the perfect excuse for going down into the Abbay gorge." He closed the
book, and went on, "As you pointed out, to cater for our own expedition
would require months of planning and organization, not to mention the
expense. It would mean having to obtain approval and permission from the
Ethiopian government. In Africa that can take months, if not Years."
"I don't imagine that the Ethiopian government would be too cooperative
if they suspected our real intentions," she agreed.
"On the other hand, there are a number of legitimate hunting safari
companies operating throughout the country. They have all the necessary
permits, governmental contacts, vehicles, camping equipment and logistic
back, up necessary to travel and stay in even the remotest areas.
The authorities are quite accustomed to foreign hunters arriving and
leaving with these companies, whereas a couple of ferengi nosing around
on their own would have the local military and everybody else down on
them like a herd of angry buffalo., ( So we are going to travel as a
pair of dik-dik hunters?"
"I have already made the booking with a safari operator in Addis Ababa,
the capital. MY Plan is to look upon the whole of our project in three
distinct and separate stages.
The first stage will be this reconnaissance. If we find the lead we are
hoping for, then we will go back again with our own men and equipment.
That will be stage two. Stage three, of course, will be getting the
booty out of Ethiopia, and that I assure you from past experience will
not be the easiest part of the operation."
"How will you do that-' she began, but he held up his hands.
"Don't ask, because at this stage I don't have even the vaguest idea how
we will do it. One stage at a time."
"When do we leave?"
"Before I tell you when, let me ask you one more question. Your
interpretation of the Taita riddle - did you explain that in the notes
that were stolen from you at the oasis?"
"Yes, everything was either in those notes or on the microfilm. I am
sorry."
So the uglies will have it all neatly laid out for them, just the way
you laid it out for me."
"I am afraid they will, yes."
"Then to reply to your question as to when, the answer is tout de suite,
and the tooter the sweeter! We must get into the Abbay gorge before the
competition beats us to it.
They have had your conclusions and suppositions for almost a month. For
all we know they are on their way already!
"When?" she repeated eagerly.
"I have booked two seats on the British Airways flight to Nairobi this
Saturday - that is, in two days' time. We will connect there with an Air
Kenya flight to Addis that will get us in on Monday at around midday. We
will drive down to London this evening and stay over at my digs there.
Are your yellow fever and hepatitis shots up to date?"
"Yes, but I have no equipment and hardly any clothing with me., I left
Cairo in rather a hurry."
We will. see to that in London. Trouble with Ethiopia is it's cold
enough to emasculate a brass monkey in the highlands, and like a sauna
bath down in the gorge."
He crossed to the board and began to check off the items on his list.
"We will both start malarial prophylactics immediately. We are going
into an area of chloroquineresistant . falciparum mosquitoes, so I will
put you on Mefloquine "He worked swiftly through the list.
"Of course all your travel documents are in order, or you wouldn't be
here. We will both need visas for Ethiopia, but I have a contact who can
arrange that in twenty-four hours."
As soon as he completed the list he sent her up to her room to pack the
few personal items she had brought with her from Cairo.
By the time they were ready to leave Quenton Hall it was dark outside,
but still he stopped for an hour at the York Minster Hospital to allow
her to say goodbye to her mother. He waited in the Red Lion pub across
the road, and he smelt of Theakston's Old Peculier when she climbed back
into the Range Rover beside him. It was a Pleasant, yeasty aroma, and
she felt so much at ease in his company that she lay back in the seat
and fell asleep.
His London house was in Knightsbridge, but despite the fashionable
address it was much less grand than Quenton Hall, and she felt IF more
at home there, even if it was only for two days.
During that time she saw little of Nicholas, for he was busy with all
the last-minute arrangements, which included a number of visits to
government offices in Whitehall. He returned with wads of letters -of
introduction to high officials and British Embassies and High
Commissions throughout East Africa.
"Ask any Englishman," she smiled to herself "There is no such thing as
upper-class privilege any longer, nor is there an old-boy network that
runs the country."
While he was away, she went off with the shopping list he had given her.
Even walking the streets of the safest Capital city in the world she
found herself looking back over her shoulder, and ducking in and out of
ladies' rooms and tube stations to make certain that she was not being
followed.
"You are acting like a terrified child without its daddy," she scolded
herself.
However, she felt a quite disproportionate sense of relief each evening
when she heard his key in the street door of the empty house where she
waited, and she had to control herself so as not to rush down the stairs
to welcome him.
On Saturday morning, when a taxi cab deposited them at the departures
level of Heathrow MNIJ Terminal Four, Nicholas surveyed their combined
luggage with approval. She had only a single soft canvas bag, no larger
than his, and her sling bag over her shoulder. His hunting rifle was
cased in travel-worn leather, with his initials embossed on the lid. A
hundred rounds of ammunition was packed in a separate brass'bound
magazine and he carried a leather briefcase that looked like a Victorian
antique.
"Travelling light is one of the great virtues. Lord save us from women
with mountains of luggage,5 he told her, refusing the services of a
porter and throwing it all on to a trolley, which he pushed himself.
She had to step out to keep up with him as he strode through the crowded
departures hall. Miraculously the throng opened before him. He tilted
the brim of his panama hat over one eye and grinned at the girl at the
check'in counter, so that she came over all girlish and flustered.
It was the same once they were aboard the aircraft.
The two stewardesses giggled at everything he said, plied him with
champagne and fussed over him outrageously, to the obvious irritation of
the other passengers, including Royan herself. But she ignored him and
them and settled back to enjoy the unaccustomed luxury of the reclining
first-class seat and her own miniature video screen. She tried to
concentrate on the screen images of Richard Gere, but found her
attention wandering to other images of wild canyons and ancient stelae.
Only when Nicholas nudged her did she look around at him a little
haughtily. He had set up a tiny travelling chessboard on the arm of the
seat between them, and now he lifted an eyebrow at her and inclined his
head in invitation.
When they landed at Jomo Kenyatta airport in Kenya they were still
locked in combat. They were level at two games each, but she was a
bishop and two pawns up in the final deciding game. She felt quite
pleased with herself.
At the Norfolk Hotel in Nairobi he had booked a pair of garden
bungalows, one for each of them. Within ten minutes of her flopping down
on the bed, he called her from next door on the house phone.
"We are going to dinner with the British High Commissioner tonight. He
is an old chum. Dress informal. Can you be ready at eight?"
One did not have to rough it too onerously when travelling around the
world in this man's company, she thought.
It was a relatively short haul from Nairobi up to Addis Ababa, and the
landscape below them unfolded in fascinating sequences that kept her
glued to the cabin window of the Air Kenya flight. The hoary summit of
Mount Kenya was for once free of cloud, and the snow-clad double peaks
glistened in the high sunlight.
The bleak brown deserts of the Northern Frontier District were relieved
only by the green hills that surrounded the oasis of Marsabit and, far
out on the port side, the dashing waters of Lake Turkana, formerly Lake
Rudolf.
The desert finally gave way to the highlands of the great central
plateau of the ancient land of Ethiopia.
"In Africa only the Egyptians go back further than this civilization,'
Nicholas remarked as they watched it together. "They were a cultured
race when we peoples of northern climes were still dressing in untanned
skins and living in caves. They were Christians when Europeans were
still pagans, worshipping the old gods, Pan and Diana."
"They were a civilized people when Taita passed this way nearly four
thousand years ago," she agreed. "In his Scrolls he writes of them as
almost his cultural equals which was rare for him. He disparaged all the
other nations of the old world as his inferiors in every way."
From the air Addis was like so many other African cities, a mixture of
the old and the new, of traditional and exotic architectural styles,
thatched roofs alongside galvanized iron and baked tiles. The rounded
walls of the old tukuls built with mud and wattle contrasted with the
rectangular shapes and geometrical planes of the brick built
multi-storeyed buildings, the blocks of flats and the villas of the
affluent, the government buildings and the grandiose, flag-bedecked
headquarters of the Organization of African Unity.
The distinguishing features of the surrounding countryside were the
plantations of tall eucalyptus trees, the ubiquitous blue gums that
provided firewood. It was the only fuel available to so many in this
poor and war-torn land, which over the centuries had been ravaged by
marauding armies and, more recently, by alien political doctrines.
After Nairobi the high-altitude air was cool and sweet when Royan and
Nicholas left the aircraft and walked across the tarmac to the terminal
building. As they entered, before they had even approached the row of
waiting immigration officers someone called his name.
"Sir Nicholas!" They both turned to the tall young woman who glided
towards them with all the grace of a features lit by a welcoming dancer,
her dark and delicate smile. She wore full'length tradition al skirts
which enhanced her movements.
"Welcome to my country of Ethiopia. I am Woizero Tessay." She looked at
Royan with interest, "And you must be Woizero Royan." She held out her
hand to her and liked each other Nicholas saw that the two women
immediately.
I will see to the "If you will let me have your passports. There is a
formalities while you relax in the VIP lounge.
from your British Embassy waiting there to greet you, man Sir Nicholas.
I don't know how he knew that you were arriving."
the VIP lounge.
There was only one person waiting i He was dressed in a well-cut
tropical suit and wore the orange, yellow and blue diagonally striped
old Sandhurst tie. He stood up and came to greet Nicholas immediately,
Nor, ? it's good to see you again Must be all
"Nicky, how are yo of twelve years, isn't it?"
"Hello, Geoffrey. I had no idea they had stuck you out here."
"Military attache. His Excellency sent me down to meet you as soon as he
heard that you and I had been at Sandhurst together." Geoffrey looked at
Royan with marked interest, and with a resigned air Nicholas introduced
them.
"Geoffrey Tennant. Be careful of him. Biggest ram I safe within half a
mile of north of the equator. No girl him."
"I say,. steady on,, Geoffrey protested, looking pleased with the
reference that Nicholas had given him. "Please don't believe a word the
man says, Dr Al Simma. Notorious prevaricator."
Geoffrey drew Nicholas aside and quickly gave him a r6sum6 of conditions
in the country, particularly in the outlying areas. "HE is a little
worried. He doesn't like the idea of you swarming around out there on
your own. Lots of nasty men down there in the Goiam. I told him that you
knew how to look after yourself.)
In a remarkably short time Woizero Tessay was back.
"I have cleared all your luggage, including the firearm and ammunition.
This is your temporary permit. You must keep it with you at all times
whilst you are in Ethiopia. Here are your passports - the visas are
stamped and in order. Our flight to Lake Tana leaves in an hour, so we
have plenty of time to check in."
"Any time you need a job, come and see me,'Nicholas commended her
efficiency.
Geoffrey Tennant walked with them as far as the departures gate, where
he shook hands, "Anything I can do, it goes without saying. "Serve to
Lead", Nicky."
"'Serve to lead"T Royan asked, as they walked out to the waiting
aircraft.
"Sandhurst's motto the explained.
"How nice, Nicky, she murmered.
"I have always considered Nicholas to be more dignified and
appropriate he said.
"Yes, but Nicky is so sweet."
the high, thin air the Twin Otter aircraft that took them on the last,
northern, leg pitched and yawed in the updraughts; from the mountains
below.
Although they were at fifteen thousand feet above sea level, the ground
was close enough for them to make out the, villages and the sparse areas
of cultivation around them. Subjected for so many centuries to primitive
agricultural methods and to the uncontrolled grazing of domestic herds,
the land had a thin, impoverished look, and the bones of rock showed
through the thin red fleshing of earth.
Abruptly ahead of them the plateau over which they were flying was rent
through by a monstrous chasm. It was as though the earth had received a
mighty sword-stroke that struck through to her very bowels.
"The Abbay river!" Tessay leaned forward in her seat to tap Royan's
shoulder.
The rim of the gorge was Clear-cut, and then the slope dropped away at
an angle of over thirty degrees. The bare plains of the plateau gave way
immediately to the heavily forested walls of the gorge. They could make
out the candelabra shapes of giant euphorbia rising above the dense
jungle. In places the walls had collapsed in scree slopes of loose rock,
and in others they were up-thrust into bluffs and needles that erosion
had sculpted with a monstrous artistry into the figures of towering
humanoids and other fantastic creatures of stone.
Down and down it plunged, and they winged out over the void until they
could look directly down, a mile and more, on to the glittering snake of
the river in the depths.
The funnel shape of the upper walls formed a secondary rim as they
reached the sheer cliffs of the sub-gorge five hundred feet above the
Nile water. Deep down there between its terrible cliffs the river gouged
dark pools and long slithering runs through the red sandstone. In places
the gorge was forty miles across, in others it narrowed to under ten,
but through all its length the grandeur and the desolation were infinite
and eternal. Man had made no impression upon it.
"You will soon be down there," Tessay told them in a voice so awed that
it was almost a whisper, and they were both silent. Words seemed
superfluous in the face of such raw and savage nature.
.. Almost with relief they watched the northern wall rise to meet them,
and the high mountains of the Choke range stood up against the tall blue
African sky, higher than their fragile little craft was flying.
The aircraft banked into its descent and Tessay pointed over the
starboard wingtip.
"Lake Tana," she told them. It was a wide and lovely body of water, over
fifty miles long, studded with islands on each of which stood a
monastery or an ancient church. As they dropped in over the water on the
final approach, they could make out the white-robed priests plying
between the islands on their traditional little boats made from bundles
of papyrus.
The Otter touched down on the dirt strip beside the lake and rolled out
in a long trailing cloud of dust. It swung in -and stopped engines
beside the run-down terminal building of thatch and daub.
The sunlight was so bright that Nicholas pulled a pair of sunglasses
from the breast pocket of his khaki jacket and placed them on his nose
as he stood at the top of the boarding ladder. He took in the pock-marks
of bullets and shrapnel on the dirty white walls of the terminal, and
the burnt'out hull of a Russian T35 battle tank standing in the grass on
the verge of the runway. The' barrel of its turret gun pointed
earthwards, and grass had grown up between the rusted tracks.
