The Ridge (first four chapters only)

The Ridge

A novel by Isa Darby
(© I. Darby 1991)
Revised 2000, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006
Thanks, for inspiration, to Dream Theater, Yes, Jethro Tull, Emerson, Lake and Palmer, Rush and Steve Hackett.

CHAPTER 1
"There's a cave near the top of that hill, sir. Do you want us to search it?"
Seated upon a black stallion, the officer glanced up at the hill. His chain mail glistened in the hot afternoon sun and his sword hilt shone like an evening star. He, like so many of the European knights, found the heat of Palestine almost unbearable. Clearly irritated by the humidity, he wiped the sweat from his brow with a grubby white cloth.
"They're long gone by now and I fear the Saracens may discover our presence here. Our treaty with the Emir in Jerusalem forbids us to venture this far inland." He paused, throwing the rag to the ground. "But the traitors must be caught, for by God they could do far more than merely wreck a treaty.... Search the cave! They may have stored something there!"
Just then, the two men heard a sound from the hillside. With the sun in their eyes, it was difficult to make out anything clearly, and they failed at first to see the three young children playing near the cave. Hassan, Ahmed and Abbas often played near what they called 'the secret cave of Sulayman', just outside Jerusalem. It lay halfway up the small hillside, away from the belligerent adults, their own brothers, fathers, uncles and cousins among them. The children had never entered the cave itself. They believed its dark, foreboding entrance hid all kinds of imagined things that they preferred not to encounter. They had heard stories of jinnies and ghouls since their infancy and they could never be sure whether they were true or not.
Hassan was the eldest of the three boys and felt responsible for them. He was almost fifteen years old, the only son of a Turkish officer in the service of the Emir in Jerusalem. His father was Abbas' tutor, or Atabeg, and in that role, he held considerable influence. Although originally slaves and servants, the Mamluk Atabegs came to be key players in Middle Eastern politics in the Middle Ages. Their descendants would make great strides in the power struggles that would ensue over following centuries.
On this day, Hassan was dressed in a loose Turkish tunic that comprised of baggy blue trousers, tucked into soft leather boots, and a thin but warm, light blue cotton shirt. The colours seemed to clash with his bronzed skin and deep brown eyes, but could never detract from his handsome good looks. Everyone who knew him teased him about them. "You'll have the women begging to make them your wives, they would say. His hair was long, shoulder length, straight and a subtle blend of dark brown and red that shone whenever the sunlight struck it.
Abbas was the Emir's son and only months earlier Hassan had been made his ward. He was darker than Hassan was, and stood only shoulder height to the older boy. His hair was short and, unlike Hassan's, was tucked neatly beneath a loosely worn black turban. Like his father, Abbas often dressed in black, the colour of the family of the Prophet Muhammad and today was no different. A black cotton shirt and trousers, the latter held up with a grey leather belt, securely fastened with a gold buckle.
Ahmed, the smallest of the three at only five years of age, saw the two soldiers beneath them; soldiers he immediately recognised as being from the enemy army - two Crusaders from Europe. His heart was pounding, his head felt as if it were about to explode and he had to keep out of their line of sight, but he knew he also had to rush back to the other boys. He started to make his way across the gravely earth towards them, but as he struggled to warn his two comrades at the face of the cave, his tiny legs began sliding on loose rocks. Two of the pebbles dislodged and struck one of the soldiers' horses, causing it to veer sharply to one side. He looked up again and saw the three boys in silhouette against the sun. At first, he was unable to make out whether the figures were those of men, the men they had been chasing. He squinted in an attempt to get a more focused picture but the sunlight was too strong, too blinding. He raised his roughened right hand and placed it, visor-like above his eyes just as a soft cloud passed in front of the sun, clarifying their forms at the top of the hill. It was then that he realised that they were only children.
In broken Arabic, he called to them to stop and come down, but the boys were too frightened to obey him; their only thought was escape. Hassan and Abbas, both sweating and shaking, the blood rushing to their heads, instinct taking over from conscious decision making, reached for their little friend and caught hold of his arm, lifting him effortlessly to where they were standing. As he dangled from his friends' hands, his tiny legs like two pendulums swinging in the light desert breeze, one of the soldiers dismounted his hefty, grey horse, and called out to his colleague.
"We must get them! We have to get them! They have seen us sir, and if we let them get away, the Emir's army will think our forces are on their way to attack Jerusalem!"
