Part 4 (1/2)

From the time we left the gardens till we reached the Oak of Abraham, a half hour pa.s.sed. It's said that The Oak of Mamre originated during the time of the first patriarchs. This is an exaggeration. It belongs to the genus Quercus ilex psudo-coccifera, which has a base circ.u.mference of approximately ten meters. At the height of four meters, this tree begins to fork and to form immense boughs. For the most part, the tree is already beginning to die as it branches out.

As early as the sixteenth century, this tree was venerated; anyway, it has a considerably different age-and it probably will not stand much longer than it already has. It belongs to the Russians who established a hospice here and built an observation tower; from its height, one can see all the way to the Dead Sea. For just a small fee, the key to this tower can be fetched inside the hospice. I sent Thar inside and asked him to bring me the key. After he did that errand, he brought me a cord that he had found.

While he was showing the rope to me, he said: ”This is for your dear Guewerdschina. I want you to use this when you ride her away from here.” I had my doubts about that: ”Do you think you can make her move from this spot?”

”With no trouble at all.”

”Well then, do you have some kind of remedy?”

”Yes, it works every time.”

”Why didn't you tell me this earlier?

Sly as a fox, he winked at me and laughed; his gorgeously white teeth glistened as he answered: ”It's because I wanted to double your delight, and the cure can only be doubly pleasing when it follows prior turmoil. Watch this!” He took the middle of the rope and firmly tied a knot around the tail of ”the dove,” so that both ends of the cord hung down-then he climbed onto the saddle. We wanted to start out on our trip to Harem Ramet el Chalil, to the Sacred Heights of Hebron. My wife sat upon her mule, and I climbed onto the one that Thar had been riding. Now, we simply had to wait and see what the boy was going to do. The donkey driver handed him both ends of the rope, which he calmly held in his hands. ”Now, watch how quickly this works,” he said. ”Make room; I'm riding on ahead.”

We moved to the side. He goaded dear Guewerdschina. She swished her ears and waggled her tail, but she took no steps forward. He struck her, but that did no good. He screamed at her and slapped his feet into her sides-all to no avail. So he pulled on both ends of the rope. With that trick, the mule's tail flipped up and onto her rump.

Thar then wrapped the cords around her belly and tied a knot, thereby firmly stretching the ropes in a way that they could not release backwards. Guewerdschina was visibly startled. Nothing like this had ever happened in her lifetime. Like the wings of a windmill, she flailed her ears. She also wanted to whisk her tail, but that couldn't happen. At this point, she let her ears droop down as she contemplated her troubles. To this spirited annoyance, the boy added a rambunctious swat. This caused ”the dove” to turn her head to the right, trying to look behind her-but she saw nothing. So she turned to her left and tried to see what was behind. In spite of her tremendous efforts to move her tail so that she could see it, she couldn't.

”Now she's unbearably worried!” laughed Thar. ”She thinks her tail is gone. She believes that some frightening thing is behind her.

Now she will run for all she's worth!”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when Guewerdschina let out a bone marrow-jarring hee-haw. She cringed and arched her back like a cat. She lunged to the right and to the left-then with sudden haste, she shot straight forward, as if she wanted to charge beyond her own head. It required a very good rider not to fall off; Thar effortlessly stayed in the saddle. Laughing heartily, we followed him as fast as we could. In light of the tragically comical, apprehensive demeanor of mules, it really was impossible to keep a straight face.

Our new route led us through the ruins of the village of Chirbet en Nasara, then on towards the road to Jerusalem. There we caught up with the boy, noting how the mule pretty much obeyed him. From this path, it was just 400 paces to Abraham's Well; in the corner of the photograph, note the large, square stone wall. No one knows why this wall exists, nor whether it was ever expanded. Now, it is simply a rubble. The blocks are often five meters long, yet they are no longer joined with mortar. In Baalbek, I have seen hewn stones that are over nineteen meters in length. Given the era of this wall's origin, a five meter stone was plenty to manhandle. Nearby is still another cistern; it's called ”The Bath of Sarah,” Ishmael's mother's well. In the nearby rugged rocks, two oil lamps have been affixed.

Not far from the crumbled wall is a large church, most likely the basilica that Constantine the Great erected at ”The Strong Terebinth Tree of Mamre.” To this day, this place is called ”The Valley of Terebinth,” a place to search for acceptance and adoption.

