The burning sun of Syria had not yet attained its highest point in the horizon, when a knight ofthe Red Cross, who had left his distant northern home and joined the host of the Crusaders inPalestine, was pacing slowly along the sandy deserts which lie in the vicinity of the Dead Sea, or, as itis called, the Lake Asphaltites, where the waves of the Jordan pour themselves into an inland sea, from which there is no discharge of waters.The warlike pilgrim had toiled among cliffs and precipices during the earlier part of the ...
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The burning sun of Syria had not yet attained its highest point in the horizon, when a knight ofthe Red Cross, who had left his distant northern home and joined the host of the Crusaders inPalestine, was pacing slowly along the sandy deserts which lie in the vicinity of the Dead Sea, or, as itis called, the Lake Asphaltites, where the waves of the Jordan pour themselves into an inland sea, from which there is no discharge of waters.The warlike pilgrim had toiled among cliffs and precipices during the earlier part of the morning.More lately, issuing from those rocky and dangerous defiles, he had entered upon that great plain, where the accursed cities provoked, in ancient days, the direct and dreadful vengeance of theOmnipotent.The toil, the thirst, the dangers of the way, were forgotten, as the traveller recalled the fearfulcatastrophe which had converted into an arid and dismal wilderness the fair and fertile valley ofSiddim, once well watered, even as the Garden of the Lord, now a parched and blighted waste, condemned to eternal sterility.Crossing himself, as he viewed the dark mass of rolling waters, in colour as in duality unlike thoseof any other lake, the traveller shuddered as he remembered that beneath these sluggish waves laythe once proud cities of the plain, whose grave was dug by the thunder of the heavens, or theeruption of subterraneous fire, and whose remains were hid, even by that sea which holds no livingfish in its bosom, bears no skiff on its surface, and, as if its own dreadful bed were the only fitreceptacle for its sullen waters, sends not, like other lakes, a tribute to the ocean. The whole landaround, as in the days of Moses, was "brimstone and salt; it is not sown, nor beareth, nor any grassgroweth thereon." The land as well as the lake might be termed dead, as producing nothing havingresemblance to vegetation, and even the very air was entirely devoid of its ordinary wingedinhabitants, deterred probably by the odour of bitumen and sulphur which the burning sun exhaledfrom the waters of the lake in steaming clouds, frequently assuming the appearance of waterspouts.Masses of the slimy and sulphureous substance called naphtha, which floated idly on the sluggishand sullen waves, supplied those rolling clouds with new vapours, and afforded awful testimony tothe truth of the Mosaic history.Upon this scene of desolation the sun shone with almost intolerable splendour, and all livingnature seemed to have hidden itself from the rays, excepting the solitary figure which movedthrough the flitting sand at a foot's pace, and appeared the sole breathing thing on the wide surfaceof the plain. The dress of the rider and the accoutrements of his horse were peculiarly unfit for thetraveller in such a country. A coat of linked mail, with long sleeves, plated gauntlets, and a steelbreastplate, had not been esteemed a sufficient weight of armour; there were also his triangularshield suspended round his neck, and his barred helmet of steel, over which he had a hood andcollar of mail, which was drawn around the warrior's shoulders and throat, and filled up the vacancybetween the hauberk and the headpie
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Stephen King's & Peter Straub's The Talisman (1984) is a horror story. This is Sir Walter Scott's The Talisman (1825), a Crusaders' tale of religion, war, and romance. If you can leave behind your 21st-century prejudices of what constitutes a good novel, you may find yourself swept away by this narrative (a relatively short one for the verbose Scott) and come to understand why Scott was so popular in his time. Occasionally slow at first, it eventually picks up the pace and becomes a true page-turner. There are better-written, more engaging Scott novels (e.g., Ivanhoe and The Heart of Midlothian), but The Talisman is an enjoyable introduction to the works of this inventor of the modern historical novel.
