Because it was chaos, a void containing all things.
And what was he going to do with his rewritten copy?
Leave it where the world would discover it.
And the original?
Bury it again so the world wouldn’t discover it.
Strongbow leaned back by the fire and considered this dialogue between a mole and a hermit. As he knew, the Bible manuscript known as the Codex Sinaiticus had only recently been found in St Catherine’s. But what if it was a forgery? What if the real document presented a totally different view of God and history?
After a time he took a Maria Theresa crown from his cloak and placed it on the ground in front of the Jebeliyeh elders.
This marvelous tale well pleases me. Is there more to it?
Only that the old man who was the mole forecast the hour of his death upon his return from the mountain and went to bed to await it. He never woke up. Subsequently the hermit left the cave and never came back. We can take you up there if you like.
Strongbow agreed and they climbed the mountain in darkness. Outside the cave he lit a candle. The opening was too small for him to crawl inside but he pushed one arm in and took measurements. Then he thanked the elders for their information and left toward midnight for Aqaba, normally a distance of eight marches. But Strongbow was intrigued by what he had heard and the next thing he knew a dog was yapping around his heels, a sure sign he was near an Arab village. For the first time he laid aside his speculations and raised his eyes from the ground. A shepherd boy was watching him.
What place is this?
Aqaba, answered the boy.
And the day?
He was told. He looked back at the desert and smiled. He had walked through two sunsets and three sunrises without noticing them. The shepherd was saying something. He turned to the intent little face.
What’s that, son?
I asked, master, whether you’re a good genie or a bad genie?
Strongbow laughed.
And why might I be a genie?
Because you’re twelve feet tall and because you’ve just walked out of the Sinai without a waterskin or a pouch of food or anything else.
Nothing?
Only your empty hands.
Yes only those, said Strongbow slowly. But a genie isn’t always tall, is he? He may be small and live in a tiny cave and never go anywhere in ninety moons. And in all that time he may speak only once and then only to a mole.
The boy grinned.
So that’s what you were doing out there, master, and now you’ve just changed your shape and size again the way your kind is always doing, from a mole to a giant as it pleases you, in an instant or after ninety moons. Well the water is that way if you want to wash your face, I know you don’t need to drink it. But before you go, genie, won’t you tell me the one thing you said to the mole?
How’s this? Confide the whole truth to a shameless scamp, a mere slip of a rogue?
I’m not a rogue, master.
Promise?
Yes, please tell me.
And you won’t repeat a word of the secret to anyone?
No, master.
Briefly then Strongbow recounted an obscure tale from the Thousand and One Nights and walked on, leaving the little boy gazing dreamily down on the gulf where a dhow was approaching with spices from India and a bulky wooden chest bearing a familiar inscription in Singhalese stating that therein was to be found the finest selected tea from Kandy, site of the temple that housed a tooth of the Buddha.
After the middle of the century there was a period of a dozen years when nothing was heard from Strongbow, the time he spent producing his study, not in a remote corner of the desert as was generally assumed but rather in the very heart of Jerusalem, where he both lived and worked in the back room of an antiquities dealer’s shop.
For Strongbow those were peaceful years. The sturdy tea chests filled with his notebooks lined the walls. He used several tea chests as his desk and a giant Egyptian stone scarab, cushioned with pillows, was his seat. An antique Turkish safe was his filing cabinet and a rusting Crusader’s helmet served as an object of contemplation, much as a skull might have rested in front of a medieval alchemist.
With its heavy masonry the vault was snug in the winter, cool in the summer and nearly soundproof. When he was at his desk small cups of thick coffee were sent in every twenty minutes from a shop down the alley along with a fresh handful of strong cigarettes. During that period of concentration he seldom spoke with anyone but the antiquities dealer who was his landlord, and, less frequently, with a fat oily Arab in the bazaar from whom he bought his writing paper on the first Saturday of every month.
