Misguided

By Allan Younger

The Old and New Testaments of the Bible are the guiding light of the Holy Land for many people, as they immerse themselves in a rich tapestry of stories. The guide visits those ancient worlds and grapples with one unanswered question. What actually happened?

As he balances faith with facts whilst walking an historical tightrope, the guide admits that this book is a reflection of his own thoughts entirely and makes no attempt to prove his words but invites you, the reader, to decide.

MISGUIDED deftly weaves a gripping perspective with the added twist of an overactive imagination as the guide encounters many biblical and historical sagas, witnessing a reality so close to the narrative that even he becomes confused. Perhaps others have offered their own insights when walking his path, but if so, the guide has met none of them on his travels.

And of the future? Only time will tell, for that is the one road he has yet to walk.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Self Publishing Partnership
• Release date: Jul 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781839523281

Book preview

Jaffa Gate

A cold unrelenting wind whistled through the large stone gateway driving the rain against the guide’s body. There was no hiding as it sliced at his face, sharp as knives against thin clothing which made him run for shelter, pressing against unforgiving cold hard stone. Nearby, the deserted market place echoed the footsteps of a few brave souls making their way to early morning prayer, negotiating a rabbit warren of dark narrow alleyways with the sound of their footsteps ringing out on ancient cobblestones worn smooth over the centuries. He listened as they faded until he could hear them no more, his breath a ghostly apparition that hovered around him in the cold as he waited for the rain to stop, thrusting cold hands into damp pockets. With a quiet air of resignation, he hunched his shoulders and walked over to a stone seat just outside the massive gate that loomed above as if trying to intimidate. People walked through it every day without a second glance at the place where he sat next to what was once one of the strategic and economic entrances into the Old City of Jerusalem. An uneasy feeling stirred deep inside when he thought about the day to come, regretting his eagerness to meet so early. And so, with nothing else to do he turned his thoughts to the different rulers who had shaped Jerusalem over the centuries. This was the Old City’s Jaffa Gate where locals jostled with tourists as they entered the massive portal. But on edge and cold as he was, there was a colder chill growing inside him. He tried to focus on the day ahead and Jerusalem’s history – a melting pot of the three great monotheistic religions. It was where they converged through space and time, he mused, thinking of what he didn’t normally share with his tourists.

A seething cauldron of passion, both religious and military. Of war and destruction and of everyone’s God, all in the name of higher things from time immemorial until the present day.

For the guide, every day was an opportunity to discover something new as he looked for answers to some of the great questions of history that were recorded in so many places. From holy texts and ancient steles – stories recorded on stone that chronicled events of conquest – to the parchments of scholars and philosophers. It was a history written in blood and ink, of bloodied swords and skeletons all waiting to share their stories. As the shadow of the great gate loomed over him he looked at the Old City walls. Constructed by one of the great Muslim rulers of the Ottoman Empire, Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent, during the early part of the sixteenth century, they were but the last layer sitting upon the foundations of their predecessors. Suleiman had taken the empire to great heights and his walls, silent witness to peace and turmoil, were over four kilometers in circumference. The guide knew they had been built less for defense and more for show as a testament to Suleiman’s own importance and the glory of Islam, and had provided the added bonus of creating much-needed employment and boosting the economy in what was a neglected part of his empire. Ironically, four hundred years later during the rule of the British, they had done likewise when a law was passed decreeing that every new building in Jerusalem must have an outer facing of locally quarried stone. Known as Jerusalem stone, it came from the surrounding hills, and the thinking had been twofold – boost the economy and acknowledge that Jerusalem wasn’t simply another city but rather the City of God, and as such must look and feel like it. As with many regulations from bygone eras, almost one hundred years later and with the British long gone, this particular statute was still enforced.

He never tired of thinking about the Holy Land’s historical links to the present and ancient secrets still waiting to be revealed on the journeys he took with his groups, transporting them back thousands of years to biblical times and beyond. Now, as he walked the ancient roads in his imagination, he often wondered what the real stories might have been. Did the actual events stay true to the narrative or was there something else yet to be unearthed? It was an exhilarating idea but one he knew was hard to reconcile.

