CHAPTER XVIII - The Story of a Man
"I was born in the year two and one thousand, as you Christians count,” I said. “I was born under a different name, in the outskirts of Jerusalem.”
“I see,” he replied.
“My mother Sarah was a healer, my father a carpenter. I had one older brother whose name I care not to mention,” I said.
“Very well,” he replied.
“Me and my brother; we used to get into a lot of trouble with the Muslim kids. We were always at odds,” I continued.
“Why?” He asked.
“I don’t know, really. Like all enduring historical arguments, I think, nobody really knows who started it or when it’s going to end,” I said.
“I see,” he replied.
“But we got along with the Christian community well enough. I mean, we weren’t friends or anything like that — none of our fathers allowed it, on either side. But we were bound together in hatred,” I said.
“Explain,” he said, with a puzzled expression.
“We were both oppressed by the Muslims,” I stated.
“I’ve heard otherwise,” he said somberly. “My father went to Jerusalem twenty years ago on a pilgrimage, and he told me that the Muslims were fair to both Christians and Jews.” I stared at him for a couple of moments, dumb-struck by his odd comment, and then burst out laughing when I couldn’t contain myself any longer.
“I told no joke; what amuses you?” He asked.
“I guess your father never heard of Hakim,” I said.
“No, he never mentioned him. Who’s Hakim?” He asked.
“Abu ‘Ali Mansur Tariqu Al-Hakim” I said, pronouncing his name as a native Arabic speaker would. “Known here as Hakim the Mad, supreme ruler of Jerusalem,” I added.
“This is most disturbing,” he said seriously. “What’s his story?” He asked.
“I honestly don’t know. He has ruled Jerusalem for as long as I can remember … maybe even since before I was born. He was always issuing weird decrees, acting like a different person every day, or so I was told,” I replied.
“I understand; continue,” he said.
“He was mostly occupied in making Jews’ and Christians’ lives a living hell,” I said.
“In what way?” He asked.
“Well … at one time he decided that we should all worship his God. When that didn’t happen, he forced all the Jews to carry big logs of wood every time they went outside, and Christians had to carry big, heavy crosses around,” I replied.
“You must be joking,” he replied.
“Afraid not, unless the joke’s on me,” I replied.
“All right. Go on, then,” he said.
“I was just getting started,” I replied. “Did I mention that he burned all the temples and churches to the ground?” I asked.
“No,” he said. His eyes grew red, causing me to lose my mirth, though it was my only shield against the madness that had been my childhood.
“I’m sorry, but that is truly what he did,” I said softly, finding my heart again.
“Continue,” he replied, his face deeply troubled, mirroring his inner thoughts.
“At some point he decided that he was the new incarnation of the Prophet Mohammad, and then he re-wrote the Koran — their holy book, substituting himself for Mohammad,” I said.
“Truly a madman,” Richard said.
“Yes. Well, I don’t know if it was ever resolved, for we escaped his persecution. Perhaps he still rules,” I said.
“When did you leave?” He asked.
“After my brother died,” I began.
“I’m sorry,” he said. I nodded and continued.
“After he died, I fled with my parents. We took the route the Christian pilgrims travel, to take us to Europe,” I said.
“Good,” Richard replied.
“That was the first time I killed,” I revealed. Richard’s eyes opened wide, but he said nothing.
“Before we reached Jaffa, we were ambushed by robbers along the way,” I explained.
“What happened?” He asked.
“I’m not sure. I had gone to relieve myself behind a tree, and when I returned I saw two Arab boys — older than myself, but not old enough to be men. One waved a wooden club around and the other held a Jabaria — a curved dagger. They demanded everything we had, and one of them moved to cut my mother. I ran towards them, thinking with my fear instead of my mind. I struck the first on the head with my walking cane as hard as I could. He turned around, stunned, blood dripping from his head. I struck him again even harder, and he dropped to the ground without making a sound. His friend dropped the dagger, his eyes wide as he watched his friend fall. I don’t know what came over me, but I ran after him as he tried to get away, and struck him across the face with my cane. He fell to the ground, crying and screaming. I proceeded to strike him until he didn’t move at all anymore. There was blood all over me, and I was crying,” I said, my face harsh, and my body shaking with the memory.
“I’m sorry,” he began.
“Don’t be; I did what I had to do,” I replied.
“I’m not only sorry for you, but for them as well,” he replied.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because the Muslims I know are honorable people, and from what you say, it sounds like these were just two poor boys,” he said.
“Nobody told them to rob, or to wave deadly weapons about at innocent travelers,” I replied harshly.
