Startaker

by Marian Goddard

  Christian wanted to speak but his tongue had cleaved to the roof of his mouth and no words came. He felt a cup of cool liquid pressed to his lips and drank thirstily but before he could utter a sound, fell back, exhausted. By the evening he was alert and listening to the steady bustle of people around him. He heard soft voices and tinkling laughter and the smell of roasting meat made his mouth water and his stomach grumble in anticipation. There were other odours too, the astringent tang of poultices, the pungency of herbs and the earthy smell of blood. These comforted him, for they were the scents of home…and Andre. So he lay back, content to rest.

  And then a warm hand on his arm and that voice again, serene and clear “Ah, the strength returns to the limbs! The flush to the countenance! What magic resides in the sweet soul of youth?” He longed to see the face that belonged to that wondrous, healing voice. Blind or not, he was still learning. It was not just medicine and salves that could heal but joyful words and kindness.

  The voice went on “Young sir, I beg your pardon but I have perused the contents of your magnificent box and prepared a tincture for you from your own medicines. We have very little here to offer the many who seek comfort and you carry such riches, they fill my eyes with wonder.”

  Christian spoke at last, his own words croaky and ill formed “You are welcome sire, to all that I have, and I thank you humbly for your kindness.”

  There was a laugh like softly babbling water “It is you who are to be welcomed. We have been waiting for you for some time.”

  What did he say? Were his ears playing tricks? Or was he still asleep and dreaming?”

  “I must say, your theriac was most impressive. Did you know that Nero’s favourite physician Andrommachis enhanced its potency by adding the flesh of vipers, aged it in golden caskets and then sold it for five hundred times its value in the palaces of the East? Ah, such are the conceits of the rich and the wiles of the learned.

  But alas young sir, I have others to attend. Rest now and later we will talk and perhaps remove the covering from your eyes. Are you hungry? I will order a pretty girl to prepare you some food.” And after another pat of the hand, the voice was gone and Christian had never felt so alone in his life.

  Soon a warm hand touched his and the delicious smell of mutton cooked in dates teased his nostrils. He ate hungrily, asked for more and wolfed that down too. Then he was given a cup of pomegranate juice and believed he had never tasted a drink so wonderful. He turned his head toward the quiet presence by his side “I thank you mistress, for the food.” He received no answer and realised she had gone. It saddened him to think that women here were regarded as such little worth, they moved like wraiths in their own land.

  He needed to make water and pulled himself to the edge of the pallet but pain flared in his leg as he tried to stand and left him weak and trembling. He lay back and slept and awoke only when he felt the bandages round his eyes unwinding. At the last turn, a blinding flash of light made him jerk his head away but the gentle voice calmed him once again “It is a good sign. Illumination is always overwhelming at first. Then one becomes accustomed and delights in its presence. Open your eyes and behold. The sun has risen just for you.”

  Christian forced open his swollen eyelids and looked about him. He peered as if through a haze, until his eyes became adapted to the light and then he smiled at the marvel before him.

  The morning light gleaming through the grilled window shone upon a young girl standing at the foot of his bed, holding a spray of brightly coloured flowers. Her eyes were demurely cast down, her delicate hands a soft frame for the blossoms which paled in comparison to her beauty. Her unveiled hair fell dark and lustrous as a bat’s wing to her waist, and the thick fringe of her lashes rested on cheeks the colour of ripe peaches. She opened her eyes and it was if the sky had settled in them, so azure blue was their colour. Then she smiled and her small teeth gleamed white and perfect from rose coloured lips.

  He heard laughter, deep and rumbling “Is she not a better medicine than all the elixirs and potions in Damascus?” Christian could not take his weakened eyes from the girl, so lovely was her face and fair her form. “But enough, lest you are drawn to the light like a moth and burned in its flame.” She lowered her eyes once again, laid the flowers at his feet and departed, leaving Christian staring after her like a homeless puppy.