The guide’s daydreaming was suddenly cut short by the harsh noise of a crow that swooped past his face, casting a fleeting shadow over him as it flew through the gate. He wasn’t superstitious but still, it was an uncomfortable feeling; an omen he could well have done without as he thought about the man responsible for where he now stood.

By the early sixteenth century Suleiman had finished building his wall and reaffirmed Jerusalem – Al-Quds, to give it its Arabic name – as a place of great importance. This is where Islam’s holy sites: Qubbat al Sakhrah – Dome of the Rock, and the Mosque of Al-Aqsa can be seen to this day, situated atop what is known in Judaism as the Temple Mount. This was and still is the holiest place for Jews everywhere, revered as the site of the Akedah – the Binding on the Mount of Moriah where God had told Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac. It was on this place where the Ark of the Covenant resided and where King Solomon, son of biblical King David would build the House of God almost three thousand years ago. Look around and you’ll find stones in walls that most likely came from the destroyed Temple built almost two thousand years ago by the Jewish King Herod the Great, who ruled during the time of the Roman Empire. Also, parts of Christian crusader-era buildings and possibly a church dating from nine hundred years ago if you look carefully.

He would have pointed out a stone set high in Suleiman’s walls bearing the markings of the Roman Tenth Legion, known by their Latin name, Legio X Fretensis, dating from perhaps the late first or second centuries CE. He would then describe how Jerusalem had been witness to its triumphal conquest by the Crusaders at the end of the eleventh century CE, and of their own subsequent defeat as their self-proclaimed Kingdom of Jerusalem in the Holy Land disappeared almost two hundred years later.

So where did the stone come from? We don’t know. One thing however, if it could talk it would tell us of the end of the Roman Empire, the rise and fall of Byzantine Christianity as it lost control to the Muslims in the seventh century CE, and many other momentous clashes between empires and religions. The stone had seen one Muslim dynasty after another come and go: Ummayads and Abassids, Fatimids and Ayubids, Mamluks and Ottomans, all disappearing into the history books. Later it welcomed in the British followed by the Jordanians, and now Israel.

As the stones on the great gate glistened in the sunlight, the guide made his way inside. He followed the ninety-degree angled entrance and looked up at something that caught his eye. For a fleeting moment he felt a shadow pass over him, but there was no time to think as the assault began. People pushed their way in and he was transported back to a different world – no longer of tourists and locals, but soldiers who screamed and cursed, trying to force their way in through the gate. Sounds of terrified horses filled his ears, and he could smell the sweat and fear of man and animal as the pressure to break through built up. He heard the crack of hoof on skull; horses panicked, rearing high on hind legs, their riders struggling to control them as flailing forelegs came crashing down. The gate, however, had been designed for just such a scenario and had been built to slow down any attacker. Foot soldiers would be trapped, their screams and curses rising heavenwards, trying to negotiate its interior ninety-degree bend with no possibility of pressing forward or retreating as they slipped on paving stones made slick with blood and dung. Throughout it all amidst the terrible chaos, Jerusalem’s defenders would let loose a terrifying volley of arrow after arrow into the heaving mass below. As if that wasn’t enough, he could almost smell the burnt flesh of the hapless attackers who were showered with boiling pitch poured down upon their heads from the ramparts high above. The thought of it made him wince as he imagined what it would be like today – sometimes it was impossible to move for the crowds of people jostling each other to get through.

