By: JT Beatty
I rarely dreamt of Maudelaine anymore. Most nights, I dreamt of that day in Antioch, when my hand had been crushed and my days as a fighting-man came to an end. Sometimes I dreamt of Nicaea, the day I lost the face Maudelaine had loved. It was replaced by a mess of scars and the scraggly yellow beard that tried to hide them. I avoided children if I could; my face made them cry. It frightened me sometimes, when I saw a mirror without warning. My cheeks had been contorted into a never-ending smirk; my face looked like it had been marked with a verse of Arabic poetry.
One night, though, I did dream of her. I dreamt she rested my head in her lap and spoke to me for the first time in years.
“You’re almost done, sweet Guiscard. There’s a mountain in the north, in Syria. Climb it and reach the top, and you will be able to come home to me. I will watch over you,” she said, as her fingers caressed the scars across my face and ran through my long blond hair. I gently took her hand and burrowed my cheek into her palm.
I woke up, with my arms wrapped around empty bedsheets, greeted by nothing but sunlight filling my room. The Knights Hospitaller had taken pity and let me stay with them for a while. The first thing that I noticed was my hand hurting. It did most mornings.
Normally, I would have spent the day wandering the city, looking for meals or work for a knight who couldn’t hold a sword. Today was different. Maudelaine had promised me a way home. I searched through my things and found the money I had left. The first place I went was the market. I had enough for a mule and food for my journey, and there were a few gold coins left over.
Unfortunately, the northern gate of Jerusalem was past the smithies. I avoided the smithing district if I could. Even four years after we had taken Jerusalem, clanging metal brought me back to the war. King Godfrey finally defeated the Seljuks for the last time three days before I made it to Jerusalem; the Crusade was over, at least for now. I was one of the first to reach the walls at Antioch. What a fool I had been! The smart knights– like Etienne– had stayed back. They were the ones who took Jerusalem; they had land of their own now, or enough plunder to live like kings for the rest of their lives. All I had to show was a mangled sword-hand and a face that made children cry. I was hailed “The Last Crusader” when Etienne saw that I had arrived. I missed my chance to be rewarded and had to live off tithes for the rest of my life. I often asked God why He hadn’t killed me at Antioch, but He never answered. The priests, the rabbis, the imams quoted their books and offered their prayers. Fat lot of good that had ever done. But Maudelaine had spoken, and she would never mislead me.
“Climb it and reach the top, and you will be able to come home to me.”
I trembled and fought back tears as I walked through the street full of yelling men and clanging metal. My knuckles turned white while I tried to remember that the war was over. Soon, however, I made it to the gate and left the city. My hand was hurting more than usual, and I felt myself rubbing it with my left as I led my mule.
I followed an old Roman road for a while before I stopped for the night. An old man approached as I was trying to start a fire with only one hand.
“Greetings. Your God is not mine nor is mine yours, but I would ask for the pleasure of joining you for the evening?” he asked in French with a strong Seljuk accent.
“By all means,” I said, adding “Are you hungry?”
“No, thank you. I had a large meal earlier, don’t worry,” he said as he waved me away from my attempt at a fire. It started easily for him, and he sat cross-legged next to me.
“May I ask what’s bringing you to Jerusalem?” I asked.
“I’m a physician, and there’s a good job here,” he said. He pulled out a tea set and went to work preparing two cups.
I didn’t like the reflection looking back at me in his tea kettle. I hated being reminded that my beard couldn’t hide my scars. There was only one thing I liked about my reflection: my hair. Long, thick, and golden in the sunlight. It was Maudelaine’s favorite thing about me. She ran her fingers through it in the morning when she woke up and in the evening as she went to sleep. She hoped our son would have my hair. I spent three days howling with tears after their deaths, until the call came to march to the Holy Land. I promised myself that I would never cut my hair, so that Maudelaine and our son could always look down from Heaven to see me.
The man handed me a cup of tea, and I almost reached with my right hand. That was a hard habit to forget.
“Could you take a look at my hand?” I asked.
“Why should I, monsieur?” he asked.
“I can pay you. Here–” I said, as I showed him all the coins I had left.
“And how did you get these coins, if I may ask? From the bloodshed of my brother Muslims?” the old man asked with a sad smile on his face.
“Coin is coin, war is war. Can you help me or not?”
“You Franks came to our country talking so boldly about your God. But when you get here? You only deal in gold. Gold and bloodshed. I cannot help you, I’m afraid. Keep your coins,” the old man said as he lit a hashish pipe.
I went to my knees. “I’m begging you; I cannot write nor hold a sword. Heal me, and I promise you I will leave your country and never return!”
