That is, he thought no more until exactly five am the next morning. That was the time when the cock from the village proudly proclaimed the beginning of the day, and Harun thought how wonderful it would be if the castle stood alone on a solitary cliff on the shores of Thule, with no village and no roosters around. Or why couldn't cocks in real life be like the one in the dialogue of the Roman comedian Lucian? That animal contented itself with giving philosophical advice to people, and didn't try to disturb their sleep at this unearthly hour! But then, Lucian's cock had been a reincarnation of Pythagoras in animal form. Harun very much doubted that this could be said of the village rooster here in Sevenport.

The Scribe pushed himself to his feet, eyes still closed. He did not bother putting on his clothes because he had not bothered to remove them the night before. The cold autumn air was just bearable beneath three layers of wool.

He forced his eyes open. He was always like this in the mornings, but this time it was especially bad, because of the tiring journey and because he had worked so long after that. Thinking of the stack of parchments which still waited on his desk, he wondered what state he would be in tomorrow. Then he stopped wondering. Any conclusion he came to probably wouldn't be to his liking.

Yawning, he stumbled towards the door and down the long stairs. Luckily not all the way down, but only to the main hall on the second floor, where the smell of breakfast welcomed him. Harun entered and glanced at the bowls on the tables. It might have been a warm breakfast, but not a very warm welcome, at least not on his part. Sir Christian of Sevenport, as mentioned before, was a devout Christian and did not hold with worldly matters. For some reason he considered tasteless, gray-brown gruel to be less worldly than fried, spicy meats and sweet fruit. When Harun had asked him one day in what way oats were more ethereal than meats, the Lord had stared at him with a puzzled look on his handsome face and said nothing.

Harun slowly crossed the hall, a long room with a low ceiling supported by dark wooden beams, which looked just as ancient as the rest of the castle. He sat down at Sir Christian’s table. This might have been considered a special privilege by some people: the tables, all on different heights, were arranged in order of status, with the servants at one table, the steward and the castle priest and similarly more important persons at another, and finally the Lord of the castle at his own table that stood on a raised platform – with Harun as his table neighbor. Though in fact this arrangement stemmed from the fact that the servants were afraid of the heathen scribe (who knows, he might be planning to cook and eat their children!!) and the castle priest would not let him come closer to him than about fourteen feet, which he probably considered to be the contamination radius of heatheness. Sir Christian was the only one who did not object to Harun’s company. And as for how it was the other way round, Harun was not asked for his opinions anyhow.

Gradually, the others filed in. Sir Christian’s steward Radulf was one of the first. Sir Christian’s estate was not really such a large one that it would have needed a steward if it had had a Lord interested in farming, but Sir Christian was no such Lord. Worldly matters, again. Radulf was an unobtrusive fellow, of average height, with a neatly trimmed black beard and short hair of the same color. The only lavish thing about him was his fine clothing, that suggested he did quite well out of estate-managing. Then the castle priest, Father Ignatius entered, and threw Harun a dirty look. The scribe nodded back at him politely. The Father was a narrow figure with a pale face, and in Harun's opinion, looked very much like a famished carrion crow. The priest had not held a great love for Saracens from the start, and Harun suspected that he had somewhat offended him when one day, showing interest in the origin of the holy man’s title, he had asked him of which of the young people of the village he was the father, exactly. Harun shook his head. Country priests... they simply had no sense of humor.

Nearly everybody was present and seated, when the sounds of heavy boots and chainmail could be heard from outside the hall. Harun quickly looked around. With the exception of the one currently at the gates, all the guards were already here. So it could only be one person. He stood up. The others stared at him, surprised. But they quickly mimicked his move, as the door opened once more and Sir Christian of Sevenport entered the hall.

He was an impressive figure: 7 feet tall, with muscular arms and a lion’s mane of golden hair, surrounding his serious, handsome features, he looked like a character taken from illustrations of a book of tales about Arthur Pendragon. He himself, however, was sadly unaware of this fact. Bowing his head deferentially as he passed Father Ignatius, as though the priest were the Lord of the castle, he stepped up towards his table and set down next to Harun. They were alone at the table. The seat reserved for the Lord's wife or other important company was empty. Sir Christian was not married, nor in any other kind of intimate relationship. There were some things he considered to be even more worldly than fried, spicy meats.

“Milord,” Harun greeted him, bowing his head.

“Good day, my good scribe,” Sir Christian returned the greeting. “How are you today?”

So tired I could fall off my chair. What I really need now is a strengthening meal. And here I have this lovely gruel…

“Well, Milord,” Harun answered.

“I am too, I am too. Let us give thanks to our Lord Jesus Christ for this new, wonderful day, Harun, shall we?”

He looked encouragingly at the scribe.

“I think not today, Milord.”

“Ah, well.” Sir Christian sighed. “Perhaps tomorrow. It is your own decision, after all.”

