Edward Whittemore - Sinai Tapestry

He was bouncing back and forth now dropping a loaf in the oven, now plucking one out. Hopeless, thought Joe, totally melted. Sixty years of that could turn anyone’s brains to bread.

The Victoria Cross you say?

The very same, lad. Before I found my vocation I was so stupid I joined the army and off we went to the Crimea, where some deluded ward of God ordered a suicidal charge. My mount fell and broke its leg and I couldn’t keep up on foot, so it turned out I was one of the few survivors. That’s right my boy, 1854 was the year in question and the English public was furious. The army had to find some heroes who were still alive, that was me and in came the medals.

Joe shifted on his buttocks. His bottom hurt. Maybe that charge had been a disaster but sitting here was a disaster too. The old priest danced across the room and dropped a ribbon over his head. Joe stared dumbly at the cross. Once he had seen one on an English officer before the Easter Rebellion.

That’s it and there you are, young Joe, an official hero of Her Majesty’s forces and one of the few to survive the charge of the Light Brigade. Two years after that piece of madness in the Crimea, you see, Her Reigning Presence decided to honor God and herself by creating a new and highest honor for Britannic valor on the battlefield, named for herself, this Victoria Cross we now see around your neck. Her advisors naturally agreed with that and suggested the first VC ever to be go to the most decorated man presently in the forces. Who’s that? asked Victoria R. Right here on the rolls, said the advisors, checking, it appears to be none other than the illustrious hero who was loaded with Sardinian and Turkish and French medals only two years ago, our very own MacMael n mBo of Crimean fame. MacMael what? asked the queen, suddenly weary with the tasks of empire.

The old priest smiled.

No matter. Presently she recovered and they were able to find the last sober Irishman in the islands to teach her how to pronounce the name and the ceremony was held and there I stood, first recipient of the famous Victoria Cross. Well then a few years after that some worthy people established a retirement charity in Jerusalem for veterans, the Home for Crimean War Heroes it’s called, and since there aren’t many of those veterans around by now as you’d imagine, heroic or not, the quarters are more than spacious. In fact you’ll have it practically to yourself. Commands a decent view of part of the Old City and the bread’s excellent, I bake it myself. So lad, I’ll give you my old documents and that’s that.

That’s what? thought Joe. Were the old priest’s brains melted or not? He was twenty and the Franciscan must have been at least eighty-five.

Won’t apparent age be a problem then?

Not here, not in Jerusalem, answered the old priest merrily. Here young or old is about the same. Our Holy City, everyone’s Holy City, is an odd place as you’ll come to see, not an everyday commonplace matter.

We ourselves, said Joe.

Exactly, and just the three of us in on the trick, you and me and God. And some trick it was, choosing those Poor Clares.

How’s that, Father?

The trip. This dreadful journey the Poor Clares had to make over here seeing and being seen by all manner of creatures and smelling all smells known to the species. That’s not their usual business is it? Not what they signed up for is it? No, direct intervention, that’s what it was.

What?

Oh you wore a bright green jacket and buckled shoes and you set your flat red hat at a properly jaunty angle, and you kept on the move as best you could but He knew trouble was coming and He said to Himself, The lad’s going to have to get out of Ireland and how’s he going to do it?

Well naturally He took a look in the files of the Vatican, which is where He goes when dealing with historical matters, and what does He find but an old request for some nuns to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Right you are, He says to Himself, that’s the job. Who’s ever going to suspect the terror of the Black and Tans sneaking out of the country disguised as a Poor Clare when everybody knows Poor Clares aren’t even allowed out of their convents? Who would even conceive of such a thing? So after He has His little laugh He arranges for the document to be found and processed, and after one hundred and twenty-five years the frightened Poor Clares do their duty and you’re saved.

Father, I didn’t realize any of it.

It’s true you didn’t but there you have it, said the old priest, who went dancing off into the corners of the bakery collecting a loaf in each of the four shapes and proceeded to pile them in the fugitive’s lap.

They simply didn’t have time to believe a man who had been born a thousand years before Christ. Whose mind, moreover, teemed with facts no one else had ever heard.

ONE AFTERNOON AFTER HE had gone to live in the Home for Crimean War Heroes, O’Sullivan Beare was wandering in the Moslem Quarter when he found himself facing a blank wall at the end of an alley. Near him a wizened old Arab stood forlornly in a doorway. The Arab wore a faded yellow cloak and a rusting helmet tied in place with green ribbons. Unaware that anyone was there, the old man raised his cloak and pissed weakly into the alley.

O’Sullivan Beare jumped out of the way. The man’s legs seemed too spindly to support him. The heavy helmet rolled when he moved and crashed down on his nose. After dropping his cloak he sighed, readjusted the helmet and once more stared sadly ahead at nothing.

Just as the baking priest said, thought Joe. He was right as right about Jerusalem and here’s another one off in a different bog. He stepped back and saluted.

Beg pardon sir, could you tell me what campaign the helmet’s from?

The old man was puzzled. He stirred and the decomposing metal released a shower of rust in his eyes. He wiped away his tears and the helmet went awry again.

What’s that?

The helmet. Which campaign might it be?

The First Crusade.

Jaysus and that must have been a hard one.

The old Arab lowered his head as if expecting a blow. He wept quietly.

Ridicule and defeat, abuse and humiliation, I’ve never expected anything else.

Oh no sir, no insult intended.

The eyes drifted in the direction of O’Sullivan Beare, the voice less far away now.

What? You don’t mean you believe me when I say I fought in the Crusades?

No reason not to.

There isn’t? But no one has believed anything I’ve said for a very long time.

Sorry to hear that sir.

Not for over two thousand years.

Dreadfully sorry sir.

And I wasn’t on the Crusaders’ side, I have to tell you that. I was defending my city against the invader.

I know how that is.

So naturally I was on the losing side. When you’re defending Jerusalem you’re always on the losing side.

I know how that is too. Terrible position to be in sir.

The old Arab tried to focus his eyes more closely.

See here, why do you keep calling me sir ? No one’s shown me any respect for centuries.

Because you’re nobility and it’s only proper.

The Arab made an effort to stand more erect, which he did for a few moments despite the arthritis crippling his back. His face showed surprise and confusion and a tiny hint of pride.

That was at least as far back as the reign of Ashurnasirpal. How did you guess?

Your eyes sir.

It’s still there?

As clear as the last muezzin.

The Arab looked even more surprised and also embarrassed.

Don’t call me sir, my name’s Haj Harun. Now please tell me why you believe what I say instead of beating me when I say it?