In the morning, as usual, the monks went out early to clear the snow that had piled up on the doors and rooftops during the night. By mid-morning, the guests awoke, and after having coffee and some food, the black servant requested a private meeting with the abbot. The two withdrew into a room.
The servant asked, "Do you have a place suitable for keeping secrets?"
The abbot replied, "Speak without fear — we, the clergy, are entrusted with guarding the secrets of the people. We uphold the sacred seal of confession."
The servant said, "I know this, and it is what gives us trust in you. Know, Father, that we are not from Damascus or its surrounding villages. We are from the land of Egypt, and we came to these parts fleeing from death."
The abbot asked, "How so?"
The servant replied, "The noble lady you saw with me is the wife of one of a Mamluk prince ... and ruler of Egypt before the rise of the current governor, Muhammad Ali Pasha al-Kawli."
The abbot quickly responded, "We've heard that this Muhammad Ali Pasha slaughtered the Mamluk princes last year in the Citadel of Cairo, after inviting them to a celebration for his son Tusun's departure to fight the Wahhabis in the Arabian Peninsula."
The servant said, "Yes, Father, that is true. Her husband was among those invited to that gathering — and he was among the many who were slaughtered. As you've heard, none of them survived that massacre. And Muhammad Ali Pasha was not satisfied with killing only the princes ... he gave his soldiers permission to kill anyone associated with them throughout the land. Egyptian, Albanian, and Maghrebi soldiers raided the homes of the emirs, unleashing merciless slaughter and devastation without compassion or restraint.
I was a eunuch in that prince's household, and I loved him deeply. The noble lady was pregnant at the time and had a seven-year-old son named Salim. She begged me to flee with her and her son to escape death and disgrace. Knowing that true loyalty and faithful service are proven in times like these, I answered her call. We gathered what light possessions and valuable items we could carry…"
…we left the city in the dark of night on horseback. Once we were beyond its borders, we pushed on with greater urgency, though the journey was especially difficult for the poor lady, so struck by misfortune. Still, we continued until we were far from the city, then took refuge in a hiding place until morning. After that, we resumed our journey as quickly as we could. And oh, do not ask what this poor woman endured — the suffering, the exhaustion, and the torrents of tears she shed!
We arrived in the town of Gaza and stayed in a house there. When people inquired about us, we told them we were from the lands of the Turks, to avoid raising any suspicions. A few months later, the time came for her to give birth, and she delivered the boy you saw with us. We named him Ghareeban — meaning "a stranger" — for he was born in a foreign land.
Once the birth was behind us, we began thinking of a way to leave behind these tragedies, and of a place where the lady might find peace after the loss of her husband. After some inquiry, we learned that Mount Lebanon was one of the finest places God had created, known for its pure air. We longed to settle there — especially after hearing about the prince's vigilance and his dedication to his people's welfare, and the widespread safety throughout his domain. In addition, I noticed that my lady had a special yearning to live in that mountain, for reasons unknown to me.
So we left Gaza, passed through Jaffa where we rested for a while, then set out again toward Acre — and there, we were struck by a disaster no less harrowing than the first."
The abbot listened intently to the servant's words, moved by his story to the point of tears, for he was a man of great compassion ... and compassion is often strongest in those who live a simple, natural life away from the cities.
The servant continued, "Consider, Father, the misfortune of this poor woman: a few weeks after we arrived in Acre, she lost her eldest son under mysterious circumstances."
The abbot asked, "How did that happen?"
The servant said, "We had taken a modest, secluded home on the seashore to ease our minds and avoid drawing attention to ourselves. We remained in that city for several weeks, asking about the safest paths to reach Lebanon, and which area there was best to settle in. My lady, deeply attached to her son Salim ... who so resembled his father .. could never refuse him anything. One day, he saw neighbourhood boys going out in a small boat for a ride on the sea, and he begged to go with them. His mother refused out of fear he might drown, but he insisted until she finally allowed it — on the condition that I accompany him.
