The nuns were chosen on the basis of age and ranged from seventy to ninety years old. All were unusually tall save for one who was small and dark with a shadow of what might have been newly shaved hair above the lip.
The Poor Clares weren’t allowed to speak and the formalities on the wharf were handled by the bishop, the nuns rustling their beads and fluttering in circles so that it was even difficult to count them. But their excitement over visiting the Holy Land after waiting a century and a quarter seemed reasonable enough to the English officials, so their documents were processed quickly and they disappeared on board the freighter in a flurry of swirling black habits.
The nuns were not seen again until the freighter docked in Jaffa. The dusty journey up through the hills was made. The carriages approached New Gate and were soon surrounded by the usual crowds of thieves and mastic-sellers and pilgrims spitting and cursing and praying as they squeezed into the narrow alleys of commerce and paradise. Just outside the gate a small dark man in a shabby Arab cloak and Arab headgear was seen to cringe on one of the running boards, hand outstretched to beg.
But the policeman on duty at the gate was quick to give the beggar a solid blow on the head with his baton, thereby reducing the Poor Clares to an even dozen and sending the biggest of the little people sprawling across the cobblestones of Jerusalem.
Joe squatted outside the entrance to the Franciscan enclave in the Old City still dressed as an Arab beggar, whispering furtively in Gaelic when a priest came by, assuming a priest from any country other than Ireland would mistake his words for some garbled Arab dialect.
He spent a day at the main entrance and successive days outside the wine cellar and the olive-oil press. Famished by nightfall, he dragged himself to the entrance of the bakery.
No one appeared at the door in the morning. Soon the sun was overhead. With the heat overcoming him he slipped lower, into the gutter. Sometime during the afternoon he had a dream the door was opening.
We ourselves, he whispered in Gaelic into the dirt, repeating the name of the Irish revolutionary party. In his dream a shadow fell across him.
What’s that? said a soft voice, also in Gaelic.
Love, the forgiving hand to victory, whispered Joe, repeating the legend of the O’Sullivan Beare clan.
Is that so? Is that who you are, lad? But what ails you lying in a Jerusalem gutter dressed like that? Inside with you before a policeman comes by.
The old priest pulled him out of the alley into the cool depths of the bakery. He locked the door and poured water over Joe, then stuffed his mouth with bread and watched him eat. When Joe was able to talk he told his story, the old priest nodding his head vehemently at each new turn in the account.
Was your father in the Fenian movement? he said at the end.
That he was, Father.
Well so was I but the Church made me leave it. Of the seven men in my cell six were O’Sullivan Beares named Joseph. Your father might have been one of them. Anything special for me to go on?
Prophecy.
Ah that one, I knew him all right. He used to say he was going to have twenty or thirty sons and I admonished him to be happy with what God gave him. Happy I will be, he said, it’s just that I already know. Well that’s fine for seventy years ago but what are we going to do now? Here you are a former terror of the Black and Tans wanted for patriotism and other heinous crimes, in English territory without papers. Drop our lovely mother tongue and repeat after me. Yes I am English actually but I was born with faulty vocal cords and multiple speech impediments.
Joe did so.
Atrocious, said the priest. That wouldn’t even begin to fool an Arab.
We ourselves? whispered Joe hopefully.
Not this time, it’s just not enough. We’ll need some help if you’re not to be caught. Now sit there while I stoke up the oven. I’ve been the baker here for sixty years and I do my best thinking at the oven, so you sit and I’ll bake.
The old priest began kneading dough and baking loaves of bread that came out in various irregular shapes. One was clearly a cross and another had roughly the shape of Ireland. The third might have been meant to represent the shape of the walls of the Old City, but the fourth was an unrecognizable oval slightly angular at the top and more so at the ends. Before long the corners of the bakery were heaped with bread.
What’s that loaf? asked Joe.
Which one?
That corner there.
The Crimea of course.