The other passengers pushed forward impatiently behind him, jostling him
and jabbering with excitement as they saw friends and relatives waiting
to greet them under the eucalyptus trees that shaded the building. There
was only one vehicle parked out there, a sand-coloured Toyota Land
Cruiser. The roundel on the driver's do6r had at its centre the painted
head of a mountain nyala, with long corkscrew horns, and in a ribbon
below it the title "Wild Chase Safaris'. A white man lounged behind the
wheel.
As Nicholas came down the ladder behind the two women, the driver
slipped out of the truck and strode out on to the strip to meet them. He
was dressed in a faded khaki bush suit, and he was tall and lean and
walked with a spring to his step.
"Fortyish," Nicholas judged his age from the grizzling in his short
beard. "One of the hard men," Nicholas thought.
His ginger hair was cropped short, his eyes were pale killer blue. There
was a puckered white scar that ran across one cheek and up to twist and
deform his nose.
Tessay introduced `Royan to him first, and he made a short, choppy bow
as he shook her hand. "Enchant6, he told her in an execrable French
accent and then looked at Nicholas.
"This is my husband, Alto Boris," Tessay introduced him. "Boris, this is
Alto Nicholas."
"My English is bad," Boris said. "My French is better."
"Not much to choose between them," Nicholas thought, but he smiled
easily and said, "So we will speak French then. Bonjour, Monsieur
Brusilov. I am delighted to make your acquaintance." He offered the
Russian his hand.
Boris's grip was hard - too hard. He was making a contest out of the
greeting, but Nicholas had expected it He knew this type of old, and he
had taken a deep grip so Boris could not crush his fingers. Nicholas
held him without allowing any strain or effort to show on his lazy
smile. Boris was the first to break the handshake, and there was just
the trace of respect in those pale eyes.
"So you have come for a dikdik?" he asked, just short of a sneer. Most
of my clients come for big elephant, or at least for mountain nyala."
"Bit rich for my nerves," Nicholas grinned, "all that big stuff. Dik-dik
will suit me fine."
"Have you ever been down in the gorge?" Boris demanded. His Russian
accent overpowered the French words and made them difficult to follow.
"Sir Nicholas was one of the leaders of the 1976 river expedition,'
Royan intervened sweetly, and Nicholas was amused by her unexpected
intervention. She had picked up the antagonism between them very
quickly, and come to his rescue.
Boris grunted, and turned to his wife. "Have you got all the stores I
ordered?" he demanded.
"Yes, Boris," she answered meekly. "They are all on board the aircraft."
She is afraid of him, Nicholas decided, probably with good reason.
"Let's get loaded up, then. We have a long journey ahead of us."
The two men rode in the front seats of the Toyota, and the women sat
behind them with many of the packages of stores packed in around them.
Good African protocol, Nicholas smiled to himself: men first, women fend
for themselves.
"You don't want to do the tourist run, do you?" Boris made it sound like
a threat.
"The tourist run?"
"The outlet from the lake, and the power station," he explained. "The
Portuguese bridge over the gorge and the point where the Blue Nile
begins," he added. But before they could accept he warned them, "If you
do, we won't get into camp until long -after dark."
"Thanks for the suggestion,) Nicholas told him politely, "but I have
seen it all before."
"Good." Boris made his approval evident. "Let's get out of here."
The road swung away into the west, below the high mountains. This was
the Goiam, the land of the aloof mountaineers. It was well-populated
country, and they passed many tall, thin men along the roadside as they
strode along behind their herds of goats and sheep, with their long
staffs held crossways over their shoulders. Both men and women wore
shammas, woollen shawls, and baggy white jodhpur pants, with their feet
in open sandals.
They were people with proud and handsome features, their hair dressed
out into thick, bushy halos, and their eyes fierce as those of eagles.
Some of the younger women in the villages they passed through were truly
beautiful.
Most of the men were heavily armed. They carried twohanded swords in
chased silver scabbards, and AK-47 assault rifles.
"Makes them feel like big men," Boris chuckled. "Very brave, very
macho."
The huts in the villages were circular walled tukuls, surrounded by
plantations of eucalyptus and spiky-headed sisal.
Bruised purple storm clouds boiled over the high peaks of the Choke and
swept them with squalls of rain. Like silver coins, the huge drops
rattled against the windscreen of the Land Cruiser and turned the road
to a running river of mud under their wheels.
The condition of the road surface was appalling; in places it
deteriorated into a rocky gully which even the four-wheel drive Toyota
could not negotiate, and Boris was forced to make his own track across
the rocky hillside.
Often reduced to walking speed, they were nevertheless tossed about in
their seats as the wheels bounced over the rough terrain.
"These damn blacks don't even think to repair the roads," Boris grunted.
"They are happy to live like animals." None of them replied, but
Nicholas glanced up into the rear-view mirror at the faces of the two
women. They were closed and neutral, hiding any hurt that either of them
might have felt at the remark.
As they went on, the road, bad as it had been originally, became even
worse. From here onwards the soft the fire. The two women sat a little
to one side, talking quietly, and Boris had his feet propped on the low
table as he leaned back in his chair with a glass in one hand.
He indicated the vodka bottle on the table, as Nicholas stepped into the
circle of firelight, "Get yourself a drink Ice in the bucket."
"I prefer a beer," Nicholas told him. "Thirsty drive." Boris shrugged
and bellowed for his camp butler to bring a brown bottle from the
portable gas refrigerator.
"Let me tell you something, a little secret." He grinned at Nicholas as
he poured himself another vodka. "There is no such animal as a striped
dik-dik these days, even if there ever was one. You are wasting your
time and your money."
"Fine," Nicholas agreed mildly. "It's my time and my money."
"Just because some old fart shot one back in the Dark Ages, doesn't mean
you are going to find another now. We could go up into the tea
plantations for elephant. I saw three bulls there only ten days ago. All
with tusks over a hundred pounds a side."
As they argued, the level in Boris's vodka bottle fell like the Nile at
the end of the inundation. When Tessay told them that the meal was
ready, Boris carried the bottle with him; he stumbled on his way to the
table. During the meal his only contribution to the conversation was to
snarl at Tessay.
"The lamb is raw. Why don't you see to it that the cook does it
properly? Damn monkeys, you have to watch everything they do."
"Is your lamb under-cooked, Alto Nicholas?" Tessay asked without looking
at her husband. "I can have them cook it longer."
"It's perfect he assured her. "I like mine pink."
Si By the end of dinner the vodka bottle at Boris elbow was empty, and
his face was flushed and swollen. He got up from the table without a
word and disappeared into the darkness in the direction of his tent,
swaying on his feet and occasionally catching his balance with a
two-step jig.
"I apologize," essay told them quietly. "It is only in the evenings. In
the day he is fine. It is a Russian tradition, the vodka." She smiled
brightly; only her eyes stayed sad.
"It is a lovely night, and too early yet for bed. Would you like to walk
up to the church? It is very old and famous.
I will have one of the servants bring a lantern, so that you may admire
the murals."
The servant walked ahead of them, lighting their way, and an ancient
priest waited to welcome them on the portico of the circular building.
He was thin and so very black that only his teeth flashed in the gloom.
He carried a magnificent Coptic cross in massive native silver, set with
carnelians and other semi-precious stones.
Both Royan and Tessay dropped on their knees in front of him to ask for
his blessing. He slapped their cheeks lightly with the cross and
genuflected over them, mumbling his benediction in Amharic. Then he
ushered them into the interior.
The walls were covered with a magnificent display of paintings in
brilliant primary colours. In the lantern light they blazed like
gemstones. There was a strong Byzantine flavour to the style: the
saints' eyes were huge and slanted, with great golden halos over their
heads. Above the altar, with its tinsel and brass furnishing, the Virgin
cradled her infant while the three wise men and a host of angels knelt
in adoration. Nicholas slipped his Polaroid camera from the pocket of
his jacket and adjusted the flash. He wandered around the church
photographing these murals, while Tessay and Royan knelt before the
altar side by side.
Once he had finished his photography Nicholas found a seat on the
hand-hewn wooden pews and sat quietly watching their intent faces which
the candlelight touched with golden highlights, and he was moved by the
beauty of the moment.
"I wish I had that kind of faith," he thought, as he had so often
before. "It must be a comfort in the hard times. I wish I were able to
pray like that for Rosalind and the girls." He could not stay longer,
and he went out and sat on the church portico where he watched the night
sky.
In these high altitudes, in the thin unpolluted air, the stars were such
a dazzling blaze that it was difficult to pick out the individual
constellations. After a while his sadness abated. It was good to be back
in Africa.
When the two women emerged at last from the dark interior, Nicholas gave
the old priest a one hundred birr note and a Polaroid photograph of
himself which the old man clearly valued above the money. Then the three
of them walked back down the hill together in companionable silence.
icky!" Royan shook him awake. When he sat up and switched on his torch,
he saw that she had thrown the woollen shawl over a pair of men's
striped pyjamas before she had come into his tent.
"What is it?" he asked, but before she could answer he heard the sound
of a hoarse and angry voice shouting invective in the night, and then
the unmistakable thud of a clenched fist striking flesh and bone.
"He's beating her." Royan's voice was tight with out-' rage. "You have
to make him stop."
There was a cry of pain after the blow, and then sobs.
Nicholas hesitated. Only a fool interferes between a man and his wife,
and his reward usually is to have them unite and turn savagely upon him.
"You must do something, Nicky, please., Reluctantly he swung his legs
out of the cot and stood up. He slept in'boxer shorts, and he did not
bother to find his shoes. She followed him, also on bare feet, to the
end of the grove where Boris's tent stood beyond the dining tent.
There was a lantern still burning within, and it threw magnified shadows
on the canvas walls. He saw that Boris had his wife "by the hair and was
dragging her across the floor, roaring at her in Russian.
"Boris!" Nicholas had to shout his name three times to get his
attention, and then they saw the shadow play on the canvas as he dropped
Tessay and flung open the tent flap.
He was dressed only in a pair of underpants. His torso was lean and
muscular, the chest flat and hard-looking, covered with coppery curls.
On the floor behind him Tessay lay face down, sobbing into her cupped
hands. She was naked, and the planes of her body were sleek as those of
a panther.
"What the hell is going on here?" Nicholas demanded, his anger only just
beginning to stir as he witnessed the gracious, gentle woman's distress
and humiliation.
"I am giving this black whore a lesson in good manners," Boris gloated,
his face still swollen and flushed with drink and passion. "It's none of
your business, English, unless you want to pay some money and have a bit
of pork for yourself." He laughed, an ugly sound.
"Are you all right, Woizero Tessay?" Nicholas looked directly into
Boris's face, sparing the woman the further humiliation of another man's
eyes on her nudity.
Tessay sat up, lifted her knees against her chest, and hugged them with
both arms to cover her body.
"It's all right, Alto Nicholas. Please go away before there is real
trouble." Blood was trickling from one nostril into her mouth, and
dyeing her teeth pink.
"You heard'my wife, English bastard. Go away! Mind your own business. Go
away, before I give you a little lesson in good manners also."
Boris staggered forward and thrust his open hand against Nicholas's
chest. Nicholas moved as smoothly and as effortlessly as a matador
avoiding the first wild charge of the bull. He swayed to one side, and
used Boris's own momentum to send him on in the direction in which he
was already committed. Completely off balance, the Russian reeled across
the open ground in front of the tent until he collided with one of the
camp chairs and went down in a sprawling heap.
"Royan, take Tessay to your tent!" he ordered softly.
Royan ran into the tent and pulled a sheet from the nearest cot. She
spread it over Tessay's shoulders and lifted her to her feet.
"Please, don't do this," Tessay sobbed. "You don't know him when he gets
like this. He will hurt somebody."
Royan dragged her, still protesting and weeping, out of the tent, but by
now Boris was on his feet again. He bellowed with rage and picked up the
camp chair that had tripped him. With a single jerk he tore off one of
the legs and hefted it in his bunched fist.
"You want to play games, English? All right, we play!" He rushed at
Nicholas, swinging the chair leg like a Ninja baton, so that it hissed
with the force with which he aimed it at his head. As Nicholas ducked
under it Boris reversed the swing, going for the side of his chest,
under his upraised arm. It would have staved in his ribs if it had
landed, but again Nicholas twisted away.
They circled each other warily, and then Boris charged again. If it had
not been for the effect of the vodka on the Russian's reflexes Nicholas
would never have taken a chance with an adversary of this calibre, but
Boris was just loose enough in his control to allow him to duck in under
the swinging chair leg. He straightened, with all his weight rolling
into the punch, and his fist slogged into the pit Of Boris's belly just
under the sternum. The Russian's breath was driven out of him in a great
gusty belch.
The chair leg flew from his grip, and he doubled over and collapsed.
Clasping his middle, and heaving and wheezing for breath, Boris lay
curled in the dust. Nicholas stooped over him and told him softly in
English, "This sort of behaviour simply isn't good enough, old chap. We
don't bully-girls. Please don't let it happen again."
He straightened up and spoke to Royan, "Get her to your tent and keep
her there." He combed his hair back from his face with his fingers. "And
now, if you have no serious objections, may we get a little sleep?"
It rained again during the early hours. The heavy drops drummed down on
the canvas and the lightning lit the interior of the tents with an eerie
brilliance. However, by the time that Nicholas went through to the
dining tent for breakfast the next morning, the clouds had cleared and
the sunshine was bright and cheering. The sweet mountain air smelt of
wet earth and mushrooms.
Boris greeted Nicholas with hearty good fellowship.
"Good morning, English. We had some fun last night. I still laugh to
remember it. Very good jokes. One day soon we will have some more vodka,
then we will makesome more good jokes." And he bellowed through to the
kitchen tent, "Hey! Lady Sun, bring your new boyfriend something to eat.
He is hungry from all the sport last night."
