Chapter 118: The Encounter with the Essenes

“Haridi!”

Hearing his wife’s call, Haridi turned his head from the camel’s back; his wife was swaying precariously atop her camel, yet still clutched their young daughter tightly in her arms. “Let’s… stop and rest for a while,” she pleaded. “I’m exhausted, and so is Miram.”

As she spoke, she painfully licked her cracked lips, turning her head to tighten her headscarf—whether to shield herself from the intensifying heat of the sun or to hide the hatred on her face from her husband, she did not know.

“We’ve rested many times already. If we keep this up, we won’t reach the next water source before sunset,” Haridi patiently explained.

But his patience had no effect. “I want to go back to Bethlehem!” his wife suddenly cried out hoarsely. “Why can’t we stay in Bethlehem?” she demanded. “You’re a goldsmith—a master goldsmith! Master Le Gao himself said you could get a stable job there. With him as your intermediary, the guild would accept you.”

“They’d immediately provide you with housing, tools, apprentices, basic gold and silver, gems, and servants,” she said with longing—last item being the one she desired most. In Bileibais, though they faced exclusion from fellow craftsmen and were barred from serving nobles or caliphs due to their faith, Haridi’s reputation and skill were highly regarded among the townspeople.

Haridi’s wife was also an Isaacite, but merely the daughter of an Isaacite merchant from Bileibais. In Bileibais, there were almost no Essene Isaacites; even those who traveled with caravans avoided disturbing him. Their life was quiet and leisurely. As a goldsmith’s wife, though she could not rival noblewomen adorned with jewels and silk, she had never known hardship.

But that peaceful life was shattered the day Bileibais fell to those hateful Christians.

Yet when she learned they could leave Bileibais by paying a ransom, she felt a surge of relief—when Arazalu had been captured by the Crusaders, they had slaughtered every Saracen and Isaacite in the city. She even believed she and her family were under God’s protection.

This thought lasted until they encountered that Crusader knight, who forced them to surrender their daughter. She instantly plunged from earth into hell. How could she bear to part with her little girl? It was as if a knife had been carved into her flesh, tearing away a bloody chunk. She refused to give up her daughter—but she was terrified.

She feared that if they resisted or refused, the knight would kill them on the spot. Their daughter would still be enslaved—and perhaps worse.

But then, a nobleman appeared who spoke for them—though in age he was still a child, he rendered a just judgment.

When they walked out of Bileibais as a complete family, she felt dazed.

Though at that moment they owned nothing but the clothes on their backs, she was not panicked. She knew her husband’s craft was astonishing—people even joked whether some saint had blessed him, granting him the skill to create such exquisite, ingeniously imaginative objects.

Anyone who had seen Haridi’s work would doubt not that he would one day serve a duke or king.

So when Haridi told her he intended to go to Bethlehem, she wholeheartedly agreed.

Bethlehem was the second holiest site after Arazalu, and every sacred place visited by pilgrims required icons, crosses, reliquaries, and various holy beads, jewelry, and ornaments. Arazalu had more artisans than stones on the ground; Bethlehem was no exception.

As she wished, Haridi quickly found a friend—an Isaacite known for stinginess, harshness, and near-cruel cunning, yet within their community, mutual aid and support were always upheld—though sometimes, out of necessity, they might trip a rival or sacrifice a scapegoat. Such cases were rare, and Haridi’s trade did not conflict with his.

The moment Haridi’s friend saw them, he eagerly arranged lodging and dinner.

From that night on, Haridi’s wife felt as if she had returned to her days in Bileibais—no more wandering, no more fear, able to luxuriate in soft beds, abundant food, warm baths, and attentive servants.

After only a few days, not only Haridi’s wife but even their daughter’s cheeks regained color. She fully expected Haridi to settle in Bethlehem. She had already planned whether to borrow money in her father’s name, have Haridi borrow it himself, or rent a shop directly from his friend, repaying the principal and interest with his work or earnings—she had absolute faith in her husband and never worried about bankruptcy.

But she never imagined that before she could even smile, Haridi brought her devastating news.

Haridi had no intention of staying in Bethlehem. Instead, after receiving his old friend’s support, he would not open a shop, establish a workshop, or seek recommendations to approach nobles—he would use the money to buy camels and donkeys, prepare food and water, and return with them to the Essene settlement.

“What?”

“I am a member of the Essene community. For certain reasons, I left. Now, I am returning.”

Haridi’s wife nearly went mad. She too was an Isaacite. She had heard of the “Essenes”—a small faction within their people who, despite a thousand years passing, had changed little, clinging stubbornly to the most ancient and orthodox beliefs and doctrines.

They did not lend money, engage in trade, or exchange currency. Every Essene had only one profession: farmer—or rather, a scholar whose trade was farming. They tilled barren lands, drew water from rivers, and grew wheat, vegetables, grapes, or figs.

In their settlements, there were no rich or poor, no servants or slaves—all were equal.

Each day they rose with the sun, bathed in the river, then donned simple linen robes and entered fields or vineyards to labor meticulously. It was said they excelled at growing wheat, vegetables, and fruit, sustaining themselves entirely—interacting with the outside world only rarely, for necessities like salt, pottery, and cloth. When the sun set, they studied and prayed.