The priest turned back to the oven but all at once his cassock twirled and his sandals slapped the stones. He had broken into a dance.
But that’s the answer, lad, why didn’t I think of it? You’re the reason why I wasted that time in the army, old Joe’s son on the run’s the reason.
The priest, dripping with sweat, renewed his little dance in front of the open oven door. Right there, thought Joe, and at it sixty years no less. Been doing it so long the brains have melted. Out of the gutter but as finished as ever.
Which army was that, Father?
Her Majesty’s own, what else. Before you jigs a former officer of light cavalry with several medals from the allies not to mention the Victoria Cross from herself.
He was bouncing back and forth now dropping a loaf in the oven, now plucking one out. Hopeless, thought Joe, totally melted. Sixty years of that could turn anyone’s brains to bread.
The Victoria Cross you say?
The very same, lad. Before I found my vocation I was so stupid I joined the army and off we went to the Crimea, where some deluded ward of God ordered a suicidal charge. My mount fell and broke its leg and I couldn’t keep up on foot, so it turned out I was one of the few survivors. That’s right my boy, 1854 was the year in question and the English public was furious. The army had to find some heroes who were still alive, that was me and in came the medals.
Joe shifted on his buttocks. His bottom hurt. Maybe that charge had been a disaster but sitting here was a disaster too. The old priest danced across the room and dropped a ribbon over his head. Joe stared dumbly at the cross. Once he had seen one on an English officer before the Easter Rebellion.
That’s it and there you are, young Joe, an official hero of Her Majesty’s forces and one of the few to survive the charge of the Light Brigade. Two years after that piece of madness in the Crimea, you see, Her Reigning Presence decided to honor God and herself by creating a new and highest honor for Britannic valor on the battlefield, named for herself, this Victoria Cross we now see around your neck. Her advisors naturally agreed with that and suggested the first VC ever to be go to the most decorated man presently in the forces. Who’s that? asked Victoria R. Right here on the rolls, said the advisors, checking, it appears to be none other than the illustrious hero who was loaded with Sardinian and Turkish and French medals only two years ago, our very own MacMael n mBo of Crimean fame. MacMael what? asked the queen, suddenly weary with the tasks of empire.
The old priest smiled.
No matter. Presently she recovered and they were able to find the last sober Irishman in the islands to teach her how to pronounce the name and the ceremony was held and there I stood, first recipient of the famous Victoria Cross. Well then a few years after that some worthy people established a retirement charity in Jerusalem for veterans, the Home for Crimean War Heroes it’s called, and since there aren’t many of those veterans around by now as you’d imagine, heroic or not, the quarters are more than spacious. In fact you’ll have it practically to yourself. Commands a decent view of part of the Old City and the bread’s excellent, I bake it myself. So lad, I’ll give you my old documents and that’s that.
That’s what? thought Joe. Were the old priest’s brains melted or not? He was twenty and the Franciscan must have been at least eighty-five.
Won’t apparent age be a problem then?
Not here, not in Jerusalem, answered the old priest merrily. Here young or old is about the same. Our Holy City, everyone’s Holy City, is an odd place as you’ll
come to see, not an everyday commonplace matter.
We ourselves, said Joe.
Exactly, and just the three of us in on the trick, you and me and God. And some trick it was, choosing those Poor Clares.
How’s that, Father?
The trip. This dreadful journey the Poor Clares had to make over here seeing and being seen by all manner of creatures and smelling all smells known to the species. That’s not their usual business is it? Not what they signed up for is it? No, direct intervention, that’s what it was.
What?
Oh you wore a bright green jacket and buckled shoes and you set your flat red hat at a properly jaunty angle, and you kept on the move as best you could but He knew trouble was coming and He said to Himself, The lad’s going to have to get out of Ireland and how’s he going to do it?
