by R. A. Jones
He pulled his battered helmet off and dropped it to the ground. Next came his chain mail; wherever he went from here, he would do so afoot and the weight and heat of the armor would hinder him too greatly.
He pried a blood-encrusted scimitar from the rigid fingers of one dead Seljuk, favoring its lightness over the weighty heft of his own broadsword.
A search of the men and horses yielded nothing of subsistence save for a partially filled water skin; it was likely that the Crusaders’ packhorses had joined with the Seljuk chargers in running away. With the bladder slung over his back and purloined blade in hand, Windham stood for a moment longer to offer a prayer that God show mercy on all the brave souls that had perished for their beliefs this day, both Christian and pagan.
He then set out on foot alone into the wilderness. He took no note of which direction he was following: One offered as much or as little hope as did any other.
Before beginning his trek, he had torn strips of clothing from the dead and used them to patch and wrap the wounds to his leg and back; before long, however, he could feel blood beginning to seep through the wrappings.
To distract his mind, he began to count each plodding step he took. By the time he reached a thousand, he had grown tired of this game.
Pausing to take a small sip of water, swirling it about in his mouth before swallowing, he turned to look back in the direction from which he had come.
Half a dozen vultures, most certainly including the one which had hoped to dine on him, were making lazy circles in the cloudless sky above the valley.
Not wishing to dwell on thoughts of what their arrival presaged, and seeking to draw comfort from the knowledge that his poor men were beyond feeling the indignity that awaited them, Windham resumed walking and never looked back again.
As the afternoon progressed, the sun beat down mercilessly upon him. His steps grew shorter and slower. When he hungrily sucked the last drop of liquid from the water skin, he tossed the bladder aside.
Seeing the ground before him starting to rise up some thirty feet to a small knoll, he stopped. Hands on knees, head bent, he sucked in air heavily. Certain that beyond the ridge he would only find more nothingness, he felt a momentary temptation to simply lie down and die where he was.
Dismissing the very thought as being unworthy of a Knight of the Sacred Heart, he steeled himself and began the brief but torturous climb.
The last few feet to the top of the knoll were made on hands and knees.
He dropped flat on the ground to let strength and breath return to his quivering body. As he drew in a deep breath, a faint but familiar odor tantalized his nostrils.
It smelled like water.
Eyes already swollen nearly shut squinted even more as he gazed out ahead of him. Not far from the base of the ridge stood a small ring of trees. And where there were trees, there might well indeed be water as well.
He heard the bleating of sheep even before he saw the small herd of them weaving in and out among the trees. Walking along behind them, staff in hand, came a small shepherd boy in native garb.
His tongue was too dry to form words, so Windham pushed himself to his feet and began to wave his arms to draw the shepherd’s attention. He continued doing so as he stumbled down the ridge.
He may have smiled when the shepherd at last glanced up and saw him. Falling as much as walking, Windham kept descending.
The shepherd quickly walked up to meet him, and the Crusader at last saw the reason for the herder’s small stature. It was not a boy at all who was climbing toward him – but a young woman.
Her billowing white clothing left nothing of her exposed save for a small portion of her face, from just below her mouth to just above her large, almond-shaped eyes.
He had never seen anyone more beautiful in his life.
Nor did he see anything at all in the next moment, as his eyes rolled up in their sockets and he again lost consciousness.
His limp body slid down the ridge for a short way, stopping at the feet of the shepherdess.
Looking about to make sure there was no one else about who might pose a threat, the girl knelt down. Two fingers laid along the side of the fallen man’s neck told her he was alive.
She allowed her fingers to trace upward along his jaw and the side of his face, brushing back his hair.
She knew what had to be done.
This time when Windham regained consciousness, he was not met by the sight of avian death.
Rather, it was a kindly, avuncular face looking down at him. It was that of an older man: His tightly curled hair and beard were heavily laced with gray. Wrinkles creased his forehead and the corners of a mouth whose smile revealed teeth that almost gleamed against the darkness of his skin.
“Where am I?” Windham asked in a voice that surprised him by its weakness.
“Ah!” the old man exclaimed. “You speak my language, good sir!”
“A little, yes.”
“It is good for men to be able to speak together,” the old man said. “As for where you are: Why, this is my home.”
Windham did not try to rise from the simple bed upon which he lay, but turned his head to survey his surroundings. He appeared to be inside a small hut constructed of stones, with a thatch roof. It was simple but clean and orderly: not just a house, but a home.
“How did I get here?” he asked.
“We brought you here.”
“‘We’?”
“My daughter and I. You remember her, don’t you? The vision of loveliness at whose feet you swooned.”
The old man chuckled lightly.
“She came and fetched me, and together we were able to bring you here. We washed your wounds and wrapped them with fresh cloth while you slept and regained your strength.”
“May I know the name of my saviors?”
“Saviors? You make it sound as if you were found by gods, instead of two simple shepherds.”
Windham smiled weakly.
“Shepherds with names?”
