The Waste Land

by Simon Acland

As the way led up into the mountains it became colder, and we soon found ourselves riding through snow. I knew that Alamut must be getting close, for many wings of geese passed overhead in their V formations, doubtless towards the inland sea that lay just to the north of the Assassin stronghold. Mohammed’s colleagues normally rode in front in silence, but now they jabbered excitedly to each other, pointing upwards. A peregrine flew high above one of the flights of geese, and then stooped like a falling stone on the rearmost bird which lagged behind the others. Keen hawkers, they stopped to watch the contest. The falcon’s aim was nearly true, for it struck the goose’s neck a glancing blow that knocked it down to the ground not far from where we stood. But perhaps scared by the human presence, perhaps already well-gorged, the bird of prey did not follow up its attack and instead spiralled back up out of sight. We rode towards where the goose had landed, thinking of a pleasant change of diet from the porridge that had been our staple for so many days. But its fall must have been cushioned by the snow, for at our approach it recovered and flapped back up again on its heavy grey wings. All it left in the snow was the imprint of its body and three drops of blood. As the blood sank into the white background, it brought to my mind the lovely colour of Blanche’s perfect complexion. I sat there on my horse in a reverie until Mohammed nudged me and pointed to the other two riders now far ahead. I dragged my mind back to reality and followed.

  And so it was that I came to Alamut the second time. In turmoil and trepidation I entered that long narrow valley and found it cold and grey, the crops long since taken in to winter stores. The eagle’s eyrie perched there on its forbidding crag. I knew that we were watched, and imagined Hasan staring down from his nest. Our horses climbed slowly up the twisting road, their eagerness to be home constrained by the steep gradient. I also found myself pulling back on my reins, now unconsciously trying to put off my arrival. But with inexorable inevitability the pointed gate approached. The door swung open under its carved inscription and in we rode.

  We dismounted.

  “Now,” said Mohammed, “give me the book. I must deliver it to my father.”

  He reached out his hand towards me. I stood there frozen. My friend looked tense.

  “Come on, the book. Give it to me.”

  I made great play of feeling for it under my cloak. I watched Mohammed relax and eyed the curved sheath that he wore at the front of his belt. I threw myself at him, grabbing him around the neck and spinning him round to face away from me. In one fluent movement I pulled out the dagger that he had held to my throat so many times, and held it to his.

  “Stand back.” My order stopped Mohammed’s comrades in their tracks. “One more step and your master’s son is dead. Back off. Further. Which of you wants to be the one to account to the old man for that? You know that I have no fear of death. It cannot harm me. A bit further – that’s right.

  “Mohammed, my friend. I do not want to have to hurt you. But did you think that I am stupid enough to just hand the book over to you? Did you think I would I trust your father to free Blanche once he had the book? Would you?

  “Now. This is what I want. I want fresh horses saddled and made ready. I want Blanche. I will ride back out of the castle with her, and with you. When I am a safe distance away, I will give the book to you. You will be able to ride back to the castle; I will ride away to my new life. Do you agree?”

  I pressed the dagger a little harder against Mohammed’s throat and I could feel his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed nervously.

  “You know you can trust me. I saved your life once. I have nothing to gain by killing you.”

  “Hugh, please. My father will never agree to those terms. I cannot release Blanche. I do not even know where he is keeping her. He will insist on seeing the book; he will never let you go until he has seen it and made sure it is what he wants.”

  “If he must see it he can come here and see it.”

  Mohammed laughed grimly. “He won’t. He will refuse. Since coming to Alamut he has never left his rooms. Once or twice he has been up to his roof. He will never come here to you. Never. Think what such humiliation would do to his da’is’ faith in him. He relies on their fear and absolute respect for his power.”

  “I don’t care. Send him a messenger.”

  “I’ll send him a messenger, but I know what he will say. He would sacrifice me rather than risk losing the book and making a fool of himself.”

  My voice cracked.

  “Send him a messenger, damn it. Those are my terms. Tell him.”

  “Very well.” I felt Mohammed shrug. “Ismail, go to my father. Tell him what the Franj wants. Tell him that he will lose his son if he does not agree.”

  Ismail – one of the da’is who had accompanied us – hurried off. I backed against the nearest wall, dragging Mohammed with me, and leant against it to wait, glaring at the hostile semi-circle of Assassins in front of us. Their weapons were drawn, threatening, but none of them dared to approach lest they caused Mohammed’s throat to be cut like a sheep. I felt Mohammed’s weight sagging against me. I felt his desperation.

  We stood there in silence for I do not know how long. Then I heard the approach of running footsteps, and Ismail burst out of the keep back into the courtyard.

  “The Master will not come.”