“Can you bring your Christian friends with you? Can you bring back my sons?” he asked, with a sad, tired smile.
“I’m sorry; I cannot. I am but a penniless knight, the second son of another. I can only speak for myself.”
He took a deep drag of his pipe. “Then I cannot help you. But I have heard of a mountain in the Syrian desert. Your fellow Christians speak of miracles. Try your fortunes there.”
We locked eyes and hashish smoke filled the air.
“It may not mean much, but I will remember you in my prayers,” he said as he leaned back and closed his eyes to sleep.
The next day, he even helped me pack up the campsite. Food, clothing, my bedroll. He packed everything except my sword and armor, which I packed tightly on my mule’s haunches.
I pulled the few coins I had left and held them out for him.
“Here. For helping me to pack. And the tea,” I said. “You don’t even have to keep them; you can give it to the widows and orphans my Christian brothers left in their way.”
He smiled and gently took the coins. He wished me well before we finally went our separate ways. As I entered Syria, I asked passersby about a mountain of miracles. They nodded and spoke of Mount Barsauma, named for some holy man from the time of Romans.
After twenty-two days in that desert, I finally saw the mountain in the distance. That night, I thought about my home in Carcassonne. It had been so long since I left. I thought about Maudelaine, and the year we had before her death. I thought about the son that grew in her womb before she died.
I dreamt about Etienne. I felt the sting of his hands from our childhood, and the day he wrestled me down and dragged my face through the mud in front of the entire court. I dreamt about the last time I saw him, how he reached out his right hand, all decorated in gold and silver, before he boarded the ship that took him back to France. I remembered the knowing smile across his face when he wordlessly reminded me that my own right hand had been mangled.
“Why?” I asked as I woke up. The Syrian sunrise didn’t respond, nor did my mule.
I put on my finest clothes. I wanted to look my best if there was going to be a miracle. I pulled on my boots and red-dyed robe and pinned a cloth badge with my coat-of-arms over my heart. Along with my sword and armor, that was all I had left from my life in Carcassonne. I liked my coat-of-arms: a green and yellow checkerboard pattern and a white lamb. Not many knights took a lamb for their symbol, but Maudelaine suggested it. “To remind you to be gentle,” she had said all those years ago. That was the first time we had kissed, though she called it a sin.
At noon, I came across a stone bridge at the foot of the mountain. A man in armor stood in the middle of the bridge, his greatsword gleaming in the desert sun.
“Who comes to climb Mount Barsauma?” he asked as I approached.
“I am Guiscard de Carcassonne. A knight, and once I was a crusader. My sweet Maudelaine told me to climb this mountain in a dream. Let me pass,” I said as I held my mangled hand out for him to see.
“Drop your armor and drop your sword, or you will not climb this mountain,” said the Swordsman, as he gestured to the rushing water under the bridge.
“I cannot. I am a fighting man by trade; I cannot make a living without them,” I said.
“Drop your armor and drop your sword, or you will not climb this mountain.”
“Please– this sword has been in my family for a hundred years, it’s my prized possession. I used this sword to free the Holy Land from the Seljuks; I helped to save Christendom. Let me pass.”
“Drop your armor and drop your sword, or you will not climb this mountain.”
“I am a knight, knighted by the King of the Franks himself. My father and his father’s fathers have been knights since the days of Charlemagne. I gave my sword-hand and youth serving Our Lord on the field of battle. I will not abandon the tools of my trade. Who are you, who tells me that I cannot pass?” I cried. I held up my aching hand to show him.
The Swordsman stood nearly a head-and-a-half taller than me. We locked eyes. A gentle wind blew. I grit my teeth and tried to get past him.
He put his hand on my shoulder to stop me. Gently.
“I beg you, drop your armor and drop your sword. Or you will not climb this mountain,” he said, with a softer voice this time.
I looked at him again, and his pleading eyes met mine. I looked back at my mule, at the armor and sword tightly packed on his haunches.
I sighed and undid the straps around the armor. The Swordsman silently watched as I struggled to lift the armor and throw it off the bridge into the river below. It sank quickly, and soon disappeared into the depths. I drew my sword, looked it up and down one last time, and threw it into the water.
Near sunset, I found the source of the river. A waterfall filled a crystal-clear pool of water surrounded by soft grass and shady trees. I pulled off my clothing and washed my hair of dust and sweat after I ate. My face was still scarred, but my now-clean hair shone like a crown. I laid down to sleep afterwards.
That night, I dreamt of a crowd of Seljuk women and children. Children huddled behind their trembling mothers at my approach.
“What’s this? Who are you?” I asked.
