The Crusader

by Michael Eisner

  I did not respond. I did not know the answer. Perhaps I could make it to the shore. Perhaps. Isabel was another matter. She was lying on her side, exhausted. She seemed unable to raise her head.

  “Isabel,” I said, “we must move quickly. The ice will give at any moment.”

  She looked at me vacantly. She mumbled something unintelligible. I slapped her cheek.

  “Isabel, time is against us. We must crawl to the closest side of the lake.” I could see that she was trying to understand my words, but it was as if I were speaking in a foreign tongue.

  “Spread yourself over the ice,” I said, “so that no body part places too much weight on the frail surface and breaks through.”

  I stroked her hair and repeated myself several times until she nodded. She did not move, though. I shook her and pushed her forward, until she started crawling. I followed directly behind.

  She moved weakly, uncertainly, resting at frequent intervals. But she made steady, if slow, progress toward the shore. When Isabel came to the new fissure, she stopped. It was the most dangerous point of our path. She was reluctant to cross it. But we had no choice. I told her to continue onward. With as much conviction as I could muster, I told her that we would soon reach the shore. She started forward gingerly. When she was directly over the crack, I could hear the ice breaking underneath the surface—the layers cracking one after the other. Isabel awaited her fate perfectly still—her lips pursed together, her eyes closed tightly. She was too tired to offer any other resistance. I watched her intently, concentrating my attention on her furrowed brow, as if I could somehow hold her above the surface through sheer will.

  The creaking sound became high-pitched. It squealed and screeched. Then the noise faded, until it stopped altogether, leaving in its wake a restless hush. Isabel opened her eyes warily and, without moving her head, surveyed the platform beneath her. The ice had held.

  “Go, Isabel,” I said. “Go now.”

  Isabel took my cue and scrambled just beyond the crack.

  She looked back at me, and I motioned for her to proceed to the shore before I moved forward. If I fell through, the breach could well take her with me. She refused to move, though. So I slithered along the lake over the crack. The rumble began again and surged, until the entire lake was humming. I quickened my pace. In my haste, I allowed my right hand to place too much pressure on the surface. It pierced the ice, and dove into the freezing water. The small hole remained contained, though. I pulled my hand back carefully and continued. When I reached Isabel, we nodded to each other. I squeezed her hand lightly.

  Andrés was shouting encouragement from the shore—“thirty more feet, you can make it.” We set off again, this time crawling side by side. “Fifteen feet,” Andrés yelled. “Almost there.”

  I was looking down when I felt the snow under my fingers. We had reached land.

  Despite my immersion in water, my mouth was parched. I dropped my face to the earth and scooped snow into my mouth. When I looked up, I saw Isabel’s ashen face. Her teeth chattered, her body shook violently. Andrés’ brown cloak had soaked through. Isabel would not last long outside in her condition. Andrés and I exchanged anxious glances, then quickly prepared our two horses for the return journey. Isabel’s horse was gone, entombed in that faithless lake.

  We decided that we could make the best time if Isabel rode with me on Pancho. The weight of Andrés alone was a strain for most horses, no less an extra person. Andrés helped me up into Pancho’s saddle and placed his sister behind me. Isabel wrapped her arms around my ribs and rested her head on my shoulder. In this manner, we made our return to the Correa household.

  At dusk, after an hour’s journey, we reached the estate. Isabel and I were welded together in a cold, deathlike embrace. Andrés and several servants lifted Isabel and me off Pancho as if we were a fragile crystal statue. They placed us in front of the fire in the Great Hall. We were frozen in the same position we had held during the ride—Isabel clasping me from behind, her chest fused to my back. Icicles dangled from our hair like ornaments from a solstice celebration. Behind us, Baron Correa paced back and forth as the flames oscillated in an agitated, macabre dance. When the fire melted the ice that bound us one to the other, Isabel’s body slipped to the floor. She lay there, broken. Baron Correa picked her up in his massive arms and ascended the stairs. Andrés helped me to my feet.

