FLESH

I

Should you chance, in crossing a certain mountain pass in southern

Catalonia, to find yourself poised above a little valley against the

opposite side of which lies a monastery, look to the heights above

it. Should you piece out from among the rocks the jagged ruins of a

castle, ask its name. Your guide will perhaps inform you that those

blackened stones are called "The Teeth of the Moor," and if he knows

the story he will doubtless tell it to you, crossing himself many

times during the recital. In all probability, however, he will merely

shrug his shoulders and say it is a place of bad repute, nothing more.

Even the monks of the monastery, who are considered well versed in

local history, have forgotten the reason for the name, although they

recall the legend that once upon a time the castle harbored a haughty

Moslem lord. Few of them ever heard the story of Joseph the Anchorite,

and how he sought flesh within its portals; those who have will not

repeat it. Time was, however, when the tale was fresh, and it runs

this wise:

Away back in the reign of Abderamus the Just, First Caliph of the

West, Hafiz, a certain warlike Moor, amazed at the fertility of

this region, established on the edge of the plateau a stronghold of

surprising security. His house he perched upon the crest of the cliff

overlooking the valley below. It was backed by verdant, sun-kissed

slopes which quickly yielded tribute in such quantity as to render

him rich and powerful. Hafiz lived and fought and died beneath the

Crescent banner, leaving in his place a son, who likewise waged war to

the northward on behalf of the Prophet and all True Believers, at the

same time farming his rich Catalonian acres.

Generations came and went, and, although the descendants of Hafiz

waxed strong, so also did the power of the hated Christians. Living

as they did upon the very fringe of the Mussulman empire, the

Moors beheld with consternation the slow encroachment of the

Unbelievers--more noticeable here than farther to the southward.

At intervals these enemies were driven back, but invariably they

reappeared, until at length, upon the plain beneath the castle, monks

came and built a monastery which they called San Sebastian. Beneath

the very eyes of Abul Malek, fourth descendant of Hafiz, they raised

their impious walls; although he chafed to wreak a bloody vengeance

for this outrage, his hands were tied by force of circumstance.

Wearied with interminable wars, the Moorish nation had sought respite;

peace dozed upon the land. Men rested and took from the earth new

strength with which to resume the never-ending struggle between the

Crescent and the Cross, wherefore Abul Malek's rage availed him

nothing. From his embrasured windows he beheld the cassocked enemies

of his creed passing to and fro about their business; he heard his

sacred hour of prayer desecrated by their Christian bells, and could

do no more than revile them for dogs, the while he awaited the will of

Allah. It was scant comfort for a man of his violent temper.

But the truce threatened never to be broken. Years passed and still

peace continued to reign. Meanwhile the Moor fed upon his wrongs and,

from incessant brooding over them, became possessed of a fury more

fanatical, more poisonous even than had been engendered by his many

battles.

Finally, when the wrong had bit too deep for him to endure, he

summoned all his followers, and selecting from their number one

hundred of the finest horsemen, he bade them make ready for a journey

to Cordova; then in their presence he kissed the blue blade of his

scimitar and vowed that the shackles which had hampered him and them

would be struck off.

For many days there ensued the bustle and the confusion of a great

preparation in the house of the Moor; men came and went, women sewed

and cleaned and burnished; horses were groomed, their manes were

combed and their hoofs were polished; and then one morning, ere the

golden sun was an hour high, down the winding trail past the monastery

of San Sebastian, came a brilliant cavalcade. Abul Malek led, seated

upon an Arabian steed whiter than the clouds which lay piled above the

westward mountains. His two sons, Hassam and Elzemah, followed astride

horses as black as night--horses the distinguished pedigrees of which

were cited in the books of Ibn Zaid. Back of them came one hundred

swarthy warriors on other coal-black mounts, whose flashing sides

flung back the morning rays. Their flowing linen robes were like the

snow, and from their turbans gleamed gems of value. Each horseman bore

at his girdle a purse, a kerchief, and a poinard; and in their purses

lay two thousand dinars of gold. Slaves brought up the rear of

the procession, riding asses laden with bales, and they led fifty

blood-red bays caparisoned as for a tournament.

