Dec 2011 Issue
I held on for dear life as Moishe whistled and hollered in an unintelligible tongue, while the camel galloped forward in a rolling gait. We exited the hills that sloped down to the Jordan and picked up speed. Moishe was laughing like a child, strange man that he was. Dust swirled in great clouds behind us as Moishe kept up his lively conversation with the camels. He cajoled and howled excitedly and affectionately; I sensed that the beasts returned the affection through their guttural snorts. I was ebullient. “Do you see how the birds fly and are buffeted by the wind, Hugh?” he yelled over the pounding of hooves. Looking skyward, I noticed that the birds appeared to roll on an ocean of air, undulating as the wind shifted and sputtered. “Moishe, we’re flying!” I knew horses and was familiar with their movements. However, a camel had an unexpected grace. “That is why I pointed out the birds, Hugh,” he replied, slapping my camel’s flanks into a renewed burst of speed. The warm breeze caressed our faces, the scent of exotic fruit filled my senses, and I could only close my eyes and dream, dream that I was flying away from my past. We rode on at this pace until the camels began to tire. As we rounded a bend, a line of date palms stood sentry on opposing sides of a well-worn path leading up to the kind of home that wealthy merchants owned. The walls were decorative, yet functional for defense. Grapevines snaked through trellis ladders, while birds darted to and fro. Everything was bright and cheery. War had not arrived here and I prayed that it never would. I felt as though I had entered another world. The flight high atop a camel’s hump swelled my soul with an emotion I had not felt in some time. Joy was a scarce commodity for Crusaders. I had grown too used to privations and lack, death and disease, and screams of the dying.
11 my stay, I had become a pupil of sorts. I owned nothing, except my horse, armor and weapons, but I was slowly beginning to realize that Moishe was grooming me for something greater. He often repeated that I wasn’t ready. Ready for what? “You will know when it is time,” he said many times, quite cryptically. So it was during Christmastide, in the Year of Grace, 1099, that Moishe led me to a quiet hillside near Bethlehem. It was nighttime and the stars lit the heavens in the way I always imagined it had on that blessed night. A warm fire dispelled the chill. “Here is where they say the angels heralded the birth of the Savior, Hugh. This exact spot perhaps. Do you know the rest?” I was neither scholar nor monk, but I knew bits and pieces of the Christmas story. “The angel said, ‘For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.’ When the shepherds heard and saw the angels glorifying God, they made haste to see the Christ child.” “Think upon that as you sleep,” Moishe said. “I shall tarry at prayer, then join you at the fire.” I settled down to sleep, listening to the crackle of logs. Moishe rested his back against a rock, eyes closed, muttering through his prayers. I arose at the sound of a voice. My instincts propelled me to my feet, my hand resting on the hilt of my sword. The night was quiet. In the far distance, a shimmering city beckoned me forward. As I closed the distance, the voice became clearer. The outline of a soldier came into view. “Surrender to me, Hugh.” There was no hostility in his voice, nor malice in his demeanor. He was a knight like I had been, clad in a surcoat, sword at his side. But he was wounded. His wounds bespoke strength. “Why should I yield? Are we at odds?” “We are, my child,” he replied.
The months flew by, akin to my journey here. Moishe had named it Istalan, and throughout
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