A River in the Sky (25 page)

“If madam has a complaint,” he began.

“No, not at all. Seeing you always on duty, and performing so well, I wanted to pass on my commendation to your superior.”

His face brightened. “Thank you, madam. If you would care to write a message to that effect, it would be most kind.”

Subtlety had not availed me. I took a more direct approach. “Is there some reason why I can’t speak to him in person?”

It took some persistence to get it out of him. The manager was at home, ill with the fever. He didn’t want the word to get out for fear patrons would think they might be in danger of catching the same
illness. Mr. Fazah assured me earnestly that there was no danger of infection, that such fevers were common, debilitating but not life-threatening; that all food and drink served in the hotel were perfectly safe. I promised him I would keep the matter under my hat, regretting that I was unable to demonstrate the meaning of the phrase since I was not wearing that article of apparel.

As if to indicate his dedication to duty, Mr. Fazah informed me that although there had been no written messages for us, several persons had come round to see us. One had been Mr. Page, earlier that afternoon. The other, “a queer shabby sort of little old Jewish person,” had been there within the past hour. “I was forced to ask him to leave,” said Mr. Fazah, nose in the air, “since he began waving his arms and shouting.”

The description, unkind though it was, left no doubt as to the identity of our most recent visitor. The poor man was determined to help us, whether we wanted help or not—and I could not imagine any way in which he might be of use. However, simple civility dictated that I give him a few minutes of my time.

“I will send him away if he returns,” Mr. Fazah offered.

“No, no. Notify me unless the hour is unreasonably late.”

The unexpected absence of the manager might explain why we had not received any word from MO2, if such messages were only to be delivered to him in person. The process seemed haphazard and potentially dangerous. But after all, I reminded myself, the War Office was run by men.

I found the others, including Mr. Plato, in the dining salon.

“Did you have a fruitful encounter with your friend Major Morley?” I inquired of the latter.

“I rejoice to say that we are again in amity” was the reply, accompanied by a soulful look.

“In that case,” I said, “you will, I expect, prefer to take up your living quarters with him.”

Plato gave me a startled look. “But, Mrs. Emerson—”

“What precisely was the nature of your original agreement with him?” I asked.

Planting his elbows on the table, Emerson regarded me with approval. “See if you can winkle it out of him, Peabody. When I tried, all I got was vague biblical references.”

Unfortunately the waiter turned up to take our orders, which gave Plato time to organize his thoughts—or, as Emerson would have said, think up a convincing lie. I immediately resumed my interrogation.

“You supplied the information contained in the scroll,” I said. “He supplied the funds and financial support. Were you to divide the proceeds?”

“No such mercenary object was in my mind,” Plato said with a show of dignity. “I only wished to see the Holy Scriptures confirmed, the truth shown to the world.”

“Who paid your living expenses while you were in England?”

“We were as brothers, united in our burning faith.”

“Oh, yes, I can see Morley burning with faith,” said Emerson. He added, “If he mentions David and Jonathan I will send him to his room without his supper.”

“In other words,” I said sternly, “you lived off the money Morley brought in from his subscribers. Since you are now in amity again, he can go back to supporting you. I will arrange for a carriage to collect you and your luggage first thing tomorrow morning.”

No one had the temerity to protest. Nefret looked down at her plate, lips compressed, ignoring the pitiful looks Plato shot at her. Her tender heart was at war with her keen intelligence, and finally, it appeared, intelligence was in the ascendancy.

Plato ate his way through the soup course, the fish course, and all the other courses as if he expected it would be his last meal—which for all I knew might well be the case. When we retired to the lounge for coffee, he trailed after us. Since we needed to discuss our plans
for the morrow, I told him to go to his room and begin packing. Thus far he had not got wind of our intentions, and I wanted it to remain that way.

I had reason, shortly thereafter, to be thankful I had sent him away. Scarcely had we taken our seats than Mr. Fazah came toward us. “That person,” he began. He did not finish; the little rabbi pushed past him and ran to me.

“God be thanked,” he panted. “You are here.”

