The Reincarnationist Papers Read online

  "Oh yes, there were changes to be sure, too many changes to possibly fathom. The Renaissance marked the emergence of the empowering engine of youth and their thirst for change, but I am a youth no longer and care not for their change."

  "Is change really so bad?"

  "It is not change per se, but the heated, cavalier manner in which it comes. It is the same story told time after time. A new generation is always coming to power in the world. They live their lives and achieve all that they can, but when their time wanes and they see the coming generation eager to step into their shoes they become alarmed at the prospect that this approaching legion will not respect the standards and traditions which they had so painstakingly established. Thus begins the eternal conflict between the old and the new.

  “These untiring youthful legions are full of enthusiasms and dreams and they rebuild the world anew in their own image, not caring if the standards of those who came before are swept asunder. The older generation invariably cries out with concern, but the new one will say it is necessary to raze the dilapidated, out of fashion structures, to begin anew on the same foundation. To the new, there is no loss, only progress, but what they do not realize, what they cannot realize is that their sword of progress has two edges, the second of which awaits them in the hands of their successors. So the question presents itself, who is right and who is to be trusted? Dreaming youth, eyeing the future or the preservative elderly, casting a lingering glance at what once was. For me, I chose not to live in that world of tumultuous change and came here. I have been very lucky in that time barely touches this land. I should think the Bulgaria of your youth must have been much the same."

  I nodded. "It was. That's why Istanbul was such a shock, but not necessarily an unwelcome one."

  "That is why I said it is a matter of perspective."

  I took several wooden spoonfuls of the cooling stew. "Why here Clovis, why this place?"

  "Fate brought me here and asked that I stay."

  I remained expressionless in the hopes that he might elucidate on his cryptic answer.

  "You see, I built this tower. One might say it was my penance."

  "What do you mean penance?"

  He poured a stream of light brown water into a glass from a clay pitcher and watched the sediments settle to the bottom as he began. "I used to be in the same line of work as Ramsay, only it was different then. Soldiering was still an honorable trade in those days. I came to this corner of Arabia under the banner of Ali Abdul Pasha, who wanted to consolidate his late father’s territorial gains against the Ottomans. He hired me out of Damascus. He appointed me Sherif of Mocha and charged me with its protection and security. I was completely content with the responsibilities and handsomely commensurate pay, that is, until Ramsay showed up commanding a brigade of Dragoon fusiliers bent on capturing the port and the coffee producing highlands."

  "You fought against Ramsay?"

  "No, it did not come to that. Do not forget the oath you took Evan. Ramsay took it as well. They eased into the harbor in a tall three masted clipper, the Trade’s Increase[36], decked out under Union Jack. The villagers amassed around the dock in the normal fashion for receiving an English trading ship. It was only when the ship dropped anchor broadside to the dock and brought her guns to bear, that they realized something was wrong. A young messenger was sent to my quarters in the stone citadel at the heart of town. I took two lieutenants and made my way to the scene. Ramsay stood at the foot of the gangplank, flanked by a dozen red jacketed soldiers holding long, bayoneted muskets. I parted the crowd and stood at attention in front of them. Ramsay turned around to greet me and flushed completely white.

  "'I had no idea,' said Ramsay in German so that his troops couldn't understand.

  "'Nor I,' I said.

  "'I ah, I don't know where to begin.'

  "'You could begin by telling why you are here and why those cannons are pointed at my town.'

  "Ramsay swallowed hard and struggled to look into my eyes. 'The captain has asked me to present the local official with terms of surrender for the port and city of Mocha.'

  "'And those terms are?' I asked as I noticed one of the soldiers looking at my tattoo, then back at Ramsay's.

  "'Is there someplace we can discuss this?'

  "I nodded solemnly, turned on my heels and barked off an order for my lieutenants to clear a path through the gathering crowd. Ramsay whispered to a sergeant next to him, then followed two paces behind.