  FOR THE FIRST three days, the Correa house was in turmoil. The house servants rushed back and forth with blankets and cold water in a vain effort to stem the fever that raged through Isabel’s body. She fell in and out of this world. Her delirious cries could be heard throughout the household, even in my room with the door closed. Most of what she said was incomprehensible—words and phrases strung together in an indecipherable pattern. She seemed to be experiencing again the moments of terror on the frozen lake. She shouted my name several times. She called to me as if I were the one drowning and not she.

  While we had rescued her body, her mind remained trapped in the nightmare of that ruthless oblivion. Andrés sat outside her room with his sword on his lap as if guarding his sister from the angel of death. He did not eat or sleep. Her father sent for a doctor from Tortosa, but it would be several days before his arrival and by that time her fate would be determined.

  I recognized the slow onslaught of the same darkness that had engulfed my house in Barcelona. The Correa estate was being pulled down into that corrosive mourning. I knew the signs. I felt it in myself and through the house, in the family and the servants—silent tears, desperate questioning, looks of disbelief, mumbled prayers. I felt as if I was reliving the past. Four years ago, lying awake in my bed, listening to whispers in the hallway, the preparations for services in Sergio’s honor, the aftermath of an ineffable sadness, like a Cross branded forever on your forehead.

  A ray of light that had flickered was now being suffocated. The darkness was returning as if it had never left, as if it had always been waiting its chance to reassert itself. Isabel’s death seemed unbearably inevitable. First Sergio, then Isabel—two icy graves.

  On the fourth day, the fever broke. I was not present at the time. One of the servants subsequently told me her first words—“Is it snowing?”—as if nothing had happened, as if the world had not approached the abyss and then stepped back.

  Andrés relayed the news to me immediately. I did not notice him entering my room. Gaunt and haggard from three sleepless days of fasting, Andrés put his hands on my shoulders and spoke.

  “Isabel will live.” That was all he said.

  After he left the room, I stopped pacing and stood staring out the window. The sun was just breaking over the mountain range. The trees stretched out after a long night. The white snow glistened in the velvet light.

  I walked over to the pew and knelt. I clasped my fingers together and said a prayer of thanks. Then I looked up to the figure of Christ. He was staring past me, preoccupied by his own suffering.

  That afternoon, I entered the sick chamber for the first time. Isabel’s bed was in the middle of the room. The walls were bare, whitewashed. A jar of water and an empty cup stood atop a small wooden table. There were two chairs, one at her side, the other at the foot of the bed. Andrés was fast asleep in the latter.

  I walked slowly to her side. She was propped up against pillows, glancing out the window. I sat down next to her bed. Isabel turned to face me. She smiled softly but did not speak. She was still weak. Her pale skin was flushed from the struggle to survive, tiny beads of sweat graced her forehead, her chest rose and fell unevenly. I picked up her left hand in my own and placed her palm on my cheek. I pulled myself toward her, resting my head on her stomach. Her yellow hair fell across my face. I could taste the bitter lake on the fine strands. She placed her hand on my head as I wept silently into the folds of the coarse wool blanket that covered her.

  ISABEL DID NOT stir from her bed over the course of the next week. She slept through the day and evening, except for one hour at midday w
hen she poked at the foods prepared in accordance with the instructions of the doctor Don Eximen de Tortosa. The doctor arrived two days after the fever broke. With Isabel sleeping soundly, Don Eximen struck a contemplative pose, scrutinizing his patient, his right arm on his hip, his left hand smoothing his long, unruly beard.

  “Food,” Don Eximen said.

  “Excuse me, Don Eximen?” Baron Correa said.

  “Food,” the doctor repeated. “The girl needs food.”

  After delivering this prescription, naming several of his favorite dishes, and collecting a handsome fee, the doctor departed the estate. He had to return to Tortosa, he said, to tend to the illness of a “distinguished, very distinguished member of the royal family.” His assistant, Brother Tagle, remained behind to administer “spiritual nourishment” to Isabel.

