A River in the Sky (20 page)

Emerson answered with another question. “What were you planning to do with it if you had it?”

“Show it to various people. He has been in Jerusalem before, I have no doubt of that. I had hoped we could send a copy to Scotland Yard.”

“It would be weeks before we could expect a response,” Emerson said.

“Quite. I had another possibility in mind. Don’t you think it is time you told me which of the persons at this hotel are in the employ of the War office?”

“I haven’t the vaguest idea,” said Emerson. “Now, Peabody, don’t lose your temper. Here, let me refill your glass.”

Having done so, he continued, “The idiots at the War office have already come up empty on the subject of—er—that person. Their investigation seems to have been superficial in the extreme. I sent off telegrams to Jacobsen at the British Museum, Frankfort in Berlin, and a few others, as well as to Scotland Yard. Cursed expensive it was, too, since I gave them not only his current name but a
description as well. I mean to make the same inquiries here in Jerusalem, but there wasn’t time yesterday.”

Determined to stick to the point, I said, “You haven’t answered my initial question. Do you deny that the War office sent us to this hotel, just as they did in Jaffa?”

“No,” said Emerson. “That is, yes. That is—”

“Then they must have told you how to communicate with their local representative in case of trouble.”

“Yes,” said Emerson, resentment replacing his initial confusion. “Curse it, Peabody, just give me a chance to speak. I was told that I would be approached by their agent here. He was to give a particular signal when—”

“Aha,” I cried. “This particular signal?”

Taking the tip of my nose daintily between thumb and forefinger, I wriggled it twice.

Emerson stared at me, his mouth ajar. Then he burst out laughing.

F
ROM
M
ANUSCRIPT
H

Dust billowed up around their feet as they trudged along the path. Sheep grazed on the yellowing grass and oxen dragged primitive plows across the fields. The scene was peaceful and pastoral, the valley framed by mountains north and south of the city.

“How far is it to Jerusalem?” David asked, shifting his bag from one shoulder to the other.

“As I remember, it’s only thirty or forty miles in what passes in these parts for a straight line. But it’s easy to get lost if you don’t know the country.”

“Should we take a chance on the main road, then?”

Ramses had been wondering the same thing. One part of him—the part his mother had tried to eradicate—was tempted to
make a run for it, risking recapture or worse. Another, more sensible part, told him that although their disguises were good from a distance, they might not hold up under close inspection. He wished he knew how far Mansur would go to get them back—or to keep them from passing on what they had learned. If he was desperate enough he might have ordered they be shot down rather than let them escape. An unfortunate accident, the soldier had mistaken them for wanted criminals, perfectly understandable considering that they were in disguise…But what if conceit had made him rate his and David’s importance too high? It could take them days to reach Jerusalem, skulking around the countryside, while his family worried and nobody else, including Mansur, gave a damn about them.

“My mind’s going round in circles,” he said in disgust. “I think we’ll try to avoid the road for a while longer.”

As the sun rose higher, he began to wonder if he had made the right decision. The narrow paths, some of them no more than goat tracks, wound round small fields, vineyards, groves of trees. The terrain became increasingly difficult as they climbed out of the valley into a region of rolling hills, with higher peaks visible to the west. After a few hours Ramses had no idea where they were, except for the fact that they were headed generally south, and that they were east of the main road.

“How far have we come?” David asked.

“Damned if I know. We’ve been walking in circles part of the time, trying to stay away from villages and houses. I suggest we climb higher and try to get an overall view of the countryside.”

“You sound uncharacteristically tentative,” David remarked.

“If you have a better suggestion, kindly make it,” Ramses snapped. They hadn’t seen or heard anything suspicious for hours, but his sense of uneasiness was growing. Having David with him was a great
comfort, but knowing David wouldn’t be there but for him was an equally great burden.

They made their way up a steep ridge, past dark openings that might have been ancient tombs. Crowning a hilltop ahead was a structure that stopped both of them in their tracks. It might have been the ruin of a Norman castle, magically transported from England to this improbable location. The massive walls were still eight or ten feet high in some places, with flanking towers at intervals and the remains of a keep visible beyond the walls.

