The Tenth Saint (42 page)

Epilogue

S
arah stood at the base of the rocky mound, contemplating the length of frayed cowhide oscillating like a doubt, a tenuous thread separating the earthly from the divine. Her eyes followed the rope a hundred feet up to the top of the vertical cliff face and looked upon the ancient church that stood atop it, a low-roofed edifice of jagged old stones held together by wood lintels. Dabra Damo was exactly as she’d imagined it: a treasure vault masquerading as a hovel, a king in pauper’s clothes. She turned her gaze to the man beside her.

“Ready to go?” Daniel asked.

She gave him the thumbs-up.

“Good. Let’s get one last look at you. Baggy pants … Loose Windbreaker … Hair tucked under cap … Okay, it’s official. You look like a man.”

She laughed loudly. His humor had a way of slicing through her anxiety and buoying her optimism.

“Wait. You need one more thing.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a string of ivory-colored prayer beads with a frayed tassel at the end. “A monk gave these to me when I was trekking in Ladakh years ago. They are yak bone. Supposed to bring luck. Way I figure it, a little luck couldn’t hurt right now.”

The beads felt substantial in her hand. She rolled them in her fingers, then wrapped the string around her wrist three times. “Thanks, Danny. I mean, thanks for coming here with me.”

“Hey, I’ve been dying to come back to Ethiopia. Besides, you need someone to catch you if those sour old monks figure out you’re a woman and decide to throw you over the edge.”

She secured her backpack with its chest straps and slipped the noose end of the leather rope over her head. It slung loosely across the small of her back.

“Let’s hope this baby holds,” Daniel said as he tugged on the weathered hide.

“Really, Danny, this has been in use for hundreds of years.”

“Yes, that’s what worries me.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Now you be careful. I mean that.”

She held him for a long time and reveled in his musky scent. “Danny, I’ve been thinking about your offer. To work with you.”

”It still holds.”

“I may just … take you up on it.”

His smile was broader than she had ever seen it. “Better get your sunscreen ready. It’s a hundred twenty degrees in the desert this time of year.”

“I can take the heat. In case you haven’t noticed.” She tugged twice on the rope, a signal to the monks above that someone was ascending.

A decade’s work among the stones had taught Sarah the art of negotiating cliff faces even as steep as this one. Holding on to the rope, which was much stronger than its shabby appearance suggested, she climbed up the sheer rock like a pro.

At the top, she was greeted by an acolyte dressed in the familiar dingy white robes and white skullcap of the devout.

“Welcome, brother,” he said in Amharic. “You have made long journey to worship here. The sanctuary of Dabra Damo will receive your prayers.”

“I wish to see the abbot.”

Her voice gave her away, and the monk stared at her in shock. When he realized he was looking at a woman, he went into hysterics, flailing his arms and cursing her foul presence on the sacred mountain.

The abbot heard him and rushed outside.

“A woman, a woman.” The scandalized young acolyte pointed at Sarah as if she were a demon. “She must leave this instant.”

Sarah removed her cap and sunglasses and gave the abbot a good look at her face. They instantly recognized each other. They had met long ago, outside the tenth saint’s tomb. He was the old monk who had warned her about the wrath of God. Now that she had come full circle, she granted that he hadn’t been altogether wrong. The journey had indeed been cursed at times, but it was one she would undertake again without hesitation.

“I bring word from Brother Apostolos.”

The abbot looked at her serenely. “I have been expecting you.” He turned and walked toward the sanctuary.

She followed him past the column of bewildered acolytes who had now gathered to see what the ruckus was. Inside, she felt the pious gaze of the nine saints, silent inhabitants of gilded icons and mosaic murals, as she walked across the narthex. She walked past niches in which were displayed illuminated manuscripts in Ge’ez, as magnificent now as on the day they had been rendered. The air was heavy with the scent of frankincense that burned eternally inside golden censers hanging from the walls. She felt light-headed.

The abbot stopped in front of the holy of holies and dropped to his knees.

She kneeled beside him and, after a long moment of silence, said, “I feel responsible for the brothers’ deaths.”

“Their fate was written, child. It is all written.”

She wiped a single tear from the corner of her eye. “And what of the devastating future that awaits us? The destruction the tenth saint warned of? Is that written?”

“It will all unfold as it will. It is not for us to know.”

“But knowledge informs our actions. And actions bring about change.”

“Some change, yes. But we cannot know if our actions change the course of history or if we are merely instruments in fulfilling a predetermined future. That is the province of the divine, not of man.” He turned to her and smiled. “Or even woman.”

She let the weight of that statement settle on her shoulders. For all the schemes she had concocted and trials she had endured in the name of derailing the catastrophe she had been certain was coming, she still had no idea whether she had clinched the outcome. For the first time in her life, she had to allow that not every question had an answer. She inhaled deeply, then did what she had come there to do.

“Apostolos wanted me to bring these home.” She took a carefully wrapped bundle out of her backpack.

The abbot accepted without unwrapping it and held it to his forehead. He was silent for a long time, obviously lost in prayer. When he rose, he offered Sarah his hand to kiss. Hanging loosely on his bony middle finger, the ring with the familiar golden seal of Apocryphon gleamed in the candlelight, betraying his status as the brotherhood’s high priest. It was the same ring worn by Aregawi, used to mark the wax that sealed the codex some fifteen hundred years ago. She touched her lips to it in reverence and walked out of the church without looking back.

At the cliff’s edge, Sarah surveyed the craggy highlands of Ethiopia, a place she could neither forgive nor forget. Somewhere in those hostile hills lay the tomb of the tenth saint with all its secrets and unrequited hopes.

She closed her eyes and tried to imagine Gabriel’s face, to connect some image with the legend she had come to know so well. But there was nothing, only the stiff west wind. She slipped into the leather harness and slowly, deliberately stepped off the ledge.

Acknowledgments

The author wishes to thank the people of Ethiopia, Sunit Sanghrajka, Ethiopian Airlines, the priests of Lalibela, Suran Wijayawardana, Deborah Koepper, Mario Lioubin, Julian Wood, Yamit Wood, Michiko Kurisu, the excellent editors at Medallion Press, and the incomparable Peter Lioubin, who inspired and guided this story.