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The sunlight filters through the stained-glass window, casting vibrant colors across the room. A woman's form sprawls across the wrinkled bedding. The patterns of the creases change as she shifts her weight and faces the man next to her, her body slowly coming awake.
Outside, the cacophony of voices of the newly arrived pilgrims already mixes with that of loud merchants eager to sell their goods in the streets of Jerusalem. In the garden, the morning dew had coated the pomegranates.
“Good morning”, a male voice grunts, between sleep and wake. Baldwin slowly raises one hand in front of his eyes in an attempt to shield them from the morning sun and squints at Shekhinah, a slight smile forming on his lips. He reaches across the bed and gently runs his fingers through Shekhinah's black curls, disheveled from the night’s sleep and falling haphazardly across the pillow.
“My love”, he continues, pulling Shekhinah into his embrace and resting one of his hands on the small of her back. Her head now lying on his chest as he continues to play with her unruly locks. She lets out a content sigh and snuggles closer to him.
"I wish we could stay here forever," Shekhinah whispers looking up almost pleadingly, her brown eyes meeting the deep blue of his gaze.
Baldwin chuckles softly, "As much as I would love that, I’m afraid I have other duties to attend to."
"Yes, yes, the life of the king, I know," she says, letting out a heavy sigh. "But is just one day for ourselves really too much to want?"
"I wish we could, my love." His hand travels away from her hair and brushes against her cheek.
The bright, summer sun beams through the window relentlessly, outlining the shape of their entwined bodies sunken into the bedding. “Let me at least enjoy the moment for a while longer. Who could possibly require our presence just yet?.” murmurs Shekhinah as she continues lazily tracing circles across Baldwin’s bare chest with her fingers.
Baldwin closes his eyes, concentrating only on the sensation of her touch against his skin. He takes a deep breath, trying to permanently burn her touch into his memory as his head sinks back into the pillows.
Her fingers continue to travel aimlessly, tracing a path along his smooth skin before reaching his stomach. But instead of encountering the expected softness, they are met with a rough, discolored patch of skin. She runs her fingers over it with utmost care, feeling the raised texture. Contentment in Shekhinah’s demeanor instantly dissipates. Concern permeates her voice at the reminder of his condition. “It spread” she utters, her voice unsure and almost inquisitive, her expression betraying the extent of her worry.
Noticing her concern, Baldwin lifts Shekhinah’s chin up with his hand, turning her face to meet his own sober expression. She could see the tell-tale signs of leprosy already etched onto his features. Discolored patches of marred skin marked his cheeks, peeking out from beneath the tresses of long, dirty blonde hair. The paleness of his form makes the angry, red sores on his right arm stand out in stark contrast.
“I know.” A hint of uneasiness pokes through the stoic facade of his voice. “It is recent. It appeared after the last bout of fever.”
Shekhinah's heart sinks at his words. She knew all too well the toll fevers took on someone in his condition.
Baldwin's gaze trails off, seemingly studying the ornate, eastern carvings on the columns that adorned the entrance to the bed chamber. After a long moment of silence, he finally speaks. "I did not want you to worry," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
Shekhinah reaches out and takes his hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. "You know I will always worry about you," she says softly. "Am I not your wife and you my husband? Are those then not the vows we made to each other?“
‘‘And in front of each other only...“
‘‘It is a covenant none the lesser.“, Shekhina interrupts decisively. ‘‘So, how am I not to worry? I have seen what this disease has done to you. For years I watched it ravage your body.” She pauses, her breath hitching in her throat and her grip tightening on their intertwined hands. “I’m afraid. I couldn't bear to see anything happen to you.”
Baldwin sighs. “I worry too sometimes. Not about the disease. It has followed me almost my entire life. I barely remember the days before it took hold, and I have survived it thus far”. Despite a kaleidoscope of colors reflecting off of the gilded adornments bathed in the light play of the stained glass that crashed onto the intricately woven carpets and ornate furnishings, the room exuded an oppressive dimness.
“I worry about you. I worry that I am robbing you of the life you should have had. We made a promise, until death, I know, but...” He pauses again. Shekhinah’s eyes lock onto his for a brief moment before burying her face in the curve of his clavicle. Unconsciously, she repositions her body in an attempt to bring it even closer to his, desperately clinging to him. The thick, humid heat of summer descends upon them, making its weight feel almost tangible. The air seems to wrap around everything, suffocating and all-encompassing. With a sigh he finishes the thought: “The reality is that mine will come much sooner.”
Shekhinah's body jerks upright at his words, her knees pressing into the soft bed sheets as she kneels beside him. She reaches out and rests a hand on his chest, feeling another deep, labored breath escape his lungs. With her other hand, she tenderly strokes his cheek, her eyes following her own drifting fingers. "Don't say such things!," she pleads, her gaze soft and her brows furrowed.
“It’s true.” Baldwin continues. His voice sounds even more distant than just a moment ago. Still lying down, his fingers find the hand on his cheek. They start tracing patterns over Shekhinah’s forearm absentmindedly before he turns his head away to look at the subtle movement of shadows that the trees from the garden outside the window formed on the walls. “I have been selfish. In following my desires I have chosen to remain blind to my own circumstances. I may spend the rest of my life with you, but you…you deserve someone you can grow old with, have a family, children...I can't promise you that.”
He scoffs and his lips curl into a disdainful smile as he considers the situation. “I…it will be sooner that I’ll make you a widow than a mother.” The movement of Baldwin’s fingers along Shekhinah’s forearm ceases. “And I never wanted to take that chance away from you.” He continues, his body shifting away from Shekhinah as he props himself up on his elbows, scanning the rumpled bed sheets for the sight of his tunic before he sits up on the edge of the bed.
