Hope and the Knight of the Black Lion

by Mary C. Findley

  “Christians are supposed to bear hardship,” the leathery face sneered. “Mall amr? It is good I am well-paid to put up with your moaning.”

  “Hassib, old man. The Christian is to be looked after with gentleness,” said a voice somewhere behind me. “There are other healers who will take our pay.”

  The old Arab glanced warily at the speaker. He proceeded with his work more carefully. I saw a brown robe swirl into view. A young man, brown-eyed, cocky and bright as a new camel bell squatted across from my attendant on my other side.

  “Christian dog, I thought I had seen you look as bad as you possibly could,” he exclaimed. I stared at him stupidly. His slim finger traced the course of a straight, white scar connecting my eye with the corner of my mouth.

  “I helped you get this trying to save your life.” He brushed the matted hair from my face with woman-like tenderness and all the savagery and bravado faded away to an anxious, strained expression I had seen five years ago on a beach near Doumiât. He had not had a beard then or when I parted from him. Once I realized that, I knew him.

  “Sadaquah.” It sounded like the rasp of a saw on stone, not a human voice.

  “Had I been there,” he said, “Allah would have had much to pardon me for.”

  “Perhaps if you had told me of your Christian dog then I would have helped you.” A new, rough-looking face lowered itself into my limited range of vision.

  “This is Rasoul,” Sadaquah explained. “He looked on while the horses tried to fling you to the four winds.”

  “Four hours, Allah and Mohammed bear witness to the truth of my words,” Rasoul breathed. “No man should live through such a thing.”

  “He is a very strong Christian dog,” Sadaquah said. “Lematha? Why did you go back to them, foolish Englishman? It was you who told me how false their ‘Mission for Christ and Our Lady’ was.”

  “I saw a Frenchman,” I said hoarsely. “Who is he?”

  “What does it matter?” spat Rasoul. “He leads these sons of jackals who pollute the name of Islam. The infidel sells salt to his own people and produces it by torturing helpless men who should be his brothers. His men told me you were his favorite, because you were so strong and could take so much punishment.

  “One of the horses fell and broke a leg. They stopped only because he said he felt pity for the horses and they must not waste any more. As if it were no waste to tear a brave man apart. All spoke of how he hated your stubbornness and your singing of Christ.”

  “Lusto adri -- What does this mean?” Sadaquah demanded. “You were one of us. You tore that cross from your shoulder and stamped upon it. Perhaps you did not become a Mohammedan, but you rode with us, fought with us, and swore you hated the Christians.”

  “I did not know ... what it meant to be a ... Christian,” I whispered. “I cannot ... explain it now. Later if ... that old man is ... determined not to let me die ...”

  “Come, Christian dog,” Sadaquah said lightly, poorly masking his anxiety. “You will live to split many more skulls. This old man is a go healer. I shall watch over you as well.”

  I slept most of the day. The old man gave me broth of some meat – dog, I supposed, since I was only an infidel, after all. In it were herbs that fought the pain along with the opium. With rest, enough to eat and drink, room to lie flat for the first time in many long days, I felt alive again by evening. I was still not anxious to match swords with Sadaquah as he suggested. He took over the duty of spilling my liquid dinner on me by way of getting it down my throat.

  “There was a woman…” I said when I had finished choking on the broth. “When I was taken out of the pit.”

  “It was the opium,” Sadaquah snorted. “You could ondhur – you could see women on the ceiling, on the walls....”

  “There was a woman,” I repeated. “She was responsible for rescuing me.”

  “Englishman, it is not wise to question good fortune,” Sadaquah admonished. “Waghif! Stop! Do not ask about the woman.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I traveled with Rasoul’s caravan. I went away to a village near the oasis and did not hear about what had happened until I returned. Rasoul asked me to help him drag a Christian dog out of the burial pit. I wondered why he would want to do such a thing but then I saw that it was you. How is it that you live?”

  “I wish I did not,” I murmured.

