Angel Shared

A.D. 1030

The blue mountains that hid the sun well into the morning provided a natural and glorious eastern border for the small, serene country of Tarkistan. Two hundred miles west of those blue giants, Tarkistan found yet another natural geographical border in the shoreline of the Black Sea. After effectively defining the western boundary with miles of snow-white sand, the wandering shoreline then curved back again toward the mountains and formed the northern and southern limits of Tarkistan. Scattered across the fertile land between the convenient topographical boundaries were hundreds of small villages as well as a dozen or so vibrant, crowded cities.

The one and only port city in Tarkistan was Bakaran. Its fleet of independent fishermen supplied the people of Bakaran and many nearby villages with abundant gifts from the sea. With the rugged, nearly impassible mountains guarding Tarkistan’s eastern border, the fishing village of Bakaran was also the sole source of contact with the world beyond.

A few regular traders sailed into the tiny port once or twice a year and were greeted by excited local merchants and villagers eager to trade for the rare cargo of exotic fabrics, dried fruits, and a variety of household items and tools. On this late spring morning, the village became a beehive of activity at the first sighting of white sails on the horizon. Word passed from person to person with each villager guessing the contents of the approaching ship. The year was A.D. 1030.

For young Janatar, the arrival of a foreign ship also brought excitement. But the twelve-year-old’s thoughts were not of exotic dried fruits, spices or silk carpets. He had little interest in the cargo, as the ship grew larger below him. He sat on a smooth flat stone overlooking the port and tried to imagine the countries and customs of the people on board. It was Janatar’s day to help with the cleaning of the church and he was due there in less than an hour, but with his hunger for knowledge and his insatiable thirst for adventure, the approaching vessel was too tempting to ignore.

Squatting flat-footed on his haunches, the boy watched from his perch thirty feet above the harbor below. Janatar’s dark eyes followed the slow-moving vessel and when he saw the slightest indication that the ship had begun to maneuver for docking, he sprang to his feet. A small dust cloud chased the boy as he streaked down the dirt slope to join the crowd below. As he rushed toward the throng of local merchants and eager townspeople, Janatar realized

too late that he had underestimated the momentum of his accelerating downward run.

The sight of the thin dark-skinned boy, arms flailing and bare feet frantically slapping the ground, turned an already edgy goat into a beast desperate to be freed from the rope that held him. Even though Janatar could clearly see the rope in his path, he was unable to stop in time. A last second attempt to hurdle the obstacle succeeded only in turning a simple mishap into a full-blown disaster. The very moment young Janatar’s feet left the ground, the traumatized animal lurched forward and removed all of the slack in the eight- foot rope. The boy’s split-second decision to jump over the suddenly taut rope was four inches short of being successful.

Young Janatar was catapulted end-over-end against a large firm woman in the crowd who had brought along two of her best geese in hopes of trading for new cooking pots. The impact loosened the surprised woman’s grip and the geese, ecstatic with their unexpected freedom, seized the moment. The squawking birds, ill-equipped by nature to fly great distances, skipped north across the turbaned heads of dozens of startled victims. At the same time, but in the opposite direction, a wave of havoc billowed southward through the crowd as the frenzied goat, rope trailing behind, butted his way to safety.

The consequences of Janatar’s innocent lack of judgment were far-reaching. From the sailors’ viewpoint a hundred yards from shore, the rampaging people were directing their angry screams toward the docking ship. Greatly outnumbered, the crew chose to turn about and by the time relative calm had returned, the shipload of much-desired goods was destined for the next port of call.

Later that day while sweeping the church steps, the careless but kind- hearted boy, burdened with guilt, confessed his lack of judgment to the village’s spiritual leader. Janatar hoped that the priest would at least give him the benefit of any doubt.

“Father, I have done something careless and as a result of my stupidity, the whole of Bakaran has suffered,” Janatar confessed as he swept even more vigorously than usual.

“Oh, and exactly what have you done to create such suffering among our good people?” said the quietly amused priest without so much as a glance in the boy’s direction.