Tessay was quiet and withdrawn as she supervised the' servants handing
round breakfast. One eye was swollen almost closed, and her lip was cut.
She did not look at Nicholas once during the meal.
"We will go on ahead," Boris explained jovially as they drank coffee.
"My servants will break camp, and follow us in my big truck. With luck,
we will be able to camp tonight on the rim above the gorge, and tomorrow
we will begin the descent."
As they were climbing into the truck, Tessay was able to speak to him
softly for a moment, without danger of Boris overhearing her. "Thank
you, Alto Nicholas. But it was not wise. You don't know him. You must be
careful now. He does not forget, not does he forgive."
From the village of Debra Maryarn Boris took a branch road that ran
alongside the Dandera river directly south, wards. The road they had
followed the previous day from Lake Tana was shown on the map as a major
highway. It had been bad enough. But this track that they were now on
was marked as a secondary road "not passable in all weather'. To
compound matters, it seemed that most of the heavy traffic that had torn
up the main road had followed this same track. They came to a place
where some huge vehicle had become bogged down in the rain-saturated
earth, and the efforts to free it had left areas of ploughed land and an
excavation like a bomb crater that resembled an old photograph of the
battlefields of First World War Flanders.
Twice during the day the Toyota too became stuck in this foul ground.
Each time this happened, the big truck that was following them came up
and all the servants swarmed down from the cargo body to push and heave
the Toyota through. Even Nicholas stripped to the waist to work with
them in the mud to free it.
"If you had only listened to my advice," Boris grumbled, "we would not
be here. There is no game where you want to go, and there are no roads
worth the name either."
In the early afternoon they stopped beside the river for an alfresco
lunch. Nicholas went down to the pool beside the road to wash off the
mud and filth of the morning's labours. He had been in the forefront of
the efforts to keep the truck moving. Royan followed him down the slope
and perched on a rock above the pool while he stripped off his shirt and
knelt, at the verge to splash himself with the cold mountain water. The
river was muddy yellow and swollen from the rainstorms.
"I don't think Boris believes your story about the striped dik-dik," she
warned him. "Tessay tells me that he is suspicious of what we are up
to." She watched with interest as he sluiced his chest and upper arms.
'"ere the sun had not touched it, his skin was very white and
unblemished.
His chest hair was thick and dark. She decided that his body was good to
look at.
"He is the type that would go through our luggage if he gets a chance,'
Nicholas agreed. "You didn't bring anything with you that has any clues
for him? No papers or notes?"
"Only the satellite photograph, and my notebooks are all in my own
shorthand. He won't be able to make anything of them."
"Be very careful of what you discuss with Tessay."
"She is a dear. There is nothing underhand about her." Heatedly Royan
came to the defence of her new friend.
"She may be all right, but she's married to my chum Boris. Her first
allegiance lies there. No matter what your feelings towards her, don't
trust either of them." He dried himself on his shirt, slipped it on and
then buttoned it over his chest. "Let's go and get something to eat."
Back at the parked truck Boris was pulling the cork from a bottle of
South African white wine. He poured a tumbler full for Nicholas. Chilled
in the river, it was crisp and fruity. Tessay offered them cold roast
chicken and injera bread, the flat, thin sheets of stone-ground
unleavened bread of the country. The trials and labours of the morning's
travels faded into insignificance as Royan lay beside Nicholas in the
grass and they watched a bearded vulture sailing high against the blue.
It saw them and drifted overhead curiously, twisting its head to look
down at them. Its eyes were masked in black like those of a highwayman,
and the distinctive wedge-shaped tail feathers flirted with the wind the
way the fingers of a concert pianist would stroke the ivories of the
keyboard.
When it was time to go on, Nicholas gave her his hand to lift her to her
feet. It was one of their rare moments of physical contact, and she held
on to his fingers for just a second or two longer than was strictly
necessary.
There was no improvement in the surface of the trac as they drew nearer
to the rim of the gorge, and the hours passed in this bone-jarring,
teeth-rattling progress. The track snaked over a rise and then
dog-legged down the far slope. Halfway down Boris swore in Russian as
they came round the hairpin bend of a high earthen bank to find a huge
diesel truck slewed across the track, almost blocking it.
Even though they had been following the tracks of this convoy of
vehicles since the previous day, this was the first of them that they
had encountered, and it took Boris by surprise. He hit his brakes so
suddenly that his passengers were almost catapulted from their seats,
but on the steep incline in the mud the brakes did not bring them to a
complete halt. Boris was forced to change down into his lowest gear and
steer for the narrow gap between the bank and the truck.
From the back seat Royan looked out of the window I beside her, up the
high side of the diesel truck. There was a company name and logo
emblazoned in scarlet on the green background.
A strong feeling of du vu overcame her as she stared at the image. She
had seen this sign recently, but her memory cheated her: she could not
recall the time or the place. She only knew that it was of vital
importance that she should remember.
The side of the Toyota scraped against the metal of the truck, and then
they were past it. Boris leaned out of his window and shook his fist at
the driver of the larger vehicle.
He was a local man, probably recruited in Addis by the owner of the
truck. Grinning at Boris's antics, he leaned out of his own cab to
return the clenched fist salute, adding a nice little touch by jerking a
raised forefinger upwards.
"Dungeater!" Boris roared with outrage at being bested in the exchange,
but he did not stop. "No use even talking to them. What do they know?
Black chimps!'
For the rest of the wearisome journey Royan remained silent and
withdrawn, shaken and troubled by the conviction that she had seen the
trademark of the winged red horse before, with, set above it in a
pennant, the name of the company: "PEGASUS EXPLORATION'.
As they approached the end of the day's journey at last they passed a
signpost beside the track. The supporting legs of the sign were solidly
set in concrete, and the artwork was of such high quality that it could
only have been that of a professional signwriter.
Across the top of the board an arrow indicated a newly bulldozed road
that headed off to the right, and the directions read:
PEGASUS EXPLORATION
BASE CAMP - ONE KILOMETRE
PRIVATE ROAD
NO ENTRY TO UNAUTHORIZED TRAFFIC
The scarlet horse reared in the centre of the board with its wings
spread wide, on the point of flight.
Now she gasped aloud as the elusive memory came upon her with stunning
clarity. She remembered where she had last seen the flying red horse. In
an instant she was transported back into the icy waters of an English
salmon river, flung from the rolling body of the Land Rover, the huge
MAN truck roaring over the bridge above her, and, for a subliminal pulse
of time, the prancing red horse upon its side.
she almost shouted aloud, but controlled herself. The terror of the
moment returned to her with full force, and she found herself breathing
hard and her heart racing as though she had run a long way.
"It cannot be a coincidence," she assured herself silently, "and I am
not mistaken. It is the same company.
Pegasus Exploration."
She was withdrawn and distracted for the last few miles of the journey,
until the track they were following ended abruptly on the brink of the
sheer cliffs of the escarpment, Here Boris pulled on to the grassy verge
and stopped the engine.
"This is as far as we ride. We camp here tonight. My big truck is not
far behind. They will make camp as so on as they arrive. Tomorrow we
will go down into the gorge on foot."
As they dismounted, Royan tugged at Nicholas's arm, "I must speak to
you," she whispered urgently, and she followed him as he led her along
the bank of the river.
He found a place for them to sit side by side, with their legs dangling
over the drop. Beside them the swollen yellow river seemed to sense what
lay ahead of it. The cold mountain waters speeded up, swirled amongst
the rocks, and gathered themselves for that dizzying leap out into empty
space. The cliff below them was a sheer wall of rock almost a thousand
feet deep. It was so high that in the evening light the abyss far below
was a dark, mysterious place, its bottom hidden from them by shadow and
spray from the falls. As Royan looked down into it her sense of balance
swirled with vertigo. She cringed back from the edge and found herself
instinctively leaning against Nicholas's shoulder to steady herself.
Only when they touched did she realize what she was doing, and she
pulled away from him self-consciously.
The muddied waters of the Dandera. river leaped from the brink, and were
miraculously transformed into curtains of ethereal lacework as they
fell. Like the skirts of waltzing bride they shimmered and swirled, and
rainbows of light played through them as though from an embroidery of
seed pearls. Still falling, the columns of white spray twisted and
changed into lovely but ephemeral shapes, until they struck the lower
ledges of glistening black rock and exploded outwards into fresh clouds
of white that at last screened the dark depths of the abyss with " an
opalescent veil.
It was with a conscious effort that Royan pulled her mind away from the
awe-inspiring scene and back to the troubled present.
"Nicky, do you remember I told you about the truck that forced my mother
and me over the bridge in the Land Rover?"
"Of course." His expression was mystified as he studied her face. "You
are upset. "What is it, Royan?"
"The truck had signwriting down the sides of the trailers that it was
towing."
"You told me, yes. Green and red. You told me that you didn't get a good
enough look to read the sign."
"It was the same as the truck we passed this afternoon.
I saw the sign at the same angle as before and it came back to me. The
red Pegasus, the flying horse."
He studied her face for a while, "Are you absolutely certain?"
"Absolutely!" She nodded vehemently.
Nicholas stared out over the magnificent panorama of the gorge spread
below them. It was forty miles to the far wall of the canyon, but in the
brilliant rain-washed air it seemed so close that he could reach across
and touch it.
"A coincidence?"he wondered at last.
"Do you think so? A very strange and wonderful coincidence, then.
Pegasus in both Yorkshire and Gojam?
Do you accept that?"
"It doesn't make sense. The truck that hit you was stolen-'
"Was it?" she demanded. "Are we sure of that?"
"If it wasn't, then let's hear your ideas."
"If you were planning an assassination, would you rely on stealing a
truck conveniently left at a Little Chef for you?"
He shook his head, "Go on."
"Suppose you arranged for your own truck to be placed there for you, and
for your driver to report it stolen only after you had a good head start
on the police."
"It's possible," he agreed without enthusiasm.
"Whoever murdered Duraid, and made two further attempts to kill me,
obviously has considerable resources at his disposal. He is able to make
arrangements in Egypt and England. On top of that, he has the seventh
scroll in his possession. He has our notes and all our workings and
translations which point him clearly to this spot on the Abbay river.
Just suppose that he has control of a company like Pegasus - is there
any reason why he can't be here in Ethiopia, just as we are, right at
this moment?"
Nicholas was silent for a while. He picked up a stone from the ledge
beside him and tossed it out over the cliff.
They both watched it drop away, dwindling in size until it vanished in
the veils of spray far below where they sat.
Abruptly Nicholas stood up and reached for her hand to pull her to her
feet beside him. "Come on," he said.
"Where are we going?"
"Pegasus base camp. Let's go and have a chat to the site foreman."
Boris protested angrily and hurried to intervene when Nicholas climbed
into the Toyota and started the engine, "Where the hell do you think you
are going?, "Sight-seeing." Nicholas let in the clutch. "Back in an
hour."
"Hey, English, my truck!" He ran to catch up with them, but Nicholas
accelerated away.
"Charge me for the hire." fie grinned back at Boris in the rear-view
mirror. -off and followed the They reached the signposted turn side
track over the ridge. The Pegasus camp lay on the far side. Nicholas
braked to a halt on the crest of the rise and they studied it in
silence.
An area of about ten acres had been cleared and levelled. It was
surrounded by a barbed-wire security fence, with a single closed gate.
Three of the massive diesel trucks in their green and red livery were
parked in a rank inside the fence. There were also several smaller
vehicles and a tall mobile drilling rig in the line. The rest of the
yard was filled with prospecting equipment and stores. There were stacks
of drilling rods and steel core boxes, wooden crates of spares, and
several hundred forty-four-gallon drums of diesel and oil and drilling
mud. The drums and the stores were stacked with a neatness and sense of
good order that was startling in this wild and rocky landscape. just
inside the gate stood a small village of a dozen buildings made of
corrugated sheet sections, of the Quonset type. They too were set out in
a street of military precision.
"A big, well-organized outfit," Nicholas commented.
"Let's go down and see who is in charge."
There were two armed guards on the gate, dressed in the camouflage
uniform of the Ethiopian army. They were clearly surprised by the
arrival at the gate of the strange Land Cruiser, and when Nicholas
sounded his horn one of them came forward suspiciously with his AK,47
rifle at the ready.
"I want to speak to the manager here," Nicholas told him in Arabic, with
enough haughty authority to make the entry uncertain and uneasy.
The soldier grunted, went back and consulted his colleague, then lifted
the handset of the two-way radio and spoke earnestly into the
mouthpiece. There was a five minute delay after he finished speaking,
and then the door of the nearest Quonset building opened and a white man
came out.
He was dressed in khaki coveralls and a soft bush cap.
His eyes, covered by mirrored sunglasses, were set in a deeply tanned,
leathery face. His physique was short and chunky, and his sleeves were
rolled up over hairy, work thickened arms. After speaking a few words to
the guards at the gate he came out to the Toyota
"Yeah? What's going down here?" he demanded in Texan drawl, speaking
around the stub of an unlit cigar.
"The name is Quenton-Harper." Nicholas dismounted from the truck to
greet him, and held out his hand.
"Nicholas Quenton-Harper. How do you do?"
The American hesitated, and then took the hand as though he had been
offered an electric eel to squeeze.
"Helm," he said. "Jake Helm, from Abilene, Texas. I am the foreman
here." His hand was that of an artisan, with calloused palms and lumpy
scar tissue over the knuckles, and half moons of black grease under the
fingernails.
"Terribly sorry to worry you. I am having some trouble with my truck. I
wondered if you had a mechanic who could have a look at it for
me."Nicholas smiled winningly, but received no encouragement from the
man.
"Not company policy." He shook his head.
"I am prepared to pay for any-'
"Listen, buddy, I said no." Jake removed the cigar from his mouth and
examined it minutely.
"Your company - Pegasus. Can you tell me where your head office is
situated? Who is your managing director?"
"I am a busy man. You are wasting my time." Helm ,,returned the cigar to
his mouth and began to turn away.