  "I motioned for my men to remain at the entrance of the stone citadel as we went inside. I lead the way up four flights of stairs to the roof. The smart, black trimmed red jacket fit Ramsay's gaunt frame perfectly, its rows of brass buttons blazed in the sun.

  "'What in the hell are you doing out there?' I asked, pointing to his ship.

  "Ramsay demurred, then began, 'The first thing I'm going to do is resign my commission effective immediately. I will not bring arms against you. The second thing I'm going to do is still beseech you to surrender.'

  "'What are you talking about?'

  "'I don't ask you as an adversary, I ask you as a brother. Do not resist. You haven't any idea of what you're up against Clovis.'

  "'It would not be the first time I have been outmanned, and underestimated.'

  "Ramsay shook his head. 'The game has passed you by old friend. You speak of being outmanned, you're outgunned. With what are you going to defend this place? Your sword? Your dagger?' he asked pointing to my side. He turned away and walked to the stone railing at the edge of the roof. 'Will these be your defenders?' he asked placing a hand on one of the two short, cannon mortars guarding the port.

  "'The men who live in those homes down there will be my defenders,' I said.

  "He leaned out over the edge. 'You'll lead them to their doom. These streets will run red with blood Clovis. I've seen what modern soldiers and cannon can do.'

  "'And you think these Yemenis know not of bloodshed? These sands have been stained with enough blood to drain your precious England dry.'

  "Ramsay turned and moved his face close to mine. 'Listen to me, I'm not talking about some petty tribal squabblings. I'm talking about the dispatching of men en masse.'

  "I stood in front of him, unmoved by his pleas.

  "'I asked to speak with you in hopes a compromise could be found, allowing you and I to walk away from this crossroads.'

  "'What are your captain's terms?'

  "Ramsay unfolded a sheet of paper from his pocket and began to read. 'All municipal functions to be surrendered immediately. All means of transportation to be commandeered as property of the crown, including all beasts of burden. All stores of coffee and all future production forthwith to be sold to the crown for the set rate of five hundred riyals per ton, in perpetuity. The city and port of Mocha, along with all arable surrounding highlands to be annexed by the crown as a British protectorate. That is all.'

  "'That is all. Surely you jest. I could no more allow the British here than I could raise my own flag. Your captain's terms will be unacceptable to the people of this town, not to mention I would be egregiously errant in my duties to allow it.'

  "'Then you will not agree?'

  "'Absolutely not.'

  "'Will you at least allow a garrison of British soldiers to remain here?'

  "'No I cannot.'

  "'I know the captain will not negotiate on that point. The town must be under British rule.'

  "'Then there will be no negotiation,' I said proudly.

  "Ramsay glanced back over the railing. 'And you would lead them to their deaths,' he said, pointing to the curious crowd gathering around the line of soldiers. 'For what? Your intransigence?"

  "My eyes bored into him. 'You are in no position to question my motives.'

  "Ramsay nodded slowly. 'You're right, but I am in a position to question your actions. You can't win Clovis,' Ramsay pleaded. 'You won't even make it close.'

  "'Do not be so sure,' I said, looking out at the tall ship.

 
; "'Is there any message you would like me to relate to my captain?' asked a stiffening Ramsay.

  "'You will be charged with cowardice, perhaps even treason if you resign.'

  "'I know what I'm doing.'

  "I walked over and put my arm around him. 'You could come over to the side of the righteous. We could fight back to back, like in the old days,' I said squeezing him.

  "He shook his head and chuckled in a low exhale. 'No Clovis, I'm sorry. I will step aside, that is the most I can do for you.'

  "'There is a message then.'

  "'Yes?'

  "'Tell your captain he has one hour to leave. If his anchor is not dry by that time, we will throw his red coats into the Red Sea,' I said, stroking the red material of his jacket. 'Thank you for your warning Ramsay, but I think you should be concerned with your own welfare now. Good luck to you.'

  "'And you.' Ramsay snapped his hand into a smart salute and turned toward the stairwell. My lieutenants came up moments later. I appraised them of the situation and began preparations."

