The Black Rood (46 page)

All was darkness and turmoil. I could not tell where I was, nor which way to the surface. I flailed underwater, desperate to rise, but the stream went on and on. My lungs felt like they were on fire. My chest ached. I must soon breathe, or burst.

And then I collided with something hard—a dense and solid mass, moving with me in the water. Even blind and confused, I knew it was the rood. I threw my arms around it and let it guide me to the surface.

I clung to the Holy Rood, gasping, gulping down air, and thanking the Swift Sure Hand for his timely deliverance.

I felt something squirming in the water as it slid past; I snaked out a hand and snagged the edge of Wazim's robe, and pulled him up. He spluttered and coughed, and thrashed around wildly.

“Peace, Wazim!” I shouted. “I have you now. Be still. You will not drown.”

I had to repeat this several times before he ceased struggling; but eventually the fight went out of him and he allowed me to bear him up.

Holding to the rood with one hand, and to Wazim with the other—while at the same time trying to keep my head above water—I could do little more than drift with the current, and this I did, until the stream began to lose some of its force and turbulence. We bobbed along for a time, until I struck the side of the canal with my foot. Releasing Wazim for a moment, I fumbled in the darkness for a handhold on the rough
stonework. “Here, Wazim,” I said, dragging him to the wall. “We are saved. Grab hold and hang on.”

We were saved, indeed. Pushing the holy relic before me, I worked my way along the wall, feeling for each handhold and talking to Wazim all the while, soothing him with words of encouragement. We edged along this way for untold ages. It is strange, but in the darkness, with nothing to mark either passage or progress, time seemed to stop; we floated in a timeless eternity with neither beginning nor end, only a very wet and endless present.

As I say, I do not know how long we continued this way, but there came a place where I reached for a handhold and instead of stone, my fingers touched wet moss or slime, and slipped; my head sank below the surface. I kicked my legs to right myself and touched something soft underfoot—not once only, but twice, and then again. It took me a moment to realize that it was mud.

The bottom of the canal was covered with soft, mushy silt. A short time later, I found I could stand and keep my head above water. “See here, Wazim,” I said encouragingly, “the water is growing more shallow. Get your feet under you and stand.”

We moved on a little farther, and the level of the stream continued to drop as the channel grew wider; soon we were sloshing through waist-high water. I pushed the floating rood along beside me, and a short time after that, I noticed a watery gray dimness seeping into the air. After so long a time in the inky blackness of utter darkness, I did not trust my eyesight. But the wan gloaming held and strengthened, and after a time I could deny it no longer. Wazim noticed it, too. “I think it is getting lighter, praise God's Almighty Christ,” he said, crossing himself in the Eastern manner.

“You surprise me, Wazim.”

“Why? Did you think you were the only Christian in all of Egypt?” He gave me a wry smile. “The Copts may not be numbered among the mightiest, but what we lack in strength, we make up in stealth.”

“You knew—all this time you knew
I
was a Christian, yet
you never said anything, you never let on. Why? Why did you not tell me, give me a sign or something?”

“A Christian in the khalifa's court must be very careful if he cares to keep his head on his shoulders.”

The water level continued to fall as the walls of the canal stretched farther apart; I noticed that the roof had become bare rock, instead of brick, and soon we were slogging through water just over our knees. I picked up the rood and carried it on my shoulder.

We walked on and the light grew steadily brighter. It came to me that this was because it was growing lighter outside. While we toiled below ground, night had passed in the wider world and dawn was breaking; people were rising to begin their daily tasks, and I…
I
was free and on my way home with the prize I had set out to rescue.

The satisfaction I felt in this achievement was sharply diminished a few steps later when I realized I had lost my sheaf of papyri.

“Wazim, the bundle I gave you—where is it?”

He stopped and patted himself about the chest and back. “I do not know, my friend.” He turned and looked into the solid black recesses of the tunnel behind us. “I think the strap must have come loose when I fell out of the boat.” He turned mournful eyes to me. “I am sorry, Da'ounk.”

“No matter,” I replied weakly, feeling the loss. All the time I had spent in that singular labor…gone. How absurd to bemoan such a trivial thing, I thought. The letter was merely a meager attempt at consolation for my failure to return home and, all things considered, it was far better to have survived in the flesh. Still, foolish as it was, I regretted losing something that had occupied so much of my thought and care these many months. I felt as if a part of my life had been carelessly lopped off and discarded.