Three hundred meters away on a balcony at the municipality overlooking the Old City, the city manager quickly finished the remains of his Turkish coffee. He was late for a meeting with the mayor and cursed as he swallowed his last fateful gulp along with a mouthful of coffee grounds. He was a throwback to the days where deals were made away from prying eyes but had now outlived his time, and if there was a corner that could be cut then all the better. The Old City was a major tourist attraction but recently the mayor had been critical of the city manager’s performance and he was starting to worry that he was in the crosshairs. The current mayor often ran or walked where his predecessors would have taken the official car, so he noticed things. For the city manager, maintaining a low profile and keeping an eye on his workers was all important. He sighed as he thought about the old days when the best way to prove things were being done was to leave some scaffolding strategically positioned for everyone to see.

The city manager may not have been aware of it, but this very thing had been happening in Jerusalem for centuries, often by different societies and religions as a way of marking their presence, one example being the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in the Christian Quarter of the Old City. This impressive church had been built by the Byzantine Emperor Constantine, whose empire had embraced Christianity almost seventeen hundred years ago, in an area that encompassed a hill called Golgotha, also known by some as the Hill of the Skull due to its shape. It was revered by the Latin and Orthodox denominations as the site of the crucifixion of Jesus in the year 33 CE. The Christian Gospels had described the location as being at such a place, and so Constantine had spared no expense entrusting the construction to his elderly mother Helene to mark the momentous event. Over the centuries the church had been destroyed by Persians and Muslims, rebuilt by Byzantine Christians, and then later once again by the Crusaders – people the city manager would have identified with in his official capacity. Since then and throughout the centuries all the many denominations worshiping the same God, had laid claim to different parts of the church. It was a holy competition that bestowed prestige, power and wealth to the victor. Now, under its massive domes, pilgrims from all over the world rubbed shoulders with priests as their prayers mixed with the smoke from holy candles and the heavy scent of incense. Within the holy confines an uneasy coexistence prevailed as Franciscans and Armenians, alongside the Greek Orthodox, Syrian, Coptic and Ethiopian priests, all watched each other like hawks. Often, over the centuries, the fortunes of different religious groups had risen and fallen as the power struggle over control often lay in the hands of others, slipping from the Catholics and coming to rest in the arms of the Orthodox. Then, as time had marched relentlessly on, deals and agreements had been made and understandings reached, sometimes by sharing and sometimes with words and fists.

By the mid nineteenth century, the latest understanding known as the Status Quo became the church’s own guiding light, a beacon to help navigate through the convoluted agreements relating to who controlled what within the church. Simply put, it meant that everything would stay exactly as it was, and nothing would change. This ancient all-important charter would seem only to have been documented and committed to writing during the time of the British in the early twentieth century – who could ring their church bells first, routes of church processions, ceremonies, and even the cleaning schedule of holy steps.

By now, the Holy Land was part of the British Empire, after the end of the Great War in 1918 and would remain so until 1948.

This was the city manager’s world, one of deals and agreements made behind closed doors and he would have been amused to know all of this.

The city manager grumbled as he made his way along a corridor leading to the mayor’s office. ‘Not anymore; now it’s all results.’ Jerusalem was on the international marathon map and soon people would descend on his city from all over the world to take part in its annual race. Reminiscent of the days of ancient attackers, thousands would stream through Jaffa Gate and it was his responsibility to ensure that it was safe. Only last week, however, the ever-watchful mayor had noticed some loose stones.

As he quickened his pace towards the inner sanctum where the mayor held court, these earthly thoughts disappeared and he became aware of the sound of his shoes clicking on cool marble tiles. The city manager felt like a humble priest entering the Temple, which had the effect of focusing his thoughts, when he was disturbed by the distant muffled wailing of a siren from the direction of Suleiman’s walls. Little did he realize that what was about to happen would change not only his life but also that of one particular tour guide.

The guide looked at his watch and ignored the children pushing and pulling the immense gate that for hundreds of years had been closed every night. This was to be his first and last mistake of the day. Deep in thought and wrapped up in his own misery, he didn’t hear the scream and was only vaguely aware of someone running towards him. The guide had no time to register what was happening as fate met up with him in the form of a large stone loosened over time. In that last split second when he finally did look up, his world exploded into a thousand incandescent lights as his skull was split open and he collapsed. His cheek had been ripped wide open down one side of his face, exposing the jawbone, which glistened in the sunlight, and it looked for all the world as if he was smiling to himself as he lay crumpled and still. The guide knew nothing of the city manager and his intrigues, or of the mayor, and was only dimly aware of a deathly cold embrace.

