Well In Time Part 13

He carried me through the doorway and down many strange corridors glittering with crystals and hanging with the long rocks. Everywhere, light was provided by oil lamps burning in niches along the walls. I lost all track of the countless turnings we made, but at last he brought me to a chamber wherein was a bed and on this, he lay me with infinite tenderness and then withdrew.

Soon he returned, bringing with him a small woman with a round and serious face, withered like a winter apple and her gray hair gathered into a knot at the nape of her neck. This task accomplished, he bowed from the waist to me and departed.

The woman carried with her a basket filled with small jars stoppered in crystal and semiprecious stones, carved in delightful shapes. Also, she had small bits of clean cloth and a pail of warm water that, by its scent, was tinctured with herbs. With these, as soon as she had relieved me of my dress, she began to wash, anoint and bind my many wounds.

We quickly found we could not communicate in a common language and as I was suffering greatly, I lay back quietly, glad that I did not have to speak. Finally, her work accomplished, she covered me with a soft blanket.

Just as she was finis.h.i.+ng, a second woman arrived bearing a bowl of soup. As my elbows were now tightly bandaged, I could no longer bend my arms, and so this kind woman held the bowl for me as I drank the warm broth, which had an excellent effect on my chilled bones. These two then withdrew and I soon slept.

When I awoke, I knew not whether it was night or day, for this community under the ground had no sun. I was surprised to find the black man sitting beside my bed, patiently awaiting my awakening.

"Where am I, please, sir?" I asked, for all that had befallen me had left me most confused. "Am I in h.e.l.l then?"

At this, he laughed a most uproarious laugh! "Ma pauvre pet.i.te," he responded, "you have never been farther from it! By falling down the well, you have entered a heaven such as this world scarcely dreams of. You are greatly blessed by your accident this day!"

Whereupon I told him with great dignity that I had not happened to fall down the well but had escaped thereunto, and how I had preferred death in this manner to the fate which might befall me. He listened gravely to my tale and asked me many questions. For all that he was such a strange looking man, his manner was very courtly and I was sure that his lineage was n.o.ble.

Now the second woman reappeared, bearing a tray of steaming food, and my new friend withdrew so that I should eat in privacy. Again, as before, the woman fed me with kindest concern. The food was delicious, being rice nicely seasoned with herbs and mixed with vegetables. There was a cup of warm, fresh goat's milk, as well.

When my meal had been cleared away, the black man returned and resumed his position by my bed. As soon as he was seated, I asked him, "Please, sir, can you tell me what manner of place this is into which I have fallen? For I have nothing in my experience in this world to explain it."

He answered that he would respond to my question, but in a very roundabout manner. Looking wryly at my bandaged limbs, he made a small joke, saying that it seemed I had time to spare and wouldn't be rus.h.i.+ng off soon. So he began to regale me with his own story, telling how he had come to this odd place himself.

The Story of Caspar, King of Nubia

I am, he began, the king of a country of which you doubtless know little, if at all. Perhaps you know my country as the ancient land of Kush but to me it is called Nubia. It is one hundred days hard march to the south of this city of Cairo, or Al-Qahira, as my people call it.

When I left my country, there were sixty of my subjects with me. Ours is a Christian nation, and I had the intention to visit all the holy places of this world and they were eager to accompany me. So terrible was the journey northward, however, that by the time we reached Jerusalem, which was our first destination, only ten of these good souls remained.

I stayed in Jerusalem for six months, regaining my strength, and then I journeyed on to Constantinople. Again, the traveling was so desperately hard that when I reached that miraculous city, only two of my companions remained. We who survived gazed at that jewel of the Bosphorus in wonder, for we had not believed there could be so rich a city in all the world.

It had high walls and mighty towers that enclosed it all around and rich palaces and lofty churches, of which there were so many that one could not believe it unless he had seen it with his own eyes. By her length and breadth and her richness, she is surely the queen of all cities.

The Emperor, Alexius the Third, received me and my diminished retinue most kindly. He was amazed to see that a black man could yet be a Christian, and to learn that in my country all the citizens are Christians, and that when a child is born and baptized, a cross like mine is branded upon its forehead.

I was to the Emperor as great a marvel as his city was to me. And so he invited me to tarry there, which invitation I gladly accepted, for I had taken a fever in our wanderings through Syria and much needed rest.