“Oh, good Gad,” said Emerson. “Tell him we do not need his help and get rid of him. Be polite, of course.”

The rabbi reached into the breast of his robe and took out a folded paper, which he thrust at me. “Help,” he said. “Help.”

I cannot say what I expected; but one glance at the crumpled paper dispelled any doubts as to the rabbi’s intentions. I recognized the paper as a page from my son’s notebook, and the handwriting as that of Ramses.

“It appears to be addressed to you, Emerson,” I said. “In Arabic, Hebrew, and English. Rabbi, how did you—”

“For pity’s sake, Aunt Amelia, open it!” cried Nefret. Seated next to me, she had also identified the handwriting. In her agitation she actually snatched the note from my hand and unfolded the paper. The flush of health faded from her cheeks as she read.

“What?” shouted Emerson. “What?”

“Sssh,” I said. “Let us not draw attention to ourselves. Read it aloud, Nefret. Quietly.”

In fact quite a number of other patrons were looking in our direction. A gathering of pilgrims, the same ones we had observed in the dining salon, turned to stare, and a Turkish dignitary edged closer.

Looking over Nefret’s shoulder, I saw that Ramses’s handwriting was even more irregular than usual, but she read it off without hesitating. It began abruptly, with no salutation. “‘A friend is bringing this message. We were prisoners but got away. We are holed up in
Crusader castle approx. ten m. south of Nablus, e. of the main road. David ill. Would appreciate assistance but please be careful, think we are being pursued.’”

“We must go at once,” Selim exclaimed. “Where is this place?”

“We will find it,” Nefret said quietly. “But, Selim, we cannot leave this moment.”

I looked at her with surprise and admiration, for I had been about to make that point myself. As was so often the case, she could control her fiery temper when the occasion was desperate. The color had rushed back into her cheeks; they glowed as if with fever.

“Quite right,” I said. “We cannot set out in darkness, particularly when we don’t know the precise location of the place. Rabbi, how did you come by this message?”

But when I turned to address him, he was gone.

I
DOUBT THAT ANY
of us slept well that night. Emerson certainly did not; he kept tossing and turning and muttering to himself. We were all afire to be gone, but as I had pointed out, it would be folly to charge blindly ahead, risking an accident or missing the place in the dark. Paging patiently through my guidebook—whose index had no entry for “castles”—I had finally found a reference to a place that must be the one Ramses had referred to. Known as Tal’at-ed-dam, or “Hill of Blood,” it was described as the ruins of a Crusader castle, and I did not doubt that in its heyday the name had been only too appropriate. Under other circumstances I would have considered it a most interesting side trip.

The only other thing we could do before retiring was to make certain our means of transportation would be available on time. There was now no need to pack changes of clothing and other nonessentials, but we decided to retain the carriage in case David was not
able to ride. Despite the press of new arrangements, I found time to inform Mr. Fazah that we would no longer be responsible for Plato’s hotel bills.

Lying awake beside my restless spouse, I addressed a little prayer of thanks to Him who watches over us—and also to the governesses and nannies who had instilled in me their notions of proper behavior. (My esteemed father had taught me languages but not manners; his own left a good deal to be desired.) Had I not had the courtesy to listen to the little rabbi, we might have set out on a fruitless quest, never knowing our dear ones were so close, and in mortal danger. I did not minimize that danger, despite Ramses’s offhand request for assistance. He hated asking for help, but I wished he had gone straight to the point and mentioned details such as the time and date. As it was, we had no idea how long the message had taken to reach us; it might have been days.

He and David must have been on their way to Jerusalem when David fell ill. The illness must be severe enough to prevent David from going on. I had packed every variety of medicine I had with me, and I knew Nefret had done the same. If only Ramses had had the decency to add a few more words that would give us a clue as to what ailed the boy, and how serious it was!

The friend who had offered to carry a message could not have been the rabbi; he was not the sort of person to go tramping in the hills. Grubby and tattered as the paper was, it might have passed through several hands before reaching its destination—and that destination was the rabbi. The final messenger had delivered it to him instead of going the rounds of the Jerusalem hotels.

