The Reincarnationist Papers

by D. Eric Maikranz

  I nodded. “It was. That’s why Istanbul was such a shock, but not necessarily an unwelcome one.”

  “As I said, it is a matter of perspective.”

  I took several wooden spoonfuls of the cooling stew. “Why here, Clovis, why this place?”

  “Fate brought me here and asked that I stay.”

  I remained expressionless in the hopes that he might elucidate on his cryptic answer.

  “You see, I built this tower. One might say it was my penance.”

  “What do you mean penance?”

  He poured a stream of light-brown water into a glass from a clay pitcher and watched the sediments settle to the bottom as he began. “I used to be in the same line of work as Ramsay, only it was different then. Soldiering was still an honorable trade in those days. I came to this corner of Arabia under the banner of Ali Abdul Pasha, who wanted to consolidate his late father’s territorial gains against the Ottomans. He hired me out of Damascus. He appointed me sharif of Mocha and charged me with its protection and security. I was completely content with the responsibilities and handsomely commensurate pay, that is, until Ramsay showed up commanding a brigade of English dragoon fusiliers bent on capturing the port and the coffee-producing highlands.”

  “You fought against Ramsay?”

  “No, it did not come to that. Do not forget the oath you took, Evan. Ramsay took it as well. Our first loyalties are to one another.

  “I remember they eased into the harbor in a tall three-masted clipper, the Trade’s Increase, decked out under Union Jack.33 The villagers amassed around the dock in the normal fashion for receiving an English trading ship. It was only when the ship dropped anchor broadside to the dock and brought her guns to bear, that they realized something was wrong. A young messenger was sent to my quarters in the stone citadel at the heart of town. I took two lieutenants and made my way to the scene. Ramsay stood at the foot of the gangplank, flanked by a dozen red-jacketed soldiers holding long, bayoneted muskets. I parted the crowd and stood at attention in front of them. Ramsay turned around to greet me and flushed completely white.

  “ ‘I had no idea,’ said Ramsay in German, so that his troops couldn’t understand.

  “ ‘Nor I,’ I said.

  “ ‘I, ah, I don’t know where to begin.’

  “ ‘You could begin by telling me why you are here and why those cannons are pointed at my town.’

  “Ramsay swallowed hard and struggled to look into my eyes. ‘The captain has asked me to present the local official with terms of surrender for the port and city of Mocha.’

  “ ‘And those terms are?’ I asked as I noticed one of the soldiers looking at my tattoo, then back at Ramsay’s.

  “ ‘Is there someplace we can discuss this?’

  “I nodded solemnly, turned on my heels, and barked off an order for my lieutenants to clear a path through the gathering crowd. Ramsay whispered to a sergeant next to him, then followed two paces behind.

  “I motioned for my men to remain at the entrance of the stone citadel as we went inside. I led the way up four flights of stairs to the roof. The smart, black-trimmed red jacket fit Ramsay’s gaunt frame perfectly, and its rows of brass buttons blazed in the sun.

  “ ‘What in the hell are you doing out there?’ I asked, pointing to his ship.

  “Ramsay demurred, then began, ‘The first thing I’m going to do is resign my commission, effective immediately. I will not bring arms against you. The second thing I’m going to do is still beseech you to surrender.’

  “ ‘What are you talking about?’

  “ ‘I don’t ask you as an adversary; I ask you as a brother. Do not resist. You haven’t any idea of what you’re up against, Clovis.’

  “ ‘It would not be the first time I have been outmanned, and underestimated.’

  “Ramsay shook his head. ‘The game has passed you by, old friend. You speak of being outmanned—you’re outgunned. With what are you going to defend this place? Your sword? Your dagger?’ he asked, pointing to my side. He turned away and walked to the stone railing at the edge of the roof. ‘Will these be your defenders?’ he asked, placing a hand on one of the two short cannon mortars guarding the port.

  “I told Ramsay that my fellow Yemenis would be my defenders, but he was insistent that I would lead them to their doom.” Clovis had a far-off look in his eye as he continued. “I told Ramsay that the streets of Yemen had seen enough bloodshed to drain his precious England dry, but he insisted I listen to him. He said he was talking about the dispatching of men en masse. I was unmoved by his pleas and continued to try to find a compromise,” Clovis continued.

  “Did you end up finding terms you could both agree to?” I asked him.

  “I asked Ramsay what his captain’s terms were, and he told me the captain demanded that all municipal functions be surrendered immediately, and all means of transportation were to be commandeered as property of the Crown, including beasts of burden. Worst of all, the captain demanded that all stores of coffee and all future coffee production be sold to the Crown. The city of Mocha was to be annexed as a British protectorate,” Clovis sighed deeply, as if reliving the defeat he surely felt in that moment so many lifetimes ago.

  “Did you agree to the terms?” I asked him.

  “No,” he replied. “I could no more allow the British here than I could raise my own flag. I told Ramsay the terms were unacceptable and I would not allow it.”

  “How did that turn out?” I asked, urging him to continue.