“See there, Da'ounk,” Wazim said, drawing me from my thoughts. I looked where he was pointing and saw sunlight on a pale gray wall of stone a few hundred paces farther ahead; a short time later we rounded a bend in the canal and reached our destination.

A massive iron portcullis covered the canal entrance, but
this was so old and rusted there were gaps showing in the ironwork and it was but the chore of a moment to force a hole wide enough to squeeze through. A few more steps, following the stream around the base of a massive shoulder of fallen rock loosed from the overhanging cliffs above, and we were standing in the reed-fringed shallows, peering with dazzled eyes at a golden sunrise shimmering on the Nile.

O
UR UNDERGROUND JOURNEY
had taken us to a place on the river below the city walls which rose sheer from the pale ocher cliffs above us. The sun was just rising in a glare of golden fire, and the air was already warm and heavy. The tall reeds and river grass bent in a light breeze, and I could hear the buzzing thrum of flies overhead as we stood in a sandy shoal, feeling the life-giving sunlight play over our faces.

Across the river, the low mud-brick huts of craftsmen and farmers glistened like pale gold in the early-morning light. A man and a boy led an ox along the bank, scaring two snow-white egrets into flight. Out on the water, a graceful low-hulled Egyptian ship was raising sail to begin the voyage north. All was so peaceful, bright, and calm, our tribulations of the previous night seemed small and insignificant, and very far away.

I looked up and down the riverbank, green-fringed with the stately plumes of river grass as far as the eye could see. While I was standing there, I felt something bump against my leg. I looked down to see a piece of wood from the wrecked boat floating out from the canal and, tangled by its broken strap, my bundle of parchments.

“Good news, my friend,” crowed Wazim cheerily. “God has returned your writings to you!”

“I wish he had taken better care of them,” I replied, lifting
the soggy bundle from the stream. Ink-tinted water leaked from the corner of the bag. The pages inside would be a black-stained mushy mess. I had neither the heart to open the bundle, nor to throw it away; so I knotted the strap and slung the sodden load over my shoulder once again, and we started off.

By Wazim's reckoning we were some way south of the quay, so we started walking along the river's edge, quickly finding a cattle path which climbed up the bank and onto higher ground. The city wall angled away on a line running east, away from the river, which bent around a broad, rising bluff of honey-colored stone.

My wet clothes began to dry in the sun and, although I was exhausted, I found my spirits soaring. Every step brought me closer to a glad reunion with Padraig, Sydoni, and Yordanus, and that much closer to home. The Holy Rood was heavy on my shoulder, but I did not mind the weight. Considering what the Savior King had endured on my behalf, I would have carried it from one end of the world to the other and back.

After a while, we came to a cluster of huts fronting small green fields of beans, melons, onions, and garlic. Smoke from the morning cook fires drifted across the trail, and I could smell bread and meat cooking. The scent made my stomach rumble, reminding me that I had not eaten in some time. I stopped and looked around. Wazim asked why we were stopping. “Do you think we might beg something to eat?” I wondered.

“Yes,” he said, glancing around, “but not here.” He started away again.

“Why?” I wondered. “Is it because they are Muhammedans?”

“Worse,” said Wazim, lowering his voice. “They are pagans. Idol worshippers. Very bad people.”

“How can you tell?” It seemed like an ordinary holding to me. There were thousands along the wide, winding river.

He would say no more, so we moved on, passing through one small settlement after another, until coming upon yet another where Wazim stopped. “There are Copts here,” he declared.

“How can you tell?”

“A true Copt never dwells beyond sight of a church.” Extending his hand, he said, “See?”

I looked where he was pointing and saw a small white building with a bell-shaped dome topped by a tiny crude iron cross; otherwise, the building was completely unremarkable in any way. “We will soon have something to eat.”

We made our way to the little church where Wazim rapped on the door, which appeared to be little more than scrap wood and bits of planking rescued from the river. His summons was answered by an old man with a long white beard, and a black robe which covered him from the chin down. One eye was sunken, the socket hollow, and the other was watery and dim, but he greeted us with a toothless smile, pressing his hands together and bowing.