"I will be hunting in this area over the next few weeks.
I would not like to endanger any of your employees with a stray shot.
Can you give me some idea of where you will be working?"
outfit here, mister. I don't
"I am running a prospecting give out news flashes on my movements. Beat
id'
He turned and walked to the gate and gave brusque orders to the guards
before marching back to his office building.
"Satellite disc on the roof," Nicholas remarked. "I wonder who our lad
Jake is speaking to at this very moment."
"Somebody in Texas?" Royan hazarded.
"Doesn't follow, necessarily, Nicholas demurred. Tega, is probably a
multinational. Just because Jake is one, doesn't mean his boss is Texan
also. Not a very instructive conversation, I am afraid." He started the
engine and Uturned the Toyota. "But if someone at Pegasus is the ugly
mixed up in this, he will recognize my name. We have given them notice
of our arrival. Let's see what we have flushed out of the bushes."
When they got back to the Dandera river falls, they found that Boris's
truck had arrived, the tents had been erected, and the chef had brewed
tea for them. Boris was less welcoming than his chef, and maintained a
sullen silence while Nicholas tried to placate him for commandeering his
truck.
It was only after his first vodka of the evening that he mellowed
sufficiently to speak again.
"The mules were supposed to be waiting for us here.
Time means nothing to these people. We cannot start down into the gorge
until they arrive."
"Well, at least while we are waiting for them I will have a chance to
sight in my rifle,'Nicholas remarked with resignation. "In Africa it
never pays to be in a hurry. Too wearing on the nerves."
After a leisurely breakfast the next morning, when there was still no
sign of the mules, Nicholas fetched his rifle case.
When Nicholas lifted the weapon out of its nest of green baize, Boris
took it from him and examined it minutely.
"An old rifle?"
"Made in 1926,'Nicholas nodded. "My grandfather had it made for
himself."
"They knew how to make them in those days. Not like the mass-produced
crap they turn out today." Boris pursed his lips critically. "Short
Mauser Oberndorf double square, bridge action, beautiful! But it has
been rebarrelled, no?
The original barrel was shot out. I had it replaced with a Shilen match
barrel. It will shoot the wings off a mosquito at a hundred paces."
"Calibre 7 57, is it?" Boris asked.
'275 Rigby, as a matter of fact," Nicholas corrected him, but Boris
snorted.
"It is exactly the same cartridge - just your English bloodiness must
call it something else." He grinned. "It wilt push a 150 grain bullet
out there at 2800 feet per second.
It is a good rifle, one of the best."
"You will never know, my dear fellow, how much your approval means to
me,'Nicholas murmured in English, and Boris chuckled as he handed the
rifle back to him.
"English jokes! I love your English jokes."
When Nicholas left camp carrying the little rifle in its slip case,
Royan followed him down to the river and helped him fill two small
canvas bags with white river sand. He laid them on top of a convenient
rock and they formed a firm but malleable rest for the rifle as he
settled it over them.
Using the open hillside as a safe back'stop, he "stepped out two hundred
yards and at that range set up a cardboard carton on which he had taped
a Bisley'type target. He came back to where Royan waited and then
settled down behind the rock on which the weapon lay.
Royan was unprepared for the report of the first shot from the dainty,
almost feminine-looking rifle. She jumped involuntarily, and her ears
sang.
"What a horrible, vicious thing!" she exclaimed. "How can you bring
yourself to kill lovely animals with a highpowered gun like that?" she
demanded.
"Rifle," he corrected her, as he noted the strike of the shot through
his binoculars. "Would it make you feel better if I used a low-powered
rifle, or beat them to death with a stick?"
The shot had struck three inches right and two inches low. As he
adjusted the telescopic sight he attempted to explain. "An ethical
hunter does everything in his power to kill as swiftly and as cleanly as
is possible, and that means stalking in as close as he is able to do,
using a weapon of adequate power and sighting it the best way he knows
how."
His next shot struck exactly on line but only an inch above the
bull's-eye. He wanted it to shoot three inches high at that range. He
worked on the sight again.
"Gun or rifle, but I don't understand why you would want to deliberately
kill any of God's creatures," she protested.
"That I can never explain to you." He aimed deliberately and fired once.
Even through the lower magnification of the sight lens he could see that
the bullet had struck exactly three inches high.
"It is something to do with an atavistic urge that few men, no matter
how Cultured and civilized they deem themselves, can deny completely."
He fired a second time.
"Some of them work it out in the board room, others on the golf course
or the tennis court, and some of us on a salmon river, in the ocean
deeps or in the hunting field."
He fired a third shot, merely to confirm the previous two, and then went
on, "As for God's creatures, he gave them to us. You are the believer.
Quote me Acts 10, verses 12 and 13."
"Sorry." She shook her head. "You tell me.
... all manner Of fourfooted beasts of the earth, and wild beasts, and
creeping things, and fowL of the air,"'
Nicholas obliged her. "'And there came a voice to him, Rise, Peter;
kill, and eat., "You should have been a lawyer," she moaned in mock
despair.
"Or a priest," he suggested, and went forward to retrieve the target. He
found that his last three shots had punched a tiny symmetrical rosette
three inches above the bull, all three bullet holes just touching each
other.
He patted the butt stock of the little rifle, "That's my lovely darling,
Lucrezia Borgia." He had named the rifle for her beauty and for her
murderous potential.
He slid the rifle back into its leather slip case and they walked back
together. As they came in sight of the camp, Nicholas pulled up short.
"Visitors," he said, and raised his binoculars. "Aha! We have flushed
something out of the undergrowth. That is a Pegasus truck parked there
and, unless I am much mistaken, one of our visitors is the charming
laddie from Abilene.
Let's go down and find out what is going on."
As they drew closer to camp, they realized that there were a dozen or
more heavily armed, uniformed soldiers clustered around the red and
green Pegasus truck, and that Jake Helm and an Ethiopian army officer
were seated under the awning of the dining tent in serious and intent
conversation with Boris, A
s soon as Nicholas entered the tent, Boris introduced him to the
bespectacled Ethiopian officer. "This is Colonel Tuma Nogo, the military
commander of the southern Goiam region."
"How do you do?" Nicholas greeted him, but the colonel ignored the
pleasantry.
"I want to see your passport, and your firearms licence, he ordered
arrogantly, while Jake Helm chewed complacently on the evil-smelling
butt of an extinguished cigar.
"Yes, of course," Nicholas agreed, and went to his own tent to fetch his
briefcase. He opened it on the dining table, and smiled at the officer.
"I am sure you will also want to see my letter of introduction from the
British Foreign Secretary in London, and this one from the British
Ambassador in Addis Ababa. Here is another from the Ethiopian Ambassador
to the Court of St. James, and this is from your own Minister of
Defence, General Abraha."
The colonel stared in consternation at this fruit salad of ornate
official letterheads and scarlet beribboned seals.
Behind the gold-rimmed glasses his eyes were bemused and confused.
"Sir!" He jumped to his feet and saluted. "You are a friend of General
Abraha? I did not know. Nobody informed me. I beg your pardon for this
intrusion."
He saluted again, and his embarrassment made him awkward and ungainly.
"I came to warn you only that the Pegasus Company is conducting drilling
and blasting operations. There may be some danger. Please be alert. Also
there are many bandits and outlaws, shufta, operating in this area."
Colonel Nogo was flustered and barely coherent.
He stopped and drew a deep breath to steady himself. "You see, I have
been ordered to provide an escort for the employees of the Pegasus
Company. If you yourself experience any trouble while you are here, or
if you need assistance for any reason you have only to call on me, sir."
"That is extremely civil of you, colonel."
"I will detain you no longer, sir." He saluted a third time and backed
off towards the Pegasus truck, taking the Texan foreman along with him.
Jake Helm'had not uttered a word since their arrival, and now he left
without a farewell.
Colonel Nogo gave Nicholas his fourth and final salute through the cab
window as the truck pulled away.
Deuce!" Nicholas told Royan, as he acknowledged the salute with a
nonchalant wave. "I think that point was definitely ours. Now at least
we know that, for whatever reason, Mr Pegasus definitely does not want
us in his hair. I think we can expect his next service fairly promptly.,
They walked back to where Boris sat in the dining tent and Nicholas told
him, "All we need now are your mules."
"I have sent three of my men to the village to find them. They should
have been here yesterday." The mules arrived early the next morning, six
big sturdy animals, each accompanied by a driver dressed in the
ubiquitous-jodhpurs and shawl. By midmorning they were loaded and ready
to begin the descent into the gorge.
Boris paused at the head of the pathway, and looked out over that
valley. For once even he -seemed to be subdued and awed by the immensity
of the drop and the rugged splendour of the gorge.
"You will be Passing into another land in another age," he warned them
in an uncharacteristically philosophical mood. "They say that this trail
is two thousand years old, as old as Christ." He spread his hands in a
deprecating gesture.
"The old black priest in the church at Debra Maryam will tell you that
the Virgin Mary passed this way when she fled from Israel after the
crucifixion." He shook his head. "But then these people will believe
anything." And he "stepped out on to the pathway.
It clung to the cliff, descending at such an angle that each pace was
down a rock step so deep that it stretched the-tendons and the sinews in
their groins and knees, and jarred their spines. They were forced to use
their hands to scramble the rougher and steeper sections, where it was
almost as though they were descending a ladder.
It seemed impossible that the mules under their heavy packs could follow
them down. The plucky beasts lunged down each of the rock steps, landing
heavily on their forelegs, then gathered themselves for the next drop.
The trail was so narrow that the bulky packs scraped against the rock
wall on one hand, while on the other hand the drop sucked at them
giddily.
When the path dog-legged and changed direction, the mules could not make
the turn in one attempt. They were forced to back and fill, edging their
way round the narrow trail, sweating with terror and their eyes rolling
until the whites flashed. The drivers urged them on with wild cries and
busy whips.
At places the pathway entered the body of the mountain, passing behind
butts and needles of rock that time and erosion had prised away from the
cliff face. These rocky gateways were so narrow that the mules had to be
unloaded and the packs carried through by the drivers, and then the
mules were reloaded on the far side.
Look!" Royan cried in astonishment and pointed out into the void. A
black vulture rose up out of the depths on widespread pinions and
floated past them almost within arm's length, turning its gruesome naked
head of pink lappeted skin to stare at them with inscrutable black eyes
before sailing away.
"He is using the thermals of heated air from the valley for lift,'
Nicholas explained to her. He pointed out along the cliff to an
overhanging buttress on the same level as themselves. "There is one of
their nests." It was a shaggy mound of sticks piled on an inaccessible
ledge. The excrement of the birds that had inhabited it over the ages
had painted the cliff face below with streaks of brilliant white, and
even at this distance they could catch whiffs of rotting offal and
decaying flesh.
All that day they clung to the precipitous track as they eased their way
down that terrible wall. It was late afternoon, and they were only
halfway down, when the trail turned back upon itself once more and they
heard the rumble of the falls ahead. The sound grew louder and became a
thunderous roar as they moved around the corner of another buttress and
came in full sight of the falls.
The wind created by the torrent tugged at them and forced them to clutch
for handholds. The spray blew around them and wetted their upturned
faces, but the i: Ethiopian guide led them straight on until it seemed
that they must be washed away into the valley still hundreds of feet
below.
Then, miraculously, the waters parted and they stepped behind the great
translucent curtain into a deep recess of moss-covered and gleaming wet
rock, carved from the cliff by the force of water over the aeons. The
only light in this gloomy place was filtered through the waterfall,
green and mysterious like some undersea cavern.
"This is where we sleep tonight," Boris announced, obviously enjoying
their astonishment. He pointed to bundles of firewood piled at the rear
of the cave, and the smoke-blackened wall above the stone hearth. The
muleteers carrying food and supplies down to the priests in the
monastery have used this place for centuries."
As they moved deeper into the cavern, the sound of falling water became
muted to a dull background rumble and the rock underfoot was dry. Once
the servants had lit the fire, it became -a warm and comfortable, not to
say romantic, lodging.
With an old soldier's eye for the most comfortable spot, Nicholas laid
out his sleeping bag in a corner at the back of the cave, and quite
naturally Royan unrolled hers beside his. They were both tired out by
the unusual exertion of climbing down the cliff wall, and after supper
they stretched out in their sleeping bags in companionable silence and
watched the firelight playing on the roof of the cave.
"Just think!" Royan whispered. "Tomorrow we will be retracing the
footsteps of old Taita himself."
"To say nothing of the Virgin Mary,'Nicholas smiled.
"You are a horrid old cynic," she sighed. "And what is more, you
probably snore."
"You are about to find out the hard way," he told her, but she was
asleep before him. Her breathing was gentle and even, and he could just
hear it above the sound of the water. It was a long time since he had
had a lovely woman lying at his side. When he was sure she was deeply
under, he reached across and touched her cheek gently.
"Pleasant dreams, little one," he whispered tenderly.
"You have had a busy day." That was the way he had often bid his younger
daughter sleep.
The muleteers were stirring long before the dawn, and the whole party
was on the path, way again as soon as the light was strong enough to
reveal their footing. When the early sun struck the upper walls of the
cliff face, they were still high enough above the valley floor to have
an aerial view of the terrain.
Nicholas drew Royan aside and they let the rest of the caravan go on
down ahead of them.
He found a place to sit and unrolled the satellite photograph between
them. Picking out the major peaks and features of the scene, they
orientated themselves and began to make some order out of the
cataclysmic landscape that rioted below them.
"We can't see the Abbay river from here," Nicholas pointed out. "It's
still deep in the sub-gorge. We will probably only get our first glimpse
of it from almost directly above."
"If we have identified our present position accurately, then the river
will make two ox'bow bends around that bluff over there."
"Yes, and the confluence of the Dandera river with the Abbay is over
there, below those cliffs." He used his thumb knuckle as a rough scale
measure. "About fifteen miles from here."