Well naturally He took a look in the files of the Vatican, which is where He goes when dealing with historical matters, and what does He find but an old request for some nuns to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Right you are, He says to Himself, that’s the job. Who’s ever going to suspect the terror of the Black and Tans sneaking out of the country disguised as a Poor Clare when everybody knows Poor Clares aren’t even allowed out of their convents? Who would even conceive of such a thing? So after He has His little laugh He arranges for the document to be found and processed, and after one hundred and twenty-five years the frightened Poor Clares do their duty and you’re saved.
Father, I didn’t realize any of it.
It’s true you didn’t but there you have it, said the old priest, who went dancing off into the corners of the bakery collecting a loaf in each of the four shapes and proceeded to pile them in the fugitive’s lap.
9 Haj Harun
They simply didn’t have time to believe a man who had been born a thousand years before Christ. Whose mind, moreover, teemed with facts no one else had ever heard.
ONE AFTERNOON AFTER HE had gone to live in the Home for Crimean War Heroes, O’Sullivan Beare was wandering in the Moslem Quarter when he found himself facing a blank wall at the end of an alley. Near him a wizened old Arab stood forlornly in a doorway. The Arab wore a faded yellow cloak and a rusting helmet tied in place with green ribbons. Unaware that anyone was there, the old man raised his cloak and pissed weakly into the alley.
O’Sullivan Beare jumped out of the way. The man’s legs seemed too spindly to support him. The heavy helmet rolled when he moved and crashed down on his nose. After dropping his cloak he sighed, readjusted the helmet and once more stared sadly ahead at nothing.
Just as the baking priest said, thought Joe. He was right as right about Jerusalem and here’s another one off in a different bog. He stepped back and saluted.
Beg pardon sir, could you tell me what campaign the helmet’s from?
The old man was puzzled. He stirred and the decomposing metal released a shower of rust in his eyes. He wiped away his tears and the helmet went awry again.
What’s that?
The helmet. Which campaign might it be?
The First Crusade.
Jaysus and that must have been a hard one.
The old Arab lowered his head as if expecting a blow. He wept quietly.
Ridicule and defeat, abuse and humiliation, I’ve never expected anything else.
Oh no sir, no insult intended.
The eyes drifted in the direction of O’Sullivan Beare, the voice less far away now.
What? You don’t mean you believe me when I say I fought in the Crusades?
No reason not to.
There isn’t? But no one has believed anything I’ve said for a very long time.
Sorry to hear that sir.
Not for over two thousand years.
Dreadfully sorry sir.
And I wasn’t on the Crusaders’ side, I have to tell you that. I was defending my city against the invader.
I know how that is.
So naturally I was on the losing side. When you’re defending Jerusalem you’re always on the losing side.
I know how that is too. Terrible position to be in sir.
The old Arab tried to focus his eyes more closely.
See here, why do you keep calling me sir? No one’s shown me any respect for centuries.
Because you’re nobility and it’s only proper.
The Arab made an effort to stand more erect, which he did for a few moments despite the arthritis crippling his back. His face showed surprise and confusion and a tiny hint of pride.
That was at least as far back as the reign of Ashurnasirpal. How did you guess?
Your eyes sir.
It’s still there?
As clear as the last muezzin.
The Arab looked even more surprised and also embarrassed.
Don’t call me sir, my name’s Haj Harun. Now please tell me why you believe what I say instead of beating me when I say it?
What else would I be doing? Do you recognize this uniform?
No, I’ve never been too good with uniforms.
Well it’s genuine Her Majesty’s Forces, 1854, and I’m only twenty years old but I’m a hero of that war, here you behold the medals. And this special one was given to me by Victoria R herself although I was only a year old when she died. So there we are and that’s Jerusalem for you in 1920, me back from the Crimea and you back from the Crusades, and as one veteran of the wars to another I thought I’d look you up.
The Arab studied the Victoria Cross. He smiled.
You’re Prester John, aren’t you. I was sure you’d get to Jerusalem sooner or later and I’ve been waiting for you. Please come right in so we can talk.
