EAST OF ASHES
A novel by Gideon Nieuwoudt,
to the glory of God.
From God,
for God, and
to God.
If this novel touched you,
give glory to the Author and Finisher
of all things good and true.
PREFACE
When I first began writing this book, my pastor told me a story that apparently Kenneth Copeland once told.
The story goes that one day, after a particularly fine sermon, a couple came to Mr Copeland to thank him for it. The husband expressed his sincere appreciation and Mr Copeland answered modestly that it really wasn't him, but the Lord. To which the man's wife remarked dryly: "It wasn't that good."
Seriously though, I do not deserve any glory or any praise for this book you're about to read. If you enjoy it, then give thanks and praise to God, for He is "the author and the finisher of our faith," "in Him and through Him all things are," and "in Him we live, move and have our being".
It is my sincere prayer that this novel will bring you closer to God and give you a revelation of how deeply He loves you and longs to be involved in your life. I pray that you would heed His gentle knocking and allow Him to come in and heal the places so long left wounded.
On a different note, there is a saying that promotes not letting the truth get in the way of a good story. Although, I'm not saying lying is right when the situation calls for it, I do believe that in a work of fiction with a historical setting, the story and its message are more important than preserving the historical facts.
I've tried to keep the historical setting as accurate as possible, but I confess that my research might not always be as thorough as some would like it to be.
This is not to say that I took extreme liberties with history - far from it. It merely means that if certain historical facts are not entirely correct, then it's because I didn't want to get distracted by too many facts and so drown out the truths that I deem to be far more important.
The facts I went after - and tried to portray in this book - are the ones of God and of true life, which I believe to be one and the same. For these are the kind of facts which are everlasting, the truths by which I try to live my life. As C.S. Lewis once said, "All that is not eternal, is eternally out of date."
So to the historians, I humbly apologise if I frustrate you at times. I trust that you will understand and appreciate my motivation and enjoy this novel for what it aims to be: a work of fiction set within a historical framework, but not a history book.
To you, the reader, may the Lord open your eyes to things you haven't before dreamed possible. May you come to experience His saving grace, transforming power - and love.
Gideon Nieuwoudt
Cape Town, 2011
But your dead will live; their bodies will rise.
You who dwell in the dust, wake up and shout for joy.
Isaiah 26:19a (NIV)
PROLOGUE
--- The south coast of France, August 1097 ---
On the horizon, thunderclouds billow and weave in a ballet of violence, prophetically sounding the events about to unfold. The fresh smell of rain reached Lamech as he stood on the cliff edge, looking down on the stormy waves crashing onto the rocks far below.
There will be no poetic moments in death today, he thought, only a brief moment of pain - and then nothing.
For a moment he considered calling the duel off. But his threadbare honour was one of the last remaining links he had to a life that was all but gone. If he walked away now, there would be nothing left.
A sinking sensation swirled in his gut, a familiar feeling brought on by imminent violence. Sadness crashed through him, drowning out all thoughts but the overwhelming sense of futility.
"It is time, my lord."
He turned around to look at his second, noting how careful he was not to meet his gaze. He's afraid of me, he thought. And not without reason.
He began to shake slightly, angry at the unfairness of it all; at the unshakable knowledge that his life was not one of consequence. Instead it had become a tool of destruction, and the more he raged, the more he killed, the more he found himself drowning in hopelessness.
As he looked past his second at the cluster of men standing at the bottom of the slope, the blistering rage continued to roll over him; wave upon wave crashing into him, threatening to sweep his sanity into the abyss. Barely keeping it in check, he systematically focussed it until it was absolute - as keen as the edge of a sword.
He looked at the thunderclouds one last time, taking a mental picture of the immense power on the brink of release. He closed his eyes, and when he was certain the violent picture was fixed in his mind, he set off down the hill towards where his opponent and a few curious onlookers were waiting.
Walking towards the waiting men, he took in his surroundings. Tufts of grass decked the sloping hill, dancing to and fro in the wind. At the bottom of the hill, just behind the waiting spectators, a collection of trees stood in a cluster, huddled together as if trying to find some escape from the weather through sheer force of numbers.
The greyish light, filtered through the thunderclouds, cast a ghostly hue. Looking at the tree tops buckling under the force of the wind, Lamech felt something inside himself stir dangerously.
This will have to go very quickly, before the light is completely gone, he thought. He lengthened his stride, suddenly overcome with a sense of urgency. It would be best not to toy with his opponent, but to find his weakness and exploit it quickly.
He shifted his gaze towards the man waiting for him and stared at him fixedly. Lamech didn't know his name and didn't really care. To Lamech, he was just another faceless opponent.
