Februay 29, 2008

 by Haley Drolet

A striking sun rose from the far off horizon, illuminating the endless sea of sand that formed the Holy Land. Three Christian commanders led an exhausted army of crusaders across this heated desert, each with the intent of reaching the city of Jerusalem by sunrise the next day. It had been three long years of war and hard travel since the crusaders had first set out from their European homelands, encouraged by their Pope. The Pope had told them of the atrocities committed by the saracens and insisted that Jerusalem, God’s Holy City, should be removed from their pagan hands. He also claimed that by going on this crusade, one could fully liberate him or herself from their sins and so gain a free passage into Heaven. Many believed the words of Pope Urban and so entire families had taken on the cross of enduring a crusade. Hundreds of Christians had died already, the next few days would see if their deaths had been in vain and if more innocent lives would join them.

Tristram stared down at his aching feet as they kicked up the red sand beneath him. He was a boy of fourteen years and his figure was slender from travel and near starvation. His haggard mother stumbled on just behind him and his father walked ahead of him leading a dapple-gray warhorse. Roland of Normandy was what Tristram’s father was known by and for the entire crusade he had aided their leader Godfrey as a cavalry-scout. Tristram adjusted the leather pack that blistered his shoulders. He raised his head when he heard a soldier riding in the opposite direction as the rest of the army.

 The rider’s armor was nicer than that of Tristram’s father yet just as soiled. His horse stopped when it came to Roland. The soldier spoke out in French commanding the tired crusader to scout ahead by the west road. Roland replied also in French and then proceeded to mount his dapple-gray. He turned towards Tristram and nodded a silent farewell. The scout’s son nodded in a similar way and then watched as his father rode out of sight.

 As the day wore, on the crusader’s steady pace slightly decreased. Tristram began to drag his feet across the ground and tried to ignore the aching of his empty stomach. He concentrated on the rhythmic drum of his mother’s steps as she walked behind him. When this constant sound began to fade away, Tristram became uneasy. He turned around and almost lost his breath as he slammed shoulders with one of the other travelers.

 Tristram was relieved when he caught sight of his mother. She was wandering slightly off course and her eyes barely remained open. Tristram rushed over to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Mother, are you alright?” The exhausted woman slowly nodded her head and placed her hand on her son’s shoulder to balance her shaking legs. “I’ll be…I’ll be alright Trist. I…I just need to rest.” She started to sit but Tristram held her up and pleaded with her. “Mother, we must keep going. We can’t get left behind.  Jerusalem will be in sight soon, think of Jerusalem mother…think of  God’s Holy City.” When his mother showed no effect from his words Tristram wrapped one of her arms around his neck and slowly helped her along. He spent the rest of the day in much bodily pain, praying for his father to return.

 ~*~*~*~*~*~

 Night finally fell and provided the desired rest for the crusaders. Their camp was made up of several canvas tents that swayed from the strong force of the wind. Small campfires could be seen providing warmth and a form of light for those who huddled around them. Tristram lay on his back, knees bent,  staring at the bright stars that gleamed above him. His arms were tucked underneath his short black hair  pillowing his head.

 He let his green eyes wander  to where his mother lay sleeping. A thick elk-skin blanket shielded her from the cold. Tristram pushed himself up into a sitting position and peered around the camp. He noticed a lit campfire burning a few yards from him and unable to sleep he decided to get closer. The young crusader looked back at his mother, reassuring himself that she was asleep. Seeing that the weary woman was, Tristram stood to his feet and made his way across the sand.

 As the boy neared closer he caught sight of well-armored soldiers and began to hear a muffled version of their conversation. A tall tent stood by the fire and would prove to be the perfect place for Tristram to eavesdrop without being noticed. Once at the tent, Tristram knelt in the sand and cautiously peeked his head around it to get a better look at the conversing crusaders. He listened intently to what they said.

 “ And what say you, Godfrey? Do you believe that Jerusalem will be ours?”

 Tristram was aghast at the name spoken and was even more excited when the named began to speak.

 “ I believe that it is God’s will that we recover His city. I believe that if it was not, then God would not have aided us at Antioch nor allowed us safe passage thus far. ” Duke Godfrey’s words were spoken in a raspy tone but with much control.

 Tristram attention was pulled away from Godfrey and when a strong hand clasped his shoulder.

 “You should be recovering your strength young master. Tomorrow you will see Jerusalem.”

 The boy turned and sighed in relief to see his father.

“ Father! You have returned!”

 He embraced the older crusader, holding him tightly in his arms. Tristram pushed away from his father but kept his hands resting on the scout’s armored shoulders. He quickly searched the man for any wounds but could find none.

 “And in one piece I see!”

 Roland smiled then made his way over to their own camp where a lit fire slowly dwindled. Tristram followed him,  relieved by his father’s safe return. When he came to his father’s dapple-gray horse, he brushed his hand across its long nose. Roland turned towards his son and smiled at the sight.

 For close to an hour the two crusaders talked to one another by the fireside gladdened by each other’s company. One thing they both were thinking but neither of them said, was that this very well could be their last night they had together. It was something they though every night since they first came on the crusade and it was a feeling they could not wait to get rid of.

 “Get some rest Trist. Your strength will be much needed tomorrow.” The boy’s father said, as he pushed around the coals in the fire with a long stick.  Tristram nodded back, ready and very much willing to sleep. The young crusader then made his way to where his fur bed lay stretched out across the sand. He then lay on his back and again starred at the sea of stars that stretched above him. Their serene lights faded as he slowly closed his heavy eyelids, a restless sleep taking him. 

 ~*~*~*~*~*~

 A blast of wind blew against Tristram as he peered awestruck at the disfigured and lifeless bodies that surrounded him. The stench of war made his stomach toss and the sight of it repulsed him. Tristram had seen battles before but none like this one. Christians and Saracens alike lay dead on the ground with bleeding gashes across their corpses.

 It was near dawn of the fourth day since Jerusalem had come in sight and it was close to an hour since the Christian armies had broken through the city’s main gates. Tristram and his father had been among the first battalion of soldiers to enter into Jerusalem, but had lost sight of each other in the chaos. Most of the Saracens had been either killed or captured by now but some still roamed freely through the streets causing opposition against the soldiers. Tristram made his way through the chaotic city in search of his father, holding a sword tightly in his hands.

 The crusader’s armor clanked as he hurdled over dead bodies and his bloodstained helmet bounced atop his head. Tristram searched frantically for his father dreading what he might find. His feet stopped but his heart went faster. The boy’s sword dropped from his hands falling to the ground like a metal weight and the boy fell to his knees barely holding back tears. Tristram placed his shaking hand on the forearm of a crusader that lay in front of him. The crusader was Tristram’s own father, his eyes were open but no breath came from his lips.

 Tristram threw off his helmet and bowed his head in sorrow, his tears mixing with the dirt that covered his face. He looked again at his father and closed the scout’s eyes with a sweep of his hand over the man’s bloody face. Tristram forgot everything around him and lay down so that his head rested on the side of his father’s stomach. The crusader stared at the smoke filled sky and watched as the orange sun began to set. Jerusalem is ours…but for all this?    

About the author:

Haley is a 9th grade Royal Academy student who enjoys reading and story-writing. Haley loves to play soccer and in her spare time, likes to work on all kinds of crafts, especially jewelry-making.