He disappeared through the doorway. For a moment Joe lingered in the alley undecided, but the sun was hot and his uniform heavy, so he followed. The first thing he saw was what appeared to be a bronze sundial set into the wall, a large ornately-cast piece. Attached to it near the ceiling was a set of chimes.
From Baghdad, said Haj Harun, noticing him eyeing the sundial. The fifth Abbasid caliphate. I used to deal in antiquities before I dedicated myself to defending the Holy City and lost everything I owned.
I see.
It was a portable sundial once.
I see.
Monstrously heavy but somehow it didn’t seem to bother him. He wore it on his hip.
Did he now. And who might that have been?
I can’t remember his name. He rented my back room one afternoon to do some writing and gave me that in appreciation.
Rented it for just one afternoon?
I think that’s all it was but he got a good deal done anyway. Then he packed up all his papers and sent them by camel caravan down to Jaffa where there was a ship waiting to transport the caravan to Venice.
And why not, I say. In good weather Venice would be a natural destination for a camel caravan.
Suddenly the chimes began to strike. They pealed twenty-four times, paused, pealed twenty-four times again and once more. Joe fingered his Victoria Cross uneasily.
Jaysus they shouldn’t be doing that now.
Doing what?
Striking off three days just like that.
Why not?
They just shouldn’t that’s all, time’s time.
Time is, said Haj Harun airily. But the sun doesn’t fall on the dial every day, sometimes it’s cloudy and then the dial has to make up.
Haj Harun went over and sat in a decrepit barber’s chair. Near the door was a small press for squeezing fruit with a rotting pomegranate beside it. Next to the barber’s chair was a stand holding a bottle of murky water, a pan for spitting in, an old toothbrush with flattened bristles and an empty tube of Czech toothpaste. He picked at the moldy chair as he gloomily surveyed the room.
I went into the toothbrushing business at exactly the wrong time. Very few people find their way to the end of this alley and anyway, brushing teeth hasn’t been the same since the war. Before the war you might have done well in it, the Turkish soldiers had awful teeth. But since they left an
d the English soldiers came it’s been hopeless. Their teeth are certainly just as bad but they won’t let an Arab brush them.
Bloody imperialists.
They also won’t have them brushed in public. The Turks never minded but the English aren’t the same.
Bloody hypocrites.
A wail rose down the alley. Haj Harun pulled his helmet down and braced himself. A moment later a crowd of shrieking men and women burst into the shop and raced back and forth clawing at the air. The Arab stared fixedly over their heads trying to maintain his dignity, and in a few seconds the looters had snatched up every movable object in the room and swept out the door. Gone were the pomegranate and press and barber’s chair with its equipment, even the empty tube of Czech toothpaste. Haj Harun moaned softly and shrank back against the wall, yellow and emaciated and half dead from hunger.
Jaysus, who was that mob?
The Arab shuddered. He managed to wave his hand in resignation.
Mercantile elements of the citizenry, it’s better to take no notice of them. They come to raid me sometimes. They want things to sell.
Bloody outrage.
There are worse. Look here.
He opened his mouth. Most of his teeth were gone and those that were left were broken off near the gums.
Rocks. They throw them at me.
Bloody shameful.
And these scars from their fingernails. They have very sharp fingernails.
Bloody terrible.
All true, but I suppose we have to accept certain troubles when going from Ceca to Mecca. All the women I ever married were dreadful.
Do you tell me that. Why did you marry them then?
That’s so, but of course they didn’t have an easy time of it either. You know that don’t you?
O’Sullivan Beare nodded and walked into the back room of the shop. After the assault by the mob of Jerusalem mercantilists only two objects were left there, both far too heavy to move. He gazed at them thoughtfully.
An antique Turkish safe about four feet high, narrow, shaped like a filing cabinet or an impregnable sentry box.
A giant stone scarab about four feet long, a sly smile carved into its flat face.
Sinai Tapestry (The Jerusalem Quartet Book 1) Page 14