“I frightened the ship away this morning and there will not be another for a month or so.”

The priest was even more amused by the thought of the ship’s crew traveling thousands of miles only to be frightened away by such a frail boy with arms barely thicker than the broom handle that he held. With respect for the boy’s display of humility, however, the old priest maintained a demeanor that reflected the serious nature of the boy’s heartfelt confession.

“And how did you do that, young Janatar?”

“I was running toward the ship when I tripped and set several animals free,” he said. The boy carefully leaned his broom against the temple wall and moved a few steps closer to the priest. “It was the fleeing animals that caused the turmoil at the dock. Everyone assumes that the disturbance made the ship turn back and I think their assumptions are correct.” Janatar stared at his feet, now too ashamed to look the priest in the eye.

The old cleric stopped his study and turned to Janatar. “It is true that the coming of the traders is an important event in our city, and the loss of even one visit is quite a disappointment for many. But let me ask you, young Janatar, about this commotion that was created. If you could return to this morning, what would you do differently?”

“I suppose I would try not to get quite as excited about the ship’s arrival.” “And what was the reason for your uncontrollable excitement? Were you

hoping to trade for something of great value?”

“No, Father. Nothing of great value.”

“What did you bring to trade? Was it something that you thought would be of great interest to the foreign traders?”

“No, your holiness. Nothing of great interest. I brought three wooden balls.” “And for what did you hope to exchange the balls that put you in such a

hurry?”

“I had no intention of exchanging the balls,” Janatar explained. “I was going to juggle them for the sailors.”

Wondering if the story would ever unfold, the old priest continued with yet another question, “And what were you going to receive in trade for displaying your talent with the balls?”

“I’m not sure, Father. I wanted the foreign traders to laugh and point me out to others on the ship. I had gotten the attention of the sailors last year and this time I had hoped to talk to them. To ask questions. Questions about their country and their people. Perhaps even to be taken on board for a look

around but instead I chased them away.”

“Well, young Janatar, let’s see,” the priest said thoughtfully. “Certainly it is important that we are always careful so as not let our emotions cloud our good sense. And perhaps you were in a way responsible for the loss of trade. But it appears that your intentions were honorable and the result of your actions was unintentional.” The wise priest paused. After taking a few seconds to choose his words carefully, he continued, “It is unlikely that I would say this to every boy in our village, but you seem to be punishing yourself sufficiently. I see no reason for you to confess your part in this matter. It is doubtful that anyone in our small town, or for that matter in all of Tarkistan, will go to his or her death cursing this morning’s loss of trade. No one will starve and no lives have been ruined. None of the reports that I have heard suggested any human involvement in the unfortunate event. It appears that the blame has landed squarely on the heads of a few uncooperative farm animals.” The priest paused again and stroked his beard before continuing. “Perhaps a few anonymous good deeds by you for the good people of Bakaran would be enough to right your wrong. I see no reason to feel so guilty.”

Greatly relieved, the boy took a deep cleansing breath before he spoke. “Thank you, Father. I will be more thoughtful.”

More than fifty years passed since a much younger Janatar had frightened away the merchant ship, and the white-bearded scholar, eyes closed, turned his face to the morning sun. He silently thanked God for the golden source of his contentment. Janatar momentarily turned from the warm caress to appreciate his quiet time with two additional senses now being tempted. He gently inhaled the fruity aroma then took the morning’s first sip of his favorite spiced tea.

Contributing to a near-perfect morning, a light breeze carried the smell of the ocean to his garden and he thought back contentedly on what had been a full life. He closed his eyes and reflected on his travels to places that had been the subjects of his childhood dreams. Janatar was grateful for the experiences at sea as a young man. But after five years he returned to the port of his beloved Bakaran to serve as a member of Tarkistan’s Royal Guard. He thought back on those years of service to the King with pride. Now as tutor of the children of the Royal Family, Janatar felt blessed again for the honorable position and the company of the children.