"It looks as though the Dandera has changed its course many times over
the centuries.-I can see at least two gullies that look like ancient
river beds." She pointed down: "Mere, and there. They are all choked
with jungle now." She looked crestfallen, "Oh, Nicholas, it is such a
huge and confused area. How are we ever going to find the single
entrance to a tomb hidden in all that?"
"Tomb? What tomb is this?" Boris demanded with interest. He had come
back up the trail to find them. They had not heard his approach, and now
he stood over them.
"What tomb are you talking about?, "Why, the tomb of St. Frumentius, of
course," Nicholas told him smoothly, showing no concern at having been
overheard.
"Isn't the monastery dedicated to the saint?" Royan asked as smoothly,
as she rolled up the photograph.
"Da." He nodded, looking disappointed, as though he expected something
of more interest. "Yes, St. Frumentius.
But they will not let you visit the tomb. They will not let you into the
inner part of the monastery. Only the priests are allowed in there."
He removed his cap and scratched the short, stiff bristles that covered
his scalp. They rasped like wire under his fingernails. "This week is
the ceremony of Timkat, the Blessing of the Tabot. There will be a great
deal of excitement down there. You will find it very interesting, but
you will not be able to enter the Holy of Holies, nor will you be able
to see the actual tomb. I have never met any white man who has seen it."
He squinted up at the sun. "We must get on. It looks close, but it will
take us two more days to reach the Abbay.
It is bad ground down there. A long march, even for a famous dik-dik
hunter." He laughed delightedly at his own joke, and turned away down
the path.
As they approached the bottom of the cliff, the gradient of the trail
smoothed out and the steps became shallower and further apart. The going
became easier and their progress swifter, but the air had changed in
quality and taste. It was no longer cool, bracing mountain air but the
languid, enervating air of the equator, with the smell and taste of the
encroaching jungle.
"Hod' said Royan, shrugging out of the woollen shawl.
"Ten degrees hotter, at least," Nicholas agreed. He pulled his old army
jersey over his head, leaving.his hair in curly disarray. "And we can
expect it to get hotter before we reach the Abbay. We still have to
descend another three thousand feet."
Now the path followed the Dandera river for a while.
Sometimes they were several hundred feet above it, and shortly
afterwards they splashed waist-deep through a ford, hanging on to the
panniers of the mules to keep themselves from being swept away on the
flood.
Then the gorge of the Dandera river was too deep and steep to follow any
longer, as sheer cliffs dropped into dark pools. So they left the river
and followed the track that squirmed like a dying snake amongst eroded
hills and tall red stone bluffs.
A mile or two further downstream they rejoined the river in a different
mood as it rippled through dense forest.
The dangling lianas swept the surface and tree moss brushed their heads
as they passed, straggling and unkempt as the beard of the old priest at
Debra Maryam. Vervet monkeys chattered at them from the treetops and
ducked their heads in wide-eyed outrage at the human intrusion into
these secret places. Once a large animal crashed away through the
undergrowth, and Nicholas glanced across at Boris.
The Russian shook his head, laughing. "No, English, not dik-dik. Only
kudu."
On the hillside above them the kudu paused to look back. He was a large
bull with full twists to his wide corkscrew horns, a magnificent beast
with a maned dewlap and pricked ears shaped like trumpets. He stared at
them with huge, startled eyes. Boris whistled softly and his attitude
changed abruptly.
"Those horns are over fifty inches. They would get a place right at the
top of Rowland Ward." He was referring to the register of big game which
was the Bible of the trophy hunter. "Don't you want to take him,
English?" He ran to the nearest mule and pulled the Rigby rifle from its
slip case, then ran back and offered it to Nicholas.
"Let him go." Nicholas shook his head. "Only dik-dik for me."
With a flirt of his white powder-puff tail, the bull was gone over the
ridge. Boris shook his head disgustedly and spat into the river.
"Why did he try to insist that you kill it?" Royan demanded as they went
on.
"A photograph of a record pair of horns like that would look good on his
advertising brochure. Suck in them clients."
All day they followed the winding trail, and in the late afternoon they
camped in a clearing above the river where it was evident that other
caravans had camped many times before them. It seemed obvious that this
road was divided into time-honoured stages: every traveller took three
full days from the top of the falls to reach the monastery, and they all
camped at the same sites.
"Sorry. No shower here," Boris told his clients. "If you want to wash,
there is a safe pool around the first bend upstream."
Royan looked appealingly at Nicholas, "I am so tired and sweaty. Please
won't you stand guard for me, where you can hear me call if I need you?"
So he lay on the mossy bank just below the bend, out of sight but close
enough to hear her splash and squeal at the cold embrace of the water.
Once when he turned his head he realized that the current must have
drifted her downstream, for through the trees he caught a flash of a
naked back, and the curve of a buttock, creamy and glistening wet with
water. He looked away again guiltily, but he was startled by the
intensity of his physical arousal brought on by that brief glimpse of
lambent skin dappled with the late sunlight through the trees.
When she came downstream along the bank, singing softly, towelling her
wet hair, she called to him, "Your turn.
Do you want me to stand guard for you?"
"I am a big boy now." He shook his head, but as she passed him he
noticed the saucy glint in her eye, and he ly if she had been fully
aware of just how wondered sudden far downstream she had swum, and how
much he had seen.
He was titillated by the thought.
He went upstream to the pool alone, and as he stripped he looked down at
himself and felt guilty when he saw how she had moved him- Since
Rosalind, no other woman had had this effect on him.
"A nice cold plunge won't do you any harm, my lad." He threw his jeans
over a bush, and dived into the pool.
sat at the campfire after the evening meal, olas looked up suddenly and
cocked his
"Am I hearing things?" he wondered.
"No," Tessay laughed. "That is singing you hear. The priests from the
monastery are coming to welcome us."
They saw the torches then, winding up the hillside in procession,
flickering through the trees as they approached the camp. The muleteers
and the servants crowded forward, singing and clapping rhythmically to
greet the deputation from the monastery.
The deep male voices soared and then dropped away, almost to a whisper,
then rose again in descant, haunting and beautiful, the sound of Africa
in the night. It drove icy thrills down Nicholas's spine, so that he
shivered involuntarily.
Then they saw the white robes of the priests, flitting like moths in the
torchlight as they wound along the trail The camp servants fell on their
knees as the first of the holy men entered the perimeter of the camp.
They were young acolytes, bare-headed and barefooted. They were followed
by the monks, wearing long robes and tall turbans.
Their ranks wheeled aside and opened up, an honour guard for the phalanx
of deacons and fully ordained priests in their gaudy embroidered robes
and vestments.
Each of them carried a heavy Coptic cross, set on a tall staff and
intricately chased and worked innative silver.
They in turn opened into two ranks, still chanting, and allowed the
canopied palanquin to be carried forward by four hefty young acolytes
and placed in the centre of the camp. The crimson and yellow silk
curtains shimmered in the light of the camp lanterns and the torches of
the procession.
"We must go forward to welcome the abbot," Boris told Nicholas in a
stage whisper. "His name is Jali Hora." As they stepped up to the
litter, the curtains were drawn dramatically aside and a tall figure
stepped down to earth.
Both Tessay and Royan sank to their knees respectfully, and clasped
their hands at the breast. However, Nicholas and Boris remained on their
feet, and Nicholas inspected the abbot with interest.
jali Hora was skeletally thin. Beneath the skirts of his robe his legs
were like sticks of cured tobacco, tar'black and twisted, with
desiccated sinew and stringy muscle. His robe was green and gold, worked
with gold thread that glittered in the firelight. On his head he wore a
tall hat with a flat top embroidered with a pattern of crosses and
stars.
The abbot's face -was dead sooty black, the skin wrinkled and riven with
the deep etchings of age. There were few teeth behind his puckered lips,
and even those were yellowed and askew. His beard was startling silver
white, breaking like storm surf on the old bones of his jaw.
One eye was opaque blue and blinded with tropical ophthalmia, but the
other eye glistened like that of a hunting leopard.
He began to speak in a high, quavering voice. "A blessing," Boris warned
Nicholas, and they both bowed their heads respectfully. The assembled
priests came in with the chanted response each time the old man paused.
When at last he had finished giving his blessing jali Hora made the sign
of the cross in four directions, rotating slowly towards each point of
the compass, while two altar boys swung their silver censers vigorously,
deluging the night with pungent clouds of incense smoke.
After the blessing the two women came forward to kneel before the abbot.
He stooped over them and struck them lightly on each cheek with his
silver cross, chanting a falsetto blessing over them.
"They say the old man is over a hundred years old," Boris whispered to
Nicholas.
Two white-robed debteras brought forward a stool of African ebony, so
beautifully carved that Nicholas eyed it acquisitively. He guessed that
it was probably centuries old, and would have made a handsome addition
to the museum collection. The two debteras took Jah Hora's elbows and
gently seated him on the stool. Then the rest of the company sank to the
earth in a congregation around him, their black faces lifted towards him
attentively.
Tessay sat at his feet, and when her husband spoke she translated
quietly for him into Amharic. "It is a great pleasure and an honour for
me to greet you again, Holy Father."
The old man nodded, and Boris went on, "I have brought an English
nobleman of royal blood to, visit the monastery of St. Frumentius."
"I say, steady on, old boy!, Nicholas protested, but all the
congregation studied him with expectant interest.
"What do I do now?" he asked Boris out of the corner of his mouth.
"What do You think he came all this way for?" Boris grinned maliciously.
"He wants a gift. Money,'
"Maria Theresa dollars?" he enquired, referring to the centuries-old
traditional currency of Ethiopia, "Not necessarily. Times have changed.
jali Hora will be happy to take Yankee green-backs."
"How much?"
"You are a nobleman of royal blood. You will be hunting in his valley.
Five hundred dollars at least."
Nicholas winced and went to fetch his bag from one of the mule panniers.
When he came back he bowed to the abbot and placed the sheaf of currency
in his outstretched, pink-palmed claw. The abbot smiled, exposing the
yellow stumps of his teeth, and spoke briefly.
Tessay translated for him, "He says, "Welcome to the monastery of St.
Frumentius and the season of Timkat." He wishes you good hunting on the
banks of the Abbay river."
Immediately the solemn mood of the devout company changed. They broke
out in smiles and laughter, and the abbot looked expectantly at Boris.
"The holy abbot says it has been a thirsty journey," Tessay translated.
"The old devil loves his brandy," Boris explained, and shouted to the
camp butler. With some ceremony a bottle of brandy was brought and
placed on the camp table in front of the abbot, shoulder to shoulder
with the bottle of vodka in front of Boris. They toasted each other, and
the abbot tossed back a dram that made his good eye weep with tears, and
his voice husky as he directed a question at Royan.
"He asks you, Woizero Royan, where do you come from, daughter, that you
follow the true path of Christ the Saviour of man?"
"I am an Egyptian, of the old religion," Royan replied.
The abbot and all his priests nodded and beamed with approval.
"We are all brothers and sisters in Christ, the Egyptians and the
Ethiopians," the abbot told her. "Even the word Coptic derives from the
Greek for Egyptian. For over sixteen hundred years the Abuna, the
bishop, of Ethiopia was always appointed by the Patriarch in Cairo. Only
the Emperor Haile Selassie changed that in 1959, but we still follow the
true road to Christ. You are welcome, my daughter."
His debtera poured another dram of brandy and the old man swallowed it
at a gulp. Even Boris looked impressed, "Where does the skinny old black
tortoise put it?" he wondered aloud. Tessay did not translate, but she
lowered her eyes and the hurt she felt for the insult to the holy man
showed on her madonna features.
Jah Hora turned to Nicholas. "He wants to know what animals you have
come to hunt here in his valley," Tessay told him.
Nicholas steeled himself and then replied carefully.
There was a long moment of disbelief, then the abbot cackled happily and
the assembled priests shouted with incredulous mirth.
"A dik-dik! You have come to hunt a dikdik! But there is no meat on an
animal that size."
Nicholas let them get over the first shock, and then produced a
photograph of the mounted specimen of Moquoda harPerU from the museum.
He placed it on the table in front of Jah Hora.
"This is no ordinary dik-dik. It is a holy dik-dik," he told them in
portentous tones, nodding at Tessay for the translation. "Let me recount
the legend." They were silenced by the prospect of a good story with
religious overtones. Even the abbot arrested the glass on its way to his
lips and replaced it on the table. His one eye swivelled from the
photograph to Nicholas's face.
"When John the Baptist was dying of starvation in the desert," Nicholas
began, and a few of the priests crossed themselves at the mention of the
saint's name, "he had been thirty days and thirty nights without a
morsel passing his lips-' Nicholas spun out the yarn for a while,
dwellin on the extremities of hunger endured by the saint, details
savoured by his audience who liked their holy men to suffer in the name
of righteousness.
"In the end the Lord took mercy on his servant and placed a small
antelope in a thicket of acacia, held fast by the thorns. He said unto
the saint: "I have prepared a meal for you that you shall not die. Take
of this meat and eat."
Where John the Baptist touched the small creature, the marks of his
thumb and fingers were imprinted upon its back for all time, and all
generations to come." They were silent and impressed.
Nicholas passed the photograph to the abbot. "See the prints of the
saint's fingers upon it."
The old man studied the print avidly, holding it up to his single eye,
and at last he exclaimed, "It is true. The marks of the saint's fingers
are clear to see."
He passed it to his deacons. Encouraged by the abbot's endorsement, they
exclaimed and wondered over the picture of the insignificant creature in
its coat of striped fur'.
"Have any of your men ever laid eyes upon one of these animals?"
Nicholas demanded, and one after the other they shook their heads. The
photograph completed the circle and was passed to the rank of squatting
acolytes.
Suddenly one of them leaped to his feet prancing, brandishing the
photograph and gibbering with excitement.
"I have seen this holy creature! With my very own eyes, I have seen it."