“Yes, Milord. Thank you.”

And these were no empty words.

Immersed in his thoughts, Harun stirred his gruel with his wooden spoon. Many people who came to know Sir Christian of Sevenport thought that he was an absurdly religious, cruelly naive man. In fact Harun was one of those people. Yet he respected the knight nevertheless. For his own special reasons...

*~*~*~*~*

It had been a hot day on the slave market of Turso, and Harun had worn a rope around his neck. Not because he was about to be hung, although that might actually have been preferable to his current situation. It had been a hot day when the man with the lion’s mane had walked past the slave trader’s stall, immune to the merchant’s attempts to arouse interest in his wares.

“…is very clever,” the merchant was saying, pointing to Harun, who didn't feel very clever with the tight rope around his neck. “A famous scribe and scholar from the far east with scholastic and medical experience, and that for this price! Your grace is walking away from the bargain of a life!”

“Yes, man,” the tall man with the lion's mane replied. “That is exactly what I am doing.”

Harun could not suppress a snort at the sarcasm, but luckily, it went unnoticed, for the merchant’s attention was still fixed on the potential customer.

“Please do reconsider. You are making a grave error, losing an intellect which could make an immeasurable contribution to your worthy household. This man here–“ he tucked at the rope in his hand which ended in a sling around Haruns neck, and the Saracen stumbled forward, “knows of things you and I shall never know.”

The man with the mane glanced at the sling around Harun's sore, sunburned neck, then at the pudgy hands of the expensively dressed merchant. “Yes, I suppose he does.”

The slave trader beamed. “So your Grace will acquire him?”

“No. I shall go away now.”

“But your Grace…”

“I am a Christian, man,” spoke the tall nobleman sternly. “I do not keep slaves.”

Harun judged the time right to enter into the discussion, which, all things considered, could be said to be of some relevance to him.

“That would not be a problem with me, Sir,” he said. “I would have no objections to you setting me free after buying me.”

Both nobleman and slave trader stared at him for a moment. Then the slave trader broke into a rant of curses. The noblemen, however, displayed a very slight smile on his solemn face.

“And what would be your name, slave who does not object to freedom?” he asked.

The cursing stopped at once, as the trader detected interest in his wares.

“My name, Sir,” Harun said, “is Yusuf Muhammed Harun Ibn Muhammed Ibn Ali Ibn Mahmoud Ben Yusuf.”

The noblemen creased his brow. “Harun? Like Harun al-Rashid, the caliph of the heathen lands of the east who sent a white elephant to the Emperor Charlemagne?”

“The very same, Sir.”

And thus Harun had been named. It was not the worst way of receiving a name – nobody had tried dunking him into a river, for a start. That, however, was soon enough to follow. As Harun, having duly been paid for and indeed set free, sat beside Sir Christian on his liberator’s wagon on the way out of the town, he was confronted with an extensive speech on Christian moral values and no less than five conversion attempts. They were promptly refused, which made Sir Christian very sad, but only for a little while, after which he tried again. Harun did not regret his decision, however, to stay with Sir Christian although he was a free man again. Even free men had to eat, and since Sir Christian indeed needed a scribe, so it seemed like a mutually beneficial arrangement. Beneficial to Harun especially, for one simple reason:

Never once did Sir Christian try to convert Harun by force. That, above all else, was the fact which made Harun believe that he had just had an amazing stroke of luck. His new Lord apparently was a decent, if somewhat one-track minded, man. The least he could do, Harun decided, was to listen. So he simply sat and listened to Sir Christian's enumeration of the advantages of Christianity, while wondering whether or not he should tell his new lord about the letters of Paul in the bible affirming the legitimacy of slavery within Christianity. He decided not to.

*~*~*~*~*

A sound awoke Harun from his reminiscences. He stared into his bowl of gruel, which he was still stirring. It had stopped steaming. This probably meant that it had lost its last attractive feature as a source of nourishment: warmth. Harun kept stirring anyhow. Perhaps in time, the spoon would give some flavor to the gray-brown sludge.

Yes, he had not been mistaken, he had indeed heard a noise. Footsteps were approaching. Heavy footsteps. They stopped, and then came a knock.

“Enter,” Sir Christian said.

The guard from the gate came into the hall and bowed.

“What is it, Herbert?” Sir Christian asked.

“Some beggars have come to the castle gates, Milord, asking for alms and shelter,” came the answer in the gruff voice of the Soldier. “Shall I let them in?”

Harun stopped stirring. He did not look at Sir Christian. He did not need to.

“But of course,” the Lord of the Castle said, his face lighting up with a warm inner glow. “Bring them in, bring them in. It is my duty as a Christian to care for those less fortunate in this world.”

“As you wish, Milord. Shall I lead them to the kitchen and then show them into the barn?”

“No, no. Bring them in here, to my table.”

