Brian Mule Writes

The full moon’s beams streamed through the treetops of the Syrian juniper trees to illuminate the two struggling Knights Templar as they trudged uphill.  Philip panted and huffed from the effort of support carrying the older lord who had his one arm over Philip’s shoulder and the other cradling the deep red spot around his midsection.  The two knights were in full suit armor.  The red cross of their order displayed prominently on the chest of their white tunics.  Earth crunched loudly under their armored feet as they moved awkwardly over roots and rocks.  Despite the difficulty of the climb, they moved with urgency.  Their faces glistened with sweat, covered in dirt, and stricken with fear.  They were on the run.    

“Philip,” rasped lord Robert between labored breaths, “water, I thirst greatly for water.”

Philip shifted lord Robert’s arm further onto his own shoulders, grunting under the weight.  The stain on his lord’s tunic had grown so much since their midnight ambush that it almost completely swallowed the red cross.

“We will find it, my lord.  The stars point us westward, and the camp should not be too far now.” Panted Philip.  His eyes darted nervously, searching among the gaps in the trees, hoping to reassure himself there was truth in the lie.

A murder of crows scattered cawing from the outstretched limbs of a nearby tree.  Philip’s breath caught and he tripped over a root, sending both of them to the ground with a loud clang.  Lord Robert groaned, clutching his wound and curling into a fetal position.

“By the Almighty, forgive me my lord,” pleaded Philip.  That monstrous crash likely woke every Seljuk soldier on this side of the Kingdom.  Pushing himself upright, he scanned the permitter, bloodshot eyes straining to pierce the night.  He slowed his breath, so it was barely above a whisper and put a hand on lord Robert’s shoulder to steady him.  A light breeze brushed treetops and swayed branches gently.  Philips armor made small metallic noises as he shifted and adjusted his weight.  Their breathing quivered under the restraint of forced silence.  After a moment, Philip exhaled a sigh of relief.  The forest was still.  And if the Lord would hear their prayer and provide shelter for the night, they’d be able to find their way to the morning safely. 

Singing?

Singing! The harmonious singing of a female voice carried on the breeze from some nearby place.  Additionally, a hard knocking sound echoed through the trees like that of a hammer, punctuating the gentle lullaby with a steady rhythm. 

“Philip, what is that,” rasped Lord Robert, tightening his gauntleted hand over the pommel of his sword.

“It sounds to be a maiden, not too far off,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “and likely a place of respite and water.  We may have found our shelter till the morning comes.”

Robert grunted and nodded in the direction of the song.  He offered his arm to Philip who helped him up and brushed him off.  They began staggering in the direction of the noise.  Philip straightened and became more alert as he spotted something toward the top of the hill. 

“There, in the distance,” He said, pointing at what looked like the ruins of an old stone watchtower sitting on the crest of the hill, “It must be coming from there.”

“Caution, Philip.  We know not of these lands.  They may be sheltering our enemies, and I am weak from blood loss.”

“God’s glory is with us and he protects us in our righteous holy war.  Once we’re at the top I will apply bandages to your wound and ensure we wake safely.”

Philip and lord Robert crept onward as quietly as they could, listening for any other noises that might be accompanying the song and hammer.  Trees groaned and creaked, dancing slowly to the rhythms of the gentle wind.  But there was some other noise underneath it all.  What was it?  Was it quiet whispering of unseen onlookers, or just the wind rustling through the leaves?  The stone watchtower grew steadily closer, and the singing became steadily louder.  Philip couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling of being watched. 

A sudden cacophony of whispers surged around the knights as a gust of wind kicked up swirls of leaves and made the old trees crackle and groan.  Philip’s gaze darted around to see tall, bearded men and wizened old ladies turn to look in their direction, only to realize his mind was making phantoms of the trees in the night.

“Philip, water.  I need water.” Lord Robert pleaded weakly as he hung his head limply.

“Of course, my lord,” said Philip, looking at him with concern, “There is surely water by the maiden and by my steel I’ll – “

“I know you.”

Philip cried out at the startling interruption.  A young girl somehow came to stand directly before them.  She smiled warmly and swayed playfully so that her roughhewn dress flowed back and forth.  Her hands were covered in dirt, and she carried a crude hammer.  Philip blinked at her several times before furrowing his brow and narrowing his eyes.

“Girl, if you think to use that hammer to strike us, I’ll cut you down so fast you won’t have time to know you’re dead.”

The young girl giggled and twirled her dress a bit.

“Dead?  Don’t be silly.” She said smiling, “That’s like saying you’re going to walk me to the end of a circle.”

