The Black Rood

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  They searched the room, sweeping the corners with torchlight and, finding nothing, swiftly moved on. I allowed myself a low sigh of relief, and sat back a moment to catch my breath and reflect on how best to make our retreat. “Now we go,” I whispered to Wazim.

  “What about the Holy Cross?” he asked.

  “The search is over,” I told him. “Here—give me your hand.”

  In the darkness, I found his hand and guided it to the scarred length of timber cradled in my arms. Like a blind man, his fingers traced the deep-grooved lines and ridges of the ancient wood, and tears formed in his eyes, and mine, as, each in our own way, we honored the sacred relic.

  The voices of the Templars and Fida’in echoed in the chamber below, and my thoughts turned once again to escape. Of the few courses open to me, I determined that the vent shaft offered the best chance of evading discovery and capture. The ascent was steep, but not impossibly so. I soon found that I could crawl up the incline slowly on hands and knees, pushing the rood before me.

  This I did, and a short time later Wazim and I had reached the secret passage above. Although it was as dark as the deepest cavern, I smelled the night-blooming flowers in the breeze from the vertical shaft and knew without a doubt where we were. Standing with my back to the shaft, the tunnel opened out to the right and left. The passage to the right led back to the cistern and the ash traps below the kitchens; the left-hand passage led to the underground canal.

  The canal would take us to the river, thereby avoiding not only the palace and any lurking Templars or Fida’in, but also the overcrowded streets with their rioting throngs. This, I decided, was the way we would go.

  Hefting the rood piece onto my shoulder, we started off—one blind man following the other. Wazim walked before me with my bundle of rolled papyrus scrolls slung across his chest, and I followed, keeping my left hand outstretched, my fingertips brushing his back—more for comfort than need, since the passage led in only one direction, without divisions, branches, or turnings; there was no chance of becoming lost.

  Thus, we made our way to the secret stream, stumbling now and then, but proceeding with good speed. The sacred relic was heavy and unwieldy, but after carrying Bohemond’s head all that time, I had learned how to bear a burden without tiring myself unduly. And, after a time, I found I did not greatly mind the darkness; although I was blind as a stone, I knew the canal lay just ahead, and that there was a boat waiting to take us to the Nile, where at long last I would be reunited with Padraig and the others.

  In a little while, the downward trend of the passage increased and we came to the first of the series of low steps—first one, and then two, and so on, until I could hear the ripple and splash of the stream ahead. We checked our pace, and continued with greater caution, arriving at the water’s edge at last. Passing the rood to Wazim, I knelt down on the last step and felt along the edge of the wall for the ring to which the boat was tethered. After much fumbling, I found the ring and then set about untying the rope.

  It was knotted tight and there was no loosening it. The braided cord, however, was old, and scuffing it against the brickwork of the passage it soon frayed to the place where, using all my strength, I was able to pull it apart.

  Wrapping the end of the rope around my hand, I pulled the boat to the steps and instructed Wazim to lay the rood down on the path behind me, and get into the small craft. “I will steady it for you,” I told him. “When you are ready, I will hand you the rood.”

  Slowly, and with exaggerated care, we settled Wazim in the boat, and I handed him the rood, telling him to hold it upright and clenched between his knees, keeping one hand on it at all times. Then it was my turn; I was able to get in without capsizing our vessel, and allowing the stream to turn us, I released my hold, pushing away as the bow came around.

  The flow of water was not fast and the boat glided away slowly. It was strange, floating along in utter darkness. But for the gentle stirring of air on our faces, we might have been sitting completely still in the water. From time to time, I dipped my hand in the stream to test that we were indeed moving along with the flow. Once we bumped against the side of the canal—which startled both of us, and caused Wazim to cry out in alarm. I was able to push away without incident and from then on kept one hand out so as to fend off another collision.

  Unfortunately, the damage was already done. The boat was old, the wood rotten, and the impact, though mild, had loosened part of the hull and caused a seam to open, allowing water to seep into the boat. The first I knew of it was when I felt my feet getting wet; I put down my hand and realized the bottom of the boat was awash.

  “Stay very still,” I warned Wazim. “The leak is slight, and we may yet reach our destination before the hull fills with water.”

  That was not to be, however. Soon water was sloshing over our ankles. Bailing was futile. Although I tried for a while, cupping my hands and flipping it out by the handful, I could not keep pace with the rising water. “Can you swim, Wazim?” I asked.

  “No, master,” he replied, his voice taking on a quaver of concern.

  I assured him that I could swim well enough for both of us and that there was nothing to worry about. I was still offering this assurance when the boat struck the canal wall again and the seam opened wider. I felt the water rising, and said, “Listen carefully, Wazim. I am going to get out of the boat and into the water. Stay just as you are, and do not move. I will hold to the side of the boat and all will be well.”

  This was far too optimistic, however; the darkness complicated everything—even simple movements became maneuvers fraught with difficulty. In the end, I succeeded in sliding over the side without overturning our fragile craft. The water was not overly cold, and I reckoned that by removing my weight from the boat, we just might make it to the river before the vessel sank.

  We struck the side two more times in quick succession, and the second bump spun the boat around. Despite being in the water, I was able to keep the vessel from overturning, and perhaps we would have made it to our destination intact if the current had not picked up markedly at the same time. I could not see what caused the stream to move more quickly, but thought it must be that the walls of the canal had narrowed.

  And then, in the distance, I heard the rushing splash of falling water. Not wishing to alarm Wazim, I said, “I think it would be a good idea to join me now.”

  “I am happy to remain in the boat, Da’ounk,” he replied, his voice trembling in the darkness.

  “I think you may have no choice, Wazim. I want you to hand the rood to me first, and then ease over the side. We can hold to the rail. The boat will float a long time yet, even with water in it.”

  I could feel the stream beginning to swirl around me as the current strengthened. The rushing sound grew louder. In the dark, it would be impossible to judge the severity of the drop, or even to know how far ahead it lay. I kept this to myself, however, as I did not wish to frighten Wazim the more. “Here,” I said, tapping the rail with my hand, “let me take the rood, and then I will help you over the side.”

  Muttering in some incomprehensible tongue, he passed the holy relic to me, and then prepared to ease himself over the side. Gripping the side of the boat, he made to stand and at that moment I felt the bow veer sharply away; the boat struck the wall of the canal and poor anxious Wazim was thrown off balance. He gave out a terrified yelp and released my hand as he fell back into the boat.

  I heard the dry crack of rotten wood. There was a shuddering splash and the fragile craft began to break apart. Grappling with chunks of wreckage, I shouted for Wazim and made for the sound of his thrashing and coughing.

  All at once the water surged around me. I felt the floor come up sharply beneath my feet, and floundered for a foothold. Chunks of stone scraped my knees and shins as I was dragged forward by the force of the water. I shouted for Wazim to keep his head up, and then felt a rising swell like that of the open sea as I was swept over the falls.

  Holding ti
ght to the rood, I plunged sideways and struck a jumble of stone blocks on the bottom of the streambed. I was tumbled along beneath the surface of the water, pummeled by pieces of wreckage as the ruined boat came sliding over the falls. The Black Rood slipped from my hands as I was rolled over again and again by the force of the water.

  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.

  FORTY-THREE

  OUR 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.