by SUZAN STILL
As we went along, I asked this good man some questions about our destination. In answer, he commenced a tale, which was so strange and wondrous that I will tell it to you now, in its entirety.
§
The Fisherman’s Tale
We are a blessed people, began this worthy man, for we have received, in times long past, the holy presence of the very companions of the Christ. This was seven years after the murder of our dear Lord and Savior upon the Cross.
The Romans in Jerusalem would harry and persecute His followers still. Finally, those closest to Him were brought before Pilate, as was Our Lord before them. The great man was tormented by his role in the murder of the Lord, and could not bring himself to pronounce the death sentence upon these good people. So to relieve his conscience, he decreed that they were to be set adrift in an open boat, with no rudder and no sails. This was as good as a death sentence, mind you, but Pilate could flatter himself, you see, with the lie that he was actually saving their lives. But in this, as you will see, the hand of Our Lord was active.
So it came to pass that five people were placed in a boat on the shore of the sea: Mary Salome, who was the aunt of Our Dear Lord; Mary Jacob, the wife of His uncle; Mary Magdalene and her sister, Saint Martha; and Joseph of Arimathea, he who supplied the sepulcher for our Blessed Savior. When they were all loaded aboard, with no provisions even for the sake of appearances, they were cut adrift and the out-going tide caught them and bore them away.
Many there were who stood upon the shore and wept, all followers of Our Lord who grieved to see their saints thus misused, but who were unable to help their cause. Among them was a servant girl named Sarah, whose wailing rose above all others, for she had great love of her mistress, Martha.
Now, they be some who say it different, mind you. The gypsy folk call this Sarah Sarah-la-Kali, meaning Sara the Black, and they say she was as black as you yourself, sir. And then they be those—who whisper it, to be sure—who say this Sarah was the daughter of Mary Magdalene, and that the father of this Sarah was Our Lord Himself!”
The fisherman stopped to cross himself conspicuously, before continuing.
Now, as the boat was cut loose and began to move from the shore, this Sarah broke from the others, ran to the quay and without hesitation threw herself into the waves. She floundered her way toward the boat and upon reaching it—more by agency of the waves than by her skill as a swimmer, I’ll wager—she begged to be pulled on board.
All the passengers decreed she should turn back, for they knew their voyage was a dark-fated one, doomed beyond doubt to thirst, privation and then capsizing in the first rough sea, their boat being oarless and rudderless as it was.
But the girl was half-drowned already. She swore that she would give up all struggle and sink like a stone, rather than return to shore.
Finally, her will won her what she desired. One of the Marys threw her coat upon the water, and it magically turned into a raft, sir, which buoyed the girl up until she could be pulled aboard by the others.
In normal course of events, a boat without rudder, oars, or sails would be swept out into the open sea, there to capsize, when the winds grew strong over the open waters and the waves were high. You must see, however, that this was no ordinary vessel, for these passengers were not regular persons but those especially beloved of Our Lord. And so it happened that the sea remained calm and a wind was always at their back, pushing them along.
After many a day, God in His Mercy brought these poor outcasts to rest on this very coast, at the very place to which we are journeying now, named after the three Saints Mary, come from the sea. And each as hale and hearty as if naught had been amiss with their voyage.
Mary Salome, Mary Jacob, and this black Sarah, too, founded a church on the very spot where they came ashore, on the site of an ancient pagan temple, they say. Martha went off to slay a dragon in Tarascon. And Mary Magdalene straight away went up into the hills to live all by herself in a cave. They say each day she was raised to the cliff tops to pray by a band of angels. And Joseph went over the sea to Britain, carrying with him the Holy Grail.
It is a curious tale, is it not? And strange it is that, as the church is dedicated to the Marys, it is really Saint Sarah who reigns there. When we come there, you will find a statue of her under the altar, in the crypt. She is dressed in fancy garments brought by the pilgrims, but her face, sir, is completely black, because of which they call her “The Egyptian.” It is a face of such beauty that I believe, sir, you will be moved by her, in spite of yourself.
§
The Story of Caspar, King of Nubia Continues
Thus saying, he ended his tale. My pulse pounded, for I felt assured that he had given me the clue of which the gypsy had spoken. I now was determined to proceed directly to the crypt in Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer.
By now, the main channel of the Rhone had narrowed, with side channels branching off. The fisherman explained that we had reached the estuary, where the great river sank into a maze of marshes and winding waterways, before finally flowing into the sea.
He began to turn his boat skillfully this way and that, maneuvering through the mazy channels, where any but the most experienced person would speedily have become irrevocably lost. He told me that many there were who had come this way to their peril, for the swamps were filled with quicksand bogs into which, once fallen, one would never again emerge.
At last, toward evening, we debouched from a narrow channel so shallow that it had been necessary to pole our way for the final hour. Before us lay a tranquil lagoon, turned coppery in the failing light. To my amazement, it was brilliant pink along its margins from the millions of flamingoes that roosted there, for as the fisherman explained, they annually migrated from Africa to those shores. This sight was so startling and so lovely that it was some time before I raised my eyes and espied our destination, the lights in the distance marking the little village of Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer.
