A Stolen Tongue (25 page)

As one, we fall to our knees in front of Christ's burial chamber and kiss the ground. On our bellies we crawl like the lowliest snakes to the Edicule, the chapel that rests above the tomb's hewn stone. The Father Guardian lets us slither, four at a time, down into this most sweet cave. My eyes water as much from the smoke and oily stench of nineteen burning lamps and a hundred candles as from piety; their smoke has blackened the whole marble interior of the tomb, though the outside is gleaming white. Under the soot you can
make out hundreds of overlapping crosses, initials, and shields, for not an inch of Christ's tomb is bare of graffiti. As I prepare to give up all my sins and begin my life anew, I confess my trespasses thus for our Redeemer:

I confess that I put a woman before You, Lord, a saint before my Savior.

That I cavorted with Schismatics.

That I attended to my pilgrimage with a wandering mind.

That I, Friar Felix Fabri, usurped the power over life and death by preserving a merchant and gave out that Constantine lived.

That I, Friar Felix Fabri, usurped the power over life and death by turning a blind eye on a murder and gave out that Arsinoë died.

That I thought on Sinai with more desire than Jerusalem.

That I took more pleasure in saints lives and pilgrimage tales than in Scripture.

That I hoodwinked Abbot Ludwig Fuchs into allowing this pilgrimage by appealing first to the Pope, so that my prior might find it impossible to say no.

That I took personally the vagaries of Heaven.

That despite my deep sense of shame, despite the betrayals and deaths of the past few weeks, I cannot help wishing things were as they once were and that I had Katherine back as the wife I have loved for lo these twenty years.

All these sins and more, I lay at Christ's feet. Blessed be my Salvation who lifts them from my shoulders and allows me a second chance at life. I am in sore need of His consolation.

The knighting takes place just before midnight, here in this very chamber. Ursus holds the third highest rank among the pilgrims, but because of the confined space, he has to wait outside in the Angel Chapel for the first two, unable to see what is expected of him before his turn. When his time comes, John, Conrad, and I squeeze ourselves into the tomb with the Tuchers, ducking so as not to catch fire from the ceiling of lamps. Lord Tucher perspires heavily,
smoothing his son's damp blond hair. Ursus, dear brave boy, looks ready to vomit.

The Father Guardian speaks, his voice loud in the small chamber.

“Do you”—here he consults a paper whereon all names of those wishing to be knighted are written—“Ursus Tucher of Swabia, swear to defend the Catholic Church, its Pope and its bishops, its monks, nuns, widows, and orphans? Do you swear in your lands not to make treaties with the Infidel, to agitate constantly on behalf of a Christian Palestine, and to urge your princes at every turn to rush to her aid?”

“I swear.”

“Then lift up your leg, Ursus”—he consults once more the paper—“Tucher of Swabia, and receive the spurs of Godfrey de Bouillon, the first Crusader to liberate Jerusalem.”

Ursus solemnly places first one and then the other of his oversized boots on the lip of Christ's tomb, while the Father Guardian ties Godfrey's golden spurs around his ankles. He raises his arms, and the Franciscan girds his waist with the Crusader's golden sword. What a bold warrior he will make, brothers, this boy who, before my eyes, becomes a man. I find it difficult to contain a flow of tears.

“Kneel over the tomb.”

Ursus drapes his arms over the tomb and presses his soft cheek reverently against its sooty marble.

“I knight thee, Ursus Tucher of Swabia, in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost.”

Unsheathing Bouillon's sword, the Father Guardian smites the boy three times on his shoulders, raises him up, and kisses him on both cheeks.

“Let it be for thy good.”

Now there are many reasons why a knighthood of the Holy Sepulchre is better than any other knighthood in the world, and while Ursus divests himself of his golden spurs and his sword, I will share them with you, brothers.

