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.
His chin fell to his chest, slamming the helmet into his nose. There was little light from the overcast sky and his eyes were watering as usual so he was having trouble finding the path. For several hours he had been straying off into the wastes stumbling over rocks and bushes. His hands were scratched and cut, he limped from a bruised knee on one leg and a sprained ankle on the other. Blood oozed out of a jagged gash in his cheek.
The cold wind ripped at them. Joe plodded along with his head down. All at once there was a loud crash. The donkey stopped, Joe went back down the path to see what had happened.
Haj Harun lay stretched on the ground on his face next to a tall narrow boulder. He had walked over it blindly, one foot on each side, or rather he would have walked over it if the boulder hadn’t been waist-high. The rock had smashed into his groin tearing muscles and cracking bones. He had lost his balance and fallen on his head twisting a leg as he went down. Only his helmet, newly dented down the middle, had saved him from crushing his skull.
Joe rolled him over. One leg looked broken and the entire pelvic region was soaked in blood. He groaned and lay still.
That’s it, I can’t take any more, you might as well go on without me.
The leg?
Numb, it won’t move, I can’t move, my insides are all torn apart. For centuries I’ve been trying to do it, trying to go on, but this time it’s over, I’m finished and I know it. I’m too old and tired, just a miserable sack of pains, nothing but aches and more aches, no I can never move again. Oh I know you thought you could help and you did but I’m beyond helping now, I’ve reached the very end. There’s a limit after all, sadly there is. So take the kingdom, Prester John, it’s yours, and take the scarab and the safe and the sundial, they’re yours too. You know, I used to think I’d have no regrets when the end came but now I know I’m no match for Sinbad and all those other people I dreamed about, no match for anyone at all. Once I thought I could do something but it never worked out. That cobbler and that man on the top of the steps who doesn’t even know I’m there, they’re the only ones who will listen to me, you’re right about that. Other people just beat me, they always have. They beat me because I’m foolish. They call me a fool and I know I am. Just an old fool who has never done anything, never accomplished one thing, nothing at all.
Stop this now, said Joe. Stop it right here. The city depends on you, it’s survived because of you. Where would it be without you to defend it? Who would rebuild it? How would it keep growing higher? What would happen to the caverns?
Haj Harun sobbed quietly.
No, I wanted to think all those things but they’re not true. You know my wives were probably right after all, I should have been content to live like other people. I was comfortable, there was more than enough to eat and I was never cold, and since then I’ve done nothing but starve and shiver and never sleep, never get any rest at all because my gums hurt so much when I lie down. And they warned me, I don’t deny it. Don’t be a fool, they said. Why give up everything for this hopeless mission? Do you want to be cold all the time? Do you want to starve? You must be mad.
Haj Harun’s crumpled figure was all but lifeless. He lay on the stony ground gasping painfully for breath, his face smeared with blood. Blood and rust filled his eyes. The circle of blood below his waist was spreading. The broken leg was bent awkwardly to one side.
Joe knelt holding the old man’s hands, which were so cold it frightened him. His pulse was uneven and growing weaker.
It couldn’t be. Was the old warrior really dying?
A sudden warmth fell on his shoulders. He looked up. The sky had opened and a fierce wind was peeling the clouds back over the hills. Directly above them, lit by the sun, was Jerusalem.
Look, he shouted.
Haj Harun’s lips moved. There was a gurgle deep in his throat.
It’s no use, I can’t see. I tried and failed and it’s over.