  “Tell me why you went back to the Christians,” Sadaquah demanded. “You met that old pilgrim, and suddenly you changed. They feared you would come after us to please your new brothers. They tried to make me stay away from you. But I could not. I heard how Arabs had killed everyone at his camp. I found the book – the diary you wrote in, but I did not find your body, so I began to search again.”

  “I saw that Christ was real, that He died for my sins, that He rose again. I saw that I needed Him to cleanse me. I realized that I had learned the Scriptures, learned all about God. But I had never submitted to Him and become His child.”

  Sadaquah looked at me in bewilderment. “Jesus was a great Prophet, like Mohammed,” he argued. “Nothing more.”

  “He is the Son of God,” I responded. “He shed His blood for sin. For my sin.”

  “So has your Christian church always taught,” Sadaquah shrugged. “What is it that has changed?”

  “The Church teaches a burden of works no man can do and no assurance after he has spent his life trying. The Scriptures teach Christ alone can save,” I answered. “It is I who have changed. It is what my father always tried to teach me – that Christ alone can save. If I had listened, I would never have come here.”

  “Enough of this talk,” Sadaquah grunted. “Your eyes are rolling back in your head again. Does it still hurt very much?”

  “Very much. I wonder if it will ever go away?”

  “When you die.”

  “That is a great comfort.”

  “It is best to speak the truth. But there will be less of it. You are a very strong man, my friend. And perhaps your God can comfort you.”

  “He has already done so. Al hamdu lillah. Praise God. He has sent you to me. I wish you could understand the truth of Christ.”

  “I give you leave to try to make me understand,” Sadaquah said soberly. I was startled. “Rasoul said there were men who spoke strongly of your courage and your faith. I do not think they would have continued even if the horse had not stumbled. It was Rasoul who stepped in and insisted that you were already dead. They all knew better. The Frenchman was too stupid and too glad to be rid of you.”

  “I wish they had felt strongly enough to do something sooner,” I grunted.

  “Arabs have no cause to love a Christian,” Sadaquah reminded me. “They told me they had heard about the infidel Englishman who rode with us, and they would have acted sooner if they had known it was you. As it was, they stopped it when they did only because they could not help honoring your courage and strength when it had gone on so long and you still lived.”

  “What does the old man say about me? He will tell me nothing. I can scarcely move at all.”

  “Inshaallah. He brags that you will be as well as ever. He is a good healer, but ....”

  “If he can get me on my legs again, then I can get myself home.”

  “Back to England? Back to that father into whose face you spat? You have changed, Christian dog.”

  “I must go home. I must ask my father’s forgiveness and tell him what has happened.”

  “I hope you will get your wish, my friend. But Lusto Adri — I cannot say I believe you will see your England again.”

  I was wakeful that night. The pain gnawed at me. Sadaquah’s skepticism went deeper still. As a teenager I had set my sights on a career in the Church because I believed in the power and influence of Rome and in my own ability to sway men to follow me. I had memorized Scriptures and hymns just because it was easy for me to do so. It impressed the common people.

  After my conversion the meaning of that which I had vain
ly stored away jumped to life in my mind. When I had studied beside my mentor the words of the Scriptures glowed with warmth and promise. One terrible night Arabs had waylaid us in a camp of pilgrims and Arab believers. The saintly old pilgrim had been murdered before my eyes along with the Arabs. The Christians had been dragged off to the salt mine. In the endless toil and punishments I had seen little of the joy and peace that the old pilgrim had spoken of with such a radiant face, yet God had prodded me to sing hymns and shout Scriptures as I scratched salt from the earth or endured the punishments and crouched in my pit. It was a comfort to the others imprisoned there. I found only a cynical satisfaction in angering my tormentors. I suffered for my perverseness, of course, but I could not have stopped.

  Someone came into the tent. Small, soft hands moved over my body, checking the dressings and replenishing the soothing ointment. An oil lamp flared beside the bed. It was the woman who had been with me as I left the Frenchman’s camp. How beautiful she was, unveiled in the lamplight. She started back when she looked into my open eyes and flung her veil back across her face.

