orange and brown, but not of any tribe markings I recognized. His features were Mongolian but with light hair mixed with white. His eyes were blue. He walked about alone but always had a couple of young men standing close by. When he rose to tell a story everyone became silent and dozens of people settled at the fringes. There were no women about that I could see. He was not introduced as many had been earlier. Then he did things with his hands.

Maybe what he did had some ancient meaning of some ritual or was illustrating a story already known by everybody. I don't know, and Rizan would not speak of it. As the man waved his arms his fingertips seemed to glow. He approached dozens of listeners and touched their foreheads and appeared to take a spark of light in his fingers -- like a lightning bug. These he placed over his heart and the light disappeared. It was just a trick, I know but it gave the appearance of gathering ideas or thoughts from the crowd. Finally, he reached up to his face and I swear he pulled two large globes of light from his eyes. These he juggled a bit so that everyone could see them. They were soft and not connected to anything and changed color some from gold to red and purple. Then he smashed them together and a flash of light swept over everyone. I had a feeling of happiness, but also was dizzy and empty. Several people in the crowd moaned. When I looked around the old man was gone. We left shortly after and I still do not know what this was all about.