Philip frowned at her wordlessly.  She traced a circle in the air with her finger and made a silly sound.  While staring in bewilderment, it occurred to him that the old stone watchtower was nowhere to be seen.  Instead, directly behind the girl, was a small cottage with warm lighting pouring from its singular window and smoke climbing lazily from its short chimney.  A garden overflowing with zucchini, tomatoes, eggplants, lettuce, and other unknown vegetables surrounded them.  Jaffa orange trees grew abundantly across the scene, with the largest orange tree standing tall by a pristine pool of water that was being fed by a gentle waterfall.  Philip began stuttering for a moment before his lord’s raspy breathing brought urgency back to his senses.  He cleared his throat and set his gaze on the girl.

“Where is the master of this cottage, and to what God does he pray to?” Philip demanded.

The girl tilted her head slightly and peered into his eyes for a moment with gentle kindness.

“Why, you’re the master of this place, and your God has always been here.” She said reassuringly.  She pointed her hammer around her, “I built this all for you.  You may eat from my garden as much as you wish, it is fresh and plentiful.  And the water from the nearby fall will nourish you and not run dry.  But to do so you must lay down your swords.  Otherwise, you may rest here and feed the earth and so grow this garden just as you do yourself.”

“She has water.” croaked lord Robert.

“Yes, my lord, but she wishes to disarm us.  I must verify her allegiance to Christ and to the crusades lest we be ambushed again.” Philip explained, “Rest here and I shall return promptly with water.” Lord Robert bobbed his head weakly and sat against a nearby orange tree with a grunt. 

“Well, you heard me, girl.” Philip said sternly, turning back to the beaming girl, “Show me who else resides here and reveal to me the nature of their allegiances.”

The girl giggled and started skipping away.  The armor-clad knight tensed, ready to chase, but the girl skipped leisurely behind a large Syrian juniper and then popped her head out the side and said “boo!”.  She giggled again and began skipping around the edge of the cottage.

“This damn girl,” Philip muttered to himself, “Wait here, my lord, I will return promptly.” And he marched off after the giggles that were now coming from behind the cottage.  As he stomped closer, he glanced into the open window frame from which so much warm light poured.  There was a hearth, some kind of delicious stew brewing in a hanging cauldron, and multiple open coffins leaning against the wall.  He squinted at the strange scene, noting that the coffins had only been built recently, and that otherwise the cottage was empty of other inhabitants. 

The giggles went silent for a moment.  A faint rustling of chain mail and saddle bags and the clopping of horse hoofs seemed to be traveling slowly in his direction.  He pressed himself noiselessly against the cottage wall, peaking carefully around its edge.  He peered at the enormous orange tree that stood near the glistening pool.  Not too far from it was a dark man in tattered roughhewn garb.  He led a limping horse and a regally armored lord who was sitting atop it.  They appeared exhausted and were marching laboriously toward the pool.  The lord slumped completely forward in his saddle, wobbling with each step as if not even conscious.  Philip leaned in and could see a thin string of blood pouring steadily from the lord’s mouth. 

His armor clinked slightly and the tattered man froze.  Standing by the pool, he peered in the direction of the noise by the cottage.  Philip eyed him from behind the wall before stepping out and boldly facing them.  The horse lifted its head in alarm, sensing the danger.  The dark man had no weapon in hand and only chainmail under his tattered tunic protecting him.  His lord still did not stir.  Philip slowly moved his gauntleted hand onto the pommel of his sword.  The man shook his head, almost imperceptibly, and his eyes grew large like the moon as he stood frozen in place. 

Philip roared as he unsheathed his sword and rushed toward the group.  The horse screamed and reared up on its hind legs, sending the lord falling limply to the ground with a metallic crash.  Cawing crows scattered from treetops.  The tattered man scrambled after the fleeing stallion and attempted to grab its reins.  He stumbled and fell amidst the dust cloud left in its wake.  The dark man shouted some panicked phrases in Arabic and scrambled to the fallen lord, pulling a mace from his belt.  Philip lifted his sword above his head, ready to strike the man down while he was on his knees and sent the steel swinging down.  The sword barely missed the man as he pushed himself away and up to his feet.  The man yelped at the close call and ran to the great orange tree by the pool, attempting to shield himself behind it.  Philip lifted his sword and pointed it at the cowering man.  He started marching toward him, squashing tomatoes and eggplants beneath his armored feet as he did. 

“Come here you infidel!” He snarled.

He swung forcefully at the man’s head, barely sliced his cheek as the man pulled back just in time.  The power of the swing had sent the sword biting deeply into the body of the great orange tree.  He grunted as he pulled back on it but it would not budge.  The tattered man quickly swung his mace into the knight’s forearm and crushed the vambrace with a sickening crunch.  Philip’s howl echoed through the night air.  The mace was lifted one more time to come down on him.  Clutching his arm, Philip staggered backward, dodging the mace swing by a nose but slipping on a squashed orange that sent him falling onto his rear.  The whites of the tattered man’s eyes glowed brightly in the moonlight and were huge with terror.  Half his face was painted red from the gushing gash on his cheek.  Panting, he raised his mace and cried out as he charged forward.  Philip scrambled backward and as the mace came down, he managed to pull the templar shield from his back and deflect the blow.  Another one came and dented the red cross on the face of the shield.  A third strike came, the dull thud sending shockwaves through his bones.  As the mace rose for another strike, Philip kicked at the man’s shin and sent him falling to the ground.  With a pained bellow, Philip rolled onto the man and pinned him down with his shield.  The knight raised it high and sent the edge slamming down into the man’s face.  The man raised his bare hands upward in an attempt to stop the onslaught of blunt metal.  The shield came down again, and again, rocking the man’s head like that of a doll, until nothing was left but a red mess.