Across the top of his small cup he could see a bird’s nest that he had watched develop from the first painstakingly placed twig. Straw, bits of string, and discarded feathers were woven masterfully into a snug cradle that was now anchored firmly in an ancient olive tree. Janatar was pleased to see that the nest was alive with three round gray infant birds fiercely competing for attention. With their yellow beaks open wide, the bobbing frenzy of their oversized featherless heads increased at the arrival of their mother. As the old man sipped his tea, he was warmed further at the thought that in one short year the three helpless infants would be selflessly carrying out the responsibilities of nurturing their own families. For the first time he questioned the path he had chosen and wondered how different his life would have been with children and grandchildren of his own.

It was nearly nine o’clock and even though it was a short walk to the palace courtyard he left early to spend some time with the children. As he walked he was relieved that today would be the last sitting for a painting that would hang in the Great Hall. The whole idea of an official portrait embarrassed him a bit. The thought of wearing that gaudy, not to mention heavy, gold and white uniform and brandishing a jewel-encrusted sword (neither of which belonged to him) seemed pretentious and bordered on silly.

In spite of Janatar’s personal feelings about the project, he could not offend the king by refusing. Not just because he would offend the king but, more important, because he would offend a friend. As he walked the familiar path between rows of neatly trimmed hedge bushes, it was hard for him to imagine that it had been five years since his appointment as teacher to the children of the Royal Family. Watching them grow and celebrating with them each small scholastic accomplishment made the weeks and months go by too quickly.

The final sitting had taken more time than he had prepared himself for and Janatar was glad to be back in his comfortable robe. The horse, which in the finished portrait Janatar would be gallantly straddling, had previously been sketched in and Janatar was grateful that he wouldn’t be required to pose during the final painting of the animal. He could not imagine sitting for hours at a time on the hard garish saddle. A quick goodbye to the children and he would be on his way home for a short nap before taking his lunch.

Janatar could hear the shrieks of laughter long before he entered the sun- filled courtyard. He passed under the arched entrance, took three more steps and paused. Like a proud grandfather, his eyes twinkled as he watched the spirited children from the shade of a mature fig tree. His soul soared as he marveled at the endless energy of healthy children at play.

His intentionally delayed appearance ended when a servant carrying a jeweled sword passed in front of him. The sword had just undergone cleaning and was being returned to its place of honor in the palace gallery. Glancing at the servant, the children discovered their beloved Janatar hiding in the shadows. Their screams of joy

grew even louder as the five children stampeded toward him, their excitement echoing off the stone walls.

Seconds after the little mob surrounded their teacher; the children’s laughter was interrupted by other sounds in the courtyard- disturbing sounds that were obscenely out of place in the tranquil setting. There were screams of terror- followed by wailing made by those in pain. They were expressions of agony that Janatar had heard only in battle.

Instantly, Janatar boosted the two oldest children into the thick foliage of an ancient fig tree. As the two boys climbed higher to better conceal themselves, he shoved the three small princesses behind a sturdy stone bench.

The old warrior turned as the sound of hooves entered the courtyard. He saw a servant drop the priceless sword then run screaming toward an exit. He knew his instinct to hide the children had been correct! Two dark bearded horsemen, broad curved sabers raised high, swarmed the unarmed servant. The end came quickly for the defenseless man. The sword was one of the reasons for the Turks’ raid.

Janatar bolted for the ceremonial sword in the center of the courtyard just as the horsemen turned from their victim in search of the next.

The old instructor raised the heavy sword high above his head and stood statue like. He was determined not to give an inch of ground as the two horsemen raced toward him. The intruders pulled their horses to a stop. The leader smiled broadly. The sight of the defiant old man amused him. His yellow grin changed to condescending laughter at the small elderly man with his confrontational posture and piercing stare. The two were Seljuk Turks. Seljuk Turks were fierce and known for their atrocities around the world so, of course, they considered the pending mismatch to be comical at best. They would have a little fun with this one.

