Though it seemed only a moment, when he awoke again the grove was in deep shade. Across the valley, the walls of the Holy City glowed with the golden light of the westering sun. Murdo lay for a time, unable to think where he was, or what had happened to him. But as he gazed at the shining walls and the dark smoke billowing up in gilded columns, the whole terrible ordeal came winging back to him as if from a very great distance.
The tears came at once to his eyes, and Murdo wept. He saw again the poor drowned child, the helpless murdered babies, the burned Jews in their temple, and tears flowed down his cheeks and splashed onto his stomach and thighs. He gasped for breath and tried to stem the flood of sorrow, but it bore him up and carried him away, and he was powerless to resist. His body began to shake, and he was convulsed by loud racking sobs which tore up from his throat as if loosed from the bottomless black pit that was his soul. Great ocean waves of grief and shame rolled over him, and he, a rag tossed up and dragged under with each new surge, wept and wept-until oblivion claimed him once more, and he slept again.
It was late the next day when Murdo woke and looked up through the leafy branches of the olive tree to a yellowing sky. He yawned and wondered how long he had been asleep-one day? Two? He had a vague memory of being roused from time to time and made to drink sweetened water, but no real sense of how much time had passed. As he pondered this, he became aware of a peculiar sound and realized it had awakened him: a droning, incessant, sharp-edged crackle falling from somewhere high above.
Turning his eyes to the sky, he saw that the crackling sound came from an enormous whirling dark cloud across the valley: thousands upon thousands of crows and ravens and, higher still, innumerable vultures and eagles.
Murdo gazed in awe at the endlessly swirling, squawking mass. He followed the downward spiral of their flight to a triple-peaked mound beside the road-the corpses of the crusaders' victims heaped into a pale mountain outside the northern wall. The mountain was alive with carrion birds.
Turning away from the sight, he sat up-wincing from the pain of his blistered skin. He touched his chest, and his fingertips came away slick and greasy. Looking around, he discovered that he lay on a mat of woven grass, naked beneath a thin cloth; his belt and knife lay beside him-along with Emlyn's mantle, neatly folded, and a gourd full of water which he took up at once and drained in long gulps.
His back and shoulders felt as if he had been scourged and then dragged by wild horses through flaming coals. There was a gnawing ache in his empty stomach, and his eyes and lips throbbed. But it was not until he tried to stand up, that the fiery pain in his feet burst upon him. He fell back whimpering; the soles of his feet were gashed and torn, the skin hanging from them in shreds.
He groaned, squeezing his eyes tight against the pain and breathing in quick, panting gasps. This awakened Emlyn, who was lying behind him on the other side of the olive tree. 'Murdo!' he cried, rolling to his knees. 'You have come back to us! How do you feel?'
Before he could answer, the priest said, 'Are you hungry? There is bread and broth; I will get some for you.' He darted away before Murdo could think to call him back.
Unable to lie down again for the pain, Murdo leaned on his elbow and looked out towards the city. The shadow of the hillside stretched across the valley, and the ferocious heat of the day was abating. He could see men and wagons moving on the roads outside the city. Although he could remember all too vividly what he had witnessed in Jerusalem, he could not recall what had happened when he left the city, nor how he had come to be in the olive grove.
He pondered this until Emlyn returned a little while later, bearing a big wooden bowl and two flat loaves under his arm. 'The pilgrims here have been starving for months,' he said, 'but now that the city is free, food is more plentiful.'
Yes, thought Murdo grimly, and I know why: the dead eat very little.
Settling himself beside the tree, the monk helped Murdo sit up, and placed the bowl in his lap. Tearing a piece of bread from the loaf, he put it in the broth to soften it. 'Ronan and Fionn were here for a while today. They helped me prepare the unguent for your burns and cuts.'
'Where are my clothes?' Murdo asked in a voice as dry and rough as gravel. Taking up the spoon, he began to eat.
Emlyn shook his head. 'God knows,' he said. 'You are as I found you. I feared you had been set upon by Saracens. You were dazed by the sun, I think, and could not speak.' The priest looked at him with large, sympathetic eyes. 'Were you attacked?'
Murdo, his mouth full of soggy bread, only shook his head.
'Some of the things they are saying… terrible things… I cannot…' the monk broke off and turned his face away. Murdo glanced up and saw Emlyn's eyes full of tears.
Murdo felt his throat tighten and his own tears welled up. He bent his head and began to weep anew. Huge salty tears fell from his eyes and into the bowl in his lap; ragged sobs seized him and he began to shake as the grief and shame descended all over again.
Emlyn, kneeling beside him, took the bowl away then and Murdo felt the priest's arms encircling him. Emlyn cradled Murdo to his breast, and whispered, 'Let it go, Murdo. Let it all come out. Give it to God, my son. Let the Good Lord bear it away.'
Murdo gave himself to his sorrow. As before, he was helpless against the deluge. The waves of remorse tossed him to and fro, battering him without mercy.
Emlyn held him, stroking his head, and after a while began to chant in a low murmuring voice: 'The Good God is my shepherd, I nothing want. In green pastures he makes me lie, and leads me beside the waters of peace; he renews my soul within me, and for the sake of his good name guides me along the right path. Even though I walk through the death-dark valley, I fear no evil thing, for you, O Lord, are with me, and your crook and staff are my very present comfort…'
When he finished the psalm, the monk began another, and then another-until at last the grief began to ebb. Murdo pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and smeared the last of the tears across his blistered cheeks. Emlyn released him and took up the gourd; seeing it was empty, he went to refill it, and returned to find Murdo with the bowl raised to his mouth, spooning broth into his mouth. He accepted the gourd gratefully, and drank deeply.
They sat together in the growing twilight, silent in one another's company, watching the campfires spark to life across the valley. Then, with the monk's help, Murdo rolled onto his side, put his head down, and closed his eyes. The last thing he heard was Emlyn's promise to stay with him and watch over him.
Murdo woke twice during the night to the sound of his own screams. The atrocities and brutality stalked him in his dreams, and he imagined himself trapped in the burning mosq, or fighting for his last breath with a spear through his gut. Each time, Emlyn was there to comfort him and soothe him back to sleep with a psalm.
The next morning Emlyn was nowhere to be seen, so Murdo lay back and dozed. In a little while he heard the soft footfall of someone hastening towards the tree. He lifted his head. 'Emlyn?'
'Murdo, I was coming to wake you,' he said, his voice shaking slightly. 'You must come quickly.'
'Why? What has happened?'
'Fionn has just come. It may be that he has found your father.' Emlyn took up his mantle, shook it out and began helping Murdo into the oversized garment. 'We must hurry.'
'Where is he?' Murdo asked, painfully drawing his arms into the sleeves. The coarse cloth was savage next to his sore skin. 'Is it far?'
'Not far. Fionn has gone in search of a donkey for you.'
'I can walk.' Murdo made to get up at once. His skin was still raw and sore from the sunburn, but it was his feet which hurt him more-cut and battered as they were, they had swollen and he could not put his weight on them. 'Agh!' he cried, sitting down quickly. 'No, it hurts too much.'