The Emperor lodged me in a very rich abbey and made me the guest of it for as long as I wished to stay. What a joy it was to awaken in my chamber, high in a tower room, to the early sun streaming over that fair city of domes and towers, to hear the church bells ringing in the morning in a hundred voices, and to watch the swallows twittering and swooping over it all like spirits of gladness itself! You might imagine that I would be tempted to give up my pilgrimage and to languish there forever-and you would be correct.

Even after my fever had pa.s.sed and my health was restored, I remained in Constantinople, for it was an infinite delight and every day's exploration brought new discoveries. One of my chief pleasures was to visit the Hagia Sophia, the great cathedral dedicated to Holy Wisdom, for it was wisdom I sought on my pilgrimage.

It is impossible to describe the vastness of its dome, rising against the sky, effortless as prayer itself. Its interior was as lavish as the exterior was elegant in its austerity. The choir was adorned with silver and the place where the priest stands was upheld by twelve columns of silver. The walls were covered in holy icons of exquisite rarity and beauty. Upon the altar were twelve crosses, two of which were carved like trees and were taller than a man.

There was a wonderful table set with precious stones, with a great gem in the center. On the altar were forty chalices of gold and silver candelabra so numerous I could not count them. And there were many vases of silver, used during the greatest festivals.

There was a Gospel used to celebrate the mysteries that was painted most wondrously with rare pigments and forty censers of pure gold. In cupboards along the walls were other incomparable treasures in such quant.i.ties that it would be impossible to count them. All this in the Church of Hagia Sophia alone, and still there was the richness of the Church of Sainte-Marie des Blachernes, in whose complex the holy relics of the Virgin Mary were housed, and hundreds of other churches, as well, to admire and wonder over.

Yet my heart was not content, for when I embarked on my pilgrimage I did so with one prayer in my heart and this was it: that somewhere in my wanderings I might meet and study with a living saint so steeped in the Holy Spirit that he would be able to ignite my slumbering spirit, as well.

For you see, I had in my country a wife and three children, whom I loved beyond all things. In the year before my journey began, each of these beloved ones was carried away into death. Two of my children fell ill with fever and died. My oldest child, a son, fell from a cliff while hunting and was shattered like an egg.

At last, there was only my wife and me and she was with child. Crushed as my heart was, I had hopes that we might begin again to build our family. The grief of our losses, however, caused complications with her pregnancy. She began to deliver early and in so doing lost great quant.i.ties of blood. She died, taking our unborn child with her.

So great was my grief that I went quite mad. I raved against the G.o.d whom I had wors.h.i.+pped from my childhood and I questioned His mercy and justice. At last, after days when I was too morose to attend to affairs of state or even to feed myself, I reached a decision. I would go on pilgrimage and seek through all the world for one who, through their great saintliness, would answer for me this one terrible and burning question: Why?

I left my brother to govern the country in my stead, and with the sixty brave souls I have already mentioned, I set out. So great was my bitterness that I watched my companions drop along the way without surprise. I considered myself accursed, so that everyone around me would sicken and die. My wish was that I, too, might pa.s.s into death and so leave my troubles behind me but this fate was not to be mine.

The time in Constantinople healed my body and brought back to my fevered mind an interest in things of this world but it did nothing to heal my soul. Still I longed, and with growing ardor, for one whose touch or look would be a balm to me. I sought the impossible, for in my madness, I came to believe that only the Savior Himself could heal me.

So after many months as the guest of Alexius, I took my leave and embarked upon a s.h.i.+p bound for Rome, leaving behind me my two remaining subjects, who were happily adapted to their new city. In Rome, I gained audience with Pope Innocent III and while I found him a stern man and an able administrator, I knew immediately that he had nothing that would soothe my wounded spirit. He gave me his blessing when I departed the Vatican that day, but I left its gates as barren as when I entered.

I did not tarry in the city of Rome, for after Constantinople it was squalid and hostile with political strivings. I once again embarked, this time on a boat bound for your country, France.

After a long sea voyage, I pa.s.sed through the Straits of Gibraltar and up the Atlantic coast to an obscure port in Normandy, from whence I made my way to the great Abbey of Mont St-Michel. There I was received kindly but the Benedictine fathers had nothing that would feed my growing spiritual hunger. So I soon traveled on to Paris, where I beheld the great Cathedrale de Notre Dame under construction and prayed before the relics of Sainte Genevieve, the patron saint of that fair city.