He was a young boy, barely adolescent.
There were cries of derision and disbelief from the others. One of them
snatched the print from the boy's grasp and waved it out of his reach,
taunting him with it.
"The child is soft in the head, and often possessed by demons and
fits,'Jali Hora explained sorrowfully. "Take no notice of him, poor
Tamre!'
Tamre's eyes were wild as he ran down the rank of acolytes, trying
desperately to recapture the photograph.
But they passed it back and forth, keeping it just out of his reach,
teasing him and jeering at his antics.
Nicholas rose to his feet to intervene. He found this taunting of a
weak'minded lad offensive, but at that moment something tripped in the
boy's mind, and he fell to the ground as though struck down by a club.
His back arched and his limbs twitched and jerked uncontrollably, his
eyes rolled back into his skull until only the whites showed, and white
froth creamed on his lips that were drawn back in a grinning rictus.
Before Nicholas could go to him, four of his peers picked him up bodily
and carried him away. Their laughter dwindled into the night. The others
acted as though this was nothing out of the ordinary, and Jali Hora
nodded to his debtera to refill his glass.
it was late when at last Jah Hora took his leave and was helped into the
palanquin by his deacons. He took the remains of the brandy with him,
clutching the halfempty bottle in one clawed hand and tossing out
benedictions with the other.
"You made a good impression, Milord English," Boris told him. "He liked
your story of John the Baptist, but he liked your money even more."
When they set out the next morning, the path followed the river for a
while. But within a mile the waters quickened their pace, and then raced
through the narrow opening between high red cliffs and plunged over
another waterfall.
Nicholas left the welltrodden trail and went down to the brink of the
falls. He looked down two hundred feet into a deep cleft in the rock,
only just wide enough to allow the angry river to squeeze through. He
could have thrown a stone across the gap. There was no path nor foothold
in that chasm, and he turned back and rejoined the rest of the caravan
as it detoured away from the river and into another thickly wooded
valley.
"This was probably once the course of the Dandera river, before it cut a
fresh bed for itself through the chasm." Royan pointed to the high
ground on each side of the path, and then to the water-worn boulders
that littered the trail.
"I think you are right," Nicholas agreed. These cliffs seem to be an
intrusion of limestone through the basalt and sandstone. The whole area
has been severely faulted and cut up by erosion and the ever-changing
river. You can be certain that those limestone cliffs are riddled with
caves and springs."
Now the trail descended rapidly towards the Blue Nile, falling away
almost fifteen hundred feet in altitude' in the last few miles. The
sides of the valley were heavily covered with vegetation and at many
places small springs of water oozed from the limestone and trickled down
the old river bed.
The heat built up steadily as they went down, and soon even Royan's
khaki shirt was stained with dark patches of sweat between her shoulder
blades.
At one stage a freshet of clear water gushed from an area of dense bush
high up the hillside and swelled the stream into a small river. Then
they turned a corner of the valley and found that they and the stream
had rejoined the main flow of the Dandera river. Looking back up the
gorge, they could see where the river had emerged from the chasm through
a narrow archway in the cliff. The rock surrounding the cleft was a
peculiar pink in colour, smooth and polished, folded back upon itself,
so that it resembled the mucous membrane on the inside of a pair of
human lips.
The rock -was of such an unusual colour and texture that they were both
struck by it. They turned aside to study it while the mules went on
downwards, the clatter of their receding hoofbeats and the voices of the
men echoing and reverberating weirdly in this confined and unearthly
place.
"It looks like some monstrous gargoyle, gushing water through its
mouth," Royan whispered, looking up at the cleft and at those strange
rock formations. "I can imagine how the ancient Egyptians, led by Taita
and Prince Memnon, would have been moved if they had ever reached this
place. &at mystical connotations would they have attributed to such a
natural phenomenon!'
Nicholas was silent, studying her face. Her eyes were dark with awe, and
her expression solemn. In this setting she reminded him strongly of a
portrait that he had in his collection at Quenton Park, It was a
fragment of a fresco from the Valley of the Kings, depicting a
Ramessidian princess.
Why should that surprise you?" he asked himself. "The very same blood
runs in her veins."
She turned to face him, "Give me hope, Nicky. Tell me that I have not
dreamed all this. Tell me that we are going to find what we are looking
for, and that we are going to vindicate Duraid's death."
Her face was upturned to his, and it seemed to glow under the light dew
of perspiration and the strength of her commitment. He was seized by an
almost overwhelming urge to take her up in his arms and kiss those
moistly parted lips, but instead he turned away and started down the
trail.
He dared not look back at her until he had himself fully under control.
After a while he heard her quick, light tread on the rock behind him.
They went on down in silence, and he was so preoccupied that he was
unprepared for the sudden stunning vista that opened abruptly before
them.
They stood high on a ledge above the sub-gorge of the Nile. Below them
was a mighty cauldron of red rock five hundred feet deep. The main flow
of the legendary river plunged in a green torrent into the shadowy
abyss. It was so deep that the sunlight did not reach down into it.
Beside them the sparser waters of the Dandera river took the same leap,
falling white as an egret's feather, twisting and blowing in the false
wind of the gorge. In the depths the waters mingled, churning and
roiling together in a welter of foam, turning upon themselves like a
great wheel, weighty and viscous as oil, until at last they found the
exit gorge and tore away down it with irresistible force and power.
"You sailed through that in a boat?"Royan asked, with awe in her voice.
"We were young and foolish, then,'Nicholas said with a sad little smile
that was haunted by old memories.
They were silent for a long while. Then RQyan said softly, "One can see
how this would have stopped Taita and his prince as they came upstream."
She looked about her, and then pointed down the gorge towards the west.
"They certainly could never have come up the sub-gorge itself. They must
have followed the line of the top of the cliffs, right along here where
we are standing." Her voice took on an edge of excitement at the
thought.
"Unless they came up the other side of the river," Nicholas suggested to
tease her, and her face fell.
"I hadn't thought of that. Of course it's possible. How would we ever
cross over, if we find no evidence on this side?
"Let's consider that only when it's forced upon us. We have enough to
contend with as it is, without looking for more hardships."
Again they were silent, both of them considering the magnitude and
uncertainty of the task that they had taken on. Then Royan roused
herself.
"Where is the monastery? I can see no sign of it."
"It's in the cliff right under our feet."
"Will we camp down there?"
"I doubt it. Let's catch up with Boris and find out what he intends to
do."
They followed the trail along the edge of the cauldron, and came up with
the mule caravan at a spot where the track forked. One branch turned
away from the river into a wooded depression, while the other still
hugged the rimrock.
Boris was waiting for them, and he indicated the track that led away
from the river. "There is a good campsite up there in the trees where I
stayed last time I hunted down here."
There were several tall wild fig trees throwing shade across this glade,
and a spring of fresh water at the head.
To minimize the loads, Boris had not carried tents down into the gorge.
So as soon as the mules were unloaded he set his men to building three
small thatched huts for their accommodation, and to digging a pit
latrine well away from the spring.
While this work was going on, Nicholas beckoned to Royan and Tessay, and
the three of them set off to explore the monastery. Where the trail
forked, Tessay led them along the path that skirted the cliff top, and
soon they came to a broad rock staircase that descended the cliff face.
There was a party of white-robed monks coming UP the stone stairway, and
Tessay stopped briefly to chat to them. As they went on she told
Nicholas and Royan, "Today is Katera, the eve of the festival of Timkat,
which begins tomorrow. They are very excited. It is one of the major
events of the religious year."
"What does the festival celebrate?" Royan asked. "It is not part of the
Church calendar in Egypt."
"It's the Ethiopian Epiphany, celebrating the baptis of Christ,' Tessay
explained. "During the ceremony the tabot will be taken down to the
river to be rededicated and revitalized, and the acolytes will receive
baptism, as did Jesus Christ at the hand of the Baptist."
They followed the staircase down the sheer cliff face.
The treads of the steps had been dished by the passage of bare feet over
the centuries. Down they went, with the great cauldron of the Nile
boiling and hissing and steaming with spray hundreds of feet below them.
Suddenly they came out on to a wide terrace that had been hewn by man's
hand from the living rock. The red rock overhung it, forming a roof to
the cloister with arches of stone left in place by the ancient builders
to support it.
The interior wall of the long covered terrace was riddled with the
entrances to the catacombs beyond. Over the ages the cliff face had been
mined and burrowed to form the halls and cells, the vestibules, churches
and shrines of the monastic community which had inhabited them for well
over a thousand years.
There were groups of monks seated along the length of the terrace. Some
of them were listening to one of the deacons reading aloud from an
illuminated copy of the scriptures.
"So many of them are illiterate," Tessay sighed. "The Bible must be read
and explained to even the monks, for most of them are unable to read it
for themselves."
"This was what the Church of Constantine was like, the Church of
Byzantium," Nicholas pointed out quietly.
"It remains the Church of cross and book, of elaborate and sumptuous
ritual in a predominantly illiterate world today." As they wandered
slowly down the cloister they passed other seated groups who, under the
direction of a precentor, were chanting and singing the Amharic psalms
and hymns.
>From the interior of the cells and caves there came the IC hum of
voices raised in prayer or supplication, and the air was thick with the
smell of human occupation that had taken place over hundreds of years.
It was the smell of wood smoke and incense, of stale food and excrement,
of sweat and piety, of suffering and of sickness. Amongst the groups of
monks were the pilgrims who had made the journey, or been carried by
their relatives, down into the gorge to make petition to the saint, or
to seek from him a cure for their disease and suffering.
There were blind children weeping in their mothers' arms, and lepers
with the flesh rotting and falling from their bones, and still others in
the coma of sleeping sickness or some other terrible tropical
affliction. Their whines and moans of agony blended with the chanting of
the monks, and with the distant clamour of the Nile as it cascaded into
the cauldron.
They came at last to the entrance to the cavern cathedral of St.
Frumentius. It was a circular opening like the mouth of a fish, but the
surrounds of the portals were painted with a dense border of stars and
crosses, and of saintly heads. The portraits were primitive, and
rendered in ochre and soft earthy tones that were all the more appealing
for their childlike simplicity. The eyes of the saints were huge and
outlined in charcoal, their expressions tranquil and benign.
A deacon in a grubby green velvet robe guarded the entrance, but when
Tessay spoke to him he smiled and nodded and gestured for them to enter.
The lintel was low and Nicholas had to duck his head to pass under it,
but on the far side he raised it again to look about him in amazement.
The roof of the cavern was so high that it was lost in the gloom. The
rock walls -were covered with murals, a celestial host of angels and
archangels who flickered and wavered in the light of the candles and oil
lamps. They were partially obscured by the long tapestry banners that
hung down the walls, grimy with incense soot, their fringes frayed and
tattered. On one of these St. Michael rode a prancing white horse, on
another the Virgin knelt at the foot of the cross, while above her the
pate body of Christ bled from the wound of the Roman spear in his side.
This was the outer nave of the church. In the far wall ". the doorway to
the middle chamber was guarded by a massive pair of wooden doors that
stood open. The three of them crossed the stone floor, picking their way
between the kneeling petitioners and pilgrims in their rags and tatters,
in their misery and their religious ecstasy. In the feeble light of the
lamps and the blue haze of incense smoke they seemed lost souls
languishing eternally in the outer darkness of purgatory.
The visitors reached the set of three stone steps that led up to the
inner doors, but their way was blocked at the threshold by two robed
deacons in tall, flat-topped hats.
One of these addressed Tessay sternly.
"They will not even let us enter the qiddist, the middle chamber,'
Tessay told them regretfully. "Beyond that lies the maqdas, the Holy of
Holies." A
They peered past the guards, and in the gloom of the qiddist could just
make out the door to the inner sanctum.
"Only the ordained priests are allowed to enter the maqdas, for it
contains the tabot and the entrance to the tomb of the saint."
Disappointed and frustrated, they made their way out of the cavern and
back along the terrace. They ate their dinner under a sky full of stars.
The air was still stiflingly hot, and clouds of mosquitoes hovered just
out of range of the repellents with which they had all smeared their
exposed skin.
"And so, English, I have got you where you wanted to be. Now, how are
you going to find this animal that you have come so far to hunt?" The
vodka was making Boris belligerent again.
"At first light I want you to send out your trackers to work the country
downstream from here," Nicholas told him. "Dik-dik are usually active in
the early morning, and again late in the afternoon."
"You are teaching your grandpapa to skin a cat," said Boris, angling
the metaphor. He poured himself another vodka.
"Tell them to check for spoor." Nicholas deliberately laboured his
point. "I imagine that the tracks of the striped variety will look very
similar to those of the common dikdik. If they find indications, then
they must sit quietly along the edge of the thickest patches of bush and
watch for any movement of the animals. Dik-dik are very territorial.
They won't stray far from their own turf."
"Da! Da! I will tell them. But what will you do? Will you spend the day
in camp with the ladies, English?" He grinned slyly. "If you are lucky,
you may soon not need separate huts?" He guffawed at his own wit,.and
Tessay , looked distressed and stood up with the excuse that she was
going to the kitchen hut to supervise the chef.
Nicholas ignored the boorish pleasantry. "Royan and I will work the
river in bush along the banks of the Dandera river. It looked very
promising habitat for dik-dik. Warn your people to keep clear of the
river. I don't want the game disturbed."
They left camp the next morning in the glimmer of the dawn. Nicholas
carried the Rigby rifle and a light day pack, and led Royan along the
bank of the Dandera. They moved slowly, stopping every dozen paces to
look and listen. The thickets were alive with the sounds and movements
of the small mammals and birds.
"The Ethiopians do not have a hunting tradition, and I imagine the monks
never disturb the wildlife here in the gorge." He pointed to the tracks
of a small antelope in the moist earth of the bank. "Bushbuck," he told
her. "Menelik's bushbuck. Unique to this part of the world. A much
sought-after trophy."