  “Well,” Clovis said, “Ramsay insisted that the town be put under British rule, saying that was the only way his captain would have it. I told him it was nonnegotiable. He accused me of being willing to lead my troops to their deaths, solely for my own intransigence,” Clovis paused for a drink of his water. After a long drink, he said, “I told Ramsay he was in no position to question my motives, to which he replied that he was, however, in a position to question my actions. I told him to stop being so self-assured.”

  I nodded, completely enthralled in the story.

  Clovis continued, “Ramsay asked me if I would like to relay any messages to his captain and I told him he needed to be careful. I knew he would be charged with cowardice or maybe even treason if he resigned. I invited him to join me on the side of the righteous, but he had his heels dug in. I told him to tell his captain he had one hour to leave or we would throw his red coats into the Red Sea. I thanked him for the warning, and we wished each other good luck as he headed back to his ship. That was when I began preparations.”

  “What happened?” I asked, setting my spoon down. “Did they leave?”

  Clovis took the glass of water and drank, being careful not to stir up the layer on the bottom. “No, Evan, they did not. Ramsay was right. They overpowered us easily, shooting any man in the streets with a saber or dagger. Eighty of my hundred-man volunteer force were gunned down in the first minutes of fighting. They forced the rest of us back into the citadel, which they then razed with volleys of cannon fire. I organized a retreat when there were only six of us left, and we escaped to the well up on that hill,” he said, pointing out the open door. “We camped there for two nights. The remaining five men all wanted to slip back into town and avenge the deaths of their fathers, brothers, and sons, but I held them back. At the end of the second night, I could no longer dissuade them. They saw the fight in me was gone. I awoke alone on the morning of the third day and bided my time for a week, living off of mollusks and water. I slipped back into town under the cover of darkness and stole a British wagon, which I secretly loaded with stones from the collapsed citadel each night until I had enough to build this tower.”

  “How long did it take?”

  Clovis shrugged. “A penance is measured by effort, not time.”

  “What happened to Ramsay?”

  He swallowed the last of his stew and sat his spoon on the
table. “He was put in irons and taken back to England in the belly of that ship, where he was hanged for refusing to engage the enemy.”

  “And you?” I asked.

  He sighed and sat back in his chair. “And I, I lived here.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “A long time ago,” he said, getting up from the table. “Can I take your bowl?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Thank you for the meal. It was delicious.”

  He nodded curtly and took my bowl. I could tell he was finished talking, and perhaps even felt he had said too much. Drusel placed his bowl on top of the others and carried them outside. “Drusel will sleep in here. I will prepare our beds,” he said, drifting into the side room. I followed him in and helped with his preparations. “I am sorry that I do not have a private room to offer you.”

  “Don’t apologize, Clovis.”

  A smile graced his lips as he fluffed his pillow. Drusel turned down the lantern and lay down in front of the hearth. The deep ticking of the clock mechanism atop the tower echoed through the silence.

  “Thank you for telling me the story, Clovis,” I said into the darkness.

  His blanket rustled as he turned to look over at me. My ears strained against the ticking for several seconds. “Thank you for asking.”

  Evan’s dismal description of modern-day Mocha appears to be confirmed by noted Yemen researcher and author C. G. Brouwer, who describes Mocha today not as a vibrant port but as a forgotten place largely in ruin. (Al-Mukhā: Profile of a Yemeni Seaport by C. G. Brouwer.)

  Mocha has been synonymous with coffee since the Islamic hermit al-Shadhili reputedly discovered the drink and its stimulating effects around 1200 a.d. (The Devil’s Cup by Stewart Lee Allen, 1999.)

  The Trade’s Increase was the ship of English trader Henry Middleton, who having been taken prisoner by Islamic authorities in the area months before, had escaped and returned to Mocha to wreak havoc on the city. (The Honorable Company: A History of the English East India Company by John Keay, 1991.)

  21

  Dust danced in the beams of morning sun that cut through fissures in the thatched roof like tiny spotlights. Clovis was gone, and his bedroll lay curled up neatly against the wall. I left the cane behind and limped out into the brightness of day. Drusel’s gray mare was gone.

  Clovis stood on the beach silhouetted by the white foam of the lapping waves. He held a sword in his hands. I sat on the edge of the short ridge below the lighthouse and watched as he moved in graceful, measured steps along with each practiced parry and thrust. His twirling, curved saber caught the light as he moved through timeless forms of choreographed attacks, and his tired frame became miraculously lithe with each step. He whipped his sword through the air and his face contorted menacingly with eyes ablaze, as though striking down long-dead foes.

  “You look like you’re pretty good with that thing,” I shouted down to him as soon as he’d finished.

  He turned, startled, and quickly scanned the horizon until he found me. “I am still the best in these parts,” he called back. “Come down here!” He motioned me down to the beach with the sword.

  “You’re not going to run me through, are you?” I said jokingly as I walked up to him.

  “No, I want to show you where to fish. I keep three poles over by that rock,” he said, pointing them out. “I usually fish with all three. This place below the tower and the point over there by the rocks are the best locations.”

  “Great. I haven’t been fishing since I was a child.”

  He pointed to the edge of the surf. “Split those black mollusks apart for bait.”