All the while I traveled, I repeated my prayer again and again: to be led by the Goodness of G.o.d to a great saint, with whom in personal conversation I might discuss the sad events of my life, and through whose pure emission of Divine energies I might be instantly and completely healed in my soul. Perhaps you will think this was an heretical desire. For does not the church claim for itself the right to forgive sins and to intercede in our behalf with the Savior? Perhaps you believe that I was asking too much of G.o.d or the wrong thing. But as I traveled, I grew in the conviction that, sooner or later, my faith would be rewarded, and I would meet one of those holy ones of whom Jesus said, Ye are as G.o.ds. All that I do, you can do and more.

Departing Paris, I turned southward, intending to go to Spain to the shrine of Saint James at Compostela. I booked pa.s.sage on a boat heading down the Rhone River and there, a strange thing happened.

We had stopped one day, somewhere in the heart of your fair country at a little village, to take on grain and to purchase perishables for our evening meal. As I wandered through the streets of this nameless place, an old woman approached me. Her hair was long and wild and gray. She had no teeth and her clothing was an exotic mixture of gay colors and tattered rags.

She was, it seems, a gypsy, that being an ancient race called Romany, whose origins are so distant in antiquity that no one remembers them. These people, as you may know, are nomadic and make their way through the countryside of all Europe, pillaging chicken flocks, mending pots and telling fortunes. And this is exactly what this old dame offered to do for me.

Having nothing better to while away an afternoon in a small and sleepy village, I agreed. She sat me down on a wall beneath a shady apple tree and took my black hand into her grimed and wrinkled one. Long she gazed upon my palm, making grunts and wheezes as she did so. She had the animated expression of a monkey I used to keep near me at my court, and I was becoming increasingly amused by her expressive brow and was about to burst into laughter, when she fixed me with a stare as burning as coals themselves and began to speak.

"I see," she said, "that you have a strange and terrible destiny. You are one imposed by fate to lose everything, that you may find something of still greater value. The first half of your life has been spent in loss and grief and terrible suffering. You have wandered long and far."

She had now my full attention, as you may well imagine. For here, it seemed, was the first person on my journey who understood part or perhaps all of what I had suffered, and that which I was seeking. No longer amusing myself at her expense, I begged her to continue.

She regarded my palm another long while. Finally, she said with great compa.s.sion in her voice, "That which you seek is not here, but you are drawing closer. You must continue southward three days more, to the Bouches-du-Rhone. There, in the swamps of the Camargue, you will find a clue that will lead you to your goal. I can say no more."

With that, she dropped my hand and turned to depart. I hastened beside her, offering her a large sum of money, for I felt in my heart that she had seen me truly and guided me well. But this old woman, who had spent her life, I was sure, bereft of all material comforts and begging and scratching for the meagerest living, refused my coins.

"No, my son," she said, piercing me again with her burning eyes, "one never accepts payment from those who are involved in their true destiny. Only from les perdues-the lost ones." And with that, she turned firmly from me and stumped away down the street.

You may be sure that I pa.s.sed the next three days on the boat in a fever of antic.i.p.ation. The long stops at obscure villages seemed now a torment, and we could never break our night's mooring early enough in the morning to satisfy my urgency.

On the third day, we arrived at the river town of Arles, where my boat had achieved her destination. I questioned the captain closely before I disembarked. "Are there swamps near at hand?" I asked him.

"Mais oc!" he answered immediately, as if it were the most self-evident thing in the world. Pointing down the river he said, "You may find a boat of some local fisherman and go down river, clear to Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. There, you will find swamps, to be sure."

The charms of this famous town of Arles, of ancient and fascinating Roman manufacture, were completely lost on me. Even though I could see the Roman coliseum rising on the hill above the stone quays, I was not tempted to investigate the sights. My one and only objective was to locate a boat going down river to the swamps.

To this end, I went to take my breakfast in an inn nearby the quay, hoping to find there some local folk who could guide me. My luck was good, for as I was relis.h.i.+ng my meat, I chanced to overhear a man saying he was leaving momentarily for Les-Saintes-Maries. Immediately, I accosted him and begged pa.s.sage on his boat, and as I offered him a good price, he was only too happy to oblige.