"Do you really expect to find your great-grandfather's dik-dik?" she
asked. "You seemed so determined when you discussed it with Boris."
"Of course not," he grinned. "I think the old man made it up. It should
rather have been named Harper's chimera.
It probably was the skin of a striped mongoose that he used after all.
We Harpers didn't get on in the world by always sticking to the literal
truth."
They paused to watch a Tacazze suribird fluttering over a bunch of
yellow blossoms high above them in the canopy of the river in forest.
The tiny bird's plumage sparkled like a tiara of emeralds.
"Still, it gives us a wonderful excuse to fossick about in the bushes."
He glanced back to make certain that they were well clear of the camp,
and then gestured for her to sit beside him on a fallen treetrunk. "So,
let's get it clear in our minds what we are looking for. You tell me."
"We are looking for the remains of a funerary temple, or the ruins of
the necropolis where the workers lived while they were excavating
Pharaoh Mamose's tomb."
"Any sort of masonry or stonework," he agreed, especially Ily some sort
of column or monument."
Taita's stone testament," se noc "It's engraved or chiselled with
hieroglyphics. Probably badly weathered, fallen over, covered with
vegetation - I don't know. Anything at all. We are fishing blind in dark
waters."
"Well, why are we still sitting here? Let's start fishing." In the
middle of the morning Nicholas found the tracks of a dik-dik along the
river bank. They took up a position against the hole of one of the big
trees and sat quietly for a while in the shadows of the forest, until at
last they were rewarded by a glimpse of one of the tiny creatures. It
passed close to where they sat, wriggling its trunklike proboscis,
stepping daintily on its fill hooves, nipping a leaf from a low-hanging
branch, and munching it busily. However, its coat was a uniform drab
grey, unrelieved by stripes of any kind.
When it disappeared into the undergrowth, Nicholas stood up. "No luck.
Common variety," he whispered. "Let's get on."
A little after noon they reached the spot where the river issued from
between the pink flesh-coloured cliffs of the chasm. They explored these
as far as they were able before their way was blocked by the cliffs. The
rock fell straight into the flood, and there was no foothold at the
water's edge that would allow them to penetrate further.
They retreated downstream, and crossed to the far bank over a primitive
suspension bridge of lianas and hairy flax rope that Nicholas guessed
had been built by the monks from the monastery. Once again they tried to
push on into the chasm. Nicholas even attempted to wade around of pink
rock that barred the way, around the first bus but the current was too
strong and threatened to sweep him off his feet. He was forced to
abandon the attempt.
"If we can't get through there, then it's highly unlikely that Taita and
his workmen would have done so."
They went back as far as the hanging bridge and found a shady place
close to the water to eat the lunch that Tessay had packed for them. The
heat in the middle of the day was stupefying. Royan wet her cotton
neckerchief in the river and dabbed at her face as she lay beside him.
Nicholas lay on his back and studied every inch of the pink cliffs
through his binoculars. He was looking for any cleft or opening in their
smooth polished surfaces.
He spoke without lowering the binoculars. "Reading River God, it looks
as if Taita actually enlisted help to switch the bodies of Tanus, Great
Lion of Egypt, and the Pharaoh himself." He lowered the glasses and
looked at Royan. "I find that puzzling, for it would have been an
outrageous thing to do in terms of his period and belief Is that a fair
translation of the scrolls? Did Taita truly switch the bodies?"
She laughed and rolled over to face him. "Your old chum Wilbur has an
overheated imagination. The only basis for that whole bit of
story-telling is a single line in the scrolls. "To me he was more a king
than ever Pharaoh been."' She rolled on to her back again. "That is a
good example of my objection to the book. He mixes fact and fantasy into
an inextricable stew. As far as I know and believe, Tanus rests in his
own tomb and the Pharaoh in his., "Pity!" Nicholas sighed and stuffed
the book back in his pack. "It was a romantic little touch that I
enjoyed." He glanced at his wrist-watch and stood up. "Come on, I want
to do a recon down the other spur of the valley. I spotted some
interesting ground up there whilst we were on the approach march
yesterday."
It was late afternoon when they arrived back at the camp, and Tessay
hurried out of her kitchen hut to greet them.
"I have been waiting for you to return. We have had an interesting
invitation from Jali Hora, the abbot. He has invited us to a banquet in
the monastery to celebrate Kateral the eve of Timkat. The servants have
set up your, shower, and the water is hot. There is just time for you to
change before we go down to the monastery."
The abbot sent a party of young acolytes to escort them to the
banqueting hall. These IMC_ , young men arrived in the short African
twilight, carrying torches to light the way.
Royan recognized one of these as Tamre, the epileptic boy. When she
singled him out for her warmest smile, he came forward shyly and offered
her a bouquet of wild flowers that he had picked from beside the river.
She was unprepared for this courtesy, and without thinking she thanked
him in Arabic.
"Shukran."
"Taffa"," the boy replied immediately, using the correct gender of the
response, and in an accent that told her instantly that he was fluent in
her language.
"How do you speak Arabic so well?" she asked, intrigued.
The boy hung his head with embarrassment and mumbled, "My mother is from
Massawa, on the Red Sea. It is the language of my childhood., When they
set off for the monastery, the boy monk followed Royan like a puppy.
Once more they descended the stairway down the cliff and came out on to
the torchlit terrace. The narrow cloisters were packed with humanity,
and as they made their way through the press, with the honour guard of
acolytes clearing a way for them, black faces called Amharic greetings
and black hands reached out to touch them.
They stooped through the low entrance to the outer nave of the
cathedral. The chamber was lit with oil lamps an torches, so that the
murals of saints and angels danced in the uncertain light. The stone
floor was covered with a carpet of freshly cut reeds and rushes, their
sweet herbal perfume leavening the heavy, smoky air. It seemed that the
entire brotherhood of monks were seated cross-legged on this spongy
carpet. They greeted the entrance of the little party of ferengi with
cries of welcome and shouts of benediction. Beside each seated figure
stood a flask of tej, the honey mead of the country. It was clear from
the happy, sweaty faces that the flasks had already done good service.
The visitors were led forward to a spot that had been left clear for
them directly in front of the wooden doors to the qkUst, the middle
chamber. Their escort urged them to sit and make themselves comfortable
in this space. As soon as they were settled, another party of acolytes
came in from the terrace bearing flasks of tej, and knelt to place a
separate pottery flask in front of each of them.
Tessay leaned across to whisper, "Better you let me sample this tej
before you try it. The strength and colour and taste vary in every place
that it is served, and some of it is ferocious." She raised her flask
and drank directly from the elongated neck. When she lowered the flask
she smiled, "This is a good brew. If you are careful, you will be all
right with it., The monks seated around them were urging them to drink,
and Nicholas raised his flask. The monks clapped and laughed as he
tasted the liquor. It was light and pleasant, with a strong bouquet of
wild honey. "Not bad!" he gave his opinion, but Tessay warned him,
"Later they will almost certainly offer you katikala. Be very careful of
that! It is distilled from fermented grain and it will take your head
off at the shoulders."
The monks were concentrating their hospitality on Royan now. The fac t
that she was a Coptic Christian, a true believer, had impressed them. It
was obvious also that her beauty had not gone entirely unremarked by
this company of holy and celibate men.
Nicholas leaned close to her, and whispered, "You will have to fake it
for their benefit. Hold it up to your lips and pretend to swallow, or
they will not leave you in peace."
As she lifted the&ask the monks hooted with delight and saluted her with
their own upraised flasks. She lowered the flask again, and whispered to
Nicholas.
"It's delicious. It tastes of honey."
"You broke your vow of abstinence!" he chided her laughing. "Did you?"
"Just a drop," she admitted, "and anyway I never made any vows."
The acolytes knelt in turn in front of each guest, offering them a bowl
of hot water in which to wash their right hands in preparation for the
feast.
Suddenly there was the sound of music and drums, and a band of musicians
filed through the open doors of the qiddist. They took up their
positions along the side walls of the chamber, while the congregation
craned expectantly to peer into its dim interior.
At last Jali Hora, the ancient abbot, appeared at the head of the steps.
He wore a full-length robe of crimson satin, with a gold
thread-embroidered stole around his shoulders. On his head was a massive
crown. Though it glittered like gold, Nicholas knew that it was gilt
brass, and the multi'coloured stones with- which it was set were just as
certainly glass and paste.
JahbHora raised his crook, which was surmounted by an ornate silver
cross, and a weighty silence fell upon the company.
"Now he will say the grace," Tessay told them, and bowedh'er head.
JahHora's grace was fervent and lengthy, his reedy falsetto punctuated
by devout responses from the monks.
When at last he came to the end, two splendidly robed debteras helped
Jali Hora down the stairs and seated him on his carved jimmera stool at
the head of the circle of senior deacons and priests.
The religious mood of the monks changed to one of festive bonhomie as a
procession of acolytes entered from the terrace, each of them bearing
upon his head a flat woven reed basket the size of a wagon wheel. They
placed one of these in the centre of each circle of guests.
Then at a signal from JahHora, acting in unison they whipped the lid off
each basket. A jovial cheer went up from the monks, for each basket
contained a shallow brass bowl that was filled from rim to rim with
round sheets of the flat grey unleavened iniera bread.
Two acolytes staggered in from the terrace, barely able to carry between
them a steaming brass pot filled with gallons of wat, a spicy stew of
fat mutton. Over each of the bowls of injera bread they tipped the great
pot and slopped gouts of the runny red-brown wat, the surface glistening
with hot grease.
The assembly fell on the food voraciously. They tore off wads of injera
and scooped up the mess of wat with it, and then stuffed the parcel into
their open mouths, which remained open as they chewed. They washed it
down with long swallows from the flasks, before wrapping themselves
another parcel of running wat. Soon every one of them was greasy to the
elbow and their chins were smeared thickly, as they chewed and drank and
shouted with laughter.
The serving acolytes dumped thick cakes of another type of injera beside
each guest. These were stiffer and less yeasty in taste, friable and
crumbling, unlike the latex rubber consistency of the thin grey sheets
of the first kind.
Nicholas and Royan tried to show their appreciation of the food without
coating themselves with layers of it as the oth _rs were doing. Despite
its appearance the wat was really rather tasty, and the dry yellow
injera helped to cut the grease.
The communal brass bowls were emptied in remarkably short order. Only
the churned up mess of bread and grease remained when the acolytes came
tottering in under the weight of another set of pots, this time filled
to overflowing with curried chicken wat. This was splashed into the
bowls on top of the remains of the mutton, and again the monks had at
it.
While they gobbled up the chicken, the tej flasks were replenished and
the monks became more raucous.
"I don't think I can take much more of this," Royan told Nicholas
queasily.
"Close your eyes and think of England," he advised her.
"You are the star of the evening. They aren't going to let you escape."
As soon as the chicken was eaten, the servers were back with fresh pots,
this time brimming with fiery beef wat. They dumped this on the remnants
of both the mutton and the chicken.
The monk in the circle opposite Royan emptied his flask, and when an
acolyte tried to refill it, he waved the lad away with a shout of,
"Katikala!'
The -cry was taken up by the other monks. "Katikala!
Katikalar The acolytes hurried out and returned with dozens of bottles
of the gin-clear liquor and brass bowls the size of tea cups.
"This is the stuff to be careful of," Tessay told them.
Surreptitiously both Nicholas and Royan were able to dribble the
contents of their bowls into the mat of reeds on which they were
sitting, but the monks guzzled theirs down greedily.
"Boris is getting his share," Nicholas remarked to Royan. The Russian
was red-faced and sweating, grinnin 9 like an idiot as he downed another
bowlful.
Enlivened by the katikala the monks started playing a game. One of them
would wrap a packet of beef wat with a sheet of injera, and then, as it
dripped fat from his poised right hand, he would turn to the monk
beside. The victim would open his mouth until his jaws were at full
stretch, and the packet would be stuffed into it by his considerate
neighbour. The morsel was, of course, as large as a human gape could
possibly accommodate, and in order to engulf it the victim had to risk
death by asphyxiation.
The rules of the game seemed to be that he was not allowed to use his
hands to get it into his own mouth, neither should he dribble down the
front of his robe, nor splutter gravy over those seated near to him. His
contortions, together with his gulping and choking and gasping for air,
were the source of uncontrollable hilarity. When at last he succeeded in
getting it down, a brass bowl of katikala was held to his lips as a
reward. He was expected to send the contents in the same direction as
the parcel of injera.
Jali Hora, by now warmed with tej and kadkala, lurched to his feet. In
his right hand he held aloft a streaming parcel of injera. As he began
an unsteady progress across the chamber, with his shiny crown awry, they
did not at first realize his intentions. The entire company'watched him
with interest.
Then suddenly Royan stiffened and whispered with horror, "No! Please,
no. Save me, Nicky. Don't let this happen to me."
"This is the price you pay for being the leading lady," he told her.
Jali Hora was making his rather erratic way towards where she sat. The
gravy from the morsel he carried for her was trickling down his forearm
and dripping from his elbow.
The band standing along the side wall struck up a lively air. As the
abbot came to a halt in front of Royan, rocking on his suspension like
an ancien " carriage, they fiddled and fifed and the drummers broke out
in a frenzy.
The abbot presented his gift, and with one last despairing glance at
Nicholas Royan faced the inevitable. She closed her eyes and opened her
mouth.
To roars of encouragement and the urgings of LIFE and drum, she
struggled and chewed. Her face turned rosy and her eyes watered. At one
point Nicholas thought she would admit defeat and spit it out on to the
reed-covered have to floor. But slowly and courageously, a bit at a
time, she forced it down and then fell back exhausted.
Her audience, clapping and hooting loved every moment of it. The abbot
sank stiffly to his knees in front of her and embraced her, almost
losing his crown in the ess. Then without relinquishing his embrace proc
he made himself a place beside her.