  I nodded and motioned to the sword that hung at his side. “What’s the story with that?”

  He clasped the blade with his left hand and ceremoniously offered me the handle. “You said in the Ascension that fire was your confidant. This is mine.”

  I placed my hand around the sweaty grip and took it from him. “Do you practice every day?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “When was the last time you used it, in anger, I mean?”

  “Against Ramsay’s British dragoons.”

  “Not since then?” I asked.

  He shook his head and began walking back up the beach to the lighthouse. “No, Evan, that was the last of the fight in me. Their guns made it too easy to kill. Fighting lost its virtue for me when a man could no longer blow his last breath in your face. Since then, I have led a much more simple existence here. I found to my surprise that it is much better suited for us than the lifestyles most of the others embrace.”

  I looked up at the tower and thought he probably had little choice in the matter. He was bored of living as they lived now and was now left alone in his boredom because the others had resolved not to come to his same end.

  “When is the best time to go fishing?” I asked.

  He looked up at the sun then back at the tide level. “About now is good. Go ahead if you like, but do not forget to shield yourself from the sun. Tonight, we will eat whatever you catch,” he said, stepping up onto the shelf of dry earth above the sandy beach.

  I returned for the poles and prepared the bait before settling in to fish for dinner.

  i walked through the door later that afternoon carrying the three fish I’d caught, only to find Clovis sitting at the table, inked brush in hand above coarse brown paper. “Set them by the pot,” he said, looking my way only for a moment. “Beware the thin silver fish, it is not healthy to eat it.”

  I set it aside. “Are the others okay?”

  “Yes,” he said, concentrating on a series of complex strokes. I wiped my hands on my pants and peered over his shoulder. “It is an apology and a warning, but it is really an exercise about perfection,” he volunteered before I could ask. “Calligraphy, not unlike gardening, is a practice in patience.” Strange Japanese characters emerged effortlessly onto the page from the end of his slender brush. He filled the paper from top to bottom. He dipped the brush into the short bottle of ink and quickly scrawled a line of Arabic across the bottom of the page. “There, it is done. Let us have a look at your catch.”

  “Is there anything I can help with?” I asked.

  “Is your foot well?” he countered.

  “Yes, I’ve been walking today without the cane, and it feels fine.”

  He handed me a large leather bag. “You may go for water then. The well is beyond the garden. There is a footpath to show you the way. Go now, before it gets dark.”

  The sun was on my back as I followed the meandering path up away from the shadow of the tower. Clovis’s garden was larger than I had expected. Small drifts of fine sediment breached the border of roughly hewn stones enclosing the darker, fertile earth of the garden. Short stalks of rich green and withered brown twitched in the breeze.

  The well beyond was nothing more than a deep, water-filled hole circled with stones even more worn than those of the garden and tower. A thin rope slanted into its murky, uncertain depths. I raised the rotting, porous bucket at the end of the rope and filled the leather bladder with brown water. The empty bucket hit the water with a hollow thud. I hefted the water bottle onto my shoulder and limped back toward the beach. The lighthouse spire stood black against the soft pastels of a Red Sea sunset.

  Clovis waited for me in the open doorway. “I was just about to prepare the light. Would you like to see how it works?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Set the water down and follow me.” He grabbed a lantern and went through the door leading to the tower. “I started the fish already. It should be done by the time we are finished,” he said, starting up the circular stone stairs set into the masonry of the walls. Two heavy black chains dangled lifeless in the center of our ascending spirals. The stairs emerged onto the narrow catwalk I’d seen Drusel on the night before. The brilliant purples and reds of
the sunset were so close it seemed I might stain my hand if I reached out to it.

  A cupola of window panes surrounded the clear, beehive-shaped lighthouse lens. Clovis opened a narrow door set into the framework of glass and motioned me toward him. He stepped in and walked around the lens until he found the small, hinged glass door that opened to reveal the soot-covered brass burner inside. Clovis ran a rag over the inside surface of the dome-shaped lens and wiped at the fine black powder that always tells of fire.

  “Hand me that bottle, please.” He pointed toward a clear bottle half filled with yellow oil.

  “One small flame can provide enough light?” I asked.

  “It is not the brightness of the flame but the power of the lens.” He took the cork from the bottle and poured a small measure of oil into a reservoir below the charred wick. “May I use your lighter?”

  “Here, let me,” I prompted as I slid my hand in next to his.

  “All right. Apply the flame there,” he said, pointing.

  I lit it and withdrew my hand as he closed and latched the small trapdoor.

  “Do not look at the light, for it will surely blind you. Go to the railing and look at the sea,” Clovis said in a fatherly tone. I obeyed and turned back only slightly when he worked a large crank beside me, starting the same mechanical clatter as the night before. We were both bathed in warming white light as he placed his hands next to mine on the railing. A fresh beam cut at the dark and washed over us every ten seconds.

  “As much dim distance as a man perceive, from a high lookout o’er a wine-dark sea.”

  “Is that yours?” I asked.

  “Oh, no,” he mumbled. “It predates me. It is from Homer’s Iliad.”