Cinjah and the Wise Men: The Journey

By Claire Munro Morrison

Cinjah is a homeless waif, with no memory of mother or father, or knowledge if he were born slave or freeman, is a servant in the home of Rigel. Lives are forever changed when the extraordinary Light in the heavens is confirmed as His Sign. Rigel, The Most Honored Wise One, and his father, The Truth Seeker, face enormous challenges as they begin preparations for their religious pilgrimage: they must evade political intrigue and deal with treachery and murder. Young Cinjahs insatiable curiosity, quick wit and sharp tongue interject humor into the otherwise solemn events.

The Magi are bound to the Nativity for all time, yet their story is much more than the scant words allotted in the Biblical account. Tradition portrays the Magi as Kings, but in reality these men were trustees of the great secrets and knowledge of their world and held positions as Justices, Ambassadors, Governors, and Priests. Yes, they also were Astrologers, studying the heavens. CINJAH AND THE WISE MEN: THE JOURNEY is a story suitable for the entire family and offers a remarkable perspective of our mysterious and indefinable Wise Men.

The majestic arrival of the Magis cortege, accompanied by Prince Farrah and his Royal Guard, is indeed cause for King Herod to tremble and all of Jerusalem with him. The historic journey of the Wise Men acknowledges the human condition, the promise, and the sustaining faith that catapulted them into history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 1, 2003
• ISBN: 9781403331236

Claire Munro Morrison

Claire’s passion is research on any subject, but especially Florida history, and if she can find some unknown or obscure fact – you will probably find it tucked away in one of her stories. She has been involved in writing for over twenty-five years and under her byline, "Musical Notes," published a newspaper column: a community calendar of musical events, including unusual and little known facts about musical characters. She compiled material and assisted on the script for a TV documentary aired by WBBH, Fort Myers, Florida. Her award winning short story, Melvina and Jimbo is only one of her many stories about The Palmetto Frontier. Claire also has two completed novels, both set in her native Florida in the l930s; FIST FULL OF STARS and WHEN THE WHISTLE BLOWS TWELVE, IT’S NOON. CINJAH AND THE WISE MEN: THE JOURNEY is a unique and sensitive portrayal according the Wise Men the prestige due their position as trustees of the great secrets and knowledge of their world. Claire makes her home in Albuquerque, New Mexico with her husband, Roger and her Sheltie, Bonnie Blue.

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© 2013 by Claire Munro Morrison. All rights reserved.

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without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4033-3124-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4033-3125-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4033-3123-6 (e)

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1stBooks-rev. 02/11/13

Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Overcome doubts and unrighteous desires

with reason, overcome greed with contentment,

anger with serenity, envy with benevolence,

want with vigilance, strife with peace,

falsehood with truth.

—The Teachings of the Magi

Dedication

For my Promise Keeper and provider of comfort food, Roger.

And my friend Lou who always comes up with the right word

and inserts the appropriate Jot or Tittle when needed.

I love you both—Thank You—again.

Chapter One

The illusive moon darted behind a bank of fast moving clouds, but the rare display of celestial light remained constant, illuminating earth and sky and the houses nestled among the gently rolling Persian hills. Rigel, The Most Honored Wise One in all of Persia, gazed in rapt wonder at the heavenly light fixed low on the horizon.

Ah, my Beauty, you shine for all to see, neither do you forsake me like the fickle moon. Drawing his cloak against the chill of the early morning hour, Rigel rested his arms upon the stone balustrade and let his eyes fall upon the sleeping city in the valley below.

The wonder of the moment was wrapped in silence, for no man stirred at this hour, or kept the vigil, save Rigel.

Pity, he said, shaking his head, none stir from their sleep, nor can they seize upon your meaning.

Far in the distance came the tinkling of a bell, a lost lamb’s bleating and a mother’s anxious reply. A pall of thin gray mist slowly rolled over the valley, marching up the hillside enveloping the squat mud-brick houses and the stacked stone fences—creeping in and among the olive trees, the vineyards, and the almond orchards.

Turning from the balustrade, Rigel walked to his worktable and began sorting through charts and maps of the constellations. Positioning the lamp so that its small circle of light shown upon the selected chart, he thoughtfully stroked his black beard, as his finger traced a path upon the chart. His dark eyes narrowed and furrows creased his brow as he studied the calculations once again.

Glancing over his shoulder, he noted the tall rod set into the balustrade and the iron filigree basket that sought to capture the shining within its bounds. The shadow cast by the rod fell upon calibrated lines cut into the circular floor. The deeply etched grooves measured the progress of the sun, the moon, and the stars as they followed in their ordained courses.

Yes, none can dispute now, said Rigel, nodding in confirmation. "Never in my years of charting the heavens has there been a Light such as this! It can be none other than His Sign."

Clapping his hands, Rigel called for the serving boy, Cinjah, come, it is time to summon Father. Spying the boy sitting upon his pallet and stretching, he said, Ah, you wake—that is good.

Yawning, Cinjah sighed and rubbed sleep-laden eyes and brushed back long dark hair from his face. Have I been in sleep too long, Master? he mumbled, head drooping forward, chin resting on his chest.

"Not so long as to miss our Shining but you will see nothing but the toes of your sandals if you do not look up. Rigel walked to where the boy sat upon his sheepskin pallet. Come, it is time to clear your head of dreams." Rigel lifted the boy and stood him on thin, wobbly legs. Grasping Cinjah’s chin, he raised the boy’s head and brushed the hair out of his eyes.