“Oh! Of course. I forgot your question! My name is Hamoud. And this,” he said, leaning back away from Windham and settling back in a chair next to the bed, “is my daughter Noora.”
As Hamoud moved back, Windham could see beyond him. The woman he had seen earlier tending the flock of sheep was standing by a small fireplace, ladling something from a large pot into a bowl.
Turning from the fire, she approached the bed, carrying the bowl in both hands. Her father smiled at her as she bent and handed the bowl to Windham.
“Thank you,” he said.
Noora said nothing in return, but he thought he saw the hint of a smile brighten her lovely face.
Gingerly, the Crusader spooned some of the thick broth into his mouth. The taste of lamb, with which he was familiar, mixed with vegetables and spices foreign yet tasty. As he swallowed, its warmth seemed to fill his entire upper body.
“It’s delicious.”
“Isn’t it? Wizardry in the kitchen is but one of the many gifts Noora received from her mother, Allah rest her soul.”
Hamoud leaned forward and winked at Windham.
“Thankfully, the only thing she inherited from me was her good looks!”
The shepherd laughed loudly at his own little joke, slapping his thigh with a palm of a hand.
Windham laughed along with him, then spooned more of the rich broth into his mouth. Then he grew slightly pensive.
“You’ve been most kind,” he said. “Both of you.”
“No, no. Not at all, good sir. Not at all. The Prophet, praised be his name, taught us that charity benefits both parties.”
“The Prophet,” Windham repeated softly. “You are a Mohammedan, of course.”
“Oh, most surely.”
“And just as surely, you know that I am not.”
“Ah. Yes. Your pale skin rather gives you away, don’t you know. Are you one of the Christians?”
“I am.”
“Well, we’re all children of the B
ook, eh?”
“I suppose,” Windham replied softly. “Still, I suspect you also know why we came here to your land.”
“Oh, stories are told. Even way out here.”
“Then why would a pagan want to help a Christian?”
“Why not, my friend?” the herder replied. “After all, we all come from the earth. We all return to the earth. In between ... we all share the Earth.”
He leaned forward, smiling warmly and patting Windham on the leg.
“Why can’t we share it in peace?”
CHAPTER XXIX
Bithynia, 1099 AD
Aaron Windham sat atop a small boulder, gazing out over his flock of sheep.
As he still did quite often, he reflected on the life that he had chosen to lead for the past three years. As he partook of the bread and cheese Noora had prepared for his lunch, washing it down with cool droughts of water, he soaked in the natural beauty spread out on all sides of him and enjoyed the peace of mind and body it brought him.
He had never for one moment had cause to regret the decision he had made while recovering from his wounds. Taking old Hamoud’s words to heart, Windham had chosen to stay here in the wilderness. Life since then had been full of love and contentment, in large part because Noora had agreed to become his wife.
Stories and whispers of stories still reached even this isolated land: stories of his former comrades who had followed in his footsteps on their own crusade. After facing fierce resistance, the European knights had succeeded in seizing Jerusalem itself.
They were welcome to it, Windham thought. No so-called holy city could be more sacred than the vaulted sky above his head or the tranquil life he had forged for himself.
He was content, and wanted nothing more.
He should have known it wouldn’t last.
The bawling of a young kid pulled him from his reverie: He knew the sounds of each of his wooly charges, and this one sounded in distress. Staff in hand, he hurried toward the sound.
A toothy smile shone from the darkness of his beard. Near a rocky outcropping on the side of a hill, the kid in trouble had gotten its hind legs tangled in the branches of a bramble bush.
“Shh, shh, shh,” Windham said soothingly, gripping the kid in his callused hands. “It’ll be all right,” he assured the little one, stroking its head gently.
Eased by the sound of its shepherd’s voice, the kid ceased its struggles, though it continued to bawl pitifully.
“Yes, yes,” Windham said. “Life is cruel.”
Using both hands, he softly pulled the kid’s hind legs free of their entanglement, at which it skittered away quickly. It appreciated the help of the shepherd, but doubtless still required that extra bit of tender, loving care it would receive from its mother.
Windham rose to follow in the kid’s footsteps, but stopped when a jagged shadow just beyond the bramble bush caught his eye.
The shadow was actually a crack in the side of the rocky face of stone rising above him. A closer look indicated it might be more than a mere break, but rather the opening to a tunnel leading into the side of the hill.
A curiosity perhaps to be explored on another day. But not this day. He turned his back to it and started toward his flock.
“Come.”
The voice that seemed to call to him was barely more than a whisper, yet seemed at the same time to carry the power of thunder with it.
He looked all about him, but saw no one.
“Hello?” he called.
Nothing.
Perhaps the “voice” he thought he heard was no more than a phantom of the wind whistling around and through the rocks. He shrugged and again turned his feet toward his waiting sheep.
“Come.”
The voice called to him even louder and more urgently than before. This time, he could tell it was no trick of the wind.
It had risen from inside the tunnel.
