Chapter XXVII
We ate some bread and goats' cheese, then mounted and rode away from the encampment in the direction we had been given by the sheikh. By the time the sun's heat could be felt we had come to the road for which we were seeking.
"Al-hamdu-lillah!" Harun exclaimed. "This is the road I followed from Damascus until I turned aside to go to Jericho."
We turned onto the wide bare path that wound away into the distance to both north and south. Without thinking I kicked my horse lightly and urged him into a canter, but both Harun and Charles called out to me.
"We have a long way to go, ya Fuad," Harun said. "We will travel faster if our horses are not worn out with galloping."
I reined in, feeling abashed, but Charles laughed pleasantly.
"You are too eager, Fuad, you put us to shame. Nevertheless, it is as Harun says. Spare your horse and it will carry you all the way to Eilat and beyond."
Around us were green pastures and every so often we passed a small flock of sheep and goats in the care of one of the Bani Jibrin who cried after us for news and wished us God's blessing as we departed. Once or twice we passed encampments of the Bani Jibrin, their black tents pitched on the green earth and surrounded by kneeling camels, patient donkeys and playing children. Although we kept to the road, usually someone would come riding after us from these tents, urging us to stay and eat and hungrily demanding news when we excused ourselves. I made sure that we informed them that we had spent the previous night with the father of ibn Quafis that they might know that we travelled under his protection.
It was nearly noon when we came to the little town of Madeba. There were no walls, but the houses were built close together so that they themselves formed an unbroken barrier to any intruder; only where the road went into the town and came out again on the other side was there a gap between the houses.
"Shall we go through or round?" Charles asked as we approached.
Harun cleared his throat. "There is no road around the village and if, having come so close, we ride through the fields, we will appear to them as robbers."
Charles shrugged. "I care not how such people may regard me."
"Still, it is better to be thought honest," Harun remarked. "In any case, they are of your faith, so you will be among friends. Let us go in and water our horses and fill our own bottles."
"In the name of God," I said, "let us go in. My water bottle is almost empty."
"As you will," Charles said.
The usual swarm of pariah dogs came out barking to meet us as we rode up the slight hill towards the town and we were grateful when some men of the place came out to help us beat them off.
"Salaam aleikum!" I called to them. "Shukran!"
"Ahlan wa-sahlan," they replied, gathering around us as we entered the open space in the middle of the village.
There was silence as we dismounted and then the ring of men and boys opened to admit an old man who used a stick as he walked. From the way they pushed back to give him entrance I guessed that he was the sheikh of the village. By his side walked a second man who was dressed in a long black robe and wore a tall hat on his head, surely the village priest.
"Salaam aleikum," the old man greeted us.
His eyes were white and cloudy and with a shock I realised that he was completely blind. The stick was not only to hold him upright, but also to help him find his way.
"Aleikum as-salaamat," Harun and I replied and Charles said, "Bon jour, m'sieu."
"You are Franks?" the old man asked, turning his head towards Charles.
"We two are from Jerusalem," Charles replied. "Our companion is from Syria."
"Have you eaten?" the old man reached out his hand towards Charles and grasped his arm.
"We have not eaten," Charles replied. "Also we will be grateful for water for ourselves and our horses."
"It shall be provided," the sheikh said and at once some of the men reached out to take our horses. "The well is not far. Come and refresh yourselves."
"It is my custom, father, to care for my own beast," Harun said.
The old man turned his head towards Harun's voice.
"As you wish," he said. He beckoned with his hand and one of the men stepped forward. "Go with this man, he will show you what you need."
"You go with the sheikh," Harun said. "I will see that your horses are properly cared for."
He reached out and took the bridles from our hands. I wondered if I should go with him, but when I looked at Charles he shook his head. The sheikh, who was still clutching Charles' arm, cleared his throat.
"Lord," he said, "be pleased to enter my unworthy dwelling and take some refreshment. If he is willing, perhaps your companion will do honour to the priest, who always complains if I keep all the guests."
The men around us had eyes and could see that I was a Muslim, but before they could say anything the priest made gestures to them to be silent, then turned to me.
"Sir," he said, bowing politely, "if you will do me the honour to enter my house, I promise you that nothing shall be done to offend you."
What could I do? I bowed in return and protested that it was he who was doing honour to me.
"No more than an hour," Charles whispered to me as the sheikh tugged at his arm.
The priest turned and led the way across the open space in the opposite direction to that in which Harun and the horses had gone. Most of the men went off about their own business, but a couple of the older men and most of the young boys followed after Charles and the sheikh. No one followed me.
The priest's house fronted onto the open space and beside it was the Christian church, with a cross over its gateway. The priest pushed open the door and then stood aside politely to usher me into the cool shade of the room. I stepped inside and stood blinking for a moment as my eyes adjusted to the dimness. There was a table, with a chair drawn up to it. By the wall there was a divan, which must be where the priest slept. This was the only furniture in the room.
"Please, sit, sit," the priest urged, pointing towards the single chair.
When I was seated he perched on the edge of the table and smiled at me.
"How should I call you? Brother?" I asked.
The priest frowned slightly. "I am not a monk, if that is what you mean. The people of the village call me Papa Makarios, or even just Papa, but I have no wish to offend you with such a title. Makarios is enough."
"If 'Papa' is the usual name - and if you will allow me to use it - then I will be honoured. In any case, Papa is easier to say than your other name!" I grinned at him, then placed my hand on my heart and bowed. "My name is Fuad ibn Hassan ibn Tallal ibn al-Hajji of the tribe of the Bani Ibrim."
"Welcome, Fuad, welcome. I don't think I have heard of the Bani Ibrim before. Is your home distant?"
"Only a day's journey," I told him. "Alas, until recently we fought with the Bani Jibrin, but now it is God's will that there should be peace between us and so I travel in their lands."
The priest tugged at his beard and smiled.
"There are some who might dispute whether these lands do indeed belong to the Bani Jibrin, though you are not the first to say it." He suddenly stood up. "Now, I shall not offer you wine, but if you will be pleased to take a little milk? Also I have some dates and bread if you wish to eat." He paused. "You are a Muslim, aren't you?"
"I am of Islam," I said.
"Yes, I thought so, but in these days - and particularly when you are with a Frank - one can never be sure."
He spoke the last words over his shoulder as he bustled out of the room. For perhaps the length of a prayer I sat there alone, gazing round with curiosity at the two or three books - no doubt holy books, so I did not touch them - which stood on a shelf above the table. There was also a picture hanging on the wall very similar to those I had seen in the church at Bethlehem and which I presumed to be an idol, but though it made me uncomfortable to be sitting in the presence of such a thing and to have its eyes staring at me, I was the man's guest and could not do anything against his idol.
