ELOISE: her life before death

The Year of Our Lord Twelve Hundred and Twelve.

I cannot cry anymore. The tears will not come, just dry heaving sobs. The stench in here is incredible, unbearable. But I must bear it. I have no choice.

My brother Jean sobbed when I told him what I was to do. God had come to me, through the words of Simon, and told me what I must do, and I could not, nor would not, disobey the call. And so, one night - it was early Summer, I remember the wind rustling through the trees on the edge of papa's estate; the smell of the early flowers; the low sounds of the cattle in the nearby field - I left my home forever, and set out on the road south, my heart lighter than I would have expected: leaving all behindto do the Lord's work.

I know I should be hungry, for they have not fed us properly in days. For the first couple of days my belly ached with it: I cried out for food with the rest. Now, my belly still hurts, but I feel detached. I don't cry out anymore. I want to go home.

I met others on the road. Having lived eighteen summers, I was, to my surprise, older than some of the others on the road to Marseille, and I and a boy of my own age, named Peter, became the guides and the leaders of the inpromptu group. Peter was so friendly, a crooked smile often upon his face, that whenever the little ones were tired, he would hoist them upon his shoulders and tell them all wicked tales that would light up their faces and let them forget their aching legs. Occasionally, when we were stopped for the night, and the younger ones were asleep about the campfire, I would wonder at the course I was taking, but Peter would talk, with a fire in his eyes, about our purpose, and I would gain heart, and doubt no more. He led songs as we walked, and fired us all with hope with his tales.

Peter died this morning. I held him in my arms in the shadowy, filthy darkness, as he slipped away. In the end, he was calling out for his papa, but there was only me. I could do nothing. If only this journey would end.

We reached Marseilles at last, and it was far different than we could possibly have imagined. It is a large town, with many people, including men from Araby, and seemed teeming with life. There were many children there, all with the same intent, and we soon lost some of our group in the crowd. But I was sure they would be safe, as we were on a holy mission, and they would be looked after.

Peter and I began to to look for passage on a boat to take us to the Holy Land, and it seemed more simple than we had expected, but there again there were so many boats. The captain, a Moor, I think, seemed friendly enough, though his crew had an unpleasant air about them, though we decided that our journey took precedence over our own comfort. Along with many other children, Peter and I boarded the ship in the evening, and were allowed to stand on deck as we left harbour, Marseilles' lights dimming into the distance.

We began to worry when they began to herd us below decks, but I am amazed at our naivete given what followed - faith is such a strong emotion. The interior of the ship was dark, and we were crowded in. And then they closed the hatch with a metallic clang, and we could all hear the grate of bolts. There was silence. Slowly, there was a rise in the rumble of muttering and worried talk, but Peter and I just looked at each other and then huddled together.

I sleep fitfully, and in this waking nightmare, I wonder whether I am indeed dead, and that this is hell. I hear the cries of the dying in the darkness, the clank of shackles, the creak of the ship, and I wish I were dead, for surely nothing could be worse than this. I have lost hope.

God has forsaken me.

We have finally arrived at our destination. Where it is I do not know. There are still some others who believe that we have been brought to the Holy Land, but I do not believe it to be so. The men who have done this to us are too wicked, and God has forsaken us all. Slowly we are being taken out of this hole, and off the ship, through progress is slow: for the last day or so they have not bothered removing the dead, and we are still careful not to tread on their bodies. Our own bodies are stiff and aching, from remaining in one place for so long, and I long to feel the warmth of the sunlight, and let it soothe my bones.

The sunlight blinds me the moment I rise out of the hold, and I stand a brief instant, my hands covering my eyes, my legs buckling beneath me, before one of the sailors grabs me and shoves me out of the way. I have never known sunlight so bright, nor such a strange place. All of the buildings I can see are bleached white, their roofs flat, and their shape squat. On the dockside I can see people in robes - black and white - looking up at the ship, and at us as we are motioned down the gangway and corralled into small groups. There are children playing on the dockside: grubby, brown-faced urchins who seem uninterested in those of us waiting, huddled, frightened, for whatever is to come next. I find myself thinking of home, of mama and papa, and wonder if they think of me, but the thought only makes me more sad, and I shake it out of my head. I don't think I will ever see home again.

The Year of Our Lord Twelve Hundred and Seventeen

I still remember that day, though I try not to: the heat, the dust; the humiliation of being traded like cattle, prodded and stared at by men with cold, dark eyes; the babble of a foreign tongue I could not understand. As the sun began to set, a couple of us were pulled apart from the rest, and led by a man to a group waiting a little way from the docks, where we were given a little water, and enough food to sate our hunger a little.

We walked for seven days, though it seemed like an eternity. No jolly chatter from Peter now, nor the refreshing cool of French streams and leafy shade. There was no relief from the sun, beating down upon us, and burning our skin. Two of the group fell, and were merely untethered and kicked aside from the path. I don't know how I made it, but I did and on the evening of the seventh day, as a strange haunting cry echoed out across the desert, we entered the town, my home - if home is a suitable word - for the past five years.

