Was it blasphemous? Should he accept this new information as he had accepted so many apparently incomprehensible truths over the centuries?
Humbly he agreed it was his duty. His friend was insistent and he couldn’t turn away from facts just because they seemed unlikely. Facts had to be believed. Although he had never suspected it until this moment, he, Haj Harun, was the secret author of the Sinai Bible.
And once having accepted it as fact he easily fitted it into his background. That very evening he was referring to the Sinai Bible as his diary, an account of adventures recorded in the course of a Jerusalem winter during some earlier epoch of his life.
By epoch you mean the last century? asked O’Sullivan Beare.
Haj Harun smiled, he nodded. He couldn’t quite recall why he had written down what he had, but probably it had been to pass the time and forget the icy drafts in the caverns where it was likely he had been living then.
Why this likelihood? asked O’Sullivan Beare.
Haj Harun looked doubtful, then laughed.
Because the caverns have been my winter residence as far back as I can remember.
They have? Then you admit the Sinai Bible deals solely with what you found in the caverns?
Oh yes indeed, answered the old man grandly. Didn’t you know that’s been my routine for some time now? Wandering around the Judean hills in the summer enjoying the sunshine, back to my shop and the streets of the Old City for the brisk clear air of autumn, the caverns of the past in winter and a haj in the spring? I’ve kept to that schedule for millennia and why not? What could be more exhilarating?
The morning they were due to leave O’Sullivan Beare was locking up the safe when he noticed a small piece of paper caught in a crevice at the back. He pulled it out and passed it to Haj Harun.
A reminder you wrote yourself before the Crusaders arrived?
Not mine. It’s a letter in French.
Can you read it?
Of course.
Well who’s it to then?
Someone named Strongbow.
Bloody myth, muttered O’Sullivan Beare, who had heard stories about the nineteenth-century explorer in the Home for Crimean War Heroes. Never existed. Couldn’t. No Englishman was ever that daft. What’s it say?
It thanks this man Strongbow for a present he sent across the Sahara in honor of a special occasion.
What’s the present?
A pipe of Calvados.
All that way and only a pint?
No, pipe, a kind of measurement I believe. About one hundred and fifty gallons. Say about seven hundred bottles.
And why not, might as well say that as anything else. What’s the special occasion?
The birth of his nine hundredth child.
Do you say so. Whose nine hundredth child?
The man who wrote the letter.
How’s he sign himself?
Father Yakouba.
Oh I see, a priest. Where’s he writing from?
Timbuktu.
What?
That’s all there is except the number on the letter. They must have had a large correspondence.
Why this opinion?
The number is four thousand and something. The script is faded there.
Well Jaysus it should be. A priest fathering nine hundred children? Seven hundred bottles of Calvados marching to Timbuktu? Four thousand letters each way? What’s the date on it?
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.