Today I wanted to introduce you all to our first "down time" characters; that is, the first character who is native to the 12th century world of the Third Crusade. Her name is Aminah, and, well, I'll let you judge for yourself her role in the adventure to come...
Aminah observed her surroundings with complete awe. She was in some sort of palace, surrounded by smooth floors that reflected light against their shining surfaces, patterns like marble, but soft and smooth to the touch. Warm too. She looked deeper, picking out the small details many would miss in their fear of these strange infidels. No, not infidels, she thought. There were others like her, Muslims, but who worked and fought next to the Christians. It was most puzzling, but then these people were puzzling.
The room was filled with so many marvels, she almost believed she was dreaming. But after the fear that had taken hold of her in their headlong run to escape the men sent to kill her. The strangers had saved her and those who’d followed her, all of them except for Abra, her old nurse-maid, who had been old and crippled, but had insisted on accompanying her, knowing it would be her death. Aminah said a small prayer for her, but forced herself not to dwell on the past. She needed to acclimate herself to this place, these people, as quickly as possible. Those who depended on her needed protection, and if she were to make an advantage of the situation, she would need to understand as much about the newcomers as possible.
The first detail that popped out was the beds. Soft, luxurious, and so many in one room! They were large enough to comfortably sleep one person, though she knew two could fit easily. Sheets made of a light fabric, not as soft as silk, but tightly sewn and the brightest shade of white she’d ever encountered in fabric. There were two sheets on each bed, a fact she found strange. But when she’d examined the bed upon which she sat, waiting for the priest to return, she came to understand. The bottom sheet had somehow been cinched at the ends, forming tightly across the bed surface. The second sheet was neatly folded on top, the ends tucked under the bed. Everything was so neat, especially for a military fort, which she had come to learn this instillation was. The garrison at Arsuf was disgusting, feces and mud and blood all mixing in the marshaling yard, the soldiers hard and cruel. The men here, however, kept their admiring looks short, met her eyes when she had passed them in the yard, and stood aside to hold the beautiful glass doors as she and her people had entered the palace to see the priests. What type of people treat women as men, as equals? The though was alarming, like much she had encountered here, but again she pushed the thought away.
As she continued her observations, she found herself marveling at the windows. How clear and crisp, like they didn’t even exist. These strangers must have known magic, or been favored by Allah, to be graced with gifts as grand as clear, beautiful windows. The windows, however, paled in comparison to the marvelous objects the foreigners called mirrors. She had seen mirrors before, but they were usually pools of water or polished metals. These mirrors were made of glass, perhaps clearer than that of the windows. She’d seen herself as never before, clear as day, as others must have seen her. Ragged, dirty, with matted hair and torn clothing, she looked like a beggar. But the curves of her breasts and hips were poorly hidden beneath what scant clothing she’d gathered to hide her nobility in her flight from Arsuf. Those physical qualities that drew men to her could not be hidden, no matter how much dirt or mud she was caked in. And for the first time, looking upon herself in the mirror, she understood the desires of those men.
She shook off the thoughts, unsettling as they were. She had no times for daydreaming or admiring her own figure. Perhaps there would be a time for that, but not now, not here. She came out of her thoughts as the priest returned. He was short man, only her height, perhaps half a finger taller. Slim, dark, with a short beard on his chin and closely cut hair, almost to the point of baldness. He was beautiful, as much as a man, let along a priest, could be. His face was oval, a pointed chin and a thin nose, the only imperfection a small scar running through his left eyebrow. He also wore strange devices over his eyes, small plates of glass fastened to narrow, well formed frames. She understood their function, a sight aid, as he rested them upon the bridge of his nose to read the notes he’d written on the beautiful white papyrus they used for record keeping. That was another amazing surprise to here; everyone here seemed to be a scribe. No, rather, they did not have scribes, for they had no need with everyone skilled in the art form.
“What is your name?” he said in Arabic, fluent but strangely accented, startling her out of her awestruck stupor. It sounded much like that of the traders from Baghdad and cities further east.
“Aminah,” she replied, her voice cracking slightly. She feared men as a rule; they cared not for the feelings of women.
“Aminah, it is a blessing to meet you. My name is Abdul Fahreed, I am a doctor here,” he said slowly, not because of any issues between them with language, but because he seemed to understand that his terms were foreign to her.
Not a priest, a healer, she thought. Healers were common enough in her fathers court, but they did not work in palaces such as this, they were relegated instead to dank towers, summoned only to heal demons or plagues. She looked at him, uncertain of his motivations or how to respond. He seemed to sense her distrust.
“I am here to simply record your information and give you a small examination. I must check for any,” he said something unintelligible in what sounded like the guttural language the European knights spoke, English, “and check for any injuries.”
She hadn’t understood what the word meant, but nodded slowly, understanding that his intentions seemed pure. He would make sure she carried no plague, no disease into the camp. That was just as well, though she felt fine.
“Hold out your hand, like this,” he said, put his hand out, palm up, fingers spread. She did so, hesitantly. What magic could he perform that he could find illness in her hand. Perhaps he practiced divinity, not a healer but a magician. “This may hurt a moment,” he said, wiping her finger tip with a small piece of fabric coated in a strong smelling liquid. Once her fingertip was clean, cleaner than it had been in quite some time she realized, he deftly drew a small needle from the tray of instruments next to him and pricked her finger. She made now sound, jumping but an inch from her seat, more fascinated by the entire process than by fear or pain.
“You can find plagues with but a drop of blood?” she asked him, quiet and timid but no longer in fear of this mysterious man. “How is this possible?”
He said several things she did not understand, words like sentrufiuge and mycroskope. It was very confusing all these new words and concepts, but after listening intently, she was sure this man was also a scholar, not a magician. A learned man who understood science and numbers and could divine answers to great and complex questions from nothing but a drop of blood! Then he focus was behind the healer, no, the doctor, as they called him. The object of her interest was a young woman, dressed in loose clothing that showed her bare arms, her hair uncovered and glowing the color of fire, shimmering and beautiful. She had dots all over her cheeks and nose, but not scars; they were pleasant to look at and made her look even more radiant. He skin was pale, the color of goats milk, her stature small and girl like. But she read through the charts, those were what the doctors kept their records in, as if she were equal to the man who was in charge of this palace. The woman noticed Aminah’s appraising stare and smiled; beautiful, perfectly straight and brilliantly white teeth shown through. An angel, surely, she thought, else who could possess such beauty and not be of heaven. Then the woman was approaching, quickly moving over to where she was seated.
“Dr. Fahreed, if she’s ready, I’ll take her to the showers. Perhaps a woman’s presence would make her feel more comfortable,” she said, also in fluent Arabic, though her accent betrayed a high lilt. Who were these people who all spoke her language, Christian and Muslim, working together in complete unison as if the wars hadn’t happened at all. The two sides had been at war all her life, she’d known nothing but hatred between them. And yet here, it seemed she had found a bastion against the hate, against fear and loathing and sadness, a fortress of righteousness towering out of the desert, sheltering those who had need, protecting them from the forces of darkness outside.
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