He still had hold of his horse's rein, even though the animal was exceptionally well trained and stood stock still, apart from the odd shake of its head and occasional snort. The soldier finally released the rein and ripped his sword from its sheath. The sun caught it fleetingly and the light bounced, intricately, across his buckles and braids.
The boys could hear the men talking, but the sound of medieval European languages was just babble to their ears. Nevertheless, it increased their levels of apprehension. Nothing is more fearsome, particularly to a child, than something that is not understood.
The second soldier, the officer, or at least a man of far greater status than his partner, climbed slowly from his horse, thought for a moment, and then gently nodded in agreement with his companion. Both men began to make their way up the hill, but their progress was slow and cumbersome, with their suits of chain mail and heavy European swords weighing them down.
The boys were panic-stricken and, in their confusion, Abbas lost his footing at the entrance of the cave. He fell into the dark, cold, emptiness and, although the other children called after him, there was no reply. He rolled down a small incline, just inside the cave entrance, losing his precious turban and ending his cascade with the strike of his head upon a large boulder.
Hassan acted quickly. He often told himself that in the eyes of the Muslim world, he was now a man and he realised that now he must act like one. He looked hard at Ahmed. He knew that to send such a young child for help would be taking an almighty risk, but he had to stay to help Abbas.

CHAPTER 2
In a brightly lit cave, a small man sat gazing at the floor before him, seemingly mesmerized by what he saw. This was Zaman, an unusual looking character, and not at all what you would expect the Overseer and leader of half the Jinn world to be like. Short and thin, with a pale, sickly-looking face, he sat in a chair so large that he gave the impression of being a doll on a king's throne.
Beneath him and in front of him was a giant hologram containing vivid images of the children. They looked so real, yet so small and vulnerable.
As he purveyed this scene a tiny man, no bigger than a small boy's hand, ran through the hologram image and rushed up to Zaman, waiting for a moment at the Overseer's feet; waiting for permission to speak.
The Overseer continued to monitor the images before him, never once making eye contact with the tiny jinni. He waited a few seconds and then said, "Speak.
"Master, I have news about the humans, the ones that the children belong to; they are searching for them and are heading towards the cave of Sulayman."
Zaman thanked the tiny man who then turned to leave. He began to walk again towards the hologram when his leader motioned a hand at him.
"Ahem" the Overseer coughed, attracting the man's attention. Zaman wagged his finger and the little servant walked around the image.
"Sorry Master," he said, smiling and carefully sidestepping the shimmering borders of the image; then he left.
The Overseer waved a hand over the hologram and it changed. No longer were there miniature images of Ahmed, Hassan and Abbas on the floor before him, but Saracen knights, Muslim warriors on horseback, on the outskirts of Jerusalem. Even their voices could be heard clearly and Zaman watched their every move, flicking between their images and those of the children.

CHAPTER 3
"I know you're the youngest of us Ahmed, Hassan said, heaving a big sigh afterwards. "This is not an easy thing for me to ask a five year old, but I have to stay to help Abbas, so I want you to run around the hill and back to the garrison at Jerusalem. Alert your father and bring him here.
Ahmed's father was the Emir's Lieutenant, Abdul Qadoos Al-Harawi. He was in charge of the Emir's Garrison in Jerusalem and Hassan knew that he had to be informed that the Crusaders were scouting nearby. He watched Ahmed for a few seconds and then he entered the cave to search for Abbas, a frail child, only two years older than Ahmed, but considerably less independent.
Ahmed, crying and wiping the tears from his eyes and face, ran as Hassan ordered him to, towards the garrison. Along the dirt path that led around the peak of the hill he ran, his long Jelabiya almost tripping him over as he did so. He caught hold of the tunic with both hands, lifted it to almost waist height and ran for his life as one of the soldiers gave chase. He was a tall man, much taller than any man Ahmed had ever seen, and clean-shaven with very long, straggly, red hair. His arms were course, freckled and covered in hair and a deep red scar sat menacingly beneath his right eye. The small boy's heart was pounding and as the 'giant' - for that is how this Frankish warrior appeared to him - caught hold of him, he let out a piercing scream.
It may as well have been a whisper, for the garrison that housed the Emir's army was too far away for anyone there to hear him and the other boys were unable to help him, even if they had heard his shriek. Ahmed shook with fright; he felt sick to his stomach, and he fainted as soon as the soldier grabbed him.
