Джеймс Миченер - The Source

He then did what perplexed men had done in Makor throughout the millennia: he climbed to the top of the half-built wall and surveyed the setting of Makor itself. In the west he could see the fires of Acre and beyond it the moon-glistening sea of grandeur; to the south were the olive trees and the unseen swamps; and to the north, where the hills came down like invading ranks, only to be halted by the deep wadi … He stopped. He wondered if that wadi had anything to do with the water. “Why did they dig the shaft so deep?” he asked, but the facts before him were not yet clear, and in despair he knelt upon the walls and prayed, “Almighty God, where have You hidden the water?” He became angry as he called the words and beat the cold stones with his hands. In the end he shouted defiantly, “God! God! Where did you hide the water? I need it now!” And because God does not necessarily prefer soft men who chant in basilicas, moonlight shone in the wadi and Gunter leaped to his feet like a man whose bed has caught fire, and he shouted, “They dug so deep because the water’s out there!”

In the pre-dawn he rushed back to the shaft and summoned Luke, bawling at him, “I know where the water is!” And he took five good diggers down with him and tried to calculate where north lay, and by luck he came close, and in that direction he caused his men to dig. All day they worked, with him goading them at their elbows, and fresh teams were brought down, with men hauling baskets of rubble aloft; and after night had fallen a Greek workman plunged his shovel through a soft layer of dust and struck nothing. Like a madman Gunter dashed at the hole and with a small taper looked ahead, and saw the long-vanished David Tunnel dug by Hoopoe and his Moabite slave. Disregarding the possibility of accident or surprise he dashed along the tunnel, silent for so many centuries, until he saw the walls of the far end looming up to halt him, and at their base he found the ancient well.

When he returned to the castle that night he was in no way exultant, for although he knew that now his castle and his town were secure against even the strongest enemy, his descent into darkness and his close brush with God reminded him of how transient life was and forced him to consider the future. When Luke came to congratulate him he found not a roistering German knight but a man much humbled, who said softly, “It’s time I found a wife.”

That night Luke waited till Count Volkmar, who insisted upon remaining in his original quarters, had gone to bed, and then the bailiff called softly to his daughter Taleb, asking her to talk with him, and looking down at the floor he said to her, “Sir Gunter speaks of taking a wife.” Silence … “Today I examined my Lord Volkmar’s leg. It will never heal.” Silence … “He cannot live long.”

“Each morning he has a fever,” Taleb reported.

Luke felt it necessary to speak with great bluntness. “I’ve been wondering about Sir Gunter. Have you not thought it strange that he sleeps with so many women … he has a harem … Egyptians and that whore from Acre. But I’ve never heard that any of his women became pregnant.”

The two Christians looked at each other for some moments, after which Luke continued, “I’ve come to the conclusion that Sir Gunter couldn’t have sons … even if he wanted them.”

Taleb placed her folded hands on the table before her father and said, “You must not forget that young Volkmar is your grandson … as well as my son.” Silence … “What is it that you are proposing?”

Luke swallowed. “For the next two or three weeks Gunter will remain preoccupied with cleaning out his well. But when that is done he shall have to turn to other matters.” Silence … “If I were you, I would place myself so that when he turns you are plainly visible.” From the bedroom Volkmar called for his wife; he was having trouble with his leg and wanted her to fetch his crutch.

In the next days Taleb bint Raya, the twenty-two-year-old Christian convert, found numerous occasions to inspect the water system and the new castle. When a caravan of merchants came in from Damascus and Gunter decided to christen his great dining hall, which in succeeding centuries pilgrims to the Holy Land would characterize as the most beautiful room in the east, Taleb volunteered to serve as hostess, and she sat between the two German knights as the boar and venison were served along with the spiced wines, the dates, the honey and the exotic vegetables. At the height of the feast Gunter cried out to the Damascenes, “You men travel a lot. I’ve been thinking of getting married. Tell me, are those Armenian princesses from Edessa as pretty as they say?”

A merchant replied, “Your Baldwin married one, and when I saw them in Edessa she seemed a fine lady.”

“They are Christians,” Volkmar observed.

“I’m thinking of sending to the King of France,” Gunter said. “For one of his sisters.”

“The King of France?” Volkmar repeated. “Do you think he would reply?”

“I believe he would,” Gunter replied. “For one day I shall be king of this area.” Then he looked directly at Taleb and added quietly, “But I think I shall allow the King of France to worry about his sisters. I may not go so far afield.”

Volkmar could not avoid seeing this glance, nor its implication, but on that night he elected to say nothing; thereafter he stayed away from the new castle, remaining in his old quarters from which he sought to govern the district; but gradually he found that his prerogatives were being removed. Luke, as leader of the accommodating Family of Ur, quickly deserted his old employer and transferred his allegiance to the castle, where he installed the political machinery which actually governed the region. One morning Volkmar summoned Luke to the basilica, as a neutral meeting place, to ask him directly what was happening, but Luke explained that with so many peasants reporting from the outlying villages it was easier for him to meet them in the castle. “They expect it,” he added.

“But the taxes will still be paid over to me?” Volkmar asked.

“Of course! Of course!” Luke assured him.

Volkmar limped home intending to ask Taleb to explain truthfully what was going on, but this he could not do, for when he entered the house he found his wife wrestling with Gunter, and her dress was mostly torn away, so that her body was exposed to the waist—and it was not at all clear whether she had been resisting or not. It was a dreadful moment, after which Gunter stood behind Taleb with his arms encircling her, his hands grasping her breasts while she fell easily back toward his protection.

“You’re an old man,” Gunter cried impatiently. “Your leg never mended and you’ve got to die soon. When you do I’ll take your wife, and we’ll have children of our own. I’ll send your bastard back to Germany, and if he doesn’t want to go I’ll strangle him.” And with these words Gunter kissed the half-naked woman on the neck.

Volkmar had only his crutch, but he lunged at Gunter and there was a scuffle during which the old man fell to the ground, while Gunter, still holding Taleb by the breasts, kicked at him contemptuously, causing the leg stump to break into fresh bleeding.

When the lovers were gone Volkmar called for his servants, asking them to fetch Luke the doctor, but that man, having heard what had occurred, could not be found, so the bleeding continued. Of this bleak day Wenzel wrote in his chronicle of the German knights:I carried my Lord Volkmar to his bed, for he was much wasted from his early days, and he said, pressing his hands against his white beard, “I feel new pains and I shall not live long,” but he lasted through that night and in the morning called for his son, who came to him but did, not understand how gravely ill his father was. His wife Taleb, whom I myself had baptized, would not approach his room but made merry in the castle with Sir Gunter, for whom she had even then a notable affection, and I did not wish to remind her of her duty. In the evening I said to Volkmar, “Poor sir, you never did get to Jerusalem,” but he replied what I knew to be the truth, “You are wrong, Priest, for on the morning I set out from Gretz I was in Jerusalem.” He ordered me to pray for his good wife Matwilda and asked, “How could she have had such a brother?” and then he prayed with me for his daughter Fulda, sharing with me a secret I had never before known. “I am convinced that she is locked up somewhere east of Damascus,” and I realized then why he had always been the first to greet the caravans that came from that city, hoping that he might discover some news of her. “Pray for my daughter, Wenzel. Pray for her.”