Bound & Bound – the Curse and the Captives – - 34. Chapter 34: Water Versus Heart

Chapter 34: Water Versus Heart

LORD LASZLO FELT STIFF AND UNCOMFORTABLE in his best clothes. The news had been bad, no, the news had been worse than terrible. And now because of his woman's meddlesome ways, he had to face the consequences.

One of his hands rode the top stone of the balustrade of the castle's second floor loggia, and the other one braced itself on the pommel cap of his sword. He paused to watch the noonday sun inch its way grudgingly along the nearly shadowless cobbles of the courtyard. The Romanian dirt-haulers and stonemasons were at work, and the dull pings of pick and shovel told him the well-diggers were deep within the pit. These sounds had become an everyday accompaniment to the life of the castle, and he wondered if there would ever be a time when the day would go on without them. He also mused that these working men, deeply grounded in their toil, little knew of the strife between the world's power brokers, nor little did they need to care.

'It's all her fault,' he silently brooded as he descended the broad steps from the state apartments. 'That woman will be the ruin of me yet.'

At the bottom of the steps he turned to begin striding towards the porch-covered entrance of the Knights' Hall.

Before he had a chance to become lost in his own dolorous thoughts again, he glanced to his left and caught a moving flash of colour. A young man had apparently been anxiously waiting for his master near an arch at the bottom of the stairs.

The youth ran to the lord's right side and wordless matched his step to Laszlo's.

The lord of the place had to smile in spite of his heavy heart. "What are you doing, Louis?" He saw the sun glint off of the lad's ashen hair and instantly was lost in the perception of how the young man's locks were fragrant with his youth and ever-inviting scent.

For a moment Louis looked only straight ahead; he had locked on this features a sternness to match this master's mood. But the grey eyes turned in a moment to hold Laszlo's and seemed confused as he said, "I am standing by your side. Do you not wish that, My Lord?"

Laszlo halted his stride.

After another half-pace, Louis stopped and turned to face him with a bit of worry drooping his mouth.

"Louis, you do not know what you are committing your service to."

"With all due respect, if it is my master's business, then I will be next to your side to support you in any way that I might be allowed."

Laszlo's reserve melted. He swallowed down a lump, and considered a simple fact: although he had heard his wife utter similar aphorisms many times in the past, this boy's commitment seemed beyond the kind of suspicious reproach his wife naturally had coming to her words.

He walked up to his lad, and briefly locked the boy's head in the crook of his arm. "Bless you, Louis." He let him go and held him by the shoulders to force a stare onto him. "Tough times are here. I trust your love for me, boy. Now is the moment it needs to prove itself."

He saw the youth's visage become over washed with emotion; they were emotions of pride, or courage, and yes, of love too.

"Let's go Louis. You stay close by my side in there, and do not let them intimidate you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, My Lord."

"Then, let's go."

They strode on side-by-side towards the porch of the great hall, and as they approached that chamber's threshold, Laszlo felt himself inhale deeply. Both men paused and looked at one another, for the sound of the angry ruckus from within came out to warn them that the Knights' Hall had turned in to a pit of vipers.

As if in some blurry nightmare, the next thing Lord Laszlo knew was he was standing at the head of the room about to walk its length. The swirling vehemence of heated voices that circled the double vaulted space spun slowly down. Every eye begun to drift to the still-as-a-statue man, and every angry tone slowly became mute.

This was a self-called council of the Hungarian nobles who 'owned' Transylvania. It was their collection of fiefdoms to rule like colonizing princes, although every one of them to the last man was ignorant, cruel, and anything but noble. It was also within their rights to call a parliament through which they could call Laszlo to task as the regent whom the Hungarian king had appointed to govern the territory.

He felt a hand lightly brush against his. He glanced, and Louis set his jaw in a show of determination and support for him.

Together they strode down the length of the hall with interminable slowness. The lord of the place cast withering glances to his left and to his right, and on each side, the nobles formed lines and bowed heads to him only barely pivoted on top of unbending necks.

He ascended the dais, and used a brief motion to indicate where he wanted Louis to stand: to his right, but just behind his chair. He sat rakishly on his oaken cathedra – the very symbol of his authority – to make sure the flashing length of his blade's scabbard was well in view. If the chair was symbol of this authority in this land, his sword was sign that he had the army of the brother and king at his side at all times.

He scanned the assembled men with open hostility. This was a sorry lot of losers and hangers-on back home, but who had come out here with a little money, ruthless ambition, and 'made it.' He hated them, hated their sloppy attire, and the careless beards that spoke of nothing but excess indulgence and the laziness that prevented even the minimal grooming needed to least keep the ends from getting grizzled. He hated them because all of their eyes were hostile and unflinchingly locked on Laszlo.

Within that quiet – almost as if arising from the heart of it – he faintly heard a sound.

His mind's eye drifted to the side of the hall, to the niche with its stone benches, and the iron-strapped trapdoor to the oubliette.

"Cousin Laszlo," said a grey-beard stepping from the crowd near the dais. "This set of events is disastrous."