Meanwhile, the other crusader, a blonde man, slightly shorter but more muscular than his colleague, had reached the cave entrance. Total blackness greeted him there and both the other boys seemed to have disappeared, so he waited outside the cave for his associate to reach him. His eyes were deep blue and his hair was carefully fixed in plaits, hanging well below the middle of his back. He sported a dropping, sun-bleached moustache the ends of which hung below his jowls. Untrimmed, the moustache covered the whole of his top lip and hopped up and down whenever he spoke. At certain key moments, the sun seemed to glisten off his pale skin and his eyes appeared to shimmer, like the water on a pool in which a small pebble has recently been dropped.
It felt like only seconds before his colleague arrived, climbing up the hill carrying Ahmed like a small Persian rug slung over his left arm.
"The other two are in there, Amalric, but we can't waste time looking for them. We'll take this one with us. We may be able to prevent the Emir from getting news of our presence some other way, and in case we do not, we at least have something to bargain with."
Daylight was beginning to fade with the steady drawing on of night and the two soldiers moved away down the hill and out of sight of the two boys, who remained snuggled together in the chilly, damp cave. The knights' voices could still be heard, but just barely, and could certainly not be understood by the children.
As they moved away from the hillside, the shorter man spoke. "His clothes are very fine Bohemond. Do you think these are just ordinary children?" Bohemond shrugged and pulled on his reins, enticing his steed into a canter.
Inside the cave, Hassan had found that Abbas was just a yard or so in but, having struck his head on a rock, was lying unconscious alongside a cold stone slab. He dragged him behind another rock, took some water from a flask on his belt and began dabbing it gently on his face and lips until, gradually, the younger child awoke.
When the men's voices had faded away, Hassan whispered to Abbas. "It's all right, he said, soothingly, "we're safe in here ... I hope."
Then he murmured to himself: "If they only knew who they have....
He waited for the sound of the soldiers' horses to disappear before speaking again to Abbas.
Neither of them could see anything inside the blackened hole - their secret cave - but both could see the outlines of the men outside, could hear their voices and could just hear the soft whimpering of their little friend Ahmed as he began to stir from his brief slumber. The taller of the two men was talking.
"We have to tell our fathers what has happened and warn them that the Christians are coming, the Franj are coming, and probably with an army... They must be planning to march on Jerusalem."
The boys planned to leave the cave and return quickly to Jerusalem but, unfortunately, with the onset of nightfall they found themselves surrounded by a blanket of pitch darkness. Not even a star in the sky was visible to enable them to distinguish the entrance from the walls of the murky cave, let alone to guide them home. They were trapped in a cold and gloomy den of unusual sounds and unfamiliar smells, and their fear was indescribable. Bats occasionally fluttered past their heads and Abbas insisted that they try to find their way out. So, holding each other's hands, they moved to their left around the large rock that had hidden them so well from the soldiers. They stepped forward, in what they believed to be the direction of the cave doorway, but three steps are all Abbas took before finding himself falling. He was dropping like a stone, but apparently still in contact with something firm on all sides. It felt like the walls of a long tunnel, full of unexpected twists and turns. Above him, following closely behind, was Hassan; his muffled and barely audible shouts appeared to be vibrating off the tunnel's inner surface.
The children were wondering if this long drop would ever come to an end and if so, what lay at the bottom. Hassan's mind conjured images of the two of them smashing into the ground once they finally came to it. "If the impact doesn't kill Abbas, I'm sure I will when I come crashing down on top of him he thought to himself.
He was sweating profusely and on the verge of sheer terror when suddenly the tube levelled off and they found themselves soaring along horizontally at extremely high speeds. Abbas too had begun to wonder whether their ordeal would ever end, or whether it would end in death or terrifying injury. They were thinking about where they might find themselves at the end of this tunnel, when they were suddenly thrown out of it into a brightly lit cavern, the ceiling of which shone with jewels and glistened with traces of gold. Abbas flew out of the tunnel first and found himself thrust across the cavern, only to land against a cold, but soft, moss-covered wall. By now he was cut and shocked, but his urge to sob was halted when Hassan too shot from the tube and landed with a dull thud against the wall, barely missing his young companion by millimetres. The Emir's son shook violently as Hassan, nervous and startled, tried desperately to calm him without revealing to him his own fearful state.
"Lay your head on my lap and rest Abbas, he said, panting and puffing between each word. He whispered softly to the young boy, who slowly drifted off to sleep in his arms; "there is.... no point going anywhere now...
