My Three Days in Gilead

by Elmer U. Hoenshel

After five o'clock the plain was deserted; we saw from that time neither man nor beast. I was cramped and painfully tired, and feeling that if I could but walk for a few minutes it would be quite a relief, I dismounted—quite a difficult thing to do and keep from sprawling upon the ground. But I was no sooner off my horse than Haleel was beside me, and my dragoman, who was at that time nearly a hundred yards ahead of me, rode back and sternly commanded: "You get right back on that horse; this is no time to think of walking; you can do that some other time." Inwardly I resented it; how could I stand it longer! I blamed it on the saddle, then I thought that they must have given me the worst horse of the three. But all this helped nothing. They assisted me again into the saddle. Then my guide delivered a little speech in Arabic to Haleel. I did not then understand it, but shortly after I learned the essence of it; it was, "You keep your eye on him and see that he keeps his horse moving." When I found myself again in the saddle I determined that if I must ride there would be no more trotting of my horse,—I would proceed as gently as possible. But, alas! Haleel had his whip and my dream of controlling my horse was over. After that I kept close to my dragoman. At that time I thought it harsh treatment, but later I understood.

We have reached the limit of level land and are now winding among the eastern foot-hills of the mountains of Gilead. It is the hour of sunset and the great orb of day sinks in sad beauty to me. In the twilight I see here and there half-buried pillars of some famous temple—a temple that surely never stood here. Our horses are wet with sweat; we have not halted for lunch; not a drop of water has been seen; night is coming on with its pale moon casting weird shadows about us; we are alone in a land noted for its lawlessness, and yet we are unarmed. We move on almost in silence. There is silence about us, save for the cry now and then of some night-bird. We see no lights save those above us. My guide seems bewildered and uncertain as to the location of the town we seek. I am faint from weariness, and so cramped that at times it is with difficulty that I keep from falling to the ground. I am now quite solicitous as to our safety and not a little alarmed when our way leads through some rocky, narrow passage suggestive of a lurking-place for men of evil intent. But at last, at half-past nine o'clock, after being in the saddle for nine hours, I am aroused from my stupor by a joyful exclamation from my dragoman. A few dim lights are seen,—IT IS GERASA!

My dragoman continued his exclamations of praise thus, "I thank my God for saving my life once more." I said faintly, "Why such words?" "Well," he said, "all natives are expected to be in their villages by sundown, tourists at their destination earlier. It is the custom of this region that tourists must have an escort of soldiers or Bedouins, even in times of peace; and now THE FEUDS ARE ON; and here we have come alone, at night, unarmed; and I am responsible for these horses—they are not mine—and for your life. The ride may have been hard for you, but the hours of anxiety were more trying to me. I have now done it once, but I'll never again assume such a risk—NOT EVEN FOR A MILLION POUNDS!" I had no response that he heard, but mentally I said, "Never again with ME, Mr. Barakat. NO, NEVER!"

Yet I think I never experienced greater joy on entering my own home than on that night when entering and riding through the crooked, narrow lanes of that miserable village of Gilead.

"At Gerasa"

CHAPTER IV.

Though in the village, and therefore relieved of the feeling of special danger, yet we had much difficulty in securing lodging for the night. Our arrival seemed to disturb the peace of dogdom in what otherwise would have been a quiet resting-place. No people were outside their houses. We picked our way to the nearest light; the occupant of the house would not come out, but showed his face at the window—a hole in the wall about a foot square. My dragoman pleaded for lodging, but in vain. We sought the next house in which there was a light, but neither would the people of that home open to us. We tried several other places, but at all of them we were refused admission. They seemed to look with suspicion upon our visit to the village. But, finally, a good old Mohammedan consented to let us spend the night in his rock hut, and gave us the privilege of putting our horses in his little walled space by the house. Haleel must spend the night in this yard—he always slept with the horses. When my dragoman helps me over the stone door-sill, and we enter the hut, we find that the part allotted to men consists of but one small room, having a floor of earth on which are spread a couple of mats. In this room there is no furniture. Two persons are already asleep on the floor. We do not disturb them.

Not having eaten anything since noon, my dragoman begins at once to prepare a light lunch for us. On a brazier that he finds here he makes a little charcoal fire and quickly brews some of the tea brought from Damascus; into this he squeezes lemon juice; then finding some bread that he had stowed away in his saddle-bags, our lunch is ready. I sit on the floor as comfortable as I can make myself while he is getting supper. The flickering light, the shifting shadows, the strange ones lying asleep, the almost as strange dusky helpers, the sense of dangers just escaped, the whining, wailing, barking dogs, my physical pain—all these things beget within me a strange feeling of loneliness and a longing for home. Again and again I ask myself the question, "Why did you undertake this; why were you not content to go down from Damascus to Galilee and all of West Palestine by the easy way?" But, again and again I say to myself: "You would never have been satisfied had you done so; this is part of the price to be paid for what you wanted; consider what you get in exchange, value received."

But my reverie is cut short by a groan from my dragoman; he sank back trembling and said, "Call Haleel!" Together we worked with him for a half-hour or more until a chill, the result of drinking too much water on reaching the village, had been overcome. I was much alarmed at the possible outcome of his sudden illness, for had he left me thus the situation for me would have been one of extreme perplexity. In my anxiety for him I forgot for the moment my own condition. But now I am again a conscious sufferer. So tired am I that I can scarcely wait until I have sipped a little tea and eaten a little bread before I have removed hat and shoes and am stretched out upon the floor to sleep. The horses seem restless in their stamping; the dogs keep up their barking; the room is dark; I hear the heavy breathing of those about me; a lone star peeps in through the small window; and I try to compose myself for the rest that I so much need. "Is there no balm in Gilead?" Yes. I thought that I was lying down to a night of restlessness and fever, but never on couch of down has my rest been sweeter.