A cognac with your coffee? asked the stationer as Strong-bow settled himself on the cushion indicated, at the front of the shop.
Excellent.
The usual order of fifteen reams?
If you please.
The man shouted instructions to his clerks and then arranged his robes on the cushion opposite Strongbow, where he had a clear view of the narrow street outside. He patted his glistening hair and puffed lazily on his hookah while they waited for the order to be counted out.
The composition goes well?
It seems to be on schedule.
And it still concerns the same subject? Only sex?
Yes.
The sleek Arab listlessly applied a fresh coat of olive oil to his face and gazed at the passing crowds. Occasionally he exchanged a nod or a smile with someone in the alley.
In all truth, he said, it seems extraordinary to me that seven thousand sheets of paper a month could be required to write about such an ordinary matter. How can that be?
Indeed, said Strongbow, sometimes I don’t understand it myself. Do you have a wife?
Four, Allah be praised.
Of all ages?
From a matronly housekeeper down to a mere feather of a girl who giggles life away in brainless inactivity, praise Him again.
Yet you are often not home in the evenings?
Work demands it.
And in the evening who are those young women I see parading near Damascus Gate?
The barefaced ones who gesture obscenely and sell themselves? It’s true, Jerusalem’s appalling.
And the young men there in equal numbers?
Painted no less? Winking as they curtsy? Shameless.
And the little girls in the shadows so young they only reach a man’s waist?
Yet who make all manner of suggestive signs? Yes it’s shocking for a holy city.
And the swarms of little boys no taller, also in the shadows?
Yet who are so lascivious they will hardly let a man pass? Disgraceful.
Who was that old crone who passed the shop just now wagging her toothless smile in this direction?
An elderly slattern who runs a private establishment near here.
She comes to visit you on occasion?
In the slack periods of the afternoon.
To barter?
Allah be praised.
Offering to arrange spectacles and diversions?
Quite so, praise Him again.
But also in her toothless state to act in confidence on a specific matter?
Quite specific.
Continuing vigorously, this crone, until business revives?
Very vigorously.
And the leering old man in front of her who also threw a secret smile in this direction?
Her brother or cousin, who can remember.
He also comes to barter on occasion?
Work must go on, Allah be praised.
This man has ingenious episodes to recount?
Very ingenious, praise Him again.
Tales offering unheard-of excursions?
Quite unheard of.
Yet he always visits at different times from his sister or cousin?
If acts and tales were to coincide we would be dizzy.
And in addition to all else, both this man and this woman have innume
rable orphans of every description at their disposal?
Innumerable. Every. In addition.
A clerk bowed and announced that Strongbow’s order was ready. He rose to leave. The sleek stationer smiled through half-closed eyes.
Won’t you have just a puff or two of opium before you go? The quality is excellent this month.
Thank you but I think not. It tends to cloud my work.
Are you sure? It’s only ten o’clock and you have the whole day ahead of you, a whole night too. Ah well, perhaps next month.
Strongbow nodded pleasantly and stepped down onto the cobblestones, leaving the fat man languidly massaging olive oil into his face as a clerk refilled his hookah.
The owner of the antiquities shop whose back room he rented was quite a different sort of man. Meek, thin and otherworldly, he seemed to live more in the past than in nineteenth-century Jerusalem. With objects that dated back to l000 B.C. he had a phenomenal familiarity, but when a piece was older than that he was always confused and had to ask Strongbow’s opinion.
When Strongbow returned, the dealer, Haj Harun, was examining some of his better jewelry, transferring the stones and rings from one tray to another. Strongbow bent his long frame over the counter to admire the splendid gems sprinkling light to all sides, dazzling him with their colors.
Would you mind? asked Haj Harun timidly, holding up a ring. I just acquired it from an Egyptian and I’m not sure at all. What do you think? More or less the middle of the New Kingdom?
Strongbow pretended to study the ring with his magnifying glass.
Did you make a haj twenty-one years ago?