It was with great relief that I stepped from the fishing boat, and my knees both gave great cracks as if to agree that they, too, were glad to be free of such cramped quarters. So uplifted did I feel, that I invited the fisherman to have supper with me at the local inn of his choice and he gladly accepted.
As we walked from the shore the short distance into town, I became aware of an unusual turmoil in the streets, which were very crowded for so small a village. Music from lutes, along with singing and the click of castanets, arose from the alleyways on all sides. Along the streets, we soon encountered gypsy wagons painted in bright colors and drawn by sway-backed nags. “Whatever is going on in this place?” I exclaimed to my new friend.
“Did I not tell you?” he cried. “I have missed the best part of my tale, then. Why, in May and October, gypsies from all countries converge on this village to throw a great festival in honor of Sarah, who is their patron saint!”
§
It was full in May and the festival obviously was well underway. After supper, I parted with my fisherman friend and made my way to La Place de l’Eglise, where stood the solid and beauty-less bulk of the Church of the Marys. It was built of a light-colored stone, very rough and simple, and looked as much a small fortress as a church. It seemed an unlikely place for me to find my promised solace, after so many of the grand monuments of that continent had failed me in that regard.
I had intended to go straight away into the crypt to see this black saint, Sarah, for I thought that perhaps it was fitting, after all, that one who was black like me should prove to be my deliverer. But my intention was thwarted by the throngs of people that mobbed the church.
Around me was the most unusual assortment of folk I had ever seen, even in the bazaars of Constantinople. For these were gypsies, who had come from disparate parts of the world and their costumes reflected this. The women wore petticoats of bright colors, embroidered shawls, and tortoise shell combs stuck into their long, coarse, black hair. The men wore vests, many of them embroidered with bright designs, an
d hats that shaded their already dark eyes. They were there by the thousands, and every one of them was striving to enter the little Church of the Marys.
Several times I attempted to enter, only to be repulsed and swept away on the tides of the mob. I could but think of Sarah, floundering in the surf, for this experience gave me a fuller appreciation of her determination.
At last I had to admit that I would not be able to enter the church that night, and I went to find lodgings. To my surprise, there was yet a room in one of the inns, this being, I suppose, because the gypsies came equipped with their homes drawn behind them. I fell into bed and was soon fast asleep, despite the cacophony that rose to my window from the street below, of music, shouts, singing, crying children, and neighing horses.
§
Sometime in the early hours of the morning, I awoke with a start, unsure where I might be, as the perpetual traveler often is. When I had reoriented myself, I realized that I had awakened because a profound silence had finally fallen on the streets. I arose and peered from my window to discover that not a soul moved in the moonlight. My hour to meet Saint Sarah had come at last!
I made my way down the steep stairs of the inn, groping like a blind man in the darkness. The night air was almost cold that May night and carried a pungent smell that I could not define but was, perhaps, an amalgam of smoke from gypsy camps and the prevailing smells of the surrounding marshes. I moved down the street like a shadow and felt my blackness to be a protective cloak, given to me by my good mother, the night.
I feared that I would find the church doors closed and bolted, but when I arrived there, this was not the case. The doors were still thrown wide open and within the sanctuary votive lamps were flickering. I entered warily, expecting momentarily to be accosted by some night watchman or vigilant priest. As I moved further into the church, however, I could see plainly that I had the place completely to myself.
Now, I wondered how I might find my way into the crypt, but this question, too, was soon answered. For here was a very unusual construction, with the altar raised above the floor of the rest of the church and, right below it, a low stone arch through which steps led downward into the earth. From the semicircle of the arch, a glow, as of internal fires burning, was coloring the stones a dull red. With wonder as to what I was about to discover, I stooped under the arch and set my foot upon the stairs.
I had been before in the crypts of many churches, during my days investigating Constantinople, and they were invariably dark, cool places, dank, and smelling of mold. What amazement did I feel, then, as with each step into the crypt of Saint Sarah, I felt heat rising to meet me and the light intensifying!
Descending but a few steps, I reached the crypt itself, which was a simple curving vault of stone, so low that at its edges I could not stand upright. Keeping to the center where the ceiling almost grazed my scalp, I advanced, struck with wonder. For there in the right hand corner stood the Saint, robed in a crimson gown of silk, and surrounded by a veritable bonfire of half-burned tapers.
How long I stood, gazing awestruck, I cannot say. I stared into the sweet, solemn face of the Saint, and she stared back. She had a tiny nose, high cheekbones, and a pointed chin. The light of the tapers played across her painted eyes, making them flicker and dance.
The heat of the place was almost unbearable and seemed too much to be accounted for by the flames of the candles. The entire room seemed to pulsate and throb, as if I were within a living heart. The air fairly crackled with an energy I was past attempting to define. For suddenly, I was moved to throw myself on the floor at her feet and worship there, and as I did so, my heart broke open and all the pent-up grief and rage came pouring out in a molten tide.
Never will I know how long I lay there sobbing. But when I came back to myself, a pale daylight was seeping down the stairs from the church above, the candles had all burned out, and my face, embedded with grit from the floor, lay in a puddle of my own tears.