Hassan glanced down at the now sleeping child in his arms before staring, disbelievingly, at the jewels and gold around him. With a sigh, he muttered to himself, "in fact, I'm not even sure that we could go anywhere, even if we wanted to... He paused and smiled wryly; "...and with all this jewellery here too - just our luck!"
He looked again at the sleeping child in his arms, at his sun-bronzed skin and shiny black hair. He tried his hardest not to, but he too began to drift into a deep sleep as he wondered whether they had stumbled into an Aladdin's cave or a demon's dungeon.

CHAPTER 4
In our world, Ahmed was being carried to the coastal town of Acre, which had been occupied for many years by the crusaders, the knights of Europe. Much of the coastal region of Palestine and Lebanon were still under European occupation, as well as a few cities in Syria. Crusaders, led by King Richard the Lionheart of England, and Philip Augustus of France, had recaptured Acre in 1191. Many of the key towns along the coast, together with the Syrian strongholds of Aleppo, Damascus and Homs, plus Jerusalem in Palestine, had been wrested back from the Christians several years earlier. The man who had achieved that was Salah ad-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub, known to the West as Saladin the Saracen, although he was actually from a Kurdish family in Mesopotamia.
He had taken Jerusalem from the Christians and, with extraordinary magnanimity, had spared thousands of lives, even allowing crusader soldiers to leave the city fully armed. This contrasted in the extreme with Richard's brutal and savage slaughter of Jews and Muslims in Jaffa. Saladin, however, never hated Richard for his act of barbarism. On the contrary, he respected his foe as a fearsome and skilled fighter on the field of battle, but he pitied Richard's woeful inability to control his pride, anger and prejudices once victory was his. However, Saladin had built a battery of enemies across the region, including members of the Ismaili sect who had run Egypt until Saladin's conquest of the country. He had not been as magnanimous in victory there, as he had been in Jerusalem. He showed little mercy for the Ismailis of Egypt and now found himself beset on all sides by enemies that were both domestic and foreign. Acre had been lost because of this and was now firmly back in the hands of the Europeans.
After a long and tiring ride, the two knights entered the town with Ahmed slung face down over the back of one of the horses, like a sack of rice. He neither moved nor spoke and was terrified that he might fall from the horse, so he clung with all his might to the rear of the leather saddle. He looked up just once, as the two riders approached a prominent white building. It housed the quarters of the Frankish commander who, for many years, had led this army of fearsome fighters across most of Europe, through Turkey, and into the land of the Arabs. Now, this army stood guard over a significant portion of the Holy Land of Palestine, and prayed that one day all of it would once again be theirs. The journey from Jerusalem must have felt like a brisk canter, by comparison with the staggering trek these hardened warriors had made from England, France and Germany. That trek was beset by constant battles against Arab, Kurdish and Turkish warriors, each supposedly in the service of the Khalif of Baghdad. In truth, however, loyalty was bestowed only to an assortment of sultans and emirs.
Bohemond and Amalric left their horses and walked through the corridors of the magnificent Arab palace to two massive brass doors that led to a large and spacious room. Inside, and seated opposite them, was another tall man, dressed in baggy Turkish trousers and sporting a fine silk shirt. A waistcoat of chain mail hung over the back of a huge chair and at the man's side hung a jewel-studded leather sheath. Protruding from it was the carved bone handle of a giant sword.
From his rather uncomfortable position in the arms of Bohemond, Ahmed caught sight of this impressive weapon. It reminded him of the crosses that he had seen the Christians carrying through the streets of Jerusalem on their festival days. For several minutes, he was captivated by its ornate splendor, but eventually his eyes wandered upwards, to the man himself. His hair, black and unkempt, dangled knotted, twisted and in parts plaited, down to his broad shoulders. Beneath his red nose and covering most of his mouth, was a bushy, drooping moustache and around his chin, a black beard. This man was so covered in hair, that his face was almost invisible. Had Ahmed been less terrified, it may even have made him laugh, but frightened he was and his anxiety increased as the man before them rose to his feet.
Bohemond stepped forward a couple of paces and dropped Ahmed on the stone floor. The boy started to cry, but restrained himself, choking back the tears and, in a manner that was way beyond his years, he pulled himself to his feet, lifted his head high and stared ferociously at the wall ahead of him. Briefly, he stared in shock at the grazes on his hands and arms. Then, cat-like, he wiped his eyes. It was not clear to the soldiers whether it was bravery or shock that had stopped him crying, but once he caught sight of the blood on his fingers he let out a yell. The blood had oozed from a small cut above his right eye and it appeared far worse than it was. He wiped his eye again and his crying worsened as more and more blood covered his hands.