  "What happened?" I asked, setting my spoon down. "Did they leave?"

  Clovis took the glass of water and drank, being careful not to stir up the layer on the bottom. "No Evan, they did not. Ramsay was right. They overpowered us easily, shooting any man in the streets with a saber or dagger. Eighty of my hundred man volunteer force were gunned down in the first minutes of fighting. They forced the rest of us back into the citadel, which they then razed with volleys of cannon fire. I organized a retreat when there were only six of us left and we escaped to the well up on that hill," he said, pointing out the open door. "We camped there for two nights. The remaining five men all wanted to slip back into town and avenge the deaths of their fathers, brothers and sons, but I held them back. At the end of the second night I could no longer dissuade them. They saw the fight in me was gone. I awoke alone on the morning of the third day and bided my time for a week, living off of mollusks and water. I slipped back into town under the cover of darkness and stole a British wagon which I secretly loaded with stones from the collapsed citadel each night until I had enough to build this tower."

  "How long did it take?"

  Clovis shrugged. "A penance is measured by effort, not time."

  "What happened to Ramsay?"

  He swallowed the last of his stew and sat his spoon on the table. "He was put in irons and taken back to England in the belly of that ship where he was hanged for refusing to engage the enemy."

  "And you?" I asked.

  He sighed and sat back in his chair. "And I, I lived here."

  "When did this happen?"

  "A long time ago," he said, getting up from the table. "Can I take your bowl?"

  "Yes," I said. "Thank you for the meal. It was delicious."

  He nodded curtly and took my bowl. I could tell he was finished talking, and perhaps felt he had said too much. Drusel placed his bowl on top of the others and carried them outside. "Drusel will sleep in here. I will prepare our beds," he said, drifting into the side room. I followed him in and helped with his preparations. "I am sorry that I do not have a private room to offer you."

  "Don't apologize Clovis. This is almost exactly like the place I lived in before I ran into Poppy."

  A smile graced his lips as he fluffed his pillow. Drusel turned down the lantern and lay down in front of the hearth. The deep ticking of the clock mechanism atop the tower echoed through the silence.

  "Thank you for telling me the story Clovis," I said into the darkness.

  His blanket rustled as he turned to look over at me. My ears strained against the ticking for several seconds. "Thank you for asking."

  21

  Several beams of morning sun cut through fissures in the thatched roof like tiny spotlights. Clovis was gone, his bedroll curled up neatly against the wall. I left the cane behind and stepped out into the brightness of day. Drusel's gray mare was gone.

  Clovis stood on the beach, silhouetted by the white foam of the lapping waves. He held a sword in his hands. I sat on the edge of the short ridge below the lighthouse and watched as he moved in graceful measured steps along with each practiced parry and thrust. His twirling curved saber caught the light as he moved through timeless forms of choreographed attacks. His tired frame became miraculously lithe with each step. He whipped his sword through the air, his face contorted menacingly with eyes ablaze, as though striking down long dead foes.

  "You look like you're pretty good with that thing," I shouted down to him as soon as he'd finished.

  He turned startled and quickly scanned the horizon until he found me. "I am still the best in these parts," he called back. "Come down here!" He motioned me down to the beach with the sword.

  "You're not going to run me through are you?" I said joking as I walked up to him.

  "No, I want to show you where to fish. I keep three poles over by that rock," he said, pointing them out. "I usually fish with all three. This place below the tower and the point over there are the best locations."

  "Great. I haven't been fishing since I was a child."

  He pointed to the edge of the surf. "Split those black mollusks apart for bait."

  I nodded and motioned to the sword that hung at his side. "What's the story with that?"

  He clasped the blade with his left hand and ceremoniously offered me the handle. "You said in the Ascension Evan, that fire was your confidant; this is mine."

  I placed my hand around the sweaty grip and took it from him. "Do you practice every day?" I asked.

  "Yes."

  "When was the last time you used it, in anger I mean?"