So we set off in the little boat, drifting lightly over the water. Salim was overjoyed. When we returned safely to shore, I had noticed during the ride that…"
…the boy's eyes had not left the sailor for a moment. He watched his every move ... how he sat, how he rowed, how he handled the oars ... as if he had fallen in love with the craft of seafaring.
When we reached the shore, we found the lady waiting. She embraced and kissed the boy, and we returned home. But unfortunately, that same sailor used to dock his boat near our house ... tying it to a rock each evening and heading home. If someone wanted a ride, they would simply untie the boat and sail off, then return it afterwards and moor it in the same place.
Several days passed in this manner. Then, one day, the boy went out to play near the house, as was his habit. We were inside tending to some matters related to Ghareeb, and we became distracted for about two hours. Suddenly, his mother cried out, "Where is Salim?"
I replied, "He was playing just outside the house."
We rushed out to look for him but found no trace. She screamed, "Woe to me! The boy is lost!"
I began calling his name and searching, but all my efforts were in vain. Then I looked toward the sea ... and the boat was gone. It had, until then, always remained tied to the shore. I said to myself, "He must have taken the boat to try out his dream of becoming a sailor, and the waves cast him off to a place unknown."
As for the noble lady, she began screaming, wailing her fate and her lost son, tearing at her hair until she fainted. I was thrown into confusion, trying to calm her and ease her terror. Then I began searching the area around the house and sent someone into the markets to call out for the child. But there was no news.
After four days of searching, we lost hope. We could no longer bear staying in that city. The worst part was that we could not go to the authorities and ask for help in searching using their official means ... for fear that our identity would be discovered, which would bring ruin upon us.
So we left Acre, broken by grief and sorrow. The poor lady has not ceased weeping day and night since ... and she has weakened the child she nurses by feeding him nothing but milk tainted with sorrow and despair…"
As he said this, tears flowed from his eyes, and the abbot wept with him.
Then the servant added, "I won't trouble you much longer, dear Father. We eventually reached Sidon, and there we learned that this region is among the best parts of Lebanon. We journeyed through it from village to village, having resolved to live somewhere remote. Some locals guided us to this monastery. So we set out yesterday morning, hoping to reach you by midday. A man from one of the villages accompanied us most of the way. Whenever we asked how much farther it was, he'd say: "We're almost there ...not more than a stone's throw away, or the length of a mule's tether, or the time it takes to smoke a pipe," and so on.
But we were exhausted. Our clothes were soaked by the rain, and we suffered terribly from the cold. The path was too rough for riding. By sunset, we found ourselves in a place we were told was the village of Edden's home... the residence of the prince of these lands."
When we reached that place, the man pointed toward the location of this monastery and said, "Forgive me, but I cannot go any farther with you." He bid us farewell and left. All this happened while the cold was severe and the snow heavily piled up. Many people had scolded us for coming to such places in winter, but what is destined cannot be escaped.
After that man left us, we encountered another ... wrapped in a black cloak, clearly not one of the common folk. He asked us gently about our destination. We told him we had a vow to fulfill at a certain monastery and had come to honor it. He replied, "Would you like me to accompany you to that monastery? You seem to be strangers in these lands."
We said, "That would be a great favor."
When we arrived at the monastery gate, the man paused and said, "This is the place ... knock, and it shall be opened to you." He then bid us farewell and walked away. We thanked him for his kindness, knocked on the door — and were welcomed in, as you saw."
Worry began to show on the abbot's face — for perhaps that kind companion had been one of Emir Bashir's spies, and had overheard something of what had been said. But the powerful emotional effect of Saeed's story distracted him from dwelling on this thought.
The abbot then turned to Saeed and said warmly, "Be at ease, my son, and rest your heart. I have heard and preserved all that you told me, and it shall remain in my chest a well-guarded secret. We ask God Almighty to comfort this poor woman and grant her beautiful patience through her sorrow. If you both wish to stay with us, then you are more than welcome ... you shall be received with open arms. If not, I am ready to help you with whatever you need.
To me, it makes no difference whether you are Christians or not ... for we all worship the One Almighty God. Besides, the Islamic faith is the religion of our sovereign, His Majesty the Sultan and ruler of these lands."