Chapter XX
Before daybreak the following morning, therefore, Charles, Hamed and I were outside St Stephen's gate surrounded by a motley crowd of Nasrani pilgrims. Some were on foot but the greater number had hired mules or donkeys for the journey and the discordant cries of the donkey boys added to the cacophany that echoed back from the walls about us. Charles had a long list of names and he and Hamed were busy going from pilgrim to pilgrim pricking off their names or enquiring after those who had not yet arrived. The cocks had crowed for the second time before they were satisfied.
"Yallah!" Charles cried and then repeated the command in at least three other languages.
We mounted and Charles led the way down the slope into the Kidron Valley. Hamed and I came behind to make sure that there were no stragglers. Half an hour later we stopped in Bethany so that the pilgrims could pray at the tomb of St Lazarus and already we had our eye on an old woman who was attempting to walk the distance and being very slow about it.
"Do you walk for a vow, Mother?" Charles asked her when she came out of the shrine.
The old woman looked up at him and blinked, then cackled with hoarse laughter.
"Only the vow of poverty, my son, and that from neccesity, not choice."
"Can you not afford two dirhams for a donkey?" Charles insisted.
The old woman shook her head. "No, my son, not two dirhams, not even one. Don't worry about me. I have walked all the way from Provence, I can surely walk a little bit further."
Charles shrugged and spoke to us in Arabic. "Keep an eye on her, you two. She might make it down there but it will be a hard struggle back again."
We set off once more with the old woman in the van, doing her best to keep up with Charles, but all too soon she began to lag and long before we reached the head of the Wadi Qelt she was at the tail end of the procession struggling to keep pace with a woman who had two small children by the hands and who was also causing us concern. Hamed kicked his horse and rode up beside her.
"O Mother, it is not far now to Mar Girgis where we can rest for a while and drink plenty of water."
The old woman looked up at him and smiled weakly.
"Thank you, my son. I will keep going."
The road quickly became little more than a track, descending steeply into the gorge. Hamed and I dismounted and led our horses, for the slope was so great that they had trouble keeping their footing - and a fall here would be fatal. By now we could see the monastery ahead but still a long way below us. The pilgrims also saw it and took heart; even the old woman quickened her pace a little.
The monks of Mar Girgis gave us a ready welcome; our beasts were led away to stables, most of the pilgrims sat by the little stream in the shade of the buildings while the more devout repaired to the chapel to pray and make offerings. Charles, Hamed and I sprawled out by the stream and ate the savoury bread Guy's cook had given us.
"By Allah, it is hot!" Hamed exclaimed.
I nodded vigorously, my mouth full of bread. Hamed looked at me and grinned.
"Were you not brought up around here?"
I swallowed. "Yes, only a short distance away. There must be a wind from the desert, for I have never known it so hot."
Hamed laughed. "No? It is always this hot, Fuad. Your blood has become thin up in al-Quds - we told you that it is always cooler up high."
"He's right," Charles said. "It's always hot down here by the Dead Sea - and this gorge is worst of all. There's no breeze at all, or if there is one it is so hot and dry you feel as if you were being cooked. Anyway, come on, we'd better get these pilgrims moving again."
With the end of the journey in sight, it was not too difficult to round everyone up and start them on the road again. The little stream that flowed past the monastery ran beside our road for a short distance until we dropped down to the wadi bed, leaving the narrow channel high above us. Only a short time later we came to the end of the gorge and emerged onto the plain with Jericho just off to our left and the thickets along the Jordan straight in front of us.
Charles reined in his horse and waited for us to catch up with him.
"The usual?" he asked Hamed.
Hamed nodded. "You can go a bit further, Mother?" he asked the old woman who was once again at the tail end of the procession.
"What is this 'usual'?" I asked.
"We go down to the Jordan first," Hamed replied, "and let the pilgrims do their praying and washing. Then we come back to Jericho and let those who wish it buy food, so that they are well fed and rested when we start on the return journey."
Although it seemed to be only a short distance to the Jordan, in fact it was quite a long way and the old woman was barely staggering along when at last we reached the river. The others were there ahead of us and for the last part of the journey we were spurred on by their happy shouts and the sound of splashing water. The old woman sank down on the river bank and Hamed and I dismounted and looked about us.
The river was only about as wide as my father's tent is long, its water brown and swift flowing. The river bank was as tall as a man above the water and very steep, but there were Nasrani monks in this place and they had built wooden steps going down to the water. The pilgrims were crowding down these steps to dip hands and feet in the water, splash it up over themselves or fill jars and bottles with it. A few even leaped into the water and stood in it with their eyes closed, their lips moving and their hands making the sign of the cross on their breasts.
"What is the virtue of this place?" I asked Hamed. "Does this water bring healing or is it just holy?"
Hamed shrugged. "They say that the Prophet Isa, on whom be peace, was baptised in this place."
"Baptised? What is this 'baptised'?" I demanded.
Hamed shrugged again. "I don't know. Go, ask that monk who is standing there by the steps."
I waited until there was a gap in the pilgrims pressing towards the steps and then went over to the man. He looked up at my approach but started to look away again when he saw that I was not a pilgrim.
"Of your favour, brother," I said.
His eyes narrowed. "I am not your brother," he snapped. "You are a Muslim."
"Your pardon, Sid. The man I met in Bethlehem told me to call him 'brother' and I thought . . ."
The man turned his head away and called down into the crowd of pilgrims. Someone answered him but even after the conversation was finished, he continued to keep his back towards me until, filled with shame and anger, I gave up and walked away.