  "Against Ramsay's British Dragoons."

  "Not since then?" I asked.

  He shook his head and began walking back up the beach to the lighthouse. "No Evan, that was the last of the fight in me. Their guns made it too easy to kill. Fighting lost its virtue for me when a man could no longer blow his last breath in your face. Since then, I have led a much more simple existence. I found to my surprise that it is much better suited for us than the lifestyles most of the others embrace."

  I looked up at the tower and thought he probably had little choice in the matter. He was bored of living as they lived now, yet left alone in his boredom because the others had resolved not come to his same end. I couldn't blame them.

  "When is the best time to go fishing?" I asked.

  He looked up at the sun then back at the tide level. "About now is good. Go ahead if you like, but do not forget to shield yourself from the sun. Tonight we will eat whatever you catch," he said, stepping up onto the shelf of dry earth above the sandy beach.

  I returned for the poles and prepared the bait before settling in to fish for dinner and an answer for Samas.

  I walked through the door later that afternoon carrying the three fish I'd caught only to find Clovis sitting at the table, inked brush in hand above coarse brown paper. "Set them by the pot," he said, looking my way only for a moment. "Beware the thin silver one, it is not healthy to eat of it."

  I set it aside. "Are the others okay?"

  "Yes." He concentrated on a series of complex strokes. I wiped my hands on my pants and peered over his shoulder. "It is a stanza from an epic Japanese poem about patience and perfection," he volunteered before I could ask. "Calligraphy, not unlike gardening, is a practice in both." Strange Japanese characters emerged effortlessly onto the page from the end of his slender brush. He filled the paper from top to bottom and right to left. He dipped the brush into the short bottle of ink and quickly scrawled a line of Arabic across the bottom of the page. "There, it is done. Let us have a look at your catch."

  "Is there anything I can help with?" I asked.

  "Is your foot well?" he countered.

  "Yes, I've been walking today without the cane and it feels fine."

  He handed me a large sewn leather bag. "You may go for water then. The well is beyond the garden. There is a foot path to show you the way. Go now before it gets dark."

  The sun
was on my back as I followed the meandering path up away from the shadow of the tower. His garden was larger than I had expected. Small drifts of fine sediment breached the border of roughly hewn stones enclosing the darker, fertile earth of the garden. Short stalks of rich green and withered brown twitched in the breeze.

  The well beyond was nothing more than a deep water filled hole circled with stones even more worn than those of the garden and tower. A thin rope slanted into its murky uncertain depths. I raised the rotting, porous bucket at the end of the rope and filled the leather bladder with brown water. The empty bucket hit the water with a hollow thud. I hefted the water bottle onto my shoulder and limped back toward the beach. The lighthouse spire stood black against the soft pastels of a Red Sea sunset.

  Clovis waited for me in the open doorway. "I was just about to prepare the light. Would you like to see how it works?"

  "Yes I would."

  "Set the water down and follow me." He grabbed a lantern and went through the door leading to the tower. "I started the fish already. It should be done by the time we are finished," he said, starting up the circular stone stairs set into the masonry of the walls. Two heavy black chains dangled lifeless in the center of our ascending spirals. The stairs emerged onto the narrow catwalk I'd seen Drusel on the night before. The brilliant purples and reds of the sunset were so close it seemed I might stain my hand if I reached out with it.

  A cupola of window panes surrounded the beehive shaped clear lighthouse lens. Clovis opened a narrow door set into the framework of glass and motioned me toward him. He stepped in and walked around the lens until he found the small, hinged glass door that opened to reveal the soot covered brass burner inside. Clovis ran a rag over the inside surface of the dome shaped lens and wiped at the fine black powder that always tells of fire.

  "Hand me that bottle please." He pointed toward a clear bottle half filled with yellow oil.

  "One small flame can provide enough light?" I asked.

  "It is not the brightness of the flame but the power of the lens." He took the cork from the bottle and poured a small measure of oil into a reservoir below the charred wick. "May I use your lighter?"