Before the morning was half pa.s.sed, I was seated in the prow of a small fis.h.i.+ng boat as it made good progress down toward the sea. The river was broad and deep, the color of a turtle's carapace. The wind was coming at our backs and the captain raised a small sail, so that we seemed to fly over the smooth waters.

As we went along, I asked this good man some questions about our destination. In answer, he commenced a tale, which was so strange and wondrous that I will tell it to you now, in its entirety.

The Fisherman's Tale

We are a blessed people, began this worthy man, for we have received, in times long past, the holy presence of the very companions of the Christ. This was seven years after the murder of our dear Lord and Savior upon the Cross.

The Romans in Jerusalem would harry and persecute His followers still. Finally, those closest to Him were brought before Pilate, as was Our Lord before them. The great man was tormented by his role in the murder of the Lord, and could not bring himself to p.r.o.nounce the death sentence upon these good people. So to relieve his conscience, he decreed that they were to be set adrift in an open boat, with no rudder and no sails. This was as good as a death sentence, mind you, but Pilate could flatter himself, you see, with the lie that he was actually saving their lives. But in this, as you will see, the hand of Our Lord was active.

So it came to pa.s.s that five people were placed in a boat on the sh.o.r.e of the sea: Mary Salome, who was the aunt of Our Dear Lord; Mary Jacob, the wife of His uncle; Mary Magdalene and her sister, Saint Martha; and Joseph of Arimathea, he who supplied the sepulcher for our Blessed Savior. When they were all loaded aboard, with no provisions even for the sake of appearances, they were cut adrift and the out-going tide caught them and bore them away.

Many there were who stood upon the sh.o.r.e and wept, all followers of Our Lord who grieved to see their saints thus misused, but who were unable to help their cause. Among them was a servant girl named Sarah, whose wailing rose above all others, for she had great love of her mistress, Martha.

Now, they be some who say it different, mind you. The gypsy folk call this Sarah Sarah-la-Kali, meaning Sara the Black, and they say she was as black as you yourself, sir. And then they be those-who whisper it, to be sure-who say this Sarah was the daughter of Mary Magdalene, and that the father of this Sarah was Our Lord Himself!"

The fisherman stopped to cross himself conspicuously, before continuing.

Now, as the boat was cut loose and began to move from the sh.o.r.e, this Sarah broke from the others, ran to the quay and without hesitation threw herself into the waves. She floundered her way toward the boat and upon reaching it-more by agency of the waves than by her skill as a swimmer, I'll wager-she begged to be pulled on board.

All the pa.s.sengers decreed she should turn back, for they knew their voyage was a dark-fated one, doomed beyond doubt to thirst, privation and then capsizing in the first rough sea, their boat being oarless and rudderless as it was.

But the girl was half-drowned already. She swore that she would give up all struggle and sink like a stone, rather than return to sh.o.r.e.

Finally, her will won her what she desired. One of the Marys threw her coat upon the water, and it magically turned into a raft, sir, which buoyed the girl up until she could be pulled aboard by the others.

In normal course of events, a boat without rudder, oars, or sails would be swept out into the open sea, there to capsize, when the winds grew strong over the open waters and the waves were high. You must see, however, that this was no ordinary vessel, for these pa.s.sengers were not regular persons but those especially beloved of Our Lord. And so it happened that the sea remained calm and a wind was always at their back, pus.h.i.+ng them along.

After many a day, G.o.d in His Mercy brought these poor outcasts to rest on this very coast, at the very place to which we are journeying now, named after the three Saints Mary, come from the sea. And each as hale and hearty as if naught had been amiss with their voyage.

Mary Salome, Mary Jacob, and this black Sarah, too, founded a church on the very spot where they came ash.o.r.e, on the site of an ancient pagan temple, they say. Martha went off to slay a dragon in Tarascon. And Mary Magdalene straight away went up into the hills to live all by herself in a cave. They say each day she was raised to the cliff tops to pray by a band of angels. And Joseph went over the sea to Britain, carrying with him the Holy Grail.

It is a curious tale, is it not? And strange it is that, as the church is dedicated to the Marys, it is really Saint Sarah who reigns there. When we come there, you will find a statue of her under the altar, in the crypt. She is dressed in fancy garments brought by the pilgrims, but her face, sir, is completely black, because of which they call her "The Egyptian." It is a face of such beauty that I believe, sir, you will be moved by her, in spite of yourself.