"It looks as though you have made another conquest," Nicholas told her
dryly. "I think he will be on your lap at moment, if you don't duck and
run." any Royan reacted swiftly. She reached across and grabbed a bottle
of kadkala, and a bowl which she filled to the brim.
"Drink it up, Pops!" she told him, and held the bowl to his lips. Jab
Hora accepted the challenge, but he had to release her to drink from her
hand.
Suddenly Royan started so violently that she spilled what was left in
the bowl down the old man's robe. The blood drained from her face and
she began to tremble as though in a high fever as she stared at Jab
Hora's crown, which had slipped forward over his eyes.
What is it?" Nicholas demanded quietly but urgently, and he reached
across to steady her with a hand on her arm. Nobody else in the chamber
had noticed her distress, but he was fully attuned to her moods by now.
Still staring ashen-faced at the crown, she dropped the bowl and reached
down and grasped his wrist. He was startled by her strength. Her grip
was painful,,and he saw that she had driven her nails into his flesh so
hard that she had broken the skin.
"Look at his crown! The jewel! The blue jewel!" she gasped.
He saw it then, amongst the gaudy shards of glass and pebbles of
semi-precious garnets and rock crystal. The size of a silver dollar, it
was a seal of blue ceramic, perfectly round, and baked to a hard,
impervious finish. In the centre of the disc was an etching of an
Egyptian war chariot, and above it the distinctive and unmistakable
outline of the hawk with the broken wing. Around the circumference was a
legend engraved in hieroglyphics. It took him only a few moments to read
it to himself:
I COMMAND TEN THOUSAND CHARIOTS.
I AM TAITA, MASTER OF THE ROYAL HORSE.
Royan desperately wanted to escape from the oppressive atmosphere of the
cavern. The parcel of wat that the abbot had forced upon her had mixed
heavily with the few mouthfuls of tej she had swallowed, and this
feeling in Turn was aggravated by the smell of the dirty food bowls
thick with congealing grease and the fumes of raw katikala.
if Already some of the monks were puking drunk, and the smell of vomit
added to the cloying miasma of incense smoke within the chamber.
However, she was still the centre of the abbot's attention. He sat
beside her stroking her bare arm and reciting garbled extracts from the
Amharic scriptures; Tessay had long ago given up translating for her.
Royan looked hopefully at Nicholas but he was withdrawn and silent,
seeming oblivious of his surroundings. She knew that he was thinking
about the ceramic seal in the abbot's crown, for his eyes kept
returning thoughtfully to it.
She wanted to be alone with him to discuss this extraordinary discovery.
Her excitement outweighed the distress of her overloaded stomach. She
felt her cheeks flushed with it. Every time she looked up at the old
man's crown her heart fluttered, and she had to make an effort to stop
herself reaching up, seizing the shiny blue seal and ripping it from its
setting to examine it more closely.
She knew how unwise it was to draw attention to the scrap of ceramic,
but when she glanced across the circle she saw that Boris was far past
noticing anything other than the bowl of kadkala in his hand. In the end
it was who gave her the excuse for which she had been Boris seeking. He
tried to get to his feet, but his legs collapsed under him. He sagged
forward quite gracefully, and his face dropped into the bowl of
grease-sodden injera bread.
He lay there snoring noisily, and Tessay appealed to Nicholas.
"Alto Nicholas, what am I to do?"
Nicholas considered the unlovely spectacle of the rate hunter. There
were scraps of bread and beef stew prost sticking like confetti in his
cropped ginger hair.
"I rather suspect Prince Charming has had enough for one night the
murmured.
stood up, stooped over Boris and gripped one wrist.
He With a sudden jerk he lifted him into a sitting position, nd then
heaved him upright and over his shoulder in a a fireman's lift.
"Good night, all!" he told the assembled monks, very few of whom were in
any condition to respond. Then he carried Boris away, draped over his
shoulders with head and feet dangling. The two women had to hurry to
keep up with Nicholas as he strode down the terrace and then up the
stone stairway without a pause.
"I did not realize Alto Nicholas was so strong," Tessay panted, for the
stairs were steep and the pace was hard.
didn't either," Royan admitted. She experienced a ridiculous proprietary
pride in his feat, and smiled at herself in the darkness as they
approached the camp.
"Don't be silly," she admonished herself. "He isn't yours to boast
about." Nicholas threw his burden down on Boris's own bed in thatched
hut and stood back panting heavily, the sweat trickling down his cheeks.
"That's a pretty good recipe for a heart attack," he gasped.
Boris groaned, rolled over and vomited copiously over his pillows and
bedlinen.
"On that pleasant note I will bid you all goodnight and sweet dreams,'
Nicholas told Tessay, stepping out of the hut into the warm African
night.
He breathed in the smell of the forest and the river with relief, and
then turned to Royan as she gripped his arm.
"Did you see-' she burst out excitedly, but he laid his fingers on her
lips to silence her, and with a cautionary frown in the direction of
Boris's hut led her away to her own hut.
"Did you see it?" she demanded, unable to contain herself longer. "Could
you read it?"
"'I command ten thousand chariots,"' he recited.
"'I am Taita, master of the royal horse,"' she completed it for him. "He
was here. Oh, Nicky! He was here. Taita was here. That's the proof we
wanted. Now we know that we are not wasting our time."
She flopped down on her camp bed and hugged herself ecstatically. "Do
you think the abbot will let us examine the sealT
He shook his head, "My guess is no. The crown is one of the monastery
treasures. Even for you, his favourite lady, I don't think he would do
it. Anyway, it would not be wise to show any great interest in it. Jali
Hora obviously does not have any idea of its significance. Apart from
that, we don't want to alert Boris."
suppose you are right." She moved over on the bed to make room for him.
"Sit down."
He sat down beside her, and she asked, "Where do you suppose the seal
came from? Who found it? Where, and when?"
"Steady on, dear girl. That's four questions in one, and I don't have an
answer to any of them."
"Guess!" she invited him. "Speculate! Throw some ideas around!'
"Very well," he agreed. "The seal was manufactured in Hong Kong. There
is a little factory there that turns them out by the thousands. Jali
Hora bought it from a souvenir store in Luxor when he was on holiday in
Egypt last month."
She punched his arm, hard. "Be serious," she ordered.
can do better," he invited her, rubbing
"Let's hear if yo his arm.
"Okay, here I go. Taita dropped the seal here in the gorge while he was
working on the construction of Pharaoh's tomb. Three thousand years
later an old monk, one of the very first to live here at the monastery,
picked it up. Of course, he could not read the hieroglyphics. He -took
it to the abbot, who declared it to be a relic of St. Frumentius, and
had it set in the crown."
"And they all lived happily ever after," Nicholas agreed.
"Not a bad shot."
ny holes?" she demanded, and he shook Can you find a head. "Then you
agree that this proves that Taita really his was here, and that it
proves our theories are correct?" -Proves" is too strong a word. Let's
just say that it points in that direction," he demurred.
She wriggled around on the bed to face him squarely.
"Oh, Nicky, I am so excited. I swear I will not be able to sleep a wink
tonight. I just can't wait for tomorrow, to get out there and start
searching again."
Her eyes were bright, and her cheeks flushed a warm rosy brown. Her lips
were parted, and he could see the pink tip of her tongue between them.
This time he could not stop himself. He leaned very slowly towards her,
treating her gently, giving her every opportunity to pull away if she
wished to avoid him. She did not move, but her shining expression turned
slowly to one of apprehension. She stared into his eyes, as if seeking
something, some reassurance.
When their lips were an inch apart, Nicholas stopped, and it was she who
made the last movement. She brought their mouths together.
At first it was soft, just a light mingling of their breath, and then it
became harsher, more urgent. For a long, heartstopping moment they
devoured each other, and her mouth tasted soft and sweet as ripe fruit.
Then suddenly she whimpered, and with a huge effort of will tore herself
out of his arms. They stared at each other, both of them shaken and
confused.
"No," she whispered. "Please, Nicky, not yet. I am not ready yet."
He picked up her hand and turned it between his palms. Then lightly he
kissed the tips of her fingers, savouring the smell and the taste of her
skin.
"I'll see you in the morning." He dropped her hand and stood up. "Early.
Be ready!the said, and stooped out through the doorway of the hut.
was dressing the next morning he heard her moving a round in her hut,
and when he whistled softly at her door she stepped out to meet him,
dressed and eager to start.
"Boris is not awake yet,'Tessay told them as she served their breakfast.
"Now that is a great surprise to me," Nicholas said, without looking up
from his plate. He and Royan were still slightly awkward in each other's
presence, remembering the circumstances in which they had parted the
previous evening. However, as Nicholas slung the rifle and the pack 0
ver his shoulder and they set off up the valley, their mood changed to
one of anticipation.
They had been going for an hour when Nicholas glanced over his shoulder
and then cautioned her with a frown. "We are being followed."
Taking her wrist, he drew her behind a slab of sandstone. He flattened
himself against the rock and stured at her to do the same. Then he
poised himself, ge an suddenly leaped forward to seize the lanky figure
in a dirty white shamnw who was sneaking up the valley behind them. With
a howl the creature fell to his knees, and began gibbering with terror.
Nicholas hauled him to his feet. "Tamre! What are you doing following
us? Who sent you?" he demanded in Arabic.
The boy rolled his eyes towards Royan. "No, please, effendi, do not hurt
me. I meant no harm."
"Leave the child, Nicky. You will precipitate another fit," Royan
intervened. Tamre scurried behind her and clung to her hand for
protection, peering out around her shoulder at Nicholas as though his
life were in danger.
"Peace, Tamre," Nicholas soothed him. "I will not hurt you, unless you
lie to me. If you do, then I will thrash you until there is no skin on
your back. Who sent you to follow us?"
"I came alone. Nobody sent me," blubbered the boy. "I came to show you
where I saw the holy animal with the fingermarks -of the Baptist on his
skin."
Nicholas stared at him for a moment, before he began to laugh softly.
"I'll be damned if the boy doesn't really believe he saw
great-grandfather's dik-dik." Then he scowled ferociously. "Remember
what will happen to you, if you are lying."
"It is true, effendi," Tamre sobbed, and Royan came to his defence.
Don't badger him. He is harmless. Leave the poor , A hild."
"All right, Tamre. I will give you a chance. Take us to where you saw
the holy animal."
Tamre would not relinquish his grip on Royan's hand.
He clung to it as he danced beside her, leading her along, and within a
hundred yards his terror had faded and he was smiling and giggling at
her shyly.
For an hour he led them away from the Dandera rier and up over the high
ground above the valley, into an area of thick scrub and up-thrust
ridges of weathered limestone.
The thorny branches of the bush were densely intertwined, and grew so
close to the ground that there seemed to be no way through them.
However, Tamre led them on to a narrow twisting path, just wide enough
for them to avoid the red-tipped hook thorns on each side of them. Then
abruptly he stopped and pulled Royan to a halt beside him.
He pointed down, almost at his own toes.
"The riverPhe announced importantly. Nicholas came up beside them and
whistled softly with surprise. Tamre had led them around in a wide
circle to the west, and then brought them back to the Dandera river at a
point where it still ran in the bed of the deep ravine.
Now they stood on the very edge of the chasm. He saw at once that,
although the top of the rocky ravine was less than a hundred feet wide,
the chasm opened out below the rim. From the surface of the water far
below, the rock wall belled out in the shape of one of the pottery tej
flasks.
It narrowed again as it neared the top where they stood.
saw the holy thing over there."Tamre pointed to the far side of the
chasm where a small feeder spring meandered out of the thorny bush.
Streamers of bright green moss, nourished by the spring, hung from the
lip of the concave rock wall, and the water trickled down them and
dripped from the tips into the river two hundred feet below.
"If you saw it there, why did you bring us to this side of the
river?"Nicholas demanded.
Tamre looked as though he were on the point of tears.
This side is easier. There is no path through the bush on the other
side. The thorns would hurt Woizero Royan."
"Don't be a bully," Royan told him, and put her arm around the boy's
shoulder.
Nicholas shrugged, "It looks like the two of you are ganging up on me.
Well, seeing that we are here, we might as well sit a while and see if
great-grandpa's dik-dik puts in an appearance."
He picked out a spot in the shade of one of the stunted trees that hung
on the lip of the chasm, and with his hat swept the ground clear of
fallen thorns until there was a place for them to sit. He placed his
back against the trunk of the thorn tree and laid the Rigby rifle across
his lap.
By this time it was past noon, and the heat was stifling.
He passed the water bottle to Royan and, while she drank, glanced at
Tamre and suggested to her in English, "This might be a good time to
find out what, if anything, the lad knows about the Taita ceramic in the
crown. He is besotted with you. He will tell you anything you want to
know.
Question him."
She began gently, chatting softly to the boy. Occasionally she stroked
his head and petted him as though he were a puppy- She spoke to him of
the previous night's banquet, the beauty of the underground church, and
the antiquity of the murals and the tapestries, and then at last
mentioned the abbot's crown.
"Yes. Yes. That is the stone of the saint," he agreed readily. "The blue
stone of St. Frumentius."
"Where did it come from?" she asked. "Do you know?" The boy looked
embarrassed, "I do not know. It is very old, perhaps as old as Christ
the Saviour. That is what the priests say."
"You do not know where it was found?"
He shook his head, but then, eager to please her, he suggested, "Perhaps
it fell from heaven."
"Perhaps." Royan glanced at Nicholas, who rolled his eyes upwards and
then pushed his hat forward to cover his face.
"Perhaps St.. Frumentius gave it to the first abbot when he died." Tamre
warmed to the subject. "Or perhaps it was in his coffin with him when he
was placed in his tomb."
"All these things are possible, Tamre,' Royan agreed.
"Have you seen the tomb of St. Frumentius?"
He looked around him guiltily. "Only the ordained priests are allowed
into the tnaqdas, the Holy of Holies," he hung his head and whispered.
"You have seen it, Tamre," she accused him