First, a knighthood of the Holy Sepulchre is more sacred than any other because the dubbing is offered only here, in the holiest spot on earth, on the spot where Christ rose even from the dead. Second,
it is purer than all others because no blood is spilt in attaining it, whereas most men gain knighthood through shedding the blood of their Christian neighbors, which thing is abhorrent to God. Third, it is more noble, being conferred by our holy Father Guardian rather than by some petty viscount on a limb-strewn field. Fourth, it is more dangerous, because it is no great feat to ride a horse into battle five miles from your own house, whereas it takes great courage to cross the sea and brave the Infidel. Fifth, it is more established, in that it frequently happens that those who are made knights in one place are not recognized by those made knights in another, but are laughed at and called pussy-cat knights and lady knights, whereas Knights of the Holy Sepulchre are recognized by all. Sixth and last, those of our knighthood are wiser than knights of any other order, and the reason is this: A man who sets out for Jerusalem gains more experience of the world, of honest men and liars, of believers and Infidels. More important, he gains knowledge and an honest estimation of himself—for on a pilgrimage no part of a man's character can remain concealed. Few things would make me as proud as having a son of mine be invested with the Holy knighthood. Beside me, Lord Tucher sets his lips to keep from crying; he must be reflecting on the inevitable separation this knighthood prefigures.

Young knight Ursus joins us, trembling and smiling, his face positively Moorish with soot. I spit on my cassock and wipe his cheeks clean.

“Friar, did you see me? I had a hard time getting my leg up on the tomb, and then I almost fell over. I prayed so hard not to embarrass us! And I didn't! I didn't fall!”

“You were very brave, Ursus.” I shoo him up the stairs. We have to leave the chapel immediately, as nobles Four, Five, and Six are waiting to be knighted. Outside, we all suck in deep breaths of clean air. The lamps in the Rotunda hang safely high above our heads.

It is late, and we left Ramleh well before dawn. Even as our new knight lies down to sleep, curled around his wistful father, and John and Conrad quietly share a bite of cheese, I move restlessly around the chapel. As tired as I am, there is too much still to see. I leave behind my companions and retrace my steps to the more solitary underground chapel called after the Invention of the Cross.

It barely registers in the shadows, this low door, which appears to lead outside but which actually opens onto thirty narrow stone-hewn steps. I feel along the wall with my left hand, pushing back the darkness with the light of my narrow candle. If I weren't aware of what miracles took place in this subterranean cavern, I might feel like Orpheus groping his way toward Hell, listening for snakes and three-headed dogs. But this is the chasm where blessed Saint Helena discovered the True Cross, a splinter of which has been translated to nearly every major church in the world. Here, she dug with Judas Quirinus through the refuse of two centuries, casting aside layers of history with rotten food, glass, pottery, and bones. She dug through the beads and beaten gold of Byzantium, the straight paving stones of Rome, the phylacteries and scorched scrolls of Jewish Israel. This queen picked through the garbage, unearthed Christ's sponge, His crown of thorns, His nails, the plate that bore His name. In her chapel, she ordered two caves hewn and a chair carved out of stone that she might sit and gaze upon the pit of her triumph. I believe that if she hadn't found the cross when she did, she would have dug even to the center of the earth.

Five unlighted lamps hang in the twenty-foot chamber, dark through the poverty of the Georgians who own them but can't afford their oil. I sit upon Helena's cold stone chair and gaze into the cavern below, where one lamp burns. Shadows own that place, backed up against the rock like jealous tyrants defending their petty kingdoms. I am at last alone, and I bow my head to pray.

Dearest Saint Katherine, this is the last time your dismissed servant Friar Felix Fabri will entreat you. I have just come from my patron's son's knighting, where he swore to defend Christendom, its widows, virgins, and children from the Devil's campaigns on Earth. As I watched Father Guardian buckle the Crusader's spurs around Ursus's thin ankles, such envy possessed me, the likes of which I've rarely known; for at that moment I realized those still in the world have a right to fight for Heaven, while those of us who have retired from it have only our own impotence to war against. Knowing you were on my side these past twenty years, stengthening my feeble faith by your steadfast
example, living a quiet life beside me, allowed me to walk the contemplative path even when I longed to stray from it. Now it appears you have, all along, secretly favored those who take up the sword for Heaven, as John did against the Turk, or who are familiar and rough with it, as is the woman Arsinoë. I have struggled so long and so hard to be good, and yet you choose the Cains over the Abels, clutch God's problem children to your breast, and push aside His dutiful son. I desired only to honor you, Blessed Saint; never once did I consider threatening your relics or desecrating your altars, as some irreligious men do when their prayers are not answered. I believed you would reveal yourself when you were ready, and it was wrong to force you. How do you suppose I feel, then, when I learn you are appearing to every Hungarian who entreats you? That you speak through that wretched Tongue to any peasant girl with a question about her monthly cycle? Was I so bad, was I so undeserving, that in all those twenty years of prayer, of supplication, of need, you could not show yourself unequivocably?
Will you come when I call?
you once asked me—but at night, when I was half asleep and terrified of coming to this place. I have no idea if that was really you or some coward's trick of my own to keep myself from turning back.