The Story of Caspar, King of Nubia Continues

Thus saying, he ended his tale. My pulse pounded, for I felt a.s.sured that he had given me the clue of which the gypsy had spoken. I now was determined to proceed directly to the crypt in Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer.

By now, the main channel of the Rhone had narrowed, with side channels branching off. The fisherman explained that we had reached the estuary, where the great river sank into a maze of marshes and winding waterways, before finally flowing into the sea.

He began to turn his boat skillfully this way and that, maneuvering through the mazy channels, where any but the most experienced person would speedily have become irrevocably lost. He told me that many there were who had come this way to their peril, for the swamps were filled with quicksand bogs into which, once fallen, one would never again emerge.

At last, toward evening, we debouched from a narrow channel so shallow that it had been necessary to pole our way for the final hour. Before us lay a tranquil lagoon, turned coppery in the failing light. To my amazement, it was brilliant pink along its margins from the millions of flamingoes that roosted there, for as the fisherman explained, they annually migrated from Africa to those sh.o.r.es. This sight was so startling and so lovely that it was some time before I raised my eyes and espied our destination, the lights in the distance marking the little village of Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer.

It was with great relief that I stepped from the fis.h.i.+ng boat, and my knees both gave great cracks as if to agree that they, too, were glad to be free of such cramped quarters. So uplifted did I feel, that I invited the fisherman to have supper with me at the local inn of his choice and he gladly accepted.

As we walked from the sh.o.r.e the short distance into town, I became aware of an unusual turmoil in the streets, which were very crowded for so small a village. Music from lutes, along with singing and the click of castanets, arose from the alleyways on all sides. Along the streets, we soon encountered gypsy wagons painted in bright colors and drawn by sway-backed nags. "Whatever is going on in this place?" I exclaimed to my new friend.

"Did I not tell you?" he cried. "I have missed the best part of my tale, then. Why, in May and October, gypsies from all countries converge on this village to throw a great festival in honor of Sarah, who is their patron saint!"

It was full in May and the festival obviously was well underway. After supper, I parted with my fisherman friend and made my way to La Place de l'Eglise, where stood the solid and beauty-less bulk of the Church of the Marys. It was built of a light-colored stone, very rough and simple, and looked as much a small fortress as a church. It seemed an unlikely place for me to find my promised solace, after so many of the grand monuments of that continent had failed me in that regard.

I had intended to go straight away into the crypt to see this black saint, Sarah, for I thought that perhaps it was fitting, after all, that one who was black like me should prove to be my deliverer. But my intention was thwarted by the throngs of people that mobbed the church.

Around me was the most unusual a.s.sortment of folk I had ever seen, even in the bazaars of Constantinople. For these were gypsies, who had come from disparate parts of the world and their costumes reflected this. The women wore petticoats of bright colors, embroidered shawls, and tortoise sh.e.l.l combs stuck into their long, coa.r.s.e, black hair. The men wore vests, many of them embroidered with bright designs, and hats that shaded their already dark eyes. They were there by the thousands, and every one of them was striving to enter the little Church of the Marys.

Several times I attempted to enter, only to be repulsed and swept away on the tides of the mob. I could but think of Sarah, floundering in the surf, for this experience gave me a fuller appreciation of her determination.

At last I had to admit that I would not be able to enter the church that night, and I went to find lodgings. To my surprise, there was yet a room in one of the inns, this being, I suppose, because the gypsies came equipped with their homes drawn behind them. I fell into bed and was soon fast asleep, despite the cacophony that rose to my window from the street below, of music, shouts, singing, crying children, and neighing horses.

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, I awoke with a start, unsure where I might be, as the perpetual traveler often is. When I had reoriented myself, I realized that I had awakened because a profound silence had finally fallen on the streets. I arose and peered from my window to discover that not a soul moved in the moonlight. My hour to meet Saint Sarah had come at last!

I made my way down the steep stairs of the inn, groping like a blind man in the darkness. The night air was almost cold that May night and carried a pungent smell that I could not define but was, perhaps, an amalgam of smoke from gypsy camps and the prevailing smells of the surrounding marshes. I moved down the street like a shadow and felt my blackness to be a protective cloak, given to me by my good mother, the night.