"You've cut me, you've cut me! he kept calling out in Arabic.
A lone figure on the other side of the room was a senior Commander of the Franks, or Franj, as the Muslim Turks and Arabs called the invading European knights. He was Raymond of Saint-Gilles. Only André de Chauvigny, one of King Richard's strongest allies, held more power in the region.
To the men around him Ahmed's screams sounded like the wailing of a cat on heat and Raymond, in particular, was becoming increasingly irritated. When he finally broke his silence, it was with great authority.
"Shut that boy up!"
Bohemond took a leather belt from his waist and struck Ahmed across the back with it. The child turned sharply and stared up at the soldier, who replaced his belt and removed his helmet, revealing the full body of his long ginger hair. Ahmed had never before seen a man with skin so white and hair so red, and such a tall man as well! The terror that overcame this poor five-year-old, dark-eyed son of the Saracens sealed his vocal chords momentarily, and a shiver rippled throughout his entire body.
"Bring the boy to me Amalric and explain to me the reasons for your arriving back from the mission with nothing, or so it would seem, but a small Saracen urchin."
Amalric caught hold of Ahmed by the hand and lifted him clear off the ground, almost throwing him to Raymond, who stood as still as before, emotionless, stern. The Franj commander looked down at Ahmed, placed his right forefinger under the boy's chin and forced his head back. Ahmed resisted looking at Raymond for as long as he was able. He tried with all his might to face the floor, but by now his head was pressed backwards, as the strong hand of the French knight forced his face upwards.
Saint-Gilles snapped at him. "Look at me boy!"
His words were meaningless to a child whose only language was Arabic, but Ahmed understood from the tone of Raymond's voice, what was required of him. His eyes slowly peered upwards into the dark eyes of Saint-Gilles, who proceeded to speak to the boy in very poor Arabic.
"What your name boy?" His poor command of Arabic made Ahmed giggle.
Saint-Gilles let go of him and then stepped around him. Ahmed, meanwhile, tried to follow with his eyes, but dared not move his body.
"Why you laugh? What funny?" Raymond enquired of his tiny prisoner.
Ahmed began to laugh aloud, which angered the Frankish commander intensely.
"Speak me boy!"
Raymond shouted so loudly that his booming voice echoed around the voluminous room, returning to Ahmed repeatedly. The boy stopped laughing and stood, terrified and motionless, his bladder becoming more and more uncomfortable and his legs began shaking uncontrollably. He turned slowly to face the enormous table before him.
"I frighten you?" Saint-Gilles asked, a calm having come over his voice.
Ahmed nodded tentatively.
"And yet you laugh me.
Ahmed's puppy-like eyes pleaded with his captor for understanding. "You... you... you speak in a funny way," he said softly.
At this the commander let out a bellowing laugh, slapped Ahmed on the back of his head, in a gentle, almost friendly way and looked over at Amalric and Bohemond, who were both smiling, cautiously. Raymond took a deep breath and then asked the boy again, "What your name?"
"Ahmed bin Abdul Qadoos al-Harawi!" he answered firmly and decisively, turning to face the two 'giants', Raymond and Bohemond. "And I'm not really afraid of any of you!" he shouted.
Saint-Gilles became very sombre. "You are the son of Abdul Qadoos?" he asked.
Ahmed nodded and the commander turned to Bohemond, beckoning the knight towards him. "Do you know who this young fox is?" he asked.
Bohemond looked confused and slowly shook his head to indicate that he did not know, but that he had realised that he obviously should know. That was made manifest to him by the expression on Saint-Gilles' face and the tone of his voice. The commander turned the boy around and gently pushed him towards Amalric, who by now had crossed the room to where the others stood.
"This is the son of the Saracen Commander in Jerusalem. Take care of him, hand him to the interpreter, and find out as much as you can about anything he knows, as soon as you can." Raymond paused briefly and then added, "the Saracens will be searching high and low for him very soon. They will not be easily convinced that we never intended to kidnap him, so we must keep him until we have ways of convincing them. At all costs we must keep his presence here a secret."
Amalric glanced at Bohemond, waiting for him to tell Raymond of the other boys and knowing that they would be sure to tell Abdul Qadoos that two crusaders took his son away. Bohemond, however, remained silent and Raymond waved them away with the boy.