When we reached the four-cornered wall, we saw a poorly clothed Arabic woman and her small daughter sitting in a corner near the well. As soon as they saw us, they stepped back from the water. After we dipped up some water for our animals and gave them time to drink, my wife found a spot to take a photograph. When the Donkey Driver saw her camera, he immediately removed himself and his mules to a place of safety-for he believed that only Christians and Jews were able to withstand the power of photography. Every other creature, whether man or beast, risked destruction.

Peering from behind a large stone, his curiosity drove him to see what was taking place. He saw ”the eye of the monster,” the lens of the camera, which was pointed directly at me and towards the corner. He wanted to make sure that this ”eye” did not focus on him- but a shaft of sunlight just so happened to s.h.i.+ne on him. Actually, we no longer needed him and his mules. Since our present location was only a few hundred paces from the road where Mustafa Bustani was supposed to wait for us, I told him that we would just walk from here.

When the photography was finished, I paid him. In my business dealings with other people, it's never been my nature nor my way to be a stingy man who haggles over the cost of things. Extending an open hand goes considerably further than acting like a miser. The same is true in this land. The Donkey Driver counted the money that I gave him: ”Effendi, that is too much.” I insisted: ”No, I gladly give you this money. You have been friendly and polite, so you've earned the baksheesh.”

”Even this tip is too much. Perhaps I can do still more that will justify this baksheesh. I will not leave this area until you also depart. I have nothing more to do, so nothing precludes me from serving you further.”

We had thought that Thar would want to take an interest in photography, but this was not the case. More than he realized, the exotic Arabic woman and her young daughter held a greater gravitational attraction than the cloud-black camera. He was looking for a way to meet them. In the way that boys do, he first meandered from a distance, then he came ever closer to them. Suddenly, he sat down between the two and began to talk with uncommon familiarity-as if he were an acquaintance from long ago, or even a relative of theirs.

After I had finished taking our photos, he brought the small girl to where my wife and I were seated on the edge of the cistern.

Her mother remained sitting. The young girl had the most lovingly sensitive, wholesomely healthy face, with peach-red cheeks and large grey-blue velveteen eyes. Judging from her appearance, it seemed like some deep and undisturbed charming riddle was miraculously working inside of her. Like a fountain, her light brown hair flowed from under her desert-red scarf. One of her sunburned, delicate hands held a few long-stemmed Canterbury-bell flowers. She kept her other hand in the thin pleats of her spotlessly clean dress. I distinctly recall how her dainty, suntanned feet with miniature ivory nails partly emerged from elegant leather sandals. In light of this extraordinarily pleasant first impression of her, an endless sense of compa.s.sion filled my heart for this girl who was as poor as she was pretty. In my respect for her and her mother, I somehow felt more and more compelled to be prepared to offer them some great and suitably timely service. Later on, my wife told me that she too had felt this instant bonding-at precisely the same moment.

She turned to ask Thar: ”Well then, what is her name?”

”I don't know, but you yourself can ask her, right? In talking with her, I learned no more than these three things: she likes me; I'm her hero, and I'll fight for her.”

”I'm called Schamah,” she said, putting an accent on the second syllable of her name. The fidgeting hand that formerly hid in the pleats of her dress now directed an outstretched forefinger as she pointed: ”Over there is my mother.” Her voice sounded soft and tender, yet strikingly moving. Its tone had a hard-to-refuse ring.

With open arms, my wife hugged the girl as she asked me this question: ”What does the name Schamah mean?” So, I briefly explained: ”It's the East Jordanian p.r.o.nunciation of Samah, which means 'forgiveness'.”

Smiling as she talked to the child, my wife hugged her again: ”Oh, innocently young and dear little soul, you've done nothing that requires forgiving.” With laughter in her voice, Schamah offered her colorful bouquet: ”I bring you bells.” She held the Canterbury-bell flowers to my wife's ear and lightly shook them: ”Now, I'll ring them. Can you hear them?”

”Yes, I do.”

”Isn't it so? Quite softly, faintly, gently- like the sound is falling from heaven. When they grow up, they will be as grand as the ones that hang in churches; then, the entire world will hear their ringing.”

Thar joined in: ”You speak of the church. Are you then a Christian?”

”Yes, I'm a Christian,” she nodded.

”And also your mother?”

”She too.”

He then clapped his hands and called out: ”That's beautiful!

That's wonderful! I'm glad to know that!”

”Why?”