Here now, he said, looking into the small brown face, it is past time we do something about that head of hair—perhaps a top-knot or bind it up in a turban—what say you? Rigel dropped his hand and Cinjah’s head fell forward on his chest. Boy, he said, clicking his tongue, you need stick and string to prop your head upon your shoulders—and what is this? You cast your eyes downward like a brooding child. Look up—look up, for what we seek is written in the heavens.

Master Rigel, The Most Honored Wise One in all the lands of Persia, raised his arm and swept the sky in a giant arc. Just at the moment Cinjah lifted his eyes heavenward it was as if a thousand sparkling stars sifted through his Master’s fingers and fell to earth. You must remember, the same hand that inscribed the stars in the heavens wrote the scriptures—God wrote His plans for man first in the skies—it is our duty to translate His words to earth.

Yes, Master, mumbled Cinjah, covering his mouth to stifle yet another yawn. Again he tells me, thought Cinjah, as if I have not heard this before while I have been upon this roof with Father Benniu and Master all these many months—watching and waiting.

"The dawn comes quickly, filling the sky, and Our Shining will be gone all too soon. Bring the hot drink and then you may have the honor to awaken Father. Rigel clapped his hands again, Do not lag, you must hurry for I tremble with the need to tell of our good fortune."

Startled into action, Cinjah darted toward the long flight of stone stairs descending the rooftop. Reaching the ground level, the boy turned and ran along under a covered portico that separated the main house from the cooking rooms. Just outside the door, he stopped and selected a few sticks from the woodpile and hurried toward the glowing pit in the center of the room. Piling the dried wood on the bedded coals, Cinjah stirred the fire, and it sprang to life spreading light and warmth to the room.

Satisfied the fire was burning properly, Cinjah made his way across the hard-packed dirt floor to a long wooden shelf resting along one wall. He took down a boiling pot and filled it with three dippers of water from the stone jug. He pushed aside several crocks and jars, and retrieved a small brown pouch.

Pulling open the drawstring bag, Cinjah sniffed the aromatic contents, then poked his small hand inside and grabbed a handful of pulverized herbs and spices. He dropped the mixture into the copper pot, and carried it to the fire and hung it on the rod suspended above the fire pit.

When the pot was secured, the boy turned around and backed toward the fire. Hunching forward, he pulled the knee-length skirt of his tunic up over his shoulders and bare arms. As he warmed himself and waited for the brew to steam, he glanced around the outer edges of the room.

In the leaping firelight, he could make out the other boys wrapped in their coarsely woven shawls, sleeping on their straw pallets. He longed for the comfort of his fine woolen cloak and his warm soft pallet of sheep’s skin that waited above on the rooftop observation deck.

Impatiently, he peered into the pot, but it had not yet begun to boil. Hurry you miserable pot, he said. "My Master waits and you refuse to do your duty. We will be late for the Shining. My esteemed Rigel and Father Benniu must have their cups."

Turning again to the shelf, he began to set a tray with shiny brass cups. Standing on tiptoe, Cinjah retrieved a medium sized copper kettle suspended in a swinging frame with a warming lamp set in the base.

Cinjah, is that you? The whisper came from deep in the shadows.

Yes, go back to your dreams, else you wake the whole lot, was Cinjah’s curt reply. A sigh and all was as it had been—silent. Silence except for the soft snuffling of the boys, the rustling sounds as they shifted on their straw mats, and the sputtering of the logs.

Cinjah returned to the warmth of the fire and dropped to his knees in the sand surrounding the fire pit. Again he rebuked the pot suspended over the fire for not boiling. You will be the death of me yet, you miserable pot. You must hurry or Master will wring my neck like a chicken and pluck out each hair of my head!

Gasping, Cinjah quickly clamped his hand over his mouth for he feared his outburst may have been heard. Salty tears stung his eyes, and he swallowed hard as remorse squeezed his throat.

Oh, forgive me, Master, he cried in a repentant voice. "Cinjah is an ungrateful servant. My Most Honored Wise One would never harm a single hair on this wicked boy’s head!"

Drying his face on the tail of his tunic, Cinjah sat back on his heels and glanced over his shoulder. Along the far wall in the flickering firelight, he could just make out the forms of the other boys huddled together for warmth. They would have a little more sleep before rising with the rest of the household, hungrily wolf down their gruel and begin the day’s work.

Cinjah had not forgotten his days of wandering alone and homeless. He knew neither father nor mother, or how many days he had lived upon the earth, nor how many times he had been driven away from a house with a stick—hunger still griping his belly. One day, he had walked into the yard of Master Rigel, lined up with the other boys, taken a bowl from the shelf and it had been filled.

The dawn to dusk work of the yard boys, as they were called, was not difficult—gathering wood for the cooking fires. Or the endless task of walking up and down the road searching for dried dung—fuel for the bonfires that were lit each night along the wall of the compound. There was never any lack of food to fill the empty belly and there was always flat bread, sweet honey and goat’s milk on the sideboard for the taking. And there had been no rebuke when he slipped away to lay upon the warm ground and watch the clouds rush across the deep blue sky or splash in the cold stream that meandered down from the hills.

Cinjah liked to sit under the portico in the late evening shadows and listen to the workmen and their tales of faraway places. But most of all he liked to crouch unobserved beneath an open window, listening to Father Benniu and Master Rigel discuss the day’s happenings. Many times the conversations were animated and sometimes heated arguments arose on a particular point in the