“Maybe they had no choice,” he argued.
“Waving a deadly weapon about, is always a choice!” I protested.
“They could have been set by an elder to the task.” Richard tried.
“I guess we’ll never know,” I replied angrily.
“True. Continue, please,” he replied calmly again. I glared at him for a few moments, then let my anger subside and resumed my tale.
“Well, after I killed the two, my mother and father hugged me. They took me by the hand away from there. They washed my face and hands of the blood. I pretended it was only dirt and that nothing had happened, they pretended that their son wasn’t a killer, and we never mentioned it again. It was like one of those road stories you hear often; just a story.” I said, and he nodded.
“At night, when I pretended to sleep I could hear my parents talking while my mother wept. They spoke about me, my brother and the people I killed … I’d rather not delve into terrible words said long ago by now deceased parents.” I said.
“Very well,” He replied, and did not press me on the matter.
“Anyhow, we reached Jaffa soon thereafter,” I replied.
“I see. And then what happened?” He asked.
“We got on a ship, but my parents became ill during the journey and died as we reached the shore,” I said.
“So what made you change your name; the thing that connects you to your lost family?” He asked.
“I don’t know; wanted to start afresh; got tired of racial wars; told myself that a name means nothing on the outside, and that inside I’m just the same,” I said.
I proceeded to tell him the rest of my story, as I have written it here in this journal. By the time the telling was done, the sun had sunk, and I was hungry.
“Raymond,” he began, “I certainly got more than I bargained for by hearing your story.” He then handed me a sack filled with gold coins, more than enough to clear my debts and more than enough to live as a nobleman for years. “Yet a deal is a deal, so this is yours,” he explained as I gazed wide-eyed at the coins.
“No, I can’t accept this. It’s too much,” I replied and tried to return the sack.
“I insist!” He said. “It’s yours now, do with it what you will.”
“But why do you give me this much?” I asked.
“An old man donated it to my church,” Richard began.
“So?” I asked.
“Let me finish. I too have a story worth telling, albeit a shorter one,” he said. I shut my mouth and listened as patiently as I could, considering my excitement.
“He came by the church a couple of months ago, dressed in an odd fashion. His manner of speaking was as odd as his clothes, and he reeked of some incense I was unfamiliar with,” he said.
“And?” I asked.
“And he donated this gold and more, and then asked that a quest be embarked upon on his behalf,” Richard said.
“I don’t understand,” I responded.
“Neither do I. Let me finish, for it gets stranger still,” he said, and I once more stood silently. “The bishop himself came to accept the donation after priest saw the sum. The priest bade the bishop to summon me, mentioning my name specifically,” he said.
“What’s so odd about that?” I asked.
“I have never seen the man. I’m one of the defenders of the church, but I’m not famous in any fashion. How did he know to call me by name?” Richard asked.
“Perhaps he overheard it from others,” I suggested.
“No, it isn’t possible. But when I spoke to him, he was so self-assured, speaking as if he had all knowledge at his fingertips. His accent, his manners, I don’t know — alien is the best way to describe them, and I thought perhaps he was one of the apostles, for it would have explained his accented Latin,” he said.
“I see,” I replied.
“No, you don’t. When I asked him if he was an angel he burst laughing, then coughed. He couldn’t speak again until we gave him some water. This meant, of course, that he was a mortal man,” Richard said.
“He swore me to secrecy before sending me out on his quest,” Richard said. “I took the vows he dictated, and then he told me he was dying. His sole wish, as odd as it may seem, was that I and I alone seek out the town of Drentwych, in the Kingdom of Wist Hill,” Richard said.
“And?” I asked.
“I’m not sure of the date my friend will be there,’ he said, but you are to travel the town and seek out young beggars and purchase their stories with some of the gold,’” Richard told me, eying my expression carefully.
“I don’t understand,” I replied.
“That’s unfortunate, I was hoping that you would,” he said. “You should get yourself something to eat,” he added, and moved to depart.
“No, wait! Tell me the rest of the tale first,” I begged.
“Very well. The man told me that I would find ‘one’ — a youth in Drentwych, who will tell me that he came from Jerusalem, that his mother’s name is Sarah,” Richard said, studying my expression.
“What! Now you must be joking!” I proclaimed.
“Afraid not. The old man requested that I give the sum of his fortunes to this ‘one’ — to you,” Richard said.
“I don’t understand,” I replied.
“Neither do I,” Richard agreed. “At first I thought his quest to be a fool’s errand; the talk of the old and the mad. But he gave me the funds, and I saw no ill intent in his desire,” Richard said.