It has taken me a long time to get used to this place and its ways. In the first year, I knew no Arabic and was beaten by Fatih the cook on many occasions for failing to understand instructions or being too slow. But I have learnt some Arabic now, and I work as quickly as I can, and my reflexes have tightened so that I can dodge Fatih's random blows.

I barely see my master himself, as I work in the kitchens rather than wait upon him and his family, or, worse, wait upon him in his harem. To this day, I thank fate for my dark hair, and skinny frame, for my master prefers the alienness of girls with golden hair, and now I am too old for his desires. He is a detestable man, forever sweating, his rich clothes failing to hide his short stature and fat belly, and his sons are little better: brash, arrogant beasts who think nothing of killing those such as me to relieve their boredom. I stay out of their way, though sometimes I wonder whether a quick death on their swords might not be better than this half-life.

I know now with a cold certainty that I shall never leave this place, nor see my home again. I could not survive another trek across the desert without proper supplies, with only the rags on my back and bare feet that would soon be blistered by the hot sand and rock. I have no coin, nor nothing to barter with, and my master's sons would like as not find me before a day had passed and would either take me back to Fatih's whip, or kill me where I stood. And so I continue.

But after these five long years, perhaps a little hope shines in this darkness. I believe that today I have met an ally and potential friend. His name is Malik, and he is a swordsman in the master's guards: he came to the kitchen well today for water, and did not demand I haul it for him, but rather smiled, brought up two cups and had me sit a while and rest. His smile reminded me of Peter though, and tears began to well in my eyes, so I stumbled off. I wonder if he will be back at the well tomorrow.

The raiders attacked again last night and the whole household is tense, with urgent activity bolstering our defences. According to Fatih it is not unusual for rival clans to wage war on each other in these barbarian lands, and they have already caused much damage to my master's holdings. I do not care for that, though I am afraid. Not for myself, I realise, as I have nothing to lose but my life, and that holds little fear, but for Malik. His friendship has maintained me for the last few months, and if they attack again, he will be in the thick of any action

The sounds of the night are corrupted by the sound of violence. Fatima, another kitchen slave, and I are hiding in a storeroom, and yet we can hear the clash of steel and the death cries of men in battle through the stone walls. They are getting closer, and Fatima is shivering in fear next to me. I peek out and see Fatih, a large meat knife in his hand, fending off the attack of a robed warrior, before falling to the floor, dead. I cannot say I am sorry, but lurch backwards, the door slamming shut.

For a tense moment, we hunch there, before the door opens: the warrior looming over us, calling out to his comrades. He reaches down for Fatima, pulling at her hair, dragging her to the doorway. She is screaming that she does not want to die, but he is not thinking of killing her yet, as he hitches up the skirt of her shift. I freeze for a second, unable to think with fear, then grab a bottle from the shelf and bring it down hard upon the warrior's unshielded head, with a shattering of green glass. His grip loosened, Fatima manages to break free and run, but I am trapped. It is all over in a second. He unsheathes his knife. I see it moving towards me, but I cannot move. I feel it rip into my belly, then the pain. And darkness.

I wake in darkness, and wonder whether I am yet dead. There is no sound about me, and I feel only pain. I can move my hand a little, and reach down to my belly. It is sticky and warm with blood and I smile at faint smile. At last! And then, a sound. Faint at first, the sound of footsteps, and then the touch of soft hands upon me, lifting me up and taking me from the storeroom where I lay.

Malik is gentle with me as he carries me from my master's house, though I wonder why he takes me away when I am surely going to die. In his soft voice, he tells me that my master and his family are all dead, along with many of the raiders, and that he is taking me to safety. I do not speak, though I wonder how he survived the night. I do not know where he takes me: it does not seem to take long, though my perception of time is muddled by my slipping in and out of wakefulness. Wherever it is, it is cool and shaded and Malik dabs my lips with fresh water. He does not touch my wound.

"Do you not wonder why I don't treat your wound?" he asks me at one point, but I smile. "I am going to die, am I not?" and I see him nod his head solemnly. I lie for many hours on the edge of death, until I see the sun falling from the sky. I cannot move now, and I feel very weak, but I continue smiling. Death comes to me tonight, and I am not afraid. I have lived a life I would not have though imaginable, and I am tired. Death comes to me tonight and I look to a release from my pain: not just from the wound that festers and seeps in my belly, but the wound that was created when Peter died all those years ago and hope died. Death comes to me tonight, and I welcome him with open arms. My eyelids feel heavy and my breathing is difficult, though the pain from my belly has numbed. I sleep now. I die.

I could feel the light. I could feel the pain and the despair seep from my worn body, until I am at peace. But then, a wrenching, a flame bursting inside me, and I am torn from the light, from death, and back. I wake the following morning, and Malik is still sitting there, his legs crossed, looking tired. He reaches out to me as I begin to weep. My wound is gone. He leans over to me, both a faint smile and concern on his face,

"I have something I must tell you."

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