  The voice beside him came closer. “The child is lovely and a panacea for many ills. Her name is Leah and she is a slave of the wise Sultan Omar. She is greatly loved by the people, who treat her as if she were an angel descended from heaven to ease their suffering. She graces our presence with the kind permission of her master, for just a glance at her makes many arise from their beds, renewed.”

  Christian turned and saw the owner of the voice at last.

  The man was tall, taller than Andre and slender as a willow branch. Wide brown eyes shone from a face shiny with good nature and his generous mouth was smiling still. He wore a plain brown robe and turban with incongruously, a rose tucked into one of its folds. It had the effect of making him at once comical and approachable and Christian knew instantly that here was a man to be trusted.

  “Yes, she is very beautiful. I am overwhelmed sire, by the trouble you have taken for my comfort. I hope that somehow, I will be able to repay your kindness.”

  “Just seeing you recovering is payment enough. Ah, forgive my rudeness; I am Ishmael Hamid Al-Ghazali.” The physician bowed low with a flourish of his hand “Lately from the great city of Cairo, in Egypt. Actually, I am a wanderer on the path of life myself. I was on my way home until I decided to stay. But enough of me, what of your eyes, is there soreness?”

  Christian screwed up his eyes and opened them again “Better than before.” Then he looked down at his leg, at a large patch of suppurating flesh where the viper had bitten him and felt a rush of fear. He had seen many rotted limbs. Since the Holy Father had forbidden the monks to perform a surgeons’ duties, it had been left to the farmers, who hacked away with sharpened wedges and blades and white hot irons to cauterise, the patient often dying in the process. “My leg too, feels less painful but I fear there may be some necrosis in the wound.”

  The physician bent to examine more closely, his fingers probing the area, determining the extent. Christian wanted to cry out but kept his lips pressed tightly shut. He had been enough of a burden already.

  Ishmael did not look up but carried on “I believe you are right. What, in your land is the treatment for such?”

  He forced himself not to tremble as he answered “Excision…and if that is not successful, removal of the limb.”

  He nodded “Yes. It may be that such an operation will have to be performed. The infection is progressing swiftly, only last night I examined the wound and it seemed little changed. But we shall see. There are other remedies we can try.” He applied a handful of maggots and bound the leg in the hope they would eat away the rotted flesh and Christian spent a restless day and night full of nightmares and fearful squirming.

  In the morning the wound was much cleaner but also larger, so Ishmael decided to consult with his friend Ali, principal physician to the Caliph of Damascus.

  Christian was worried. He hadn’t enough money to pay and tried to make light of the injury, but Ishmael guessed his concerns and put his mind to rest. “All those who carry the rod of Asclepius in this great city have sworn to ease the sufferings of all. It is a thing understood. Payment is not a necessity.

  If one is able to recompense, it is well. If not…then Almighty Allah will provide.”

  He lay back and marvelled at the enlightened and generous place to which he had come. He thought of the brutality of the crusades and how these good people must have suffered and was ashamed.

  The doctor came early. Richly attired in the Turkish manner, with rings glittering on every plump finger, he strode regally through the modest doors like a king to his throne, leaving a waft of expensive perfume in his wake. Yet he was kind, his voice gentle “Young ma
n, my friend tells me you have been bitten by a viper and while you have overcome the poison, the wound does not heal. This is so?” He nodded and the physician clapped his hands for warm water and cloths. He washed away the pus and carefully examined the wound, seeming not to notice the sickly sweet smell of putrefaction issuing from it. Then he straightened up and looked into Christian’s eyes, his own dark and penetrating. “I am told you have some knowledge of medicine?” He did not wait for him to reply “Then you know what must be done.”

  Christian’s body felt instantly cold and his head swam. He wanted to run from the room and make his way home to Germany, to be safe behind the cloistered walls of the monastery. But he knew he would not live past a week with his leg festering and putrid. He had no choice.