  The week passed smoothly—Isabel gradually regained her strength until she was able to take short walks in the garden. Andrés and I acted the part of ushers on these excursions—one of us on each side, our arms linked in hers to provide support. Isabel did not speak at first, focusing all her energy on circumnavigating the garden. Andrés and I would usually discuss the merits of different weaponry—whether, for example, a man with shield and sword would best a man with similar abilities but armed with crossbow and mace; or whether a man on horseback with lance but no shield would defeat a man with bow and arrow, horseless, but a marksman. On several instances, I had to interrupt Andrés to avoid any mention of the crusade or the Saracens, especially when he began to use examples of weapons favored by the infidels. Neither of us wanted to provoke Isabel’s reaction in her weakened condition. As her strides became longer each day, however, she took an increasing interest in our conversation.

  During one of these excursions, a commotion broke out just outside the rock wall that enclosed the garden. A bull had escaped the pen. We could hear the servants trying to trap it in the meadow, shouting at each other and the bull. At the time, Isabel had been discussing her plan to enlarge the estate’s chapel as a present to her father on his forty-fifth birthday. Andrés, bored with the topic and eager to join the fray, asked if he could be excused to chase the wayward bull. It was a novelty to hear Andrés ask permission of anyone, no less his sister. I suppose her brush with death gave Isabel a temporarily elevated status.

  Upon hearing Andrés’ request, Isabel glanced at me with raised eyebrows. “Did my brother just seek permission to depart or did I lapse back into delirium?”

  “It could only be a relapse,” I responded.

  Andrés frowned, looked straight ahead, and then pretended to ignore us. Isabel left her brother in this torturous limbo for another minute before kissing his clenched cheek.

  “Dear brother,” she said, “one faithful arm will support me. Go where your heart calls you.”

  As Andrés dashed off, we laughed at the absurd figure he cut, squeezing his bulk through the wiry branches, then scrambling over the rock wall.

  Isabel and I continued around the garden. We tried to carry on the discussion, but whatever issue we engaged seemed irrelevant. My voice sounded shrill and hollow. Soon, Isabel and I were pacing the stone walkway with not a word. I tried desperately to think of a new, fertile subject. My mind was blank, though. Andrés’ absence grew heavier, disconcerting. The distance between Isabel and me became tangible and oppressive. Our steps quickened. I tripped over a raised bed of herbs, the brown leaves frozen, barely managing to prevent myself from falling headlong into the snow. I resumed walking, but my legs and arms felt unwieldy. The sound of the snow crunching under our feet accented the untenable awkwardness of the situation. Surely, I thought, the hardships of war must be easier than this excruciating silence.

  “I believe it will snow tonight.” Isabel said, temporarily salvaging the situation.

  “Yes, it would seem so, Isabel.”

  “Even now the clouds descend upon us,” she said.

  I looked to the sky and saw only blue. “Perhaps,” I said, “we should inform your father so that he can instruct the servants to gather more firewood.”

  “A fine idea,” she responded. “I will tell him.”

  I tried to think of a clever response to sustain the dialogue. I racked my brain, but the issue was exhausted, defunct. We were left where we began. I bit the inside of my lip until I tasted blood.

  “My brother enjoys the chase,” Isabel finally said.

  “Yes,” I responded, seizing upon the subject. “Andrés and I used to race almost every day in Montcada.”

  Isabel seemed not to hear me, though. She continued speaking, her tone becoming more familiar, the timbre of her voice keener. “My brother is an explorer. He would make a great pirate if he had been born under different circumstances. He takes the Cross for the same reason he ran off just now. For the adventure.”

  Isabel was studying me again. I glanced at her, then looked away, focusing on the path ahead.

  “But not you, Francisco. Your nature differs markedly from my brother’s. You did not chase the bull. You remained here with me. It is not adventure that you seek in the Levant.

  “I would say it must be Christ, then,” Isabel continued. “That you take the Cross to glorify His Name. Only you lack the severe, humorless manner that soldiers of Christ invariably adopt. And if that were your purpose, I doubt you would be such close friends with my brother. No, I do not believe you take the Cross for adventure or for Christ. And yet, you will risk everything on the crusade.”