“What on earth is that?” David asked. “Not biblical, surely?”

Ramses eased the pack off his shoulder and stretched. “It must be a Crusader fortress. Eleventh century—
A.D
., that is. There are a number of them in Syria-Palestine.”

“Crusader,” David repeated. “Oh, yes—that lot who wanted to save the Holy Land from the infidels. They built to last, didn’t they?”

“They built to hold off a good many people who hated them and their religion. And the builders didn’t last. The Kingdom of Jerusalem endured for two hundred years, off and on, spawning seven or eight bloody Crusades, costing countless lives, and in the end they were forced to give up and go home.”

“You certainly are a repository of useless information. How do you know all that?” David asked, with more amusement than admiration.

“I have a mind like a magpie’s, easily distracted by interesting odds and ends,” Ramses admitted. “Actually I learned about the Crusades from a young fellow I met at Oxford. He had chosen Crusader castles as his special subject.”

“I don’t suppose you know which one that is, or precisely
where
it is.”

Ramses was too discouraged to resent the implicit criticism. “There are too many damned ruins in this country,” he said gloomily.
He turned slowly, shading his eyes against the sun. “There’s another one down in that valley—could be a derelict church. I can’t see…Wait a minute. Isn’t that Nablus, that darkish blur across the plain, north and slightly west?”

David let out a heartfelt groan. “We’ve only come that far?”

Ramses sat down, crossing his legs. “Let’s take a rest and see what Majida has given us for luncheon.”

It was the usual fare—flat bread and goat cheese, a handful of figs, plus a flask of thin, sour beer. Ramses wolfed his half down, and then realized David hadn’t eaten more than a few bites.

“Are you feeling all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine. Just a little thirsty.” He raised the flask to his lips and took a long drink. “Horrible stuff.”

“We’ll have to find water soon,” Ramses said, watching him. “And there’s not enough food for another day.”

“Water shouldn’t be a problem. There must be wells and springs.”

“Plenty of both, I should think. We’ve been avoiding villages and people, but I don’t see any need for continuing to do so.”

“All right.” David got to his feet. “Let’s go.”

They had passed a number of small settlements earlier, but now that they were looking for habitation, they failed at first to find it. Ramses kept an unobtrusive eye on his companion. David kept up the pace, but he was unusually silent, as if every ounce of energy he possessed was focused on walking. The path had virtually disappeared and the hilly terrain was tiring: down into a valley and back up again, over and over. Ramses was about to suggest they stop for a rest when he spotted a moving form heading straight for them.

David made an abortive movement, as if to turn. Ramses caught his arm. “Keep walking. It’s all right. He’s not wearing a uniform.”

The man’s sheepskin cap and loose garment were those of a local, and he moved with the assurance of someone who was used to the terrain, using a stout staff to steady his steps on the slope. As he came
closer Ramses saw a dark, weather-beaten face marked by heavy gray brows and framed by a grizzled beard. Hoping his own pathetic beard would pass muster, Ramses was about to voice a greeting when the man spoke first.

“You are the ones they are looking for.”

It was at that critical moment that David buckled at the knees and collapsed.

Ramses’s only weapons were his hands and feet. The bag he carried was too light to inflict an injury. He gathered himself together; the other man, reading his intention, jumped back and raised his staff.

“No! I am a friend, I come to warn you. See!” He pushed his sleeve up. “I am a Son of Abraham.”

T
HE SUN WAS LOW
in the west when they reached the ruined castle and passed through a narrow gate flanked by massive towers.

“They will not find you here,” their newfound ally said. “There are many places to hide. Stay until someone comes for you.”

Ramses had had no choice but to trust him. He had set a pace that left both of them too out of breath for conversation or questions. David had to be supported most of the way and actually carried the last difficult fifty feet; he was barely conscious when they lowered him to the ground.

“It is the fever,” their guide said, putting a calloused hand on David’s forehead. “It will pass in time…Or not. He is young and strong, it is likely he will live.”