Taller than the average man and strongly built, he didn't strike Lamech as easy prey though. He stood with his shoulders pulled back, his broad chest pushed out in an arrogant display of self-assurance.
And yet, when Lamech looked into his eyes, he saw a man who had bluffed his way out of dangerous situations before. But when pushed into a corner, didn't trust his own abilities nearly as much as he pretended to.
Lamech reached the group of people and came to a standstill a few paces from his opponent. The man fidgeted slightly under his revealing gaze - a nervous gesture that confirmed Lamech's suspicions.
Lamech's second handed him his sword and held out his hand to take his cloak. Lamech took the sword in one hand, and handed over his cloak.
Then he finally looked away from his opponent and stared at his sword as he gently drew it from its weather-beaten scabbard, marvelling at the sheer menace of the blade as it readily slid forth. The sword looked disconcerting in its hungry readiness to do what it was made for.
Made from steel mined from these very lands, the blade had an ominous sheen that gave the uncanny impression of having been dipped in blood.
When he looked up, he caught his opponent's eyes. He was staring at Lamech's sword too, completely transfixed by it.
One of the onlookers pressed through the group of people and walked towards them. Lamech took one look at his richly ornamented clothing and immediately recognised him as a priest.
"I beseech you not to spill blood here and bring eternal damnation upon yourselves," he droned shrilly, fanaticism gleaming in his eyes.
Lamech winced at the priest's words. If that was the judgement call of damnation on them, then every knight in all of France had already condemned themselves a thousand times over. Theirs was a life of war, and its inevitable bloodshed. It was the only thing they knew.
Lamech was pretty sure that even the pope realised that, which most likely was the reason for his call to Crusade two years ago. He offered salvation to all knights if they were to fight - and no doubt die -
in pursuit of freeing the Holy City of Jerusalem from the Caracens, in exchange for doing what they do anyway.
It was cunning, Lamech had to admit; a brilliant plan to use religion and men's fear of God to further political ambitions. In one stroke the pope managed to shift the power base of Europe by aligning the nobility behind the church. Every knight was intensely aware that they had blood on their hands, and being offered the chance to cleanse their hands through a seemingly noble cause, was mightily attractive.
Thousands upon thousands of knights and even labourers and laymen answered the pope's call to Crusade, no doubt surprising even the pope with their numbers. Killing, raping and torching their way through Caracen lands, they were now drawing close to the city of Antioch, about halfway between Europe and Jerusalem.
As brilliant a political move as the pope's strategy might have been, Lamech was disgusted that no-one else seemed to see through the ploy for the power coup that it was. Bloodlust and thirst for power ran thickly through the veins of men, enslaving them to the very ideals they thought would bring them freedom. He spat on the ground in front of the priest in disgust.
"You know as well as I do that the time for that has come and gone," he answered the priest, struggling to keep his contempt in check. Now was not the time to get distracted. His fight was with a man with a sword in his hand, not religious rhetoric.
Closing his mind to the embodiment of religious fanaticism standing in front of him, he turned away from the priest and faced his opponent. Some of the onlookers averted their eyes uncomfortably as the priest railed on about damnation, but most of them ignored him.
From the corner of his eye, Lamech noticed his second silently bow his head and stare at the ground. Yes, I grow tired of it too, Lamech thought, but this is who I have become. This is what I do.
"Let's get this over with," he said to no-one in particular as he looked down at the ground. Although he was staring at the ground as if seeing nothing, he was acutely aware of his adversary's every movement. He pushed his shoulders back, took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. Raising his head he began walking towards his opponent with measured steps.
The small crowd instinctively pushed back as one, giving the two fighters the space they needed.
In answer to the lethal menace approaching him, Lamech's opponent quickly drew his own sword and scurried to his left, holding his sword in his right hand. He kept his knees slightly bent and his left hand stretched out to his side for balance.
Lamech began circling to the right, keeping his prey in sight from the corner of his left eye, not looking at him head-on. He held his sword pointed at the ground in front of him, almost as if the danger of the situation was of no concern to him.
The nonchalant promise of brutal violence and a quick death was deeply unsettling to Lamech's opponent.
The man bit his lower lip as sweat rolled down the side of his face. His eyes shifted uneasily to the crowd of people around them, seeking some sign that they didn't share his concern, but he couldn't shake the feeling that this fight was going to be over before he had a chance.
His face was now an open book, revealing the condemning thoughts that were twirling in his head. At least he had the presence of mind not to take his eyes off his adversary for too long.