  Mohammed grunted, and I felt him slump down a little more as if in despair.

  “Instead, he says you must go to him. He will look at the book, make sure it is what he wants. Then, if it is, he will give you Blanche. He guarantees you a safe passage out of Alamut. Anyway, you will still have Mohammed as hostage. He worries about his son. He told me to say that his son has served him well.”

  Ismail paused, as if he had not said the words quite right.

  “No, I’m sorry. He told me to say that he loves his son, with whom he is well pleased.”

  I twitched at the familiar words, and felt Mohammed lighten in my clutch as he reacted to this news of his father’s love.

  “There is more. He told me to say that if you kill Mohammed he will take the book anyway. He may find it hard to kill you, but you will never escape with Blanche. And he can make her suffer. Oh yes, he can make her suffer. He told me to make sure that you understood how much he can make her suffer.”

  I stood in silence, thinking. ‘If I do this, he does that. If he does that, I do this. And then he does that. And then…’ It was like some diabolical game in which I had not had enough practice.

  “Very well.” Even to me, my voice sounded too loud, too high. “If the Old Man of the Mountains will not come to me and Mohammed, Mohammed and I had better go to the Old Man of the Mountains.”

  Now I was no longer taking any of Mohammed’s weight as his hope lifted him. I felt his movement and was angry.

  “Very well. Before we go, Mohammed, tell them about me. Make sure that they understand. Tell them that I cannot die. Make them understand that any attack on me in the corridors of your castle will fail. You will die. They will die. But I will live. So, no guards, no ambushes – they are pointless. We will walk together, you and I, to see your father. Nobody will interfere with us, and if they do…you will die. Those are my terms.”

  “It is true. He cannot die. My father’s magic has seen to that. It is true, Ismail, isn’t it? Tell them too. You saw him swing from that tree and survive. Most men would have died from the beating they gave him, let alone choking in that noose for hours.”

  Ismail acknowledged what he had seen, making the sign against the evil eye. Mohammed continued.

  “So stand back and let us pass. That is what the Master wants. We must obey him.”

  “Back further, back,” I barked at the ring of da’is. “Go down to the gate and stay there. If I see you move I cut Mohammed’s throat.”

  They obeyed slowly and sullenly. When they were a safe distance off I began to back towards the keep, part dragging, part carrying Mohammed, my left hand around his belt and the dagger in my right always against his neck.

>   We passed through the gate into the keep and I made Mohammed close it and lower the heavy bar to secure it. Without releasing my hold, I now pushed him ahead of me through the labyrinthine corridors that led towards his father’s chamber.

  We rounded a corner. A few paces off stood two of the familiar white-lanced guards. They lowered their weapons and made as if to come towards us.

  “Tell them to back off,” I screamed. “Tell them.”

  Mohammed cried out in pain and alarm. I felt a trickle of blood running down the blade of the dagger where in my anxiety I had broken his skin.

  “Back off, back off for the sake of Allah,” he commanded, his voice shaking. “Otherwise I am dead.”

  The guards hesitated but then turned and disappeared down the corridor.

  And so we came to Hasan’s well-remembered door. This time I disdained the long talonned fingers of its brass knocker.

  “Open it, Mohammed.”

  He reached forward and swung the door open. I pushed him into the room. Hasan, tall, turbaned, stood as I had seen him first, gazing out of his great window over the sharp mountains beyond. He was flanked on either side by two guards, who stood facing us, their spears at the ready. Anxiously I glanced round the room for a slender figure with blonde hair. She was not there.

  Hasan swung round, the yellow circles of his hooded eyes burning with fierce intensity.

  “So you have the gospel?” he said with greed and quiet menace. He put out his hand. “Give it to me.”

  I felt some strange force almost compelling me to reach inside my tunic.

  “Let me see it. I must check you have made no mistake and that it is the book I want.”

  I pulled myself together.

  “Bring me Blanche. Then you get the book, not before. Then I leave, with Blanche and Mohammed as hostage.”

  Just before Hasan spoke again, I caught the glimmer of cruelty in his eagle’s eye. Every sinew in my body tensed.

  “That would be difficult. That I cannot do. You see, she died in childbirth these two months past.”

  A cold numbness started in my stomach and spread from there throughout my body.

  “What? No. It cannot be. What about the child?” I asked automatically.

  “The child is dead too.”

  And then my chilled brain began to work, to calculate.

  “Just two months ago, no surely not. I have been gone for almost two years. One year and two months you must mean.”

  A mirthless smile split Hasan’s sharp face.

  “Do you really think that you were the only one?”

  He threw back his head and laughed cruelly.