Wazim did likewise, and the two of them held a brief, but intense discussion filled with much gesturing and pointing. The old priest raised his head, brayed, and spat, and then, grasping me by the arm, he led us along the cramped beaten earth street to a tiny hovel of a house where he pounded on the door with the flat of his hand. A woman pulled back the door and peered out, just her nose and one eye showing. The priest spoke a few words to her, and she closed the door; it opened again a moment later, and a hand appeared holding two eggs.

The old Copt took the eggs, blessed the woman, and we continued on. This ritual was repeated at the next house, where we were given three round, floppy pieces of flat bread and two green onions. After three more houses we had amassed another egg and some salt, four dried figs, a slice of fresh melon, and a handful of honeyed dates—whereupon I called a halt to the foraging and told Wazim to thank the priest for helping us.

After exchanging a few words, Wazim reported, “He will accept no thanks for allowing his people the blessing of giving succor to strangers in need. Today they have earned a great reward in Heaven.”

“Then offer them a blessing,” I replied. “Tell him, gold and silver have I none, but what I possess I share freely: the
blessing of the Three to be aiding you, abiding with you, and showering peace and plenty on you, and on your people, each day, all day, and forever.”

The old priest liked this blessing, and made Wazim repeat it twice so he would remember it. We took our leave and found a place on the high bank overlooking the river to eat our meal. I flattened some of the tall grass and made a place for the rood so that it would not rest on bare ground. Then I sat down beside it, tired to the bone, and began to eat.

The eggs had been boiled, so we peeled them and dipped them in the salt, likewise the green onions. After such a long fast, the plain and simple fare tasted better to me than a banquet. I sat, feeling the sun warm on my back as I gazed out across the river, and thought about the welcome I would soon receive, and beyond that, to the journey ahead. By this time tomorrow, I thought, we would be well on our way home.

After our meal, we moved on. As much as I would have liked to rest even a few moments longer, I was a thousand times more anxious to rejoin Padraig and the others. Brushing the crumbs from my lap, I rose reluctantly, adjusted my bundle of ruined parchments, shouldered the rood, and declared that if we were to reach the ship by midday, we would have to hurry.

We walked on a short distance and crested the bluff, coming in sight of the city walls once more; and just beyond the great sweeping bend in the river, I could see the wharf and the wide avenue leading to the city gates. Somewhere down there, amidst the dark clusters of ships and boats lining the busy quayside, Yordanus' ship
Persephone
was waiting to carry me out of Egypt.

Beyond the walls, smoke rose in twin columns from the center of the city. “That one,” Wazim told me, “is the covered market.”

“And the other?” It seemed to arise from the base of a high stony bank which dominated the northern quarter.

“Ah, that is from the citadel.”

It could easily have been the palace that was set on fire instead. I realized the risk Wazim had taken in coming back
for me. “Thank you, Wazim Kadi,” I told him. “It was a brave thing you did last night. I am forever in your debt.”

He made a little bow, saying, “I did only what one Christian would do for another.”

“No,” I corrected, thinking of all the betrayal, deceit and disloyalty I had seen, “you did far more than that, believe me. You risked your life for me, and I am grateful. I will not forget it.”

The cattle trails and pathways ran continuously along the Nile's lofty banks, linking one small riverside settlement to the next north and south, on both sides of the river, as far as the eye could see. We passed through the little holdings, and Wazim unfailingly greeted each and every person we met: an old woman bent double beneath a bundle of straw fully as big as herself; two naked boys carrying a string of fish between them; a man carrying a jug of milk in one hand, leading a cow with the other, and bearing his young daughter on his back; women on their way to market carrying brown ducks bound with string. Wazim greeted them all, and I remembered just how much I had missed in my long captivity.

As midday approached, so did the quayside; the trails and pathways became roads and grew busier the nearer the city gates we came. I had been searching for Yordanus' ship since sighting the river harbor, and as we came onto the quay, I caught sight of the familiar red mast rising amidst the untidy forest of rigging at the far end of the wharf. My steps quickened as I pushed through the crush of people thronging the docks, dragging Wazim in my wake. I was almost running by the time I saw the bright green hull and yellow keel of the
Persephone
.

Panting and sweating, I paused to catch my breath before hailing those on board. “Go on, Da'ounk,” urged Wazim excitedly, “they are waiting for you.”