The rider on a large spotted horse maintained his grin through small yellow teeth as his horse slowly circled Janatar like a cat toying with a wounded sparrow. The Turk circled and Janatar rotated with him, keeping a wide stance to optimize balance. Slivers of sunlight bounced from the majestic sword and painted the stone walls of the courtyard with Janatar’s every move. Staring straight at the stalking invader, the elderly but experienced swordsman used his peripheral sight to detect any movement by the second Turk.

The circling horseman met Janatar with his own glare and watched for fear in the old man’s eyes as he licked his dirty sword. Irritation replaced his amusement when he saw no fear. He was underestimating Janatar’s practiced concentration and stone-hard determination. The walls of the courtyard moved slowly across Janatar’s field of vision as he rotated. When the position of the second Turk came back into full view, Janatar saw that two additional intruders had entered the courtyard. Now there were four. Janatar’s

determined expression did not soften.

Growing tired of the slow pace of the game, the circling Turk backed up ten steps. He charged at full gallop, slicing the air with his lethal sword. Janatar anticipated the spirited, but ill-planned, attack. He countered with a side step and a disciplined sword to the leg. The strike from the razor-sharp sword landed at lightning speed and severed the Turk’s foot just above his ankle, leaving the rider’s horse without a scratch. The crippled rider screamed in agony and fell from his horse. The attacker lay in shock, gripping his wounded leg with both hands as the stone floor beneath him turned red. The riderless horse walked slowly around the courtyard grotesquely displaying the severed foot tucked securely in its sheepskin stirrup.

The three remaining Turks, enraged at the sight of their mutilated comrade, dismounted to meet the old man on the ground. They moved closer and surrounded him. Two of the men alternately lunged and sliced at the nimble old man as they tested his reactions. The third separated to get behind Janatar.

Janatar’s well-positioned blade quickly deflected the first half dozen frontal blows, and then with the speed and agility of a young warrior, he spun to instinctively protect his back.

The rear attacker was not frightened at so suddenly becoming the focus of Janatar’s blade but he was surprised by the old man’s speed. The Turk’s slight hesitation was enough to give Janatar’s lightning sword time to slip between the attacker’s ribs. He was dead before the regal blade withdrew.

The two survivors realized that there had now been two fatal underestimations of Janatar’s skill. They slowed the pace. The Turks organized a plan of attack with just a few words and a nod. Janatar did not understand the foreign words but he knew that the first blow would be little challenge. “It will be the second blow that within a split second I must be prepared for,” he silently cautioned himself.

One of the soulless animals moved to stand squarely in front of Janatar. The attacker planned to strike first with a powerful diversionary blow. That blow would have to be blocked and in doing so, the old man would be left off balance. The old man, he knew, would not be able to defend his right side where his comrade stood ready to swing. But the veteran warrior anticipated his opponents’ strategy and he did not intend to do the obvious.

The first strike came as expected. At the last second Janatar intentionally angled his blade to an awkward position. The risky defensive placement of Janatar’s sword would allow the aggressor’s blow to land dangerously close To his own hands.

The Teacher-warrior stood his ground. With his sword in the planned position Janatar knew he could not recover his balance in time to raise his blade for a second defensive swing against the attacker who was poised and waiting to his right. The decision had been made knowing there would not be enough time to react. But he wouldn’t to. If God was smiling on him, there would be no need for additional time.

The Turk attacked. The vicious impact of the Turk’s blow sent Janatar’s awkwardly held sword in the general direction of the attacker to his right as expected. Janatar had only to steer his blade with a subtle push. The plan proved to be a good one. The point of his jeweled sword entered the throat of the flanking attacker and embedded itself somewhere below the unsuspecting man’s chin. It was one fluid motion.

Janatar’s swordplay was flawless and showed great wisdom. Then the unexpected happened. Janatar did not anticipate that his sword would be firmly embedded in bone. As the dying Turk fell, the glorious weapon pulled free from Janatar’s awkward grip.

Another Turk joined the fight. He swung his broad-blade saber with both hands. Janatar sprang to recover his sword but it was too late. The vicious blow struck Janatar from behind.

The strike was fatal- fatal but the brave and skillful warrior was spared the pain.