“Beggars?” the guard asked incredulously. “To your table?”

“Yes. And have two of the guest rooms prepared, will you?”

“The guest…rooms?”

“Yes. And then tell the cook to bring meat and beer from the cellars. We shall have to look after our guests properly.”

Now Harun’s face was also lit with a warm inner glow. What a joy to have visitors. May Allah bless all beggars and Vagabonds.

*~*~*~*~*

A few minutes later the disturbed beggars were ushered in and led to the high table, where an assortment of worldly pleasures had already arrived and had Harun's full attention. He did not catch much of the lively conversation in which the Lord of the castle involved his guests. Mostly, it was about the wonderful simplicity of the life of the poor and the praise they deserved for following the path of Christ. Probably the beggars didn’t understand much either. Their attention was drawn by the richly laden plates before them, but that did not discourage Sir Christian. On the contrary, he seemed delighted that his guests were focusing on the food, not only stuffing it in there mouths, but in their pockets too, and actually encouraged them to take more than they did, which in Harun's view would hardly have been possible.

At last, when his guests had assured him six times that they had had enough, Sir Christian rose and declared the meal to be ended. At that point, one of the beggars, the smarter one, who had obviously grasped how the mind of their host functioned said: “We should all go to church so as to give thanks to God for grace in providing us with this plenty.”

“Yes.” Sir Christian nodded, his face again lit with an inner light. “Let us all go and give thanks to God.” He looked invitingly at Harun, on whose cheek there still were some remainders of gravy, but was politely ignored.

Sir Christian sighed mournfully. “Let us go then,” he repeated, and stood up. Harun watched them leave, without any desire to join. He had never felt the slightest inclination to set foot in the castle’s chapel at Mass time. Whether this was so because of any opposition on his part to the Christian religion he felt as a Muslim, or rather on the great deal of opposition on his part to Father Ignatius abominable Latin which he felt as a scholar, he had never examined too closely. He just did not go to the chapel. As for communicating with Allah in the traditional ways of his homeland, he had long given up on that. He simply did not have the time, nor, he admitted with a slight smile to himself, the energy, to run up to and down from his tower chamber five times a day to be able to pray in privacy. And as for praying in the Scriptorium, where Sir Christian was in and out of the door most of the time, that was out of the question. Doing so would only serve to double the number of daily conversion attempts. So he contented himself with silently praying to Allah in his own, private way. Not regularly, not very often, but devoutly. And though he felt remorseful sometimes, his lack of outward piety did not worry Harun too much. Had not Mohammed himself haggled with Allah to reduce the daily load of prayers from 50 to 5? If one looked at it like that, all Harun was doing was to devoutly continue the work of the prophet, may his name be praised into all eternity.

With a certain unfamiliar, but all the more welcome full feeling around his middle regions, Harun got up from Sir Christian's table and trotted to the door leading from the main hall to the landing. It would be all the more annoying having to continue to work now, when a little nap would be far more appropriate. Especially so, when your work consisted of listing things that made you rather want to continue eating then start writing them down. But Harun had a shrewd suspicion that such arguments might not appear to Sir Christian to be sufficient reason for an afternoon off, and therefore did his duty by his lord and returned to the Scriptorium.

*~*~*~*~*

The man was waiting, half sitting on, half leaning against the stump of a tree on the edge of the field. He kept sufficiently back so that the afternoon shadows of the towering pine trees beside him shielded him from view, if any would look into this direction from the village. This was a lone spot. On the very edge of the inhabitable world, near to the deep, dark forest. Yet it was still not lone enough for this man's taste.

Another man approached. A peasant, young and rough-looking, but with a friendly face. At least it would have been, had the peasant been in the company of someone he was on a friendly footing with.

The peasant stooped, and started to make a movement with his head. Then, as though forcing himself not to, stopped and straightened again.

“What took you so long, fool?” hissed the man.

“It took me some time to get away”, the peasant answered, clearly not pleased at the tone. “My wife is getting suspicious. She wants to know what I am doing when I’m away. She’s found out that I’m not in the Church, nor in the tavern, neither.”

“Then think of some other lie. Surely even a low-minded worm like you can deceive a woman.”

The worm muttered something indistinguishable. But his features told all too clearly what he had in his low mind.

“Next time,” the man in the shadows said, “I hope you will come in time. And next time, there will be a different meeting place. This one is too insecure. What if someone drives his pigs through the forest, looking for acorns? Anyone could see us. But that must not happen!”

The peasant seemed to reach a decision.

“There ain’t gonna be no next time”, he grunted.

“What? I fear that I may have misunderstood you.” The voice of the man had a dangerous undertone now. The peasant however, continued unperturbed.

“I said there ain’t gonna be no next time. I’m not doing it no more. You find someone else to do your dirty work for you.”