“Wait,” Ramses said. “How did you know who we were? Why are you helping us? What is your name?”

“It is better you do not know my name. The word went out, we were told to watch for you. I will pass the word now to the others.
There are Turks”—he spat neatly on the ground—“along the road all the way to Jerusalem. I must return, there are those in the villages who would sell you if they could. Take this.”

He handed Ramses the bag he carried, and then he was gone.

The bag contained a goatskin of water, a single piece of bread, and a bunch of grapes—possibly the remains of the man’s midday meal. Ramses made David as comfortable as he could, and got him to drink a little water. The shadows inside the high walls were deepening, and he wanted to explore the place before dark.

It was still a formidable fortress. There were two enclosing walls, with narrow gates flanked by towers; inside the inner wall was a larger tower or keep, the last place of defense. The ground was littered with stones of various sizes, from pebbles to fragmented building blocks, and with animal spoor. There was no sign of human habitation; Ramses wondered if the place was considered haunted or demon-ridden. There were certainly ample hiding places; the rooms in the lower floors of the keep were still intact.

He went back to David, who was deep in troubled sleep and burning with fever. It was impossible to know what variety of fever. There were too many sources of infection, from the water to insect bites. One thing was sure: they wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

He rummaged in his bag and located the box of medical supplies, lighting one of their few remaining matches to inspect the contents. The only thing he found that might be helpful was a bottle of aspirin. Wasn’t that supposed to lower fevers? He wished he had paid more attention to his mother’s lectures. He decided it couldn’t do any harm, and managed to get David to swallow one, with a sip of water. It was pitch-dark by then and he decided it would be too dangerous to move David farther into the fortress. Working by feel, he took out the galabeeyahs and spread them around and under David. It was the only covering he could provide; they had left their European clothing with Majida.

Lying on his back staring up at a sky brilliant with stars, he knew he wouldn’t be able to get the sleep he needed. Owls hooted mournfully. The cooling temperature produced weird creaks and snapping sounds. Small nocturnal animals began to prowl. At least they were small, to judge by the patter of their feet. He tried to remember whether there were still wolves in the region.

Every now and then he dozed off, to be jarred awake by a movement or muttered word from David. The fever hadn’t broken. That meant, if he remembered correctly, that it wasn’t malaria. Which left only a dozen unknown possibilities. He felt so damned helpless. If David wasn’t better by morning, he would have to go for help, that’s all there was to it. Better to risk recapture than have his best friend die for lack of care. His anonymous guide had spoken of villages. He had observed several of them along the way.

Exhaustion, physical and emotional, finally sent him into deeper slumber. He was jarred out of it by a sound that was different from the ones he had grown used to—the crunch of stone under the foot of a heavier creature than a rat or a fox. The air was moist with dew; it smelled of dawn. He lay perfectly still, listening and hoping. Soldiers would not have moved so quietly. His guide had promised someone would come…

Another footstep and then another. Ramses decided to risk it.

“The Sons of Abraham,” he said softly, and repeated the words in Arabic.

He heard a sharp intake of breath and then a long exhalation, like a sigh of relief. Ramses got slowly to his feet. He could see a little now, make out a darker form in the darkness. The voice that answered him was that of a man, still young to judge by its pitch and very nervous, to judge by its unsteadiness.

“Friend, yes. I bring food.”

Ramses came out of the shadow of the buttress. “Water?” he asked. “My friend is—”

“Sick, yes. I bring medicine.”

In the first flush of light Ramses made out the fellow’s features. He was young, his beard hardly more developed than that of Ramses, his dark eyes wide.

“You speak good English,” Ramses said, taking the woven basket he was offered.

“A little.” The boy bent over David, who lay still, breathing heavily. “It is the fever, yes. The healer says to put this in water and let him drink.”

He took a bundle of dried plants from the basket. Ramses rubbed a pinch between thumb and forefinger and smelled, then tasted it. It was an herb of some sort, strongly scented. The taste was sharp but not unpleasantly so.