by Jana Petken
Listening to the rabbi speak brought vivid memories of his earlier life in Sagrat, when Shabbat was as important as avoiding the fish stalls at the end of a hot day. Life was full of ironies, he thought, glancing at a woman who reminded him of Sinfa. On the journey south, Sinfa had repeatedly refused to convert to Christianity, preferring exile from the country of her birth to baptism. But when Diego had pointed out that he would not leave Spain or return to the Jewish faith, not even for her, she had cast aside her reluctance and had been baptised in the next town they had come to.
Standing there amongst Jews reciting prayers from the Torah, David accepted that the three years in which he had lived as a Christian now felt like a fleeting experience, one he wouldn’t miss or regret losing. Smiling at a little girl tugging at his tunic, he believed that it mattered not that he was a Jew again. No one knew him here. They cared not a whit, who he was or where he had come from. Being part of a religious body was one of life’s necessary evils. Cities destroyed, countries fractured, and lives lost to hatred were what religions had offered the world, as far as he knew. But the Jews had shown him kindness since leaving Sagrat. They had been more benevolent that any Christian spouting pious devotions whilst killing members of their flock. Although he didn’t truly believe in God insofar as the way organized religion depicted Him, the Jews made him feel that he belonged.
Turning his head, David glanced briefly at the waves lapping against the harbour’s stone wall. An image of Diego and Sinfa waving goodbye to him one week previously at the water’s edge rushed into his mind with such clarity that he felt as though they were with him. He would never see his brother or Sinfa again. After a disagreement about which route they should take next, Diego elected to remain in the fishing town of Los Alcazares, sitting less than three leagues north of Cartagena. Sinfa was tired of journeying, Diego had pointed out. It was time for them to settle down. Feeling alone and defeated, David had watched them walk away. Yet some part of him was relieved. Their path was not him. It never would be.
His parents would have been proud of Diego, had they seen him become a man on that journey. But they had not been in Los Alcazares. They had disappeared into thin air, like the smoke that had hovered over Sagrat. Looking at the people praying, he forced himself to believe that the Inquisition had not recaptured them. Many of the penitents from the auto de fé had been found wandering or hiding in houses, according to some people he had met along the route. Yet others had been sure that only a few had been led back to prison after that great escape in Sagrat.
Thinking about the long journey he, Diego, and Sinfa had taken brought David a mixture of sadness and relief. For months, they had travelled southwards, using their instincts and gut feelings to guide them. They had searched for their parents in every port and town they had passed through, and not once did they give up hope of finding them alive and well, until that day at the water’s edge, when they had said goodbye.
He constantly thought about Captain Tur and the militia. Was Tur successful in bringing the duke to justice? Or was he languishing in prison? Was he, David Sanz, a fugitive in Aragon, or had his name not been mentioned? Maybe one day, he would hear talk of what had transpired in Sagrat.
Sighing softly, he shifted his weight from his right to his left foot and at the same time shuddered with apprehension for the future. He, Diego, and Sinfa had been fortunate on their journey. They had sold the mule, cart, and horse early on, after deciding that food was much more important than the comforts transportation could bring. But knowing that Jews were being expelled, the buyers had offered a pittance in money. Everywhere he looked, he saw Jews trying to sell their worldly possessions to unscrupulous people taking advantage of Jewish vulnerabilities and their need to sell everything they owned quickly.
Studying the worn-out faces around made him think about the struggles he and his travelling companions had overcome on their way south. They had suffered cold, hunger, and had been lost at times. But they had also met hundreds of Jews along the way and had been touched by their generosity.
Recalling an incident which had occurred a few weeks previously brought a smile to his face. They had been travelling along a particularly difficult road that had no rivers running by it or vegetables in the fields bordering it. Starving, parched with thirst, and moving like snails, they had come across a carriage with a broken wheel. He and Diego had repaired it for the wealthy Jew who owed it, and afterwards the man had been charitable, allowing Sinfa to travel on the carriage beside the driver and sharing his food and water with all three of them.
At another stage on the journey, they had wandered onto someone’s land and had managed to remain there for weeks after they were employed to plough and seed the soil for the elderly farmer. Yes, they had been fortunate, but there had been times on that journey when he’d wondered if they would ever get to their destination in one piece. There had also been times when he thought his heart would break. Watching Diego hold Sinfa in his arms, her loving gaze when she looked at Diego, and the stolen kisses between them, had been torturous to see.
Gazing absently at the Jews praying with him, he couldn’t help but recall some of the conversations he’d overheard in the past few days. Fleeing Jews were being murdered. Rumours of Jews swallowing gold and diamonds had spread like a plague, and many had been stabbed to death by brigands hoping to find treasures in their stomachs, some Jews had openly stated, convinced that they spoke the truth. And earlier that day, he had listened to a Jewish husband and wife who had just returned from North Africa. Their account of what happened when they arrived in the Maghreb had filled him with so much fear that he’d thought about running all the way back to Diego and Sinfa, farther up the coast, and to hell with being a Jew again!
“We arrived in North Africa and were pillaged before we had even left the dockside,” the traumatised husband told a crowd of Jews at the port. “Two men who had been travelling with us on the overcrowded boat had their throats cut. Others were dragged away alive. We had coin hidden on our persons, and they stripped us of all our clothing and took everything of value from us. It would seem that God’s hand was against us. He allowed some of our brothers and sisters to starve, be killed by the sword, and sold into slavery … How could anyone witness the sufferings of the Jews and not be moved?” David had asked them what they were going to do. The man had answered resolutely. “We are going to the nearest church to ask for baptism and to be accepted into the Christian faith. That’s what any sane person should do, and that’s what I advise you to do.”
Staring at the array of ships at anchor, David wondered which of them would take him across the water. The Maghreb was not a great distance by sea, yet it was, according to many, a strange new world ruled by Muslims and Ottomans, who didn’t seem to be much more enamoured by Jews than the Spanish Catholics were. Sensing the little girl’s eyes on him and feeling her pull again at his tunic, he looked down at her and was amused by her earnest expression.
“You should be praying,” she whispered, craning her neck to look up at him. “You will be in big trouble.”
“I have been praying and thinking and wondering,” he said, smiling. He then squeezed her hand.
He was not alone, he thought just then. These people were going across the sea with him. They would all be strangers in a new country. They would need each other. And if there really was a God, he would forgive the past. He, David Sanz, a sinner, a man who had done unspeakable harm to people and who’d caused suffering to those he loved most in the world, had been punished – maybe not enough in the eyes of the Catholic Church, but in no small measure. He had no family by his side, and no Sinfa. They had been taken from him forever, and not one day would pass that he wouldn’t wonder what had happened to them or where they were … That had been God’s wrath ... giving him an insurmountable grief.
Yet, he could not fear the future or the dangers it might hold, he thought, gazing out to sea again. The future existed in this moment, ever evolving with each breath ta
ken and with every thought passing through his mind like a river rushing downstream. He was alive and well, and he was fortunate. He had been given a second chance, and he was not going to waste it, not one minute of it.
About the Author
Author of the award winning epic, The Guardian of Secrets, and The Mercy Carver Series.
Jana Petken is Scottish but resides on the East Coast of Spain. She is ex military and has travelled extensively, studying conflicts and the after effects they had on the population. She is a fulltime writer but says her hobbies include, walking great distances and painting in oils.
Thank you for taking the time to read The Errant Flock. I would be honoured if you would leave a review on Amazon. Word of mouth recommendations are gifts for authors.
www.janapetkenauthor.com
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