Laszlo's attention focused on a low laugh. He knew it came from no one within the hall, but from one resident under its floor.

"Cousin! News has reached us of Prince Radu's failure. Walachia is overrun by Turkish forces. This is unacceptable."

A gruff round of "Hear, hear" arose.

Laszlo's attention stayed on Vlad's voice; it laughed again, only this time, the sharp ping of it jabbed into Laszlo's temple like a needle.

His thinking faltered a moment. His hand went up to his forehead…

"Cousin. Radu has abandoned Targoviste to the Ottoman hordes and fled to his mountaintop fortress at Poenari, now he's missing and said to have either jumped to his death or escaped through secret tunnels, but no one knows, and his nation is in chaos."

In his mind, Vlad cackled vindictively, and the howling screeches of it transformed into brusque words. "You were warned," echoed through Laszlo's soul, and an evil image of his wife's smirk floated before his eyes.

Gradually, he became aware of a light touch upon his shoulder. He glanced up and saw Louis looking worried. He took strength in that somehow, strength and newfound determination.

"Cousin!"

Lord Laszlo stood and stared the old man down. "What, Ladislaus! What?!"

The older man turned amazed eyes on his fellow noblemen. After a complete circuit of the assembly in the chamber, during which time he garnered unanimous support, he stepped up to the front edge of the dais.

In an outright act of defiance, he lifted his foot, placed it on the lowest stone step to the platform, and leaned an elbow on his knee. He glared up to Laszlo, and demanded with ear-splitting quiet. "What, Cousin? The 'what' is that we want to know what you are going to do about it."

He had no answers. Suddenly – inexplicably – within Laszlo's mind, he heard a phantom pinging. It sounded like relentless steel striking remorseless stone within an ever-deepening pit.

˚˚˚˚˚

Junayd watched Ahmed raise his pick again. It came crashing down on the floor of the bottom of the well in the filtered light coming in from high over head.

"How I miss the sea, my ascetic friend! You are from the mountains, so you cannot feel the sea breeze down to the marrow of your bones as I do."

Junayd laughed: "Sounds chilling."

"It is, Efendi. But, to walk along the shore and feel the water's awesome power and potential – " Ahmed stopped himself in mid-thought; he suddenly realized something. He leaned on his pick and blinked at the dervish in amazement. "It's like your religious ecstasy – like your one hand up to the universe, and your one hand down to the earth – that is what it's like."

"Oh dear, I have taught you well!"

Ahmed laughed, but to Junayd's ears it was the sort of chuckle that naturally arises with the joy of grasping a higher understanding. "You have taught me everything I know."

The dervish scooped up some of the broken debris and shovelled it into the now-full basket. He tugged twice on the rope, and it began to inch its way up to the surface.

"I have a feeling, dervish, that the reason I am thinking about the sea…" Ahmed's pick struck again. "Is because water must be coursing just below the surface of our heels…" More stone went flying as the professional soldier power-struck the shale around them. He paused, and Junayd delighted in the happy smile his beloved comrade shone on him.

"Feel it, you say..?" Junayd broke open his own grin and stomped on the ground a bit. "Then, I bid ye waters arise!"

Ahmed strode over to Junayd, and without pause, the younger man felt the soldier's hand grip him behind the neck. Finally, after a silent moment of locked gazes, the strong man's gentle kiss caressed his lips.

Ahmed moved back, and Junayd felt he had to ask him, "What was that for?"

The soldier laughed with open-mouthed joy. "That was for having hope, my love. That was for you displaying faith that we can complete our task, and be free of this pit; be free to go where we want, and to do as we please." Suddenly Ahmed's felicity faded into pure sincerity. "As long as it's together."

"Ahmed…" Junayd could almost taste the tears in his words. "Do not plan for anything beyond the day – this day. You are here, I am here – let that be enough."

Ahmed looked hurt.

Junayd quickly went on to explain in soothing tones, "The building of this well is just a parable – an example through metaphor – that life itself is drudgery. We may tell ourselves the goal is such and such; the objective is this or that; and ignore what matters – whom we travel with on this task. That is what matters, and only that."

Ahmed raised his pick. He took aim at a craggy protuberance that doggedly refused to crack. A passing thought in Junayd's mind said maybe that's how Ahmed felt about Junayd's pessimism.

The soldier cocked back a mighty blow, but before he dealt it, he told Junayd, "It's all right, dervish. I have enough hope for the both of us."

Pow!

The ringing echo of metal on rock reverberated. Only vaguely in the back of his head, because it did not seem important at that moment, did Junayd allow himself to acknowledge that the stone just struck had sounded different than the others. There seemed to be an almost saturated muffler abutting it from just the other side.

"Ahmed, my Kapikulu, it is not that I do not have hope, but that I worry you will be angry if we cannot ever escape this hole. I want you to live contentedly with me – here and now. You understand that, I truly believe that you do."

Ahmed let his pick slide though his hand. He stood leaning on the upturned handle of it. To Junayd's eyes, it looked like his partner was about to be angry.