He continued moving to his right, his feet now shuffling in the sand in rapid, uneven steps. His shoulders dropped slightly in preparation of lifting his sword, clearly thinking he stood a chance if he were to catch Lamech off guard with a surprise lunge.
Here it comes, Lamech thought, bracing for the rush without moving so much as a muscle.
With a blood-curdling roar the man lifted his sword and rushed at Lamech, channelling all his fear and uncertainty into screaming. As he reached Lamech, his sword came down in a brilliant blur of gleaming steel. With apparent ease Lamech parried the blow, twirling around to hack him across his exposed back with a down stroke.
But his sword never made contact as his rival managed to deftly swing around and block Lamech's blow, forcing his sword to the side. He's immensely strong, Lamech thought before ducking under a wild arc of steel that skimmed just over the top of his head. Strong and fast.
But not fast enough.
Still crouching, Lamech saw his gap as the momentum of the man's wild swing caused him to momentarily have his back towards him. Shifting his weight to his left foot, Lamech shot upwards in a fluid motion. With brutal focus, he willed all his rage into his sword and aimed for his opponent's lower back.
Razor-sharp steel met leather and then flesh. Lamech's rage surged through the blade, keeping it moving forward with unstoppable force as it travelled its entire length through his victim, the point bursting forth from his chest in an explosion of blood and life.
His opponent's eyes bulged in surprise as Lamech grabbed his neck from behind with his left hand, forcing his head back as he pulled him close, holding his sword firmly in place. Lamech stared emotionlessly at the red blade sticking out of the man's chest as time seemed to slow down.
The dying man's eyes rolled backwards, trying to focus on the heavens above. Comprehension battled to come forth, but already the light was beginning to fade from his eyes. He desperately tried to keep the darkness from consuming him, but it rushed towards him without mercy.
As he went limp, Lamech pushed him forward, pulling his sword free with experienced ease. Blade dripping, Lamech looked down at his victim, his mouth set in a grim line. He expected to feel some semblance of pity, at the very least regret at another life cut off by his own hands. But all he felt was grim sadness ebbing on the bloodlust burning through his veins.
He became aware of the sudden silence as the rage ringing in his ears faded. He slowly lifted his head to look around him. The wind had quieted down to a light breeze that sent a shiver through the leaves of the nearby trees.
He shifted his gaze to look at the people standing around him. Some were looking at the dead man, but most of them stared at the ground, shocked at how quickly the duel had ended.
Not one of them looked at Lamech.
Bitterness slowly eroded his bloodlust. You thought you were going to get a good show, didn't you, he thought as he turned around and walked away.
Yes, a man just died before your eyes. And how I wish it was me.
So shall they fear the name of the Lord from the west
and His glory from the rising of the sun;
When the enemy comes in like a flood,
the Spirit of the Lord
will lift up a standard against him.
Isaiah 59:19 (NKJV)
CHAPTER 1
--- Avignon, September 1097 ---
Most people get stuck on the outward beauty of a person; marvelling and judging them by their physical appearance.
And yet, there is another kind of beauty - a beauty that has the power to transform the outer. Without it the outer is nothing more than a shell - enjoyable to look at perhaps, but ultimately pointless, devoid of any meaning.
The beauty that shines from within, however, enhances the outward beauty into something that is softer, quieter, and even more blinding because of its purity.
When faced with such beauty, a man's world seems to right itself, finding balance and peace amid all the violence and turmoil that life coughs up. It causes a man to rise up to his full potential - not in vain pursuit - but in a subconscious understanding that protection of such beauty is a lifelong pursuit that would never grow tiring.
Some see this beauty in the shining innocence of a newborn baby's smile. Others get a glimpse of it gazing at the sun slowly dipping into the horizon.
But for Lamech, the reawakening of such beauty in his life began when he met Leala.
It was not that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on, yet she possessed a tranquillity about her that brought colour and vibrancy to life. Other more beautiful woman became common and dull compared to the radiance that was Leala.
There was something inside he
r that shone brilliantly; a mysterious light that only shined brighter the deeper the darkness of society grew.
In the world they lived in, it was deemed a commendable quality - nay, a necessity - to be pious. But for Leala, faith was so much more.
Where others would wander down populous streets, praying out loud so that all could hear and marvel at their spirituality, Leala would seek out quiet pathways along rivers and through green-brushed forests to spend time in silent prayer with her Maker.
In a world where religion was used as both currency and a ladder, Leala seemed to have found that lightning spark that had also set the first disciples apart from the rest of the world.
Lamech did not share her convictions about faith - for him, God was a necessity that was best kept in the dark and brought forth when needed. And he knew with absolute certainty that this was how the world went about it too.
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