The bravest, a woman wearing a green headscarf, approached me.
“My name is Fatima. You killed my husband,” she said.
“My name is Abdullah. You killed my brother,” said a twelve-year-old boy.
“My name is Aisha, you killed my Uncle Sameer,” said a little girl, with eyes the same color as Maudelaine’s.
“I’m sorry. It was war… I thought…” I tried to speak, but words would not leave me. I burst into hot tears and curled into a ball on the ground.
“I… I’m sorry. Please, can you forgive me?” I asked.
Fatima stepped forward, with a look of pity and tired anger. “Show us your armor. Show us the sword you used to kill my husband.”
“I beg your forgiveness, but I cannot. I threw my armor in the river and my sword in with it.”
“You cannot right the wrongs you have done. My husband is gone, dead by your hand. I cannot speak for others or for your God. But I can speak for myself, and I forgive you,” she said.
I woke up. The first thing I did was flex my right hand. My right hand! I gasped when I felt it. Each finger moved without pain. Like it had never been maimed. I tried to cup some water from the pool. No pain.
I wept tears of joy and thanked Jesus and every saint I could think of. And then I thought of the men I had killed and the families they left behind. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, hoping they somehow heard.
I’m not at the top yet. Maudelaine told me to reach the top, I reminded myself. I put my robe and boots on and followed the path further up the mountain. A hot wind howled across the slopes. Shortly before noon, when the heat was unbearable, I saw a cave. I led my mule there and took a chance to rest for a moment.
“Who are you?” asked a voice from within the cave. I looked up. Someone was walking out of the shadows. He was barefoot and bone-thin, with a long brown robe and a beard that reached his stomach. When I first saw him, I thought he was a corpse.
I stumbled to my feet and answered. “I am Guiscard de Carcassonne, son of Roland de Carcassonne. I fought with King Godfrey of Bouillon in the Crusade until the Siege of Antioch.”
“No! Anyone can tell me what they’ve done and who their father is. Who are you?” he asked.
I pointed to the badge over my heart, “This is my coat-of-arms. Every knight has one. Chequy vert and or, a lamb statant argent langued gules in fess point.”
“I see paint and stitching. That’s not what I asked. Who are you?”
“I am Guiscard de Carcassonne; I grew up in a castle. I’m a knight. Or, I was a knight, a long while ago. My sword-hand was mangled at the Siege–”
“No, no, no. Your hand is fine, I’m looking at it. Who are you?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Who gave you those scars?” asked the Hermit, drawing imaginary lines over his face.
“Oh. It was at Antioch. When my hand-”
“Why don’t you answer my questions?” he said.
“I tried to–”
“Shut up. Let me think,” said the Hermit, “You were bullied and humiliated as a child. He became a knight, just like you. You were married once, but your wife died while delivering a son that had golden hair like yours. You went on Crusade after her death. You can still hear the battles you fought in your dreams, and the beatings and insults you received in your youth still echo through your head in your waking moments.”
He didn’t blink the entire time he spoke. The words left him like raindrops.
“How- How did you know all that?” I asked.
“It’s written across your face. Build a fire. Burn your badge. Burn anything you have from Carcassonne, or you will not climb this mountain,” said the Hermit, before he walked out of the cave.
I spent the rest of the day gathering firewood and kindling outside the cave. The sun had slunk below the horizon when I managed to light it. I stripped off my robe, boots, and socks. I threw them into the fire. The heat on my skin was nearly unbearable. All I had left was a pair of linen trousers. When there was nothing left but ash, I watched the fire die down before I returned to the cave.
Etienne stood there when I entered with an evil smile. Every evil word and jest he ever had for me poured from his mouth. My newly healed hand curled into a fist, and I felt for a sword that was no longer there. When I blinked, Etienne disappeared, replaced by a small child weeping and cowering in front of his father.
“Etienne! You blubbering idiot! You’ll never amount to anything. All that crying’ll make you a weakling, and no son of mine will be a weakling!” said the man. He raised his hand and struck the child on the cheek. The beating continued as the child howled in pain.
“Sit in your pain, boy. Maybe that’ll make you a man,” said the father as he stormed away. The child curled into a ball on the ground and failed to stifle his sobs.
I blinked again, and Etienne had returned.
“That’s all you are,” I said. “That’s all you ever were. And I’m sorry I never saw that.”
For once, Etienne fell to his knees.
“I’m sorry, Guiscard… I’m so sorry. I treated you so poorly, for so long. I don’t think I can ever atone for it…” he said as tears welled in his eyes.
“I forgive you,” I said.
“What?”