If you can hear me now, in this place, where Christ has relieved me of my sins, let me know what you want. With my fresh start, I will take up a sword for you. I will fight with sweat and steel the enemies of Heaven if you desire, laying aside my quiet prayers. I will be your creature to command, if only you will say the last twenty years of my life have not been a pitiful lie.

Katherine, Blessed Katherine, come to me now. I can no longer live in this uncertainty. Have pity. Wife. Beloved. Come to your unhappy Felix.

The room is so still I can hear my own heavy breathing and the soft plash of water dripping from the six holy sweating pillars that support the ceiling. Not even this is a miracle, as some men who say these pillars weep for the innocence of Christ crucified would have it, because back home we have similiar stones that, due to their
coldness, condense the air around them and thus drip water. The room is quiet. The room is so very empty.

But wait. Below, something stirs. Deep in the precarious pit, wherefrom protruded the Holy Cross, thin shadows like undulating seaweed move in the lamplight. I take up my weak candle and charily descend the sixteen steps deep into the narrow cleft. Rocks hang overhead, threatening to fall upon my head. I hold my candle aloft to see what moved, when it becomes sickeningly clear.

Crackling, acrid smoke. A brush against my cheek like hovering flies. I spin around at the touch, hearing my own caught breath echo off the chasm walls.

Scorched hair. On fire.

The walls sprout burning hair.

My candle brushes the strands, sends them spinning back to the stone, melting red embers extinguished even as they ignite. I pull the candle to my face, nauseated by the smell. The walls are covered in hair. Black fistfuls stuffed into the cavern's crevices, coarse red bunches spread on the floor. I cross to the back of the cave, where a deep hole marks the actual Cross's Invention. It is filled with blond beards and brown bangs, greasy tresses in long-outdated hairstyles.

“They bring it to cure the headache.”

Her voice echoes off the overhanging rock, comes to me from four directions. I swing the candle around, inhaling a mouthful of feathery clippings that blow past and stick to my sweaty cheeks.

“Christians and Muslims both, when their heads are splitting; they shave off their hair and offer it here. I understand the Egyptians used to do the same thing.”

I see the tonsure first when she ducks under the overhang; it catches the light like a dull ivory plate. To my horror, the black-and-white robes of a Dominican monk cover her malnourished woman's body.

“That's mine, over there. I didn't have a headache, but I thought I could use the blessing.”

I lift the short brown curls she points to and let them sift through my fingers. This is the answer to my prayer. It is over. I have no more hope.

“Where did you get that habit?” I ask flatly.

“From a monk I met with no desire to go home.” Arsinoë looks about uncomfortably. “Let's go upstairs where we can talk. I'm all cramped from hiding beneath this rock.”

My candle has gone out, so I blindly follow her up the stairs to Helena's hewn bedchamber. A stone shelf that would have once supported a feather mattress provides us enough room to sit, but I cannot bear to be near her. I pace the small room.

“I know you are upset, Felix,” she says. “I booked passage with a caravan leaving tomorrow night for the Sinai. The Calinus might be looking for Constantine, and I couldn't very well go as myself—”

“Dominican. That's
my
order.”

“I know.”

“You are going to Sinai in my clothes.”

“Please, Felix. I've been waiting all night to talk to you.”

She knew I would come back here. I didn't even know myself until my feet touched the stairs. Why does she think she knows me?

“Perhaps you should have stayed with us instead of killing Emelia Priuli.” I turn on her. “How could you murder an innocent woman?”