“It is a long time since I ran like this,” I said, lowering the rood gently to the wharf. “Let me wipe the sweat from my brow at least.”

As I did so, I heard a familiar voice call out: “Duncan!”

Glancing up, I saw Padraig standing at the rail. He waved to me, and then called to someone on the deck of the ship
before starting over the rail. My heart leapt, and I started forward to meet him on the wharf. And then another face appeared above the rail, and the sight halted me in midstep: Gislebert, the Templar sergeant.

At the same moment, I saw two more Templars standing on the wharf below the prow. Turning to Wazim, I said, “Quick, Wazim, do exactly as I say. Take the rood. Stay here and guard it with your life. I will explain later. Whatever happens, do not give it to anyone, understand?”

“Perfectly, my friend.” Taking the rough length of timber from me, he planted himself on the wharf.

I turned, took a half-dozen steps and was caught up in Padraig's strong embrace. “Hallelujah!” he cried, fastening his arms around me and lifting me off my feet. “You are alive and well, Duncan. All praise to the Swift Sure Hand and his preserving power!”

My joy at seeing Padraig once again was sharply cramped by Gislebert's watchful presence. I turned to Padraig and, with true thanksgiving in my heart, started at once for the ship, leaving poor Wazim to look on with a profoundly bewildered expression. But there was nothing for it; as much as he deserved to be included in the celebrations, I could not imperil the precious relic by allowing the Templars so much as a glimpse of it—at least not until I saw how matters stood aboard ship.

“I knew you would come for me,” I told Padraig, squeezing out the words between his fierce hugs and bone-rattling slaps on the back. “I never doubted.”

“Oh, Duncan, Duncan,” he said, grabbing my face in both his hands, “look at you now. Earth and sky bear witness, it seems as if you had just walked down to the end of the quay and here you are back again, hale and hearty as ever. Are you well, brother?”

Before I could answer, he said, “There is so much to tell you. How I have prayed to see this day!” he laughed aloud, shaking his head in happy disbelief. “Praise the Saving God of Grace! Praise him all you heavenly hosts! The son who was lost is found! Praise him you burning-eyed angels, you saints give voice and sing—”

“Listen, Padraig,” I said breaking in, hating to stifle his happiness. “It is good to see you, too, but there is something I must tell you before we board the ship.”

He looked at me, blinking in merriment. “Speak, brother. I will listen all day to hear the sound of your voice.”

“I am in earnest, Padraig. Hear me.”

The priest became serious. “Go on then. I am listening.”

We were nearly at the ship. “There is no time to explain. We must leave Cairo as soon as possible. We must get rid of Gislebert and the Templars—send him on an errand and cast off at once.”

“That soon?”

“Even sooner would be better.”

The priest accepted this without question. “So be it.”

“Duncan!” The voice drew my glance. It was Yordanus, waving his arms and calling out to me in glad welcome; standing next to him was his dark-haired daughter. Sydoni's smile was more subtle. I could not tell whether she was happy to see me, or merely amused by my disheveled appearance.

“Duncan, my son, my son!” He snatched me up and clasped me to his bosom the instant I clambered over the rail and onto
Persephone
's deck. “Thanks be to God, you are safe, and here you are at last…” the old man's eyes began to fill with tears. “At long last, here you are.” He embraced me warmly. “God and all his angels be praised, you are safe.” He patted me on the shoulder and arms, as if to reassure himself that I was, indeed, returned in the flesh.

“Welcome, Duncan,” said Sydoni, her voice soft and low. She smiled and demurely offered her cheek. “It is good to see you safe.” Compared to her father's effusive welcome, hers not only lacked warmth, but was ambivalent as well—though not from any timidity, I thought, for the glance of her dark eye was as proud as ever.

Braving her coolness, I gave her a kiss on the cheek and pressed her hand in mine. “It is good to see you, Sydoni.”

Gislebert, who had been standing a little apart, watching, now stepped before me. Extending his hand, he said, “Praise God, my friend. We have been working for your release
these many days.” I took his hand and thanked him. “We are only glad you are free.”

“Indeed, yes,” said Yordanus, breaking in. “You were never forgotten for a moment, I can assure you. Welcome, Duncan,” he said, seizing my hand. The old trader beamed with good pleasure and danced from one foot to the other, unable to contain himself. “Welcome, my boy. Praise Christ, our mighty redeemer.”