  Ishmael came to stand beside him. “Ali is the finest surgeon in all of Syria. You are fortunate. He will work swiftly, with great skill.” He offered a small cup “Drink,

  young sir. It is but a thimbleful of poppy but it will help with the pain.” He drank the foul tasting liquid and lay back, watching them prepare for his ordeal, bringing basins and cloths, laying out sharpened knives and serrated blades.

  Both physicians washed their hands thoroughly in a bowl set aside for that purpose, Ali removing his rings and placing them in a small bag about his neck. Then a brazier was brought in, two small irons glowing hot in its centre.

  He felt a little ripple of fear at the sight. But soon the numbing draught began to work and it was as if all his trepidation had fallen away and his body had grown lighter. He watched them standing together, heads bent, whispering and then he was floating peacefully in a soft world of carelessness, unmindful of the preparations being made for the removal of his leg. They came to his bed. Ali patted his hand and said quietly “You are a man now, with a man’s courage. All will be well. Inshallah. …If it be the Will of God.” Through bleared and heavy eyes Christian saw him take up a curved blade and bend silently to his task.

  Then suddenly it seemed that his leg had been thrust into boiling water or frozen in ice. He could feel the skin being flayed and torn, smell the revolting stench of burnt, rotted flesh and from somewhere deep in the past, quietly at first and then spiralling into a crescendo of agony, the howling of wolves and the cries of a small boy, galloping alone and frightened through a cold winter’s night.

  *

  Again he slept for a day, perhaps two. He had no way of knowing. He pulled himself up from the depth of a dreamless sleep to the sound of laboured breathing and turned to see a child asleep in the crook of his arm, shivering and feverish. He reached out and touched the smooth face, hot and damp, the eyelids almost transparent over sunken eyes. He noted the flushed and spotted complexion, hiding greyness beneath it, the jerky rise and fall of the small chest. He brought his arm out gently from under the limp head and sat up. There was much in his remedy box that might help; febrifuges and salves, also poultices and creams. He pulled the thin blanket up over the narrow shoulders and rose to fetch it.

  A blinding jot of pain shot through him, reminding him sharply why he was there. He looked down at his leg. Even wrapped in thick layers of linen it looked thin and deformed, most notably where the muscles of his calf should have been. But they had not cut it off. No wonder Ali was famed for his skill. He said a silent prayer of thanks, ignored the pain and searched for his remedy box.

  He found his belongings neatly piled in a corner and set to work mixing a draught. He did not stop to wonder at the phases of the moon or which stars were auspicious. The medicine was the important thing.

  He patiently dropped the tincture between the boy’s teeth. He’d mixed it with honey to mask the bitter taste and the child took it willingly, licking his lips clean of the sweetness, his eyes still tightly shut. Then Christian heard a baby cry and noticed the others. Lined against the long, narrow walls were pallets of clean straw and in each were several children, some asleep, some staring blankly ahead. All seemed feverish and poorly. He picked up a snuffling baby and held it while mucus bubbled thickly from its nose, feeling the rattle of the tiny chest against his own. He limped between the beds, spooning medicine into small mouths, playing the jester to coax the unwilling.

  Then Ishmael was beside him, doing the same. He consulted with him about the ingredients of his tincture and what yet could be done. He didn’t treat him as a child or as a patient but as one of his own, a man concerned with the care of the sick. A bedraggled caravan of pilgrims had trundled through the city, its children blotched and blinded with measles. The townspeople slammed and bolted their doors in disgust, believing that the plague had followed them, so the Vizier ordered their quarantine in the hostel and their mothers stood wailing outside, begging to be let in.

  It was ten days before the fevers abated and for Christian, it was a confirmation of his life’s commitment.

  After the children had been returned to their mothers, Ishmael and Christian sat together in the shade of an apple tree, drinking strong Turkish coffee and talking of their lives. Ishmael told him of his home and the wise priests of the temples there, who instructed the few in the mysteries and clothed their knowledge in fearsome deities and dark warnings for the rest. He was a member of that sect known for their mystical devotions as Sufi and all he did; he did with loving kindness, humbly and of good cheer. No boon could be too much to ask of him, no thing too much to give, for all was one in the eyes of Allah, most infinite, most loving.