The footsteps of the first pilgrims of the day echoed across the floor above me and I arose hastily, wiping my cheeks on my sleeves. Saint Sarah still stood in her corner, looking stern now and forbidding, without the light of the candles playing across her. Yet the chamber still pulsed with heat and energy, although I knew the dawn above must be a chilly one.
I groped along the wall until I found the little table where the candles were displayed for purchase, dropped some coins into the iron box and took my taper. As I advanced toward the Saint, I realized that there were no flames left from which to light my candle, and I felt my heart would break at the prospect of leaving this place without having lighted a candle there.
Drawn by an invisible magnetism, I stepped to within three feet of Sarah, holding my candle before me. Suddenly with a small sound like a blown out breath, the wick of my candle burst into flame! I nearly dropped it in my astonishment!
The first pilgrim came down the stairs behind me, his feet scratching on the grit. I stood transfixed but a moment longer, staring into the face, so still and inscrutable, of The Egyptian. Then I inserted my taper into its holder, turned and fled the crypt.
§
I made my way through the awakening streets, not thinking of a destination, only attempting to put as much distance as possible between myself and the crypt of l’Eglise-Les-Saintes-Maries. At length I found myself on the shore of the sea and, unable to proceed further, I perched on a big rock. There I sat for many hours, mindlessly watching the tepid waves roll up the beach and flow ever back again.
I could not think on what had befallen me in the night, for it was too strange and too affecting. I can tell to you, now, what I could not admit to myself that morning: that in that last instant before I fell to worship at the feet of the Saint, her dark and placid face was transmuted. For in that moment, so delicate that my heart ceased beating for fear of rupturing it, I saw the face of my beloved wife hovering like a vaporous mask over the Saint’s, there in the candlelight, and she smiled at me sweetly and with infinite love. This it was that punctured the blister of my grief and released those long-held toxins.
Many times that day by the sea I laid my head upon my knees and wept for all that I had lost. But in these tears was balm. No longer did I rave and rage under the delusion of my birth, for I had been told since childhood that I was king, and all things must obey my will. There by the sea I grieved as a simple man grieves his losses, and in so doing began to heal.
§
I stayed upon the rock until the setting of the sun. As the waters of the Mediterranean lay gilded at my feet, I felt the pangs of hunger and came back into my body at last. So I arose and made my way back to the town, aware as I walked that for the first time in many, many months, my heart, if not completely at peace, at least did not gnaw with anguish in my breast. Rather, my limbs felt loose and strong and my head clear and open to receive something new.
In this state I arrived on the Place de l’Eglise, seeking a tavern I had noticed the day before, from whence the smells of cooking food were particularly inviting. The pace of the gypsy festivities seemed to have accelerated, a fact which the tavern keeper confirmed. More and more of this odd race were arriving each day, and there was excitement in the renewal of old acquaintances and the forging of new bonds. Several weddings, he said, had occurred that day, and the dancing and singing and feasting would go on until all hours of the night.
After my supper, I roamed the streets, stopping to listen to the music of various groups gathered there and to watch the dancing of their women, which was sensual and haunting. As I stood in the background, leaning against the wall of a building and robed in shadows, I felt invisible in my blackness. For the first time since the death of my family, loneliness stabbed my heart. For so long my rage had armored me, but now I was as one stripped of all defenses, and these poignant celebrations of the gypsies but accentuated my isolation in the world.
As if this feeling were a beacon that called to itself its antidote; however, I was suddenly aware that a man
had come quietly to stand by my side. In the shadows and dancing firelight, his face was obscure, but what I could see of it gave me quite a shock. Here was a wild and dangerous-looking character, indeed!
He was a small man, dark as a chestnut, and his right eye was sealed shut by a terrible scar that ran from the angle of his jaw to the center of his forehead. His hair was cut at jaw length and stuck out in all directions, like the mane of a lion, and was of the blackest black. He wore a rumpled shirt under a shabby vest and baggy pants stuffed into boots scuffed and worn almost past serviceability.
I felt sure that he had come close to me only to cut my throat and rob me. I drew back from him in fear, for all that I was half again his height and might have broken him over my knee like limb wood, if such were my desire. Still, he alarmed me, for his one good eye was inscrutable in its blackness, and he had about him a wild and fierce energy. If I were to awaken in the deep watches of the night with such a one bending over me, I would be sure the hour of my judgment had arrived!
He smiled at me in such a way that every blackened tooth in his head was revealed, but it was a smile without mirth. “I frightened you,” he said, and it was a statement, not a question.
“You startled me,” I replied gruffly, for I did not want to show weakness to this man.
“You are alone here,” he said, again as a statement. “I saw you at the tavern. Come with me to my camp and join my family. We are celebrating the wedding of my nephew tonight, and there is a feast laid out.”
I immediately refused him, for I suspected that his intention was to lure me out by the lagoon and there assault and rob me.
He cocked his head and smiled again, nodding in a knowing way, and fixed me with his good eye, in the same manner as the parrots that were kept in my court in Nubia. This mannerism had always endeared these wise birds to me, so I was predisposed to hear what next he said to me.