“A chance at what? A life chosen for me by someone else?” Shekhinah retorts, the pain in her voice cutting through the dense air like a razor. “I chose you. I chose to be here...of my own will.” Her eyes follow him as he stands up in an attempt to dress, the shadows of the trees behind the window now casting a mournful pattern over his form. “In my heart, soul and body I took a vow and so did you. Men may not take heed of it, but…” She swings her legs over the edge of the bed and rushes to stand in front of him. Digging her fingers into his upper arms she continues. “God does. Don’t doubt Him.”
“I don’t.” He whispers. “I doubt myself.” His shoulders droop as he finally voices his concerns. "Do you remember when we first met? When we were children?" Baldwin smiles softly at the memory.
Shekhinah’s lips twitched, betraying a small smile that cut through the intricate relief of emotion etched on her face. "How could I forget? I challenged you to climb the tallest tree in the garden just to retrieve a pomegranate for me.”
“I climbed so high. I was very determined.” He continues, a subtle hint of playfulness appearing in his otherwise somber tone.
“Until you fell, injured yourself and the maid had to carry you back into the palace.” Shekhinah’s voice trails off absently as her mind gets lost in the fond memories of their youth. Finally, a hint of a chuckle escapes her lips. “You made me promise not to tell anyone.”
“I remember. I was so embarrassed that I even lied to William and said I got scratched up while fighting with other boys.” Baldwin’s glance wanders in the direction of his right arm.
Shekhinah’s eyes follow his. Her heart sinks at the sight of the patches of inflamed, raw skin. The menacing wounds glistening against his otherwise fair complexion make the reason for their digression undeniably clear. The numbness of the scratches he acquired that day was the first sign that alarmed his tutor William of the presence of this curse. The sores that appeared in their place over the years transformed into live wounds that never seem to heal anymore.
“The Saracens say this disease is punishment for our sins.”
Shekhinah shakes her head. “You were a child.”
“Yet I am not free of sin,” Baldwin replies, cupping Shekhinah’s face in his hands. “The land we call holy was baptized in blood my ancestors spilled. The villages we raided, families we’ve torn apart, the crops we…I burned...” He pauses, his voice caught in his throat. “I spent so many years bargaining with God, asking him that, if I were to wash enough times in Jordan, he would rid me of the disease of Naaman. Sometimes, I wonder if it was only a just retribution.”
Shekhinah's confident posture falters as her eyes widen in shock at his unexpected words. “It was not in the name of sin, but His righteous justice. It is He who commands the Holy Land ours by the virtue of Him. He who commands that it's only our right to claim what was taken."
Her words transport him back in time in an instant. He was only 16, celebrated as a hero. He was the victor of Montgisard, a boy crowned king, David who defeated Goliath who was sultan Saladin. He still remembered hearing those same words all those years ago. His mind's eye recalled the ever-so-vivid accolades and the cheering of the Crusaders as he knelt in front of the True Cross in prayer. The air now seemed to carry the same disgusting stench. The smell of incense that permeated the bed chamber morphed into a mockery that reeked of sin. The gentle aroma turned into a disgusting cloud of decay, of screams, of thousands of foes’ faces gazing upon the True Cross, lifeless, stuck in a panicked grimace, their eyes blind, mouth agape as their lives were exchanged for another’s place in Heaven.
‘‘If this ever was the land of God, he has long since abandoned it.“ His voice is low, emotionless.
Shekhinah’s voice brings him back to the confines of their bed chamber as he is yet again made aware of her presence. “My love. The people cheer for you, pray for you. They owe everything that still stands to you. They have not abandoned the land, or you. I have not abandoned you.”
She is facing him, still unclothed. The light and shadows dance across her curls. She traces the sores of his right arm, her body seeming to inch closer and closer towards him. They stand in front of the window, the sunlight stripping them of their forms, invoking silhouettes of Adam and Eve in the moment before their exile from the Garden of Eden, silhouettes of Christ and Mary Magdalene on their last night before Golgotha.
“The violence will only ever beget more. This land cannot find peace. It will not. At least not yet. And if He punishes any of us for what was His own will, then maybe it is not us who need to seek forgiveness.”
She moves forward. Her body pushes against his and her head rests upon his heart, her arms wrapping around his torso in an embrace.
“And even if He does not forgive us…in this life…” She stops and the thought dissipates into the air.
He returns the embrace, lifting his arms and raking his fingers into her hair as he rests his head on top of hers. The fingers wedge into her locks, forming a crown of bony thorns around her. The shadows play with the now exposed, old ravages of leprosy that spanned across his sides. Everywhere the shadows hit, the wounds become fresh, oozing as if Longinus himself had inflicted them mere moments ago.
A low whisper escapes Baldwin’s mouth. “What will become of this land after we're gone?”
Shekhinah swallows her words, swallowing death with them. She looks at him wide-eyed, shakes her head, and only shrugs, dismissing the question. Their embrace breaks only for a moment before her lips meet his in a starving kiss. His fingers burrow into the flesh of her upper arms, the tender flesh rendered white and red under his grip as he despairingly pulls her into him. Her hands meander along his body, finding their stop at his sides, enveloping the scars. Her fingers, mothered by the light of the divine female sink into them, penetrating the festering wounds. Their lips interlock with feverish eagerness time and time again. Their duality growing more and more indiscernible.
They collapse into each other, reaching for one another, finding unison, disappearing from the world, desperate in the raw bareness of their humanity.
Outside of the window, the Holy Land is brought to life by a chorus of Christian, Jewish, and Muslim voices that course through the streets of Jerusalem like a lifeblood that sustains it. The morning dew that had coated the plump, red pomegranates in the garden dries away. The fiery heat of the midday sun rots them.