“I…” I took a deep breath. “I forgive you, Etienne. I can’t think softly of my own boyhood, and it’s because of you. I was humiliated by your hand, every day, at every chance, for years. And I forgive you.” Etienne fell over and gave himself completely to tears.
“I hope you get everything you could ever want. I hope you can be as happy as you can. But I hope you remember the way you treated me,” I said. I stepped closer to him and knelt. I eased him off the ground and embraced him, and tears welled in my own eyes.
“I forgive you, Etienne,” I said, and a gust of wind turned Etienne into ash.
The sun rose and I left the cave. I rubbed my eyes, but I couldn’t feel the scars. There was a small stream of water nearby; I sprinted to the banks and gazed into my reflection. They were gone. I wept tears of joy. My hand was healed, my scars were gone. But that wasn’t all I wanted. Maudelaine told me to reach the top.
The Hermit approached and pointed down the trail. “Keep going. Reach the top. It’s not much further. Leave your mule here. I’ll take care of her.
I made my way up the mountain, barefoot and bare-chested. As I climbed, I thought of Maudelaine. The sun slowly rose and the wind gently blew. Can you see me now, sweet lady?
As I neared the top of the mountain, I found a dagger abandoned on the trail. I picked it up and felt the edge. Still sharp. I put it in my pocket.
The top of the mountain was flat, and an old man sat cross-legged on the ground.
“Welcome. I’ve been waiting for you. I’m glad you made it. How was the climb?” he asked.
“It wasn’t too bad. How did you get up here?” I asked.
“The same way you did, more or less. Please, take a seat.”
“You gave up your sword and your clothing?” I said, and I sat across from the Monk.
“The illusions I abandoned were different than yours, but they were illusions nonetheless,” he said. “And soon, I will ask you to give up the last and greatest illusion of all.”
“Illusions?”
“Think. Your sword and armor. The idea that you were just a knight. A killer. You proved that was an illusion. You’re more than that. Your boots, your robe, your badge? The idea that you were just a broken, bullied victim. That was another illusion, as you proved. You carried out one of the greatest acts of love you could. You forgave. Now, take that dagger in your pocket and cut off your hair,” the monk said.
“What?” I asked, shocked.
“It isn’t difficult. Gather it in one hand and cut it all at once. You have two hands now. Go on. Cut off your hair.”
“What? No, I can’t. I made–”
“I know. You made a promise to Maudelaine and your son that they would always be able to see you from heaven because of your hair. I know.”
“How did you know that?”
“Cut off your hair.”
“I don’t think I can. I’m sorry,” I said.
“The greatest and final illusion is that we are ever truly separated from the dead. Maudelaine may have left this world, but she’s now more alive than either of us can imagine. You think she would forget who you are just because you lose your hair? Do you think that is what she loved about you?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t ever think of any other reason she could have loved me.”
“Why?”
“What? What do you mean? Until I was a knight, I was just a weakling, Etienne showed me that,” I said.
“You proved you were more than a knight. You proved you were more than a victim. And you are more than your hair. Maudelaine did not love a knight, and she didn’t love a weakling. She didn’t love Guiscard’s hair. She loved Guiscard! Cut off your hair,” he commanded.
I was speechless. The wind stopped. I gathered my hair in my hand. The knife cut easily. The whole universe held its breath as I felt my hair fall away. I looked down and saw mountains of golden hair gleaming in the sun. I dropped the dagger and heard it hit the ground.
The Monk gently sat me on the ground as he stepped away with a smile.
When I looked up, I saw none other than Maudelaine, shining and beautiful. In her hands was an infant with green eyes and blonde hair.
“I’ve been waiting for you, sweet Guiscard,” she said. She knelt down and ran her hand along what was left of my hair.
“You told me to climb this mountain, and I did. I had to give it all up, though. My sword, my hair, my clothes,” he said.
“I know. I was watching. I helped you,” she said. As she sat across from me, the infant reached for my now-unscarred face.
“I’ve been healed, somehow,” I said.
“I know. It was me who did it,” she said, and then she kissed me on the forehead.
She stood and rose up in the air.
“Your work is done now, knight,” the Monk whispered in my ear. If the universe had held its breath when I cut my hair, it must have exhaled when the Monk told me I was free. At some point I stopped feeling the ground beneath me, and I felt myself taking a deep breath as a gentle wind blew across the mountain to embrace me.
And then my heart stopped, and Maudelaine called me Home.
JT Beatty is a Religious Studies and Journalism Major at Louisiana State University. He lives in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where he drills in the United States Marine Corps Reserve and volunteers with the homeless on Sundays. His Instagram is @jfbt3 and his X is @JT_Beatty.