“But who can it be? Who would give me so much without knowing me?” I asked.
“He said he was your father,” Richard finally admitted.
“That can’t be. My father died along with my mother, and he wasn’t old, anyway,” I protested.
“I don’t know the truth; only what he told me. I’m sorry,” Richard said.
“Why did you tell me all of this then?” I asked.
“Because that was one of his requests, that I discuss it with you and no other,” Richard replied.
“I don’t understand,” I replied, staring at the gold.
“Get yourself something to eat,” Richard repeated, “and farewell.”
“Wait! Do you remember anything else, anything at all?” I asked. He turned his head to face me again, and paused, deep in concentration.
“No, I don’t ...” he began. “Hold on, yes, there was something else that was odd. The Old Man had some strange letters tattooed on his wrist,” Richard said.
“Do you remember the letters? Can you scribe them down?” I asked, exited at this new piece of the puzzle, though it seemed to signify absolutely nothing. Richard picked up a stick and roughly carved a few letters on the ground. I studied the letters very hard, as did he.
“Some of them remind me of Arabic numerals. The rest I don’t recognize,” I said.
“What does that tell you?” He asked.
“Nothing,” I professed. “Or maybe that the Old Man had visited the east,” I offered, after careful thought.
“I can’t make sense of it, so I’ll leave it with Christ,” he stated. “What about you?” He then asked.
“I can’t,” I replied.
“Why can’t you see the love of Christ? Surely it is he who sent this messenger who called you his son.”
“No,” I replied.
“Don’t you understand, after all that you’ve told me, that you’re cursed, and that there’s only one way to lift the curse, which is to accept Christ and mend your ways? Surely even Raymond, after whom you’ve name yourself, would have endorsed my advice.” He said.
“I’m not Christian,” I replied.
“I know that,” Richard replied. “I was wondering as to why. You see, this is a first for me, talking openly to a Jew, and I’m trying to understand your rejection of Christ as the son of God.”
“He’s not my God,” I repeated.
“Very well; I won’t force you to explain,” he replied.
“Why is it so important for you to know my people?” I asked.
“Jesus was of your people, and you’ve rejected him though he performed many miracles,” he said.
“I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for you. I wasn’t taught much of Jesus,” I replied sadly.
“And now that you know?” He asked.
“I cling to my old faith still,” I replied.
“Why?” He protested, and I could not understand why which God I bowed down to meant so much to him.
“Because … I began angrily, not yet having formulated a coherent argument. “Because … look, I’m not a great theologian; I don’t pretend to know the mysteries of the divine. But I can tell you this: I have lost everything already; I have drifted so far apart from everything I once knew. My faith, as fragile and lacking as it is, is the last thing that remains truly mine,” I said.
“But what if it’s wrong?” He asked.
“Then it’s wrong,” I replied.
“What of your soul?” He asked, genuinely worried.
“Not mine to begin with,” I replied
“You dress like a Christian, walk like a Christian, and talk like a Christian. Few can tell what your real faith is,” he said.
“Exactly. The faith in my heart is all I have left,” I said.
“But you’re a good man, you can be saved,” Richard tried again.
“So if I’m a good man, I deserve to be saved,” I offered.
“Yes, but you have to accept God first,” Richard said.
“Your God,” I corrected.
“He is the Father; the same God you worship. You have to accept the Son as well,” Richard urged.
“But therein lays the difference. Your God will damn me if I do not worship him, mine will forgive me if my faith is in error. He will accept me, for as you just said, I am a good man, deserving to be saved,” I said, surprised at myself for this improvised defense. Richard wanted to protest. He probably had a few points he’d not yet made, but he thought better of it and just said:
“You should get something to eat. Farewell,” he added as he turned to go.
“Thank you,” I replied, meaning it in more ways than one. “Farewell,” I responded. And so we parted ways, and I was left staring at a large sack of gold.
Richard was a fine man. To this day, when I recall his name I smile. I often have wondered what drives a man to do good. Usually I think the reasons are selfish. We do good because we’re lonely and want the company. We do good because we want others to think highly of us. We do good because we expect reward from high above; from someone else. It’s always a sort of a bargain done in good faith. But there is another kind of kindness; the selfless kind. A mother’s love for her child. A man placing himself in harm’s way to save his wife. There is no gain there, and one needs great internal strength to overcome survival instincts and perform selfless kindnesses. Blessed be all the loving mothers, blessed be all the brave husbands, blessed be those who struggle to make the world a better place. This is my blessing to you, Amen.
Raymond of Drentwych