Haj Harun looked startled.
Yes.
But not in a caravan? Not following the regular routes? Keeping by yourself to remote tracks that weren’t tracks at all?
Yes.
Strongbow smiled. He remembered the dealer although of course the man couldn’t remember him since he had been disguised as a dervish at the time. The man had stumbled across him one afternoon near the great divide of the wadis of northern Arabia and remarked that the sky seemed strangely dark for that hour, which indeed it was, because a comet happened to be passing overhead.
In fact Strongbow had been in that particular spot precisely for that reason, to take measurements with a sextant and chronometer and prove to himself that the unknown comet actually existed, Strongbow before then only having deduced its cycle of six hundred and sixteen years from certain celestial evidence to be found in the lives of Moses and Nebuchadnezzar and Christ and Mohammed, in the Zohar and the Thousand and One Nights. That afternoon he had explained this to the frightened Arab, who had then nodded vaguely and gone dreamily on his way.
Strongbow’s Comet. He hadn’t thought about it in years. For a moment he considered the possibility of writing it up in an astronomical monograph, but no, it would be an idle indulgence. His method for dating the comet was difficult, he already had enough to do and couldn’t afford to be deterred by heavenly matters.
Strongbow licked the ring. Older, he announced.
Really?
Yes.
The Arab sighed.
I can’t see it. The very oldest I might venture would be early New Kingdom.
No. Older still. End of the XVII Dynasty to be exact.
Ah the Hyksos, an obscure people. How did you know?
Taste.
What?
Metal content.
Haj Harun thanked him profusely. Strongbow smiled and disappeared into his vault. To him it seemed appropriate and comfortable here. Out front the Arab dealer was trading baubles from the past while in back he was cataloguing the evidence for the present on a mountaintop called Jerusalem.
And more than once as he sat down at his desk he recalled a conversation between a mole and a hermit in the moonlight on another mountain. Who had he been, that recluse? What had driven him to undertake such an incredible task?
Of course he would never know. There was no way to know.
Saturday morning. Another fifteen reams of paper for the month ahead. He drew a file from the antique safe and drank a cup of thick coffee and lit a strong cigarette. Briefly he gazed at his rusting Crusader’s helmet, then patted the nose of his giant stone scarab and went back to work.
Only once did Strongbow falter in the course of those dozen years of work in Jerusalem, but the consequences were so significant it caused his study to be almost three times longer than he had planned originally.
The episode occurred one hot summer Sunday afternoon in his vaulted room at the back of the antiquities dealer’s shop. Toward midnight the night before he had finished a chapter as usual, and the next morning at six o’clock, also as usual, he had arranged himself on the giant stone scarab and gazed at the rusting Crusader’s helmet before picking up his pen.
Sometime later he found himself still gazing at the Crusader’s helmet. The pen was in his hand but the two hundred and thirty sheets of paper scheduled to be covered with handwriting that day still stood untouched in a neat pile. With his sundial strapped to his hip Strongbow marched outside to see what time it was. He brought the bronze piece up to the level and gasped.
Three o’clock in the afternoon? He couldn’t believe it. Frowning deeply, he wandered back inside.
Haj Harun was stretched out in a corner of the front room perusing old manuscripts, as he often did on Sunday afternoons. Although he was always respectful of his tenant’s privacy, the man’s face looked so troubled at that moment he decided to venture a few words.
Is something the matter? he asked in a voice so low the question could have been ignored. But Strongbow abruptly interrupted his stride and stopped, causing the sundial to swing into the wall and noisily knock loose a shower of plaster.
Yes. Time is. It seems I’ve done nothing for the last nine hours and I don’t know what to make of it. It’s unheard of for me to do nothing.
And you were doing nothing at all?
Evidently. It seems I was just sitting at my desk staring at my Crusader’s helmet. Nine hours? It’s incomprehensible.
Haj Harun’s face brightened with hope.