With scowling glances at the monastery the band rode on across the

valley, climbed to the pass, and disappeared. After many days they

arrived at Cordova, then when they had rested and cleansed themselves,

Abul Malek craved audience of the Caliph, Aboul-Abbas El Hakkam. Being

of distinguished reputation, his wish was quickly granted; and on the

following day in the presence of the Hadjeb, the viziers, the white

and black eunuchs, the archers, and the cuirassiers of the guard, he

made a gift to his sovereign of those hundred northern horsemen and

their mounts, those fifty blooded bays and their housings, those bales

of aloe-wood and camphor, those silken pieces and those two thousand

dinars of yellow Catalonian gold. This done, he humbly craved a

favor in return, and when bade to speak, he began by telling of the

indignities rendered him by the monks of San Sebastian.

"Five generations my people have dwelt upon our lands, serving the

true God and His Prophet," he declared, with quivering indignation;

"but now those idolaters have come. They gibe and they mock at me

beneath my very window. My prayers are broken by their yammerings;

they defile my casement, and the stench of their presence assails my

nostrils."

"What do you ask of me?" inquired the Caliph.

"I ask for leave to cleanse my doorstep."

The illustrious Moslem shook his head, whereat Abul Malek cried:

"Does not the Koran direct us to destroy the unbelieving and the

impious? Must I then suffer these infidels to befoul my garden?"

"God is merciful; it is His will that for a time the Unbelievers shall

appear to flourish," said the Caliph. "We are bound by solemn compact

with the kings of Leon and Castile to observe an armistice. That

armistice we shall observe, for our land is weary of wars, our men are

tired, and their scars must heal. It is not for you or for me to say:

'This is good, or this is evil.' Allah's will be done!"

Abul Malek and his sons returned alone to their mountains, but when

they reined in at the door of their castle the father spat venomously

at the belfried roof of the monastery beneath and vowed that he would

yet work his will upon it.

Now that the Law forbade him to make way with his enemies by force, he

canvassed his brain for other means of effecting their downfall; but

every day the monks went on with their peaceful tasks, unmindful of

his hatred, and their impious religion spread about the countryside.

Abul Malek's venom passed them by; they gazed upon him with gentle

eyes in which there was no spleen, although in him they recognized a

bitter foe.

As time wore on his hatred of their religion became centered upon the

monks themselves, and he undertook by crafty means to annoy them. Men

said these Christian priests were good; that their lives were spent in

prayer, in meditation, and in works of charity among the poor; tales

came to the Moor of their spiritual existence, of their fleshly

renunciation; but at these he scoffed. He refused to credit them.

"Pah!" he would cry, tugging at his midnight beard; "how can these men

be aught but liars, when they live and preach a falsehood? Their creed

is impious, and they are hypocrites. They are not superior beings,

they are flesh like you or me. They have our passions and our faults,

but a thousand times multiplied, for they walk in darkness and dwell

in hypocrisy. Beneath their cassocks is black infamy; their hearts are

full of evil--aye, of lust and of every unclean thing. Being false to

the true God, they are false to themselves and to the religion they

profess; and I will prove it." Thus ran his reasoning.

In order to make good his boast Abul Malek began to study the

monks carefully, one after another. He tried temptation. A certain

gross-bellied fellow he plied with wine. He flattered and fawned upon

the simple friar; he led him into his cellars, striving to poison

the good man's body as well as his mind; but the visitor partook in

moderation, and preached the gospel of Christ so earnestly that the

Saracen fled from his presence, bathing himself in clean water to be

rid of the pollution.

Next he laid a trap for the Abbot himself. He selected the fairest of

his slaves, a well-rounded woman of great physical charm, and bribed

her with a girdle of sequins. She sought out the Abbot and professed

a hunger for his creed. Bound thus by secrecy to the pious man, she

lured him by every means at her command. But the Abbot had room for no

passion save the love of Christ, and her wiles were powerless against

this armor.

