Edward Whittemore - Sinai Tapestry

Midsummer night, 1840.

What were you doing then?

Haj Harun looked puzzled.

Never mind. At least you weren’t tramping around the Sahara boiling your brains in the sun. Come on, here comes the cart for the scarab.

Sinbad’s hour arrived. In Jaffa they boarded a Greek caïque and a course was set for southern Turkey. Haj Harun was sick from the beginning, unable to go below decks because of the engine fumes and unable to keep his balance topside because he was so weak from vomiting. He was afraid the waves would wash him overboard and eventually O’Sullivan Beare had to lash him to the gunwale beside the scarab to keep him from tumbling around and hurting himself.

The Irishman crouched astride the scarab holding its ropes like reins, riding it backward to Constantinople. The boat pitched violently. As each new wave broke over the bow Haj Harun clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. The waves smashed down, his body writhed, a stream of water shot out of his mouth.

How many? shouted O’Sullivan Beare.

How many what? groaned Haj Harun.

Like I said, how many others know about the Sinai Bible?

The bow of the boat sank out of sight, a wall of water loomed in the sky. Haj Harun pressed himself against the gunwale in terror. The sea swept over them with a roar and the boat began to climb.

What did you say?

Two or three.

That’s all?

At any given moment, but after all we’re talking about three thousand years of moments.

Jaysus.

Haj Harun screamed. A new wave rose majestically. Haj Harun turned his head.

How many does that add up to all together then?

Twelve?

Only twelve?

More or less.

But that’s nothing at all.

I know it’s nothing. Could the number have something to do with the moon or the tribes of Israel?

Are you sure only twelve more or less?

Haj Harun wanted to be brave. If he had been standing on solid ground in Jerusalem he would have straightened his shoulders at least a little and pushed back his helmet and fixed his gaze on the domes and towers and minarets of his beloved city. But here he was helpless.

Yes, he whispered, trembling and ashamed. Then once again he tried to be hopeful as he had by invoking and aligning himself with the twelve tribes and the moon.

There’s an old saying that there are only forty people in the world and we get to know only a dozen of them in our lifetime. Might that explain it?

O’Sullivan Beare nodded solemnly as if weighing this information. It might explain the moon and lunacy but not much else.

I’ve heard that saying, he shouted, but does it apply to a life as long as yours? I mean if you’ve lived three thousand years how can so few people have known you?

Not quite three thousand, whispered Haj Harun. I’m sixteen years short of that.

All right, not quite three thousand. Now who are these dozen people? Emirs and patriarchs? Chief rabbis? Princes of the church? People like that?

Oh no, whispered Haj Harun.

Well who?

Do you remember that man who walks back and forth on the top of the steps that lead down to the crypt in the church?

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre? The one who never stops? The one who’s always muttering to himself? The man you said has been doing that for the last two thousand years?

Yes that’s him. Well he believes me. Or at least he didn’t beat me when I told him about it.

Did he stop walking back and forth?

No.

Stop muttering to himself?

No.

Did he even look at you?

Haj Harun sighed. No.

All right, who else then?

There was a cobbler once. I went into his cubbyhole and told him about it and he didn’t beat me either.

Where was that?

Somewhere in the Old City.

Where?

I can’t quite recall.

When?

I don’t remember.

Who else?

I can’t think of anyone else but it may come to me.

Beautiful, thought the Irishman, just no competition at all. The map’s there for the taking.

By Jaysus is that the truth? he shouted.

Oh God the truth, moaned Haj Harun as the boat shot down and down, as a monstrous wave leapt into the sky and he turned his head to receive the vicious blow on his other cheek.

The day they docked in Constantinople the stomach of the stone scarab was tightly packed with dismantled Czech rifles. The return voyage was just as rough and by the time they arrived Haj Harun had gone without food for three weeks. In Jaffa the heavy scarab was lowered off the boat into a cart. There was little traffic on the pier and the English customs official seemed to want to pass the time.

Couldn’t make a sale up there?

Not offered enough this trip but next time we’ll make it.

The official was staring at Haj Harun, at the rusting helmet that kept crashing down on his nose. The old man was walking in circles, anxious to finish the last stage of the journey.

Who is he? whispered the official. I mean who does he think he is?

He doesn’t think, he knows. He’s the last King of Jerusalem.

The what?

That’s right.

And the scarab’s his?

Yes.

Where’d he get it?

From the former king.

And when was that?

The twelfth century I think. He’s not too good on dates, uniforms either.

The official smiled and picked up his pen.

Name?

MacMael n mBo, baking priest.

Permanent place of residence, Mr. Priest?

The Home for Crimean War Heroes, Jerusalem.

Nationality?

Crimean.

Status of traveler?

Retired war hero.

Present occupation?

Keeper of the royal scarab, second class.

The customs official smiled but O’Sullivan Beare’s face was serious. He was having difficulty holding Haj Harun, who seemed ready to walk off the side of the pier at any moment.

Expect you’ll be seeing a promotion soon?

Within the decade probably.

Fine. Now just point the old man in this direction so I can ask him a question or two.

I wouldn’t, not if you want to keep your sanity.

The official laughed.

Name? Residence? Profession?

Haj Harun muttered his name, then repeated Jerusalem three or four times.

How’s that? Profession?

Jerusalem, said Haj Harun.

That’s a profession?

For him it is.

Now listen, just have him tell me something he’s done in his life. Anything at all, I don’t care, I just want to fill out this form.

Go ahead and tell him then, said Joe.

Indeed I will, answered Haj Harun. Once I wrote the Sinai Bible.

The what?

The Bible. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.

Well that’s just lovely. And what, my friend, is the Sinai Bible?

The original Bible, whispered Joe. I mean it’s the oldest one that’s ever been found only now it’s lost again. He misplaced it.

The customs official swore.

Who misplaced it?

This Arab here called Aaron. The man who wrote it.

Get your arses off my pier, shouted the official.

O’Sullivan Beare nodded pleasantly. He bent and heaved, Haj Harun broke into a wheezing cough. Pushing and pulling they wheeled the heavy cart with its secret load of weapons down the quay, gathered momentum midway and had to run to keep up as the giant stone beetle went hurtling into the Holy Land.

The next day they were trudging up the heights toward Jerusalem in a cloudbank. They climbed in silence beside the cart, Joe prodding the donkey and Haj Harun struggling along behind. Toward the end of the afternoon Haj Harun spoke for the first time.

It’s my last trip.

Why this sentiment?

No food in three weeks. I’m sick.

And Sinbad and all the voyages he made? You can’t forget that can you and just give up?

No I guess I can’t. It’s true there’s much to bear and we have to keep trying.