The knight heaved heavy breaths and let his shield down on the man’s chest, slumping in exhaustion.  He exhaled deeply and shook his head, staring down at the motionless body underneath him. 

“This wasn’t your land to – ,” Philip’s breath caught as he was startled by a strange sensation.  Something slid quickly across the base of his neck.  He felt a warmth begin gushing down to his chest.  Glancing downward he watched as a crimson stain grew over his white tunic rapidly.  What just happened?

Turning his upper body to see what stood behind him, Philip saw the regally armored lord holding a knife with blood dripping from the blade.  The lord’s dark skin was pale and his eyes glazed.  He wobbled in place for a moment and then collapsed in a metal heap. 

Philip pressed his palm against the yawning gash in his neck and slowly raised it to eye level.  His dripping hand blurred and split into two for a moment.  He lowered his hand and used the shield on his arm to push himself to his feet.  He searched the tree line for his lord and for the cottage.  For a sign he’d be able to bandage and staunch the bleeding.  But the cottage was gone.  There was not a single cottage visible in any direction.  In its place stood the ruins of a stone watchtower, overgrown with ivy and the decomposition of time. 

He lurched two unsteady steps forward before collapsing onto one knee.  The world rocked back and forth and blurred into countless overlapping duplicates.  Where was the cottage?  The tower stood in its place, and not too far sat lord Robert against the orange tree, slumped and unmoving.  In the early morning light of the rising sun, he could see the debris that they had missed during the night.  Ancient shields lay scattered about, entangled in the overgrowth of nature.  The faded markings on a few were still intact enough to identify.  One shield held the sigil of Athena, the Goddess of wisdom in the mythology of the ancient Greeks.  And was that the sigil for Anahita on another?  Philip remembered the lesson from his tutor in his younger days.  This was the Persian Goddess of wisdom and healing.  He found this funny but struggled to collect his mind enough to understand why. 

The templar knight swayed and fell onto his back.  The rays of the sun were beginning to stretch their long pale fingers into the black of night, and the first stirrings of the morning’s bird calls rang out melodiously.  The great orange tree by Philip’s head seemed to reach upward forever, all the way to the heavens.  The vibrant green of its leaves contrasted brilliantly against the pale blue backdrop of the sky. 

Philip realized that his mouth and throat were bone dry.  He was so thirsty.  He looked toward the gentle waterfall that pooled so enticingly nearby.  The metal of his suit clinked quietly as he attempted to move his legs.  The pool was right by his head but may as well have been across a desert.  He scanned the ground around his armored frame and saw an abundance of Jaffa oranges scattered about.  The pain in his crushed forearm seemed to have dissipated completely, but he still couldn’t move that arm.  The scent of juicy citrus sweetened the air and piqued his thirst.  With his other arm Philip attempted to grab an orange that lay next to his gauntleted hand.  He was able to curl his fingers around it and smiled at the small victory, but the weight of the shield that was looped around his arm was too great and pinned it down.  His breathing suddenly became erratic, and he wasn’t sure if he was laughing or crying.

“What will Saint Peter say when I meet him?” He thought, “Have I done enough?  Was my service to the Lord enough?  I defended Christendom from barbarians.  I served Christ.  Surely I’ve done enough.  Surely I’ve – “

Singing?

There was that singing again.  So enchanting in its sweetness.  But where was she?  Was she playing a trick on him?  Philip turned his head upward toward the great orange tree.  There she was!  She was tilling the earth gently around his head, and a coffin loomed behind her leaning against the great tree.  He stared at it for a long moment before looking back to the singing girl, the morning sun shimmering in her eyes.  Blackness washed over his vision momentarily before he woke again to see flowers growing around his head where the girl had been tilling.  Where Philip’s blood has been pooling.  He watched as the buds opened delicately and tender pink leaves unfurl without hurry.  Philip let his mouth drop open in awe, enraptured by the sublime beauty of the scene.  He finally realized it was all around him.  It was everywhere.  And it had always been here.

His vision dimmed and the singing drifted farther and farther away, but Philip was filled with overwhelming gratitude.  He felt blessed, as the last of his life seeped from his neck and the last of his breaths left his body, that he could bear witness for this brief moment.