  “When my da’is are initiated here, I drug them and let them wake in Paradise. They find themselves in a world of pleasure, surrounded by beautiful courtesans and every luxury. After they have enjoyed bliss for a while, every pleasure they desire, they are drugged again. Next time they wake, so it seems to them, they are back in the bitter reality of this cruel world of ours. Their foretaste of Paradise removes all fear of death. Indeed, they can hardly wait for death to return them there. The lovely Blanche was one of Paradise’s main attractions. I think you can yourself understand why.”

  “You devil, how did you make her do it? What did you do to her?”

  Hasan’s cold smile frosted forth again.

  “Oh no, we did not have to force her…she was very willing. Very willing indeed. It seems that her talent for the art of love was matched only by her appetite for it. Did you really think that she treated you differently to the others?”

  I screamed obscenities and leapt forward, my dagger outstretched, to strike down my tormentor. Hasan laughed in triumph.

  “Seize him now!” The four guards grabbed me and held me back, although it took all their strength to do so. I twisted and wrenched in their grip. Try as I might, I could not wrest myself free. Behind me, I sensed a movement. Mohammed brought some heavy object crashing down onto my head, and I lost consciousness.

  When I came to my senses I found myself back in the small stone turret room where I had started my first sojourn at Alamut. Empty, broken, drained by anger, bleached by sorrow, I stared through the window slit at the vicious pointed mountains frozen in the distance.

  ‘If only I had died on the wall at Antioch. If only I had remained locked in my sepulchre in Jerusalem. If only Baldwin’s noose had done its proper job. Anything would be better than this bitter pain of betrayal.’

  Now I stand alone, staring down the long dark tunnel of time. The knowledge I have gained has shivered all the beliefs on which I once relied. The love that replaced those beliefs has been utterly shattered by betrayal. All I have left to me is time…

  EPILOGUE

  The Fellows of the College of Saint Lazarus were gathered once more in the Senior Common Room. A new Honorary Fellow, the Best-Selling Author, sat proudly in their midst. The room was full of light and air, touched by the evening sun of a perfect English summer’s day. The soothing smell of newly mown grass wafted through the generous Georgian windows.

  Leaning forward in his comfortable wing chair, the Master looked almost avuncular as he patted proudly the pile of gaudy paperbacks on the beeswaxed table beside him.

  “Well, they may be a little slimmer than the volumes we are accustomed to send to be published from this ancient college, but they certainly sell a few more copies, eh.”

  A polite titter of laughter greeted his sally, and partially disguised the discomfort on the Fellows’ faces. A cloud passed over the sun outside and suddenly the room was cold and gloomy, the gleam banished from the dark oak panelling.

  The Chaplain launched the first assault.

  “I really don’t think I can live with all that Bible parody stuff. And the book still seems to me to raise Islam above Christianity. Not that it has much good to say about either religion. I am still absolutely sure the reasons for the First Crusade were not as venal as they are portrayed.”

  The History Don attacked from a different direction.

  “Actually I would stand by my earlier statement that most of the historical facts and the chronology are pretty accurate. I’m impressed by some of the research and the contemporary colour. It’s the characters that are distorted beyond all recognition. To portray Godfrey, such a saintly knight, as a drunken lecher, and his brother Baldwin, the first great King of Jerusalem, as some sort of sadistic monster…”

  He shook his head in dismay and as his voice faded away the Professor of English took advantage of the breach in the conversation.

  “I know that I have had a go at improving some of the prose. But it is still pretty crude in many places.”

  “And whatever you say about Eliot blending Roman myth with the grail legend in the real Waste Land, I maintain that the way Ovid has been used in the story is both far-fetched and disrespectful,” charged the Classics Fellow.

  “My issue is that there are just too many literary references and too much history,” gloomed the Best-Selling Author. “God knows I’ve fought a few battles to keep the thing readable.”

  The Master’s sharp voice stabbed into the room.

  “Well, I’d stop complaining if I were you. We are top of the best-seller list. The College coffers are in better shape than they have been for a long while. What is more, we have not come to the end of our friend Hugh de Verdon’s memoirs. We can’t leave the poor fellow languishing miserably in his cell after all he has been through. We must get started on the next volume.

  “In memory of our Modern Languages Department, I have come up with a title. It will be called ‘The Flowers of Evil’ – ‘Les Fleurs du Mal’. Rather apt for the bilious state of mind our hero must now be in, I thought.”

  The Professor of English’s eyes lit up. “Master, if I may say so, that is inspired. The cross-reference to The Waste Land is a stroke of genius. ‘Hypocrite Lecteur – mon semblable – mon frère’. Absolutely brilliant.”

  The Best-Selling Author groaned under his breath. But the c
loud outside passed and suddenly the Senior Common Room filled again with light.

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