But that’s not nothing. That’s daydreaming.
He waved his arms enthusiastically at the shelves which were crowded with artifacts.
Look at all these memories from the past around us. I spend most of my time daydreaming about them. Who owned that and why? What was he doing then? What became of it after that and what became of it later? It’s enchanting. You meet people from every era and have long conversations with them.
But I don’t daydream, said Strongbow emphatically.
Not even today?
Well it seems I did but I can’t imagine it, nor can I imagine why, it’s simply not my way. If I’m walking to Timbuktu I walk there. If I’m floating down the Tigris to Baghdad I don’t get out of the water before Baghdad. And if I’m writing a study I write it.
Well perhaps you’re leaving something out of your study that should be included. Perhaps that’s why you were daydreaming.
Strongbow looked puzzled.
But how could I be leaving something out? That’s not my way either. I don’t do that.
The old Arab smiled and disappeared into the back room. A moment later he stuck his head out and Strongbow burst into laughter at the ludicrous sight. Haj Harun had put on the Crusader’s helmet, which was so big on him it floated around on his head.
Here, he said happily, a regular thinking cap, this will help us. When I want to daydream I gaze at one of my antiquities and pretty soon I’m slipping back in time and seeing Romans and Babylonians in the streets of Jerusalem. Now let’s see what you see. What’s your study about?
Sex.
Then it must be a woman you’ve left out. Who was she? Look deeply.
Strongbow stared at the old man in the helmet and it worked, suddenly he saw her again as clearly as if she were standing in Haj Harun’s place. He clasped his hands and lowered his eyes.
A Persian gir
l, he whispered.
And you were young?
Only nineteen.
A gentle Persian girl, mused Haj Harun softly.
Yes, said Strongbow, so very gentle. There was a stream in the hills far from any city, where I chanced to pause in a glen one day to rest, and singing to herself she came upon me there. She wasn’t frightened, not at all, it was as if she had expected the meeting. We talked for hours and laughed and splashed in the water, played in the water like two little children, and when darkness fell we were lying in the shadows promising each other we’d never leave that beautiful place we had found together. The days and nights that followed were boundless in their minutes of love, they seemed to stretch on forever, but then one day she returned briefly to her village and soon after she came back she collapsed on the grass, cholera, and I could only whisper to her and hold her helplessly in my arms as the life ran out of her and all at once she was gone, simply that. I buried her in the glen. A few weeks we had, no more, yet I remember every blade of glass there, every spot of sun and every sound made by the water on the rocks. A memory by a stream, the most rapturous and wretched moments I have ever known in life.
Strongbow sighed. Haj Harun came over and rested a frail hand on his shoulder.
Yes, he said, a gentle Persian girl. Yes, you certainly must include her.
Strongbow got to his feet and shook himself out of the mood.
No it’s not that kind of book. And anyway, that was all too long ago.
Too long ago? said Haj Harun dreamily. Nothing is ever too long ago. Once I had a Persian wife myself. She was Attar’s daughter.
Who do you mean? The Sufi poet?
Yes.
But he lived in the twelfth century.
Of course, said Haj Harun.
Strongbow studied him for a moment. There was something startling and transforming about the old Arab shyly smiling out from under the large Crusader’s helmet. Haj Harun was rubbing his hands and nodding encouragement.
Won’t you do it? Please? At least a few pages? Just to prove to yourself that nothing is ever too long ago?
Strongbow laughed.
All right, why not, I will include her. But I think you should keep that helmet. You’ll obviously be able to put it to better use than I can.
Strongbow turned and went into the back room humming to himself, eager to begin on this whole new aspect of his work. Behind him he saw Haj Harun already beginning to nod over the faded manuscript in his lap, the helmet slipping slowly down over his eyes as he drifted away on some reverie in the stillness of that hot summer Sunday afternoon.
Sinai Tapestry (The Jerusalem Quartet Book 1) Page 9