They had lived this way for centuries, and likely would continue for centuries more. Such a life sounded holy and pure—but Haridi’s wife had no desire to become the wife of a hermit, nor to raise her daughter in such harsh conditions.

Yet as an Isaacite woman, she lacked the courage to oppose him, in word or deed.

She could only think inwardly—she would even rather return to Bileibais. To be honest, becoming a Christian slave or servant might be no worse than becoming an Essene—why else would peasants strive to enter castles?

But she knew Haridi, though quiet and gentle with her, was not a man swayed by his wife’s words. She dared not openly defy him, so she sought only to delay, hoping he might change his mind—perhaps, if he must return, let him go alone. To hell with it—she preferred to stay in Bethlehem.

She had heard that Bethlehem’s new lord was none other than the knight who had saved their daughter. If he still upheld the same fairness and kindness he showed in Bileibais, then even if she and her daughter remained alone in Bethlehem, it would be acceptable.

Haridi may have sensed his wife’s thoughts, but like all husbands, he dismissed them as feminine weakness and caprice, paying them little mind.

He gently patted the camel’s neck, urging it to slow, until his wife’s camel caught up. He turned to observe his daughter’s condition. His wife had not lied—adults could endure the sun’s scorch, the dry heat, and the jolting ride.

But for a child, these were three tortures. They had been out of Bethlehem less than half a day, and the girl had withered like a flower deprived of water—her face flushed, limbs limp, clearly unwell.

“Give her some water.”

“I already did,” his wife muttered. “Give her some sugar cubes instead.”

“No.” Haridi glanced at the sky. Sugar might revive her, but it would drain moisture from her mouth faster. They carried several water skins, but in the desert, water was never enough.

“We must hurry,” he said, contradicting his wife’s wish. “Reach the next water source as quickly as possible.”

Where there was water, there was usually a village or tribe. Though the place Haridi mentioned could hardly be called a village—only a settlement.

It had only a few low huts, but by the water source, its residents sustained themselves by supplying passing caravans with food, water, and hay for horses and camels.

As Haridi said, they arrived at dusk. Outside the village, multiple bonfires blazed. Haridi pulled his camel to a halt. “Stay here,” he said, then dismounted and advanced cautiously.

Soon, his expression relaxed. It was a caravan—an Isaacite caravan.

The caravan members saw Haridi. Seeing his similar attire, they too breathed a sigh of relief.

Haridi’s wife stood beyond the firelight, watching as they greeted Haridi, shook his hand. Soon, two men carried torches and escorted him back, leading camels and donkeys to the largest bonfire—the desert nights were cold.

When they saw Haridi’s wife holding a little girl, they immediately guided them into an empty hut nearby. “We’ve rented this house,” said the caravan leader. “Stay here in peace.”

Haridi’s wife smiled gratefully. She and her daughter truly needed a place to lie down and rest, sheltered from wind and rain. She stepped forward and found a thick wool blanket laid on the ground. She cried out in joy, “God be praised!” and laid her daughter upon it, then wrapped her in her cloak.

The caravan leader watched for a moment at the doorway, then turned toward the bonfire. “Brother, where are you headed?” he asked.

He asked because in this land of bandits, Haridi traveled alone with a woman and child, without servants or hired knights—did he not fear danger?

Not to mention wolves in the desert.

Haridi thanked him for the warning, then replied: “Our destination is not far—perhaps only two or three days’ journey.” He would return safely to his homeland.

The leader pinched his fingers, estimating time and distance. “Where are you going? Banias? Damascus?” Neither was reachable in two or three days.

“Neither,” Haridi said. “I’m going to Qumran.” If he told a Christian this, the Christian might not know the place—but since he spoke to an Isaacite, who, though not Essene, knew of the Essenes, Qumran was familiar—a settlement of the Essenes.

“Are you one of their scholars?”

“Qumran has no scholars—only farmers,” Haridi replied with a smile.

The leader did not argue. The Essenes were like married ascetics. Though they owned no wealth, land, or titles, they were revered and trusted by Isaacites—even though many among them had become infamous, greedy, and petty, they still clung to a faint thread of conviction.

That perhaps, one day, they might cleanse their sins and be reborn.

If the Isaacites were now a tree long dead and rotten, the Essenes were their purest sprouts. They even said that if hell ever rose to the earth, the Isaacites would lift the Essenes upon their heads, choosing death, damnation, and torment for themselves rather than let their hope perish.

He looked at Haridi, knowing this stubborn man would likely reject excessive kindness. So he thought a moment and asked: “Do you grow wheat there? Grapes? Vegetables?”

Haridi nodded. “Then can you let us travel with you?” the caravan leader said. “I need to buy grain—wheat, vegetables, grapes, or wine. The more, the better, and I’ll pay well. You can take goods in return.”

“Is war breaking out somewhere again?”

“I don’t know,” the caravan leader brushed off the topic. “I came from Damascus. But the Saracens have never stopped fighting. Perhaps they’re preparing to take Arazalu.”

He made a joke.

(End of chapter)