  He told Christian of arriving in Damascus a year since, to await the coming of a great sage from the West, one who had been foretold by the astrologers and magi of his own land. And for one who had barely reached his sixteenth year, Christian also had many tales to tell. He talked of his journeys by sea and the great city of Venice and he told him of the camel driver’s instructions to find Artephius.

  Ishmael’s face grew solemn “Yes, yes. A visit to that one should be very valuable to you, if only to learn what not to learn.”

  A week later he woke early, took a sturdy stick to lean on and begged directions in the town.

  Two small boys led him, with rolling eyes and awestruck whispers to a dirty, overhung doorway at the end of an alley. He banged on the wood and waited. Then he heard the bad tempered bark of a dog, grumbling and muttering and a sharp voice behind the door “What ill bred oaf comes at this devilish hour and disturbs my sleep?”

  He was so unprepared for the gruffness of the response, he stumbled on the words “I…I am a traveller in search of knowledge and… I humbly beg an audience of one who is spoken of with much honour by his servant.” There was the slow creaking slide of a latch and a narrow chink of light gleamed through the opening and then framed in the doorway an apparition, swathed in tattered brown robes and head-cloths, bent and twisted, fierce of countenance, with a hooked nose more befitting an eagle than a man. At first he thought he was looking at a shaggy dog until a gnarled hand snaked out from under the mantle and thrust toward his face. The boys fled shrieking back down the alley.

  “And this is of concern to me?”

  Christian bowed his head and flushed in embarrassment. He had presumed too much. He should have sent a messenger and asked an audience like a gentleman, instead of banging on the door in the early hours like a ruffian. “My sincere apologies Sire. It was thoughtless of me to accost you like this. I will depart and leave you to your slumber.” He could feel the burning intensity of the doleful eyes as he stood waiting quietly at the door, while the dog sat obediently at his master’s feet, its ears up and tail thumping the ground. Christian held out his hand and the animal pushed his head under it to be stroked.

  In his imagination a magician was upright and robust, uttering incantations with blazing eyes, a fiery wand hurling lightening at the sky. Not this miserable, shrivelled wretch. If this was the boon of the philosophers’ stone, a man would be a fool to seek it. The bundle of rags uttered one word “Good!” and slammed the door in his face.

  Christian was stunned. He hobbled away, grateful to st
and in the sun, breathe the good air of the morning. He made his way back to find a man sitting by the door, holding a cloth to a deep cut in his hand. It was the gardener who’d given him the walnuts on his first day in Damascus and he hurried to help, bringing linen bindings and sweet tea.

  The gardener sat quietly while the wound was bound, watching him with the muddy, cataract clouded eyes of those who spend their lives under the fierce desert sun. Then he smiled, put his hand in a cloth bag at his waist and brought out another handful of walnuts. “My master offers these as a token of welcome.”

  Christian took them reluctantly, his instincts warning him to beware. “Be not unsure in my presence, young sir. I am but a lowly messenger.”

  He did not like this game playing and stage-acting. He had learned to speak plainly and expected the same of others. For the first time in his life Christian employed the advantage of his noble birth. He stood upright and looked hard at the seated man.

  “And who is your master?”

  The man stared at him frankly, a broad smile creasing his dark face. “It is he whom thou seek.”

  Christian kept the hard edge to his voice “I seek no-one.”

  “Art thou not seeking a man of learning to guide thee?”

  “I have found no-one in this city more fitted to teach me than my friends here. In any case, I shall shortly take my leave and journey on to Jerusalem.”

  The gardener nodded “Even so, my master, Artephius would have thee attend upon him.”

  He gaped in surprise. Artephius? Had he gone to the wrong house? “I…I will think on it. Where is his home?”

  “Thou hast been there already this morning. Pray, disregard the hour. He sleeps little.” He departed, placing a coin for the hospice in Christian’s hand.