  “Marhaba. Thank you for rescuing me,” I said. “Who are you?”

  She looked as if she might run away. At last she spoke. “You should curse me for being too weak to help you sooner,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. “Only when he believed you were dead did I have the courage.”

  “God has His times and His plans,” I said. I found in the words a revelation for myself. Of course the old pilgrim knew peace. He had walked with God sixty years or more. He knew that God was there. Always there, without thought of years or beginnings or endings. What was time to Him? Knowing God was the only thing that brought peace.

  “Mall amr? Are you in very much pain?” She asked, as tears escaped down my cheeks.

  “Oh, yes,” I smiled. “But I am at peace all the same.”

  “It is your Christian God Who gives you such peace,” she breathed, coming near and touching me hesitantly. “I was at the mine. I heard you sing the songs in our tongue. I heard you speak the Words of God. Oh, how could you believe so much in Him when such cruel things happened to you?”

  “Lady, Christ had cruel things happen to Him, and He forgave those who were murdering Him,” I replied. “I cannot do less.”

  “I wish I could believe,” she whispered.

  “You can,” I urged. “It is God’s free gift. Sins forgiven, a clean heart .… Salaam -- Peace – in all the storms if you allow Him to give it to you. I have not always known it, but it is the truth all the same.”

  “There can be no peace for me,” she murmured. “I am glad to see that you are better. Your God will make you well again. I am sure of it. What will you do when it comes to pass?”

  “I will go home to my father,” I answered.

  “He will be proud of your courage, your strength, your faith.”

  “Why did you say there can be no peace for you? God’s peace is for all who own Christ. I urge you to accept Him.”

  “You will go free when your body is well,” she said. “I will still be a slave.”

  “A slave to whom?” I asked.

  “To the man who tortured you,” she answered. “May your Christ guard you and bring you safely home to your father, good Christian knight.”

  I took a deep breath and put out a hand to grasp her robe. She froze as she felt the tug and whirled around. My hand lost its grip and I moaned.

  “You will undo all the good done for you,” she chided. “Matha toreed?”

  “Waghif! Stop! Do not go,” I gasped. “Let me rest a minute. Do not go.”

  “I must,” she responded. “He could come after me. If he should find you …”

  “ You cannot go back to him.”

  “Lematha? Why do you hold me here?” she demanded. “He drank deep to celebrate your death and I drugged his wine. I cannot hope he will sleep forever. Min Fadhlak.” She twisted her small hands into the folds of her robe. My little activity had drained me almost to the point of fainting. But she feared to leave lest I try again to restrain her.

  “I think I know a way to get you free.”

  “It is impossible. I shall die in his power.”

  “La. No. Stay here tonight. Listen to my plan. Inshallah -- If God will show us mercy, you will be free.”

  I awoke to angry shouts and the sound of swords being drawn outside the tent. The woman lay beside me on a mat. She started up in terror. Sadaquah, like a faithful dog, seized her and clapped a hand over her mouth. He had crouched beside us through the night. Her eyes were enormous, and I was not sure all her fear was of her master. Sadaquah held his drawn sword close to her face.

  “Ith’hab! Away, infidel!” Rasoul’s voice snarled. “Get away from my master’s tent.”

  “ ‘Oose tent is this?” a voice demanded, speaking Arabic but poorly. I had only heard it once, but I knew it well.

  “La Yahum! What is it to the infidel son of a camel? I have said it is my master’s,” Rasoul said imperiously. “He is one who loves sleep and pleasure and hates Christian dogs very much.”

  There was a pause and it appeared the Frenchman had exhausted his small store of bad Arabic. He continued speaking in French and someone else began to interpret for him. “Ah seek a woman – a runaway slave.”

  “I did not think women were like slippery fish. You should hold them tighter, Christian. It is nice to feel them squirm.” Rasoul laughed coarsely. “Look here, spreader of fleas. How can you stand shouting before the tent of my master? His new woman must please him well. Ith’hab!”