But the soldier said with plainly shown honesty, "Aman Allahim! No man is as happy as I am, my wonderful dervish. And if he robs us of our chance to build a life together, then I will curse them all. Mark my words."

Now Junayd felt mystifying ire arise. It was both beautiful and frustrating that Ahmed did not get it. That he did not allow himself the comfort that fully accepting the comprehension of the situation would allow him: an acknowledgement that a calm level of placidness concerning Ahmed's and his fate would set him free. But despite that, and whatever their destiny might prove to be, they had already united as one man and had been blessed with a spark of the Divine Love. That ember in them would never allow them to die again.

"I am happy too, Kapikulu. We will be free, one way or the other. Of that I have no doubt!"

Ahmed came back to his side; Ahmed kissed him again, but this time with all the power and force of righteous conviction.

Junayd let his fingers slip over those of Ahmed's as he took the pick handle.

They changed positions, and Ahmed began reaching up to receive the freshly emptied basket that was being lowered back down again.

Junayd peered around in the somewhat faint light for that odd-sounding protrusion of stone. He found it, kicking it once just to be sure.

The dervish lifted his pick above his head, took aim, and struck.

The muffled sound broke through, and into that newly created breech, water flowed.

He stared at the inky puddle forming at his feet in the wondering pause of whether or not his mind was playing a trick on him, but then a cool lick of moisture on the end of his big toe had him jump back like a jolt of minute lightning had just touched him.

"Ahmed!"

"What?"

"Look..!" Junayd pointed in desperation, hoping his man would see it too.

Ahmed shouldered past Junayd and crouched down.

He stood in slow motion, and raised wet and dripping fingers to the oculus of sunlight far above their heads.

"We've done it," Ahmed said skywards. "All praise be to God. We have done it."

˚˚˚˚˚

The next few hours had been frantic ones.

Junayd knew what natural processes were at work. The trickle of water that they had opened up was being forced by the enormous weight of the supporting earth to seek the easiest path out. The well shaft provided that outlet.

That slow trickle would only grow and fill this void entirely, at least up to the top of the water table in the rock, it not higher than that.

But before it could, Ahmed and Junayd had signalled the Romanian workmen on top to begin loading stones and prepared mortar into the basket.

The two slaves had levelled off the base of the well floor around the perimeter and began stacking interlocking stones; the reason they had to be on the smaller size was so the radius of well shaft could be matched without creating a gap between the inner and outer surface of the stone lining. Without a lining, the pressure of the water could make the structure implode and re-fill with useless stone.

They had already laid courses up to their waists and felt relieved that the accumulating water was still only up to their ankles.

As they worked, Junayd kept being the recipient of Ahmed's happy smiles, and in his heart he desired most that the joy of the anticipation of freedom would stay Ahmed's to the last.

The professional soldier laid a stone, and said, "I hope Lord Laszlo will prove to be a man of his word."

Inspired, Junayd picked up the maul which the stonemasons had included in the basket kit of supplies. This tool was weighty in the dervish's grip, and he had never seen this type of tool before – It was a kind of hammer on a wooden handle, but in addition to the squared-off head, on the others side of the business end was a sharp spike.

With his other hand he picked up a stone and started incising it with the pick point of the maul.

Ahmed stopped working, His feet sloshed as he walked towards the dervish to peer over his shoulder. "What are you doing?"

Junayd barely glanced up and behind him. He stayed focused on his work, saying, "You engraved our love high upon the chapel walls, and I want to do the same, down here in the depths."

"So, what are you writing?"

"I am writing out your prayer, Efendi."

"My prayer?"

To Junayd's ears it sounded like no more offensive a notion could be ascribed to the professional soldier."

"Yes. Your wish that Lord Laszlo is good to his word, and to prove to you that I do have hope for a life with you outside of these castle walls too. And to prove to everyone that we are of the same mind, I will put it here in stone for all times."

After a few more minutes of silent work, it was finished. Junayd held it up. "Can you read it, habibi?"

Ahmed squinted and used his pressing fingertips to rake the stone's engraved surface in the afternoon light come down from above. He read the inscription out loud: "You have your water…but, may you have a heart to go with it."

Ahmed held Junayd's gaze. "Yes, my love…" the professional soldier's voice was full of emotion. "That is my prayer. From your blessed lips to God's all-forgiving ear – may it be so."

Junayd gestured to the vacant spot on the wall they were building, and kept Ahmed's hand on the stone.

Together they set it on place.

Together they tapped it down, and locked it forever in place with mortar.

Junayd draped his arm around Ahmed's neck. He kissed the nape he found there and savoured the salty earthiness that came from his beloved's body as if it were the ethereal light of the stars to his mind.

"My love," he whispered. "We have already won. They do not understand – we are not captives to them, and we have never been their slaves."

"Yes, husband. That is correct." Ahmed hugged his arms around Junayd's midsection and lifted him gently.

Junayd moved his head so he could stare into his Kapikulu's eyes. "We are united," he told him. "And anyone who ever comes to doubt it knows nothing of spirit versus flesh, or soul versus heart."

Slowly their eyes closed, and their lips came together as if they were getting ready for an eternity together.