  “I think you have misjudged me, Isabel,” I responded. “Your brother and I are not so different as you believe. I too take the Cross in search of adventure. I cannot imagine living the life of my father before I have had a chance to explore the world.”

  She nodded thoughtfully and walked several more steps before speaking. “I do not believe you.”

  She spoke as if she were stating a fact. She was so certain of herself. Isabel did not believe me. This sixteen-year-old girl did not believe me. What right did she have to question me on this of all subjects?

  “Well, Isabel, because God wills it.” I spoke in a patronizing, acid tone the rationale of our ancestors, the first crusaders. It had become the refuge of idiots and fanatics. As soon as the words escaped me, I regretted having spoken them. My anger at her presumption dissipated. The bitter taste of my sarcasm lingered in my mouth.

  I did not see Isabel’s reaction. I felt the muscles of her arm grow taut. She stopped walking and stood transfixed. She seemed to be considering my statement, absorbing its meaning slowly. When she was done, she unthreaded her arm from mine and ran ahead toward the house. I stood still for several seconds, cursing myself. Then my arms and legs propelled me after her.

  I caught Isabel at the closed door, where she was fumbling with the latch. I grabbed her arm. She tried to turn away, but I held her fast. She was crying. I spoke her name.

  Isabel.

  My intonations betrayed me. The graceful sound, the manner in which the syllables of her name banded together. There was in my voice an unpracticed intimacy, an unforeseen reverence.

  Isabel’s lips curled downward in a sullen scowl, but her eyes were soft. She stopped struggling to free herself.

  I expected a cold slap. No, I did not expect it. I hoped for that release, her touch, even jagged. She would not give me the satisfaction. Her wounded eyes held the same unspoken question. I groaned. I held my breath. With images of my dead brother flooding my mind, I tried to answer her.

  “I take the Cross for a ghost, Isabel, a dead man.”

  I stopped speaking. I had never talked about Sergio—even with Andrés. It was a private matter. But Isabel reached out and pulled my cloak forward as if to encourage me, and I continued.

  “I take the Cross for my brother. Sergio waits suspended between heaven and hell. He waits for me … for me. Only I can tip the scales in his favor. I must fulfill his ill-fated mission.”

  She reached for my hand and held it tightly.

  “Maybe your brother is al
ready in heaven,” she said, “and your sacrifice is unnecessary.”

  I paused and looked beyond the garden, toward the horizon and then back at Isabel. “The demons who keep me awake at night, they tell me of Sergio’s agonies. They whisper secrets of the sea that will carry me to the Holy Land. They call me forth to meet my destiny.”

  “You could remain in Girona with us, Francisco,” Isabel said. “You are safe here. No demons are allowed on the Correa estate.” She smiled weakly.

  “Yes, I saw the sign when I came to the estate several weeks ago,” I said. “Regrettably, my demons are illiterates, a band of ill-mannered, uneducated tormentors. They have little respect for the ordinary courtesies.”

  She gave a short laugh, but there was no solace. I offered her a handkerchief. She wiped her face and returned the cloth. The sweet tears woven indelibly into the fabric. I kept that holy relic under my metal shirt, until it was lost forever in the battle of Toron.

  With the back of my hand, I tried to wipe away her tears. She turned my hand over and placed her lips on my palm.

  BROTHER TAGLE, DON Eximen’s assistant, forbade Isabel from venturing outside over the next two days on account of a snowstorm that blanketed the manor. I wanted to see her, but not in the company of others. I hoped in vain that Isabel would escape her confinement for a rendezvous in the garden. I remained in my room peering through the colorless glass, waiting for her appearance. I declined Andrés’ invitation to go sledding and faked a bout of nausea to avoid successive meals. I was both prisoner and sentry, confined to my quarters, and keeping steadfast vigil over my captive in the garden, the stone Virgin. I tried to remember the exact words of my conversation with Isabel, but it was in the silent spaces that I lived during those two days—the silent spaces between our words, the awkward gestures that chased away old shadows like the hushed breezes that swept the snowdrift from my windowsill.