  “ ‘E ‘as a new woman?” the Frenchman demanded. “Where did ‘e get ‘er?”

  “Hee-hee-hee-hee,” Rasoul snickered. “We found her running hona and honak about in the desert last night. She has been with a Christian. It leaves a peculiar odor, you know. Ba’ad, she really is very beautiful.” A long silence ensued.

  “ ‘Ow does your master treat ‘is women?” the Frenchman asked finally. Sadaquah and I looked at each other.

  “I do not know why I waste words with an infidel dog,” Rasoul said. I could picture his leering face. “The women do not last long, but ahhh .... He could give you lessons on how to hold on to your women, Christian.”

  “Good. Ma’assalama.”

  “Fi aman allah.”

  Silence fell outside. Sadaquah had jumped up and started out when Rasoul swept in and squatted beside me.

  “Is he gone?” Sadaquah demanded.

  “Of course he is gone,” Rasoul said. “Am I not a great storyteller? Mmm! I could wish to be such a man as my master. Oatherni, lady.”

  “We had to convince him that you were no longer his concern,” I explained. “You did well, Rasoul. My thanks.

  “Lady, you are free.”

  “Lusto adri … I cannot believe it,” she murmured.

  “If you had seen his face, you would,” Rasoul said. “But what are we to do with her, Christian? She cannot be returned to her family even if we could find them.”

  “I know a group of Arab Christians on the coast.”

  “I will always be defiled,” she said softly.

  “Christ forgives,” I replied. “He forgave me, though I dishonored my father.”

  Rasoul agreed to leave with her that evening. She stayed in my tent all that day. I sang and recited some rough Arabic translations of Scriptures and hymns. “Let not your heart be troubled. Ye believe in God, believe also in Me.

  Fairest Lord Jesus, Ruler of all nature

  O, Thou of God and man the Son.

  Thee will I cherish, Thee will I honor,

  Thou my soul’s glory, joy and crown.

  “Peace I leave with you, My peace I give unto you .... Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”

  She was kind enough to say I had improved since the salt mine and the pits. But no one who had heard me sing the Mass in the great cathedrals back home would have known it was my voice.

  “I heard someone speak of the Palm Tree
,” I ventured finally. “Is that your name -- Tamar?” It was not customary for a man to ask a woman’s name but I hoped she would pardon the curiosity of a Christian dog. She hesitated, blushed, then nodded.

  “Do you have a name besides Christian dog?” she asked. She smiled as she sat beside me, embroidering something on a large piece of scarlet cloth.

  “I do not think you could get your tongue around it,” I laughed. “My name is very English. Besides, ma indi -- I do not have my father’s forgiveness yet.”

  “Your Christ will grant what you seek,” she said. “You will go home to your father. When you come to him, wear this for my sake.”

  She held up a tunic of blood red fabric, on which she had stitched the profile of a lion’s roaring head in black. “I asked the young man from Doumiât what I could give you, and he said, ‘My friend the Christian dog has the courage and strength of a lion, and he says the blood of his Christ has made him free. Make a thing which will da’eman – always – show that to all who see him.’“

  “God grant that you be like a tree beside the rivers of His peace,” I said as Rasoul and Sadaquah came into the tent.

  “Al hamdu lillah. Thank you, sir knight of the black lion,” she said as she rose to go. She spread the tunic over me. “Thank you for showing me the love of Christ. That is what you came here for, though you did not know it. To show us His love, and His sallam.”

  After Rasoul and the woman had gone, Sadaquah squatted beside me. He touched the scarlet tunic.

  “It is well done,” he commented.

  “It is splendid.”

  “I did not mean the tunic. I spoke of you, my friend. I think I believe that there are different sorts of Christians. Does it not say in the book that tells of Christ that God will say to some, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant?’ If he does not say it to you, then I shall be very surprised.”

  “What did I do?” I asked.

  “It is as the woman said. You have shown us the love and the peace of God. Well done.”

  Chapter Nine: A Lesson Revisited, A Scout’s Report, A Plan Prepared