Abul Malek was patient; he renewed his vow to hold the false religion

up to ridicule and laughter, thinking, by encompassing the downfall

of a single advocate, thus to prove his contention and checkmate its

ever-widening influence. He became obsessed by this idea; he schemed

and he contrived; he used to the utmost the powers of his Oriental

mind. From his vantage-point above the cloister he heard the monks

droning at their Latin; his somber glances followed them at their

daily tasks. Like a spider he spun his web, and when one victim broke

through it he craftily repaired its fabric, luring another into its

meshes.

At times he shared his vigil with his daughter Zahra, a girl of

twelve, fast growing into womanhood; and since she had inherited

his wit and temperament, he taught her to share his hatred of the

black-robed men.

This Moorish maiden possessed the beauty of her mother, who had died

in childbirth; and in honor of that celebrated favorite of Abderamus

III. she had been christened "Flower of the World." Nor was the title

too immoderate, as all men who saw her vowed. Already the hot sun of

Catalonia had ripened her charms, and neighboring lords were beginning

to make extravagant overtures of marriage. But seeing in her a

possible weapon more powerful than any he had yet launched against the

monks of San Sebastian, the father refused to consider even the best

of them. He continued to keep her at his side, pouring his hatred into

her ears until she, too, was ablaze with it.

Zahra was in her fourteenth year when Abul Malek beheld, one day, a

new figure among those in the courtyard of the monastery below. Even

from his eminence the Saracen could see that this late-comer was

a giant man, for the fellow towered head and shoulders above his

brethren. Inquiry taught him that the monk's name was Joseph. Nor was

their meeting long delayed, for a sickness fell among the people of

the valley, and Abul Malek, being skilled in medicine, went out to

minister among the poor, according to his religion. At the sick-bed of

a shepherd the two men came face to face.

Joseph was not young, nor was he old, but rather he had arrived at the

perfect flower of his manhood, and his placid soul shone out through

features of unusual strength and sweetness. In him the crafty Moor

beheld a difference which for a time was puzzling. But eventually he

analyzed it. The other monks had once been worldly men--they showed it

in their faces; the countenance of Fray Joseph, on the contrary, was

that of a boy, and it was without track of temptation or trace of

evil. He had lived a sheltered life from his earliest youth, so it

transpired, and Abul Malek rejoiced in the discovery, it being his

belief that all men are flesh and that within them smolder flames

which some day must have mastery. If this monk had never let his youth

run free, if he had never met temptation and conquered it, those

pent-up forces which inhabit all of us must be gathering power, year

by year, and once the joint of this armor had been found, once it

could be pierced, he would become earthly like other men, and his

false religion would drop away, leaving him naked under the irksome

garb of priesthood.

Accordingly, the Moor tested Fray Joseph, as he had tested the Abbot

and the others, but to no avail, and he was in despair, until one day

the secret of his failure was unexpectedly revealed.

Being busied with his accounts, he had repaired to the shade of a

pomegranate grove near the cliff, the better to escape the heat; while

so engaged up the path from the monastery came the good brother. Just

abreast of Abul Malek's point of vantage Joseph paused to listen. A

songbird was trilling wondrously and the monk's face, raised toward

the pomegranate trees, became transfigured. He changed as if by

magic; his lips parted in a tender smile, his figure grew tense with

listening; not until the last note had died away did he move. Then

a great breath stirred his lungs, and with shining eyes and rapt

countenance he went on into the fields.

Abul Malek rose, his white teeth gleaming through his beard.

"Allah be praised!" he exclaimed. "It is music!" And rolling up his

papers, he went into the house.

Early on the following morning another cavalcade filed down past the

monastery of San Sebastian; but this procession was in great contrast

to the one that had gone by five years before. Instead of gaily

caparisoned warriors, it was composed mainly of women and slaves, with

a mere handful of guards to lead the way. There were bondmaidens and

seamstresses, an ancient nurse and a tutor of languages; while astride

of a palfrey at her father's side rode the youthful lady of the

castle. Her veil was wet upon her cheeks, her eyes were filled with

shadows; yet she rode proudly, like a princess.

Once more the train moved past the sun-baked walls of the monastery,

across the plain to the mountain road that led to the land of bounty

and of culture. Late that afternoon Brother Joseph learned from the

lips of a herdsman that the beauteous Zahra, flower of all the Moorish

race, had gone to Cordova to study music.