What did it all mean? I was unable to concentrate on any single issue, my mind kept wandering off into irrelevant byways. I had just convinced myself I would not get a wink of sleep when I was awakened by a knock at the door and a voice calling my name.

All the worries of the night came flooding back. I sprang out of
bed, instantly alert, and fell over Emerson’s boots, which I had placed near the door in preparation for the morrow.

“Are you all right, Aunt Amelia?” Nefret asked.

“Yes, yes, and wide awake.” I rose, rubbing my shin. The room was pitch-dark—the utter darkness before the dawn, as some poet or other has put it.

Nefret had obviously been up for some time. She had rousted out (her phrase) the cook and had carried to our door, with her own hands, the beverage essential to Emerson’s arousal. On this occasion he was much easier to manage; like myself, he had been awake half the night, itching to be on our way. When we assembled on the steps of the hotel the sky was still black, but my watch, which I never neglect to wind, assured me dawn was not far distant. I beheld not a single star. The morning fog had moved in, mixing with the varied and noxious effluvia of the city.

I had expected we would be the only early risers, but I had overlooked the dedication (or zealotry) of religious persons. The group of pilgrims that had made such a memorable impression must have a distant holy destination on their agenda for the day; they were assembled in the dining salon. Daoud cast a longing glance in that direction; observing it, Nefret assured him she had asked that picnic baskets be ready.

Selim was waiting with the drivers and mounts we had ordered. Nefret was the first in the saddle. To his disgust, Daoud was relegated to the carriage, which was drawn by two sturdy horses. Selim had been unable to find a horse that was up to his weight. The one assigned to me was almost as small as a pony, which was reassuring; but when I approached the creature it shied back, showing the whites of its eyes.

“That damned belt of tools is spooking the horse, Peabody,” said Emerson, already mounted. “Take it off.”

“I cannot proceed without my accoutrements, Emerson. They
jangle a bit, to be sure, but we may need one or all of them before the day is over.”

“Then get in the carriage with Daoud,” said Emerson shortly.

I did so, not without a certain feeling of relief. I am not an accomplished horse woman and the pony had obviously taken a dislike to me.

The carriage driver, hunched over and well wrapped up against the chill of the morning, cracked his whip, and we were off, with Emerson, Nefret, and Selim in the lead. Someone, probably Nefret, had ascertained the quickest route out of the city. With a minimum of delay, for the streets were comparatively empty at that hour, we reached the Damascus Gate and left the city proper. The population had spilled out beyond the walls; we passed several fine villas and groups of houses. The sun peeped over the horizon. The recently completed road allowed for reasonable speed, but I was pleased to see that Emerson, now in the lead, kept a moderate pace. We must not be separated, I had told him.

We had been on our way for slightly more than an hour when we rounded a curve and saw ahead a barricade guarded by a group of Turkish soldiers. Observing Emerson, who was hard to miss, the officer stepped forward and held up his hand.

I saw no other vehicles or individuals waiting. It was as I had feared. Someone had anticipated our intentions—and I thought I could guess who. I gripped my parasol tightly, prepared for combat if it became necessary. We dared not risk delay.

I should not have doubted my admirable spouse. Instead of stopping, he urged the horse into a gallop and burst through the barricade, shattering the flimsy wooden structure into splinters. The soldiers scattered in panic as Nefret and Selim thundered down on them. I poked my driver with my parasol. “Faster,” I cried. “Yallah, yallah, do not stop.”

He may have thought it was a knife at his back (as I believe
I have mentioned, my parasols have extremely sharp points) or he may have been carried away by the general stampede. Emitting a loud cry, he brandished his whip. Stony dust and a rain of small pebbles flew up from below the horses’ hooves as they dashed forward. We met with no impediment; the riders ahead of us had removed them.

Gripping the side of the carriage, which was swaying and bouncing, I looked back. No one appeared to have been seriously injured; the soldiers were slowly getting to their feet and the officer was expostulating (to judge by his impassioned gestures) with a person on horseback.

Emerson kept up the pace for another mile before he slowed his horse to a trot. Waving Nefret and Selim on, he fell back beside the carriage.