“Why, what a sudden change of mind. When we began our partnership, you did not object to the land, I think. What has happened that has changed your mind?”

“That’s no concern of yours!”

“I wonder, have you been to church lately?” A dry laugh issued from the man’s mouth. “If not, you should. It is wonderful what the priests are doing there. You can commit as many sins as you like – as long as you confess afterwards. You'll be forgiven, I assure you.”

“I tell you, I ain’t doing it no more! I’ve got a wife now, and a family. If somebody finds out, they'll…”

“I see.” The man nodded. “Well, if that is the case, there is nothing more to be said about it.”

The peasant looked relieved. Obviously, he had expected something worse than this.

“Nice of you to be so understanding.”

“I always am, my good man.”

“Aye. Thanks anyway. I couldn’t have lived with it no more, you know. I’m going straight to Sir Christian tomorrow to tell him all about it.”

“You are, are you?”

The words came casually, almost friendly, but they nevertheless made the peasant look searchingly into the other man’s face.

“You haven’t got nothing against that, have you?”

“But no, my friend. Why should I have?”

The peasant nodded, contentedly. He did not seem to notice that in about 5 minutes he had transformed from a low-minded worm to a good man and finally to a friend.

“Well, that’s all right then. I’ll be off.”

“Yes, you do that. Only…”

The peasant was already on his way, when the last word held him back.

“Aye?”

“I would need to have a final meeting with you. To clear up some residuary matters.”

“Why don’t we talk now?”

“No, no. I have some urgent business to attend to and besides… you do not want to return to your wife too late, do you?”

This made perfect sense to the peasant.

“But I particularly wanted to speak to you, my friend, before you go to Sir Christian tomorrow. So… yes, I have it. Why not meet me later tonight? You can easily enough slip out of the house at night, surely, once everybody else is asleep, and then we can meet and discuss… what remains.”

The peasant tilted his head. One could see he was not really keen on the idea. But his partner had been so considerate, so understanding.

“All right, then. Where?” he asked. “Here?”

“No. Not here, I think. I was thinking about a different place...”

*~*~*~*~*

Harun worked ceaselessly all afternoon, only once permitting himself a small break to fill his by now empty stomach. Luckily, he had followed the example of the beggars and had accumulated a secret hoard of worldly pleasures within his doublet pockets. This meant he would have to remember not to put any parchment in his pockets for at least a weak, until his clothes had been washed. But since this also meant that he would not have to join the others for supper and share their pious and meager meal, he gladly made this sacrifice.

He pushed away his writing, leaned back in his chair and started to unearth the treasures from his pockets. The meat still had its excellent taste, although it was of course cold by now. For a while, Harun chewed with relish. After having finished his meal he left the scriptorium for a short visit to the castle lavatory, a small, windy wooden room suspended more than 50 feet in the air above the moat. Normally, Harun hated going there, especially in the cold time of year. The castle was cold enough as it was, but if you had to pull down your… well, there, it could get even colder. But right now he felt so full it would actually be a relief.

The scribe carefully sat down on the round hole big enough for a man to fall through, and did what one usually does in such a position. There were a few minutes of thoughtful silence, and then there was a splash from below, as the moat was fertilized. Harun used a few of the dry autumn leaves stacked in the corner of the room to clean his greasy fingers, and another few to clean certain other parts which he was much too educated to think about. Then, the scribe returned to his work. By now it had grown considerably darker. Before sitting down, Harun lit a candle. In its flickering light, he continued. He was now listing the amount of wheat from the old fields and the newly cleared ones. 112 Pounds on the old field behind the smithy, 109 Pounds on the old field up the hill, 104 Pounds and 111 Pounds on the two newest fields, only cleared last spring… How interesting and revealing, to be sure.

As the night closed in, Harun heard a splash from somewhere. Glad to have an excuse to get up and stretch his legs, the scribe rose and walked to the window. He pushed aside the wood-framed horn plates keeping out the cold autumn evening air. Outside, it was ice-cold and nearly dark. By the red glow of the torches on the courtyard walls, he could see the guards – by now there were half a dozen of them – just closing the castle gates. Nowhere could Harun see any water, or anything else for that matter which might have hinted at where the splash had come from. The gates creaked, as they were closed, but if he had mistaken that for a splash, it really was time for him to go to bed. Ah, well, he was nearly finished now, anyway. He might just as well get the rest of the work done.

By the last flickers of light from his dying candle, he finished his riveting account of the number of eggs the Sevenport hens had laid in the last year, then closed the ink bottle, put his quill away and got up again. And now…why the hell did castles have to have such high towers? He managed not to fall asleep on the stairs to his room, although he managed nearly to fall down the stairs. Once up in his room, he let himself fall onto his bed and sank into wonderful, warm oblivion.

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Now I think it's slowly getting mysterious... What do you think? Am I doing a good job?

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Kind Regards

Robert