Joseph

The sun beat down directly overhead with unrelenting ferocity as the heat penetrated every pore of his body. The guide had no idea where he was and there were no obvious landmarks except for three weather-beaten trees standing defiantly in a desolate landscape. A distant howl carried by the wind made him stop and listen; his senses, like ancient animal instincts, suddenly sharpened as he heard it coming closer but there was no time for further thought with sleep overcoming him.

The guide didn’t know for how long he’d slept but calculated several hours for the sun was now low on the horizon, large and ripe as if ready to burst and casting a blood-red hue over the sky, turning darkening clouds an ominous shade of purple. Although wary of standing, sitting down seemed a worse option until a cold chill washed over him when an eerily familiar sound entered his consciousness. It was the same howl but was now accompanied by a low moan that felt close by as the sun finally dropped below the horizon. Twilight to darkness had taken only a few moments but the sun had left its calling card in the stones that radiated heat, and as night settled over everything he realized he was sweating heavily. With no other practical option he stayed where he was and for the first time looked at his watch. The analogue hands told him it was sunset, but the digital calendar told a different story as it flashed a small minus sign next to a date that suggested an ancient and biblical time. Useless.

He switched it off and on again only to receive the same disquieting information but was distracted from cursing when the moan intensified into something eerily human.

From where?

He dared not move and sat with his back against a rock, trying to marshal his thoughts, when thankfully the moaning stopped – but what was just as disturbing was the intense silence that replaced it. As his ears became more attuned to the noises of the night, his imagination betrayed him. Spiders and snakes, scorpions and vermin all materialized before his eyes, crawling and scurrying around. Then all of a sudden, something tugged at his leg. An involuntary cry escaped from his throat when it grabbed his ankle, and he desperately slapped at it but it was no more than the thorny spines of a bush entangled in one of his boots. Nevertheless, it was enough to galvanize him into action. He quickly jumped on to a large rock that was glowing in the light of a pale moon, hoping his reasoning was sound and that he would be safer and less exposed once off the ground. From this precarious vantage point he saw no city lights and so, with knees drawn up to his chest, he settled down for what would be a long night gazing up at the sky. He was transfixed by the myriad stars of the Milky Way with its celestial canvas spread above him, which, although awe-inspiring, also had the effect of magnifying his solitude.

The guide didn’t know when he had fallen asleep once more, but sleep he did. He dreamt of wolves and hyenas, a dream so real that their howling became a part of him when it turned into the same low moan he had heard before.

By now the sun had risen but it was still mercifully cool as he climbed down from his perch and followed the sound along a rock-strewn dirt track leading to the mouth of a small cave. There were footprints clustered around the entrance, but it was the two parallel lines in the dirt that caught his eye. Something or someone had been dragged along the ground and his gaze followed the lines into the cave that had now turned a golden yellow as the sun’s rays lit up its interior, illuminating a deep pit not far from the entrance. The moaning grew in intensity and the hair on the back of his neck pricked uncomfortably as instinct overrode caution and he entered nevertheless.

Trapped.

Faced with no choice he crawled in as far as he dared but time was against him as the sun continued on its path – there were only a few moments left for him to do something. The air was stale and full of dust, and he tried not to breathe as he looked down over the lip of a deep hole and saw what looked like a human shape curled into a fetal position.

There was no response when he called out and for the first time a fleeting thought entered his mind, which disappeared as quickly as it had come.

Cave explorer?

There was nothing he could see, no type of equipment he would have expected as being essential – no ropes or crampons, nor indeed any means for someone to safely explore.

By now visibility was getting worse as the cave mouth darkened and he had no choice but to turn and