More curious than fearful, Windham eased his way around the bramble bush and thrust his shoulders into the tunnel entrance. Only then did he discover that there was a light source within it. Very faint and low, given off by veins of glowing green that laced through the rock face of the tunnel, but just bright enough that he could see to make his way.
The roof of the tunnel was so low that he found it easier to traverse by dropping to his hands and knees. His hands fell only on cool stone; there was no evidence of plant litter or animal waste. Feeling reasonably sure he needn’t fear bumping into any disgruntled current resident, he moved quickly through the passageway.
The way seemed lighter ahead, and the tunnel grew ‘til he could again rise safely to his full height and continue onward. The tunnel curved at nearly a right angle, leading him into a larger, higher cavern.
Windham gasped in amazement. The phosphorescent elements that lent illumination to the tunnel were in even more abundant supply here.
It seemed to originate from a large central spot at the apex of the cavern roof. Its veins spread outward and spilled down along every wall, snaking back and forth in intricate patterns of luminescent lacework.
A soft tinkling sound drew his attention to the back wall of the cavern. From small gaps in the rock, three small streams of water cascaded downward, collecting in a small pool on the floor of the cave.
The pool, like the streams of water flowing into it, glowed with the same verdant light as the veins within the cavern walls.
Walking to the edge of the pool and looking down, Windham noticed that the water within it seemed barely to ripple, even at the spots where the three cascades fell into its face.
“Drink.”
The command came from the same deep voice that had led him to this spot. Here in the cavern, it seemed to come from everywhere and from nowhere. Its source was still unseen, unknowable.
Why he should feel compelled to follows the voice’s directive, he couldn’t say. Yet compelled he was, very slowly lowering himself to his knees, at the edge of the pool. Cupping both hands, he dipped them into the water.
Or perhaps it wasn’t really water at all. It felt thicker, more viscous than any liquid he had ever encountered, even more than honey. His hands didn’t even feel wet from coming into contact with it.
Still, he brought his hands up to his lips, draining them of the fluid in a single large gulp.
The water seemed to turn instantly into liquid fire, and he clutched at his neck. His throat constricted, making it hard to either swallow or breathe. His eyes rolled back in his head and he fell over heavily onto the floor of the cavern, as if he had been struck dead.
But death could not possibly have been so filled with sights and sounds as was the trance-like state in which he found himself floating.
As he found himself drifting through states of altered being, the disembodied voice of the cavern spoke to him, as did many others.
He had been chosen to receive their knowledge, they told him, which they proceeded to impart to him with a speed and intensity that more than once caused him to cry out in vain for surcease.
Mystic spells and rituals poured into his boiling brain at a speed that should have been impossible to absorb, but he somehow soaked them up as would a thirsting sponge.
The knowledge of the ages was his for the taking; the philosophies that sought to lift man out of the ooze and slime of his birth and set him on the path to higher and better pursuits.
Windham felt a warm flush of peace and tranquility wash over him, only to be jolted in the next instant by an energy that caused him to jerk uncontrollably.
His back arched high off the floor and his mouth flew open, spewing out a bright stream of light.
In the midst of the beam, a slowly spinning orb materialized. Windham recognized several of the features upon the surface of the globe, in particular the unique boot shape that was Italy.
Having studied, among other things, the work of ancient Greek and Egyptian scientists and mathematicians, Windham had long known that the Earth was round, but the model turning
before him showed islands and continents with which he was not familiar.
A secondary glow began to take shape, until it coalesced into the glistening image of a narrow band circling the entire globe.
Across the surface of this ring, letters, symbols and sigils began to form as it turned. Though he had never seen any of these signs before, the transmogrified Crusader found their meaning to be perfectly clear, meant to speak to him and all the world.
The projected ring flared in the middle, and secondary rings began to sprout from it, likewise circling the globe at various different angles.
After they had done so, tiny pulses of red light began to blink off and on along them, at places where they crossed over specific spots on the globe.
Some of these places Windham recognized, either from his studies or his own travels: Mount Olympus, Sinai, Etna, the Carpathians, Stonehenge, Alexandria. Other places he would learn of only later: the Black Hills, Tierra del Fuego.
Images, words, voices, all began to bombard him ever more rapidly. His breathing quickened, his all too human body jumped and flailed about, and a barely human scream issued from his lungs.
At that the image of the globe vanished and Windham flopped limply on the floor. Consciousness fled along with the visions and sounds.
When at last he awoke, the first thing he noticed was the total lack of sound around him. That shouldn’t be so, he thought; unless he had gone totally deaf, the sound of the three glowing cascades of water should still be filling the chamber.
It wasn’t.
He whistled a few notes, assuring himself that he still possessed his hearing. Rising on one elbow, he saw that the spouts were no longer flowing from the rock wall of the cavern. Crawling back to the edge of the pool they had filled, he was not greatly surprised to discover that it, too, was drained completely dry.
In the center of the shallow depression that had once been the glowing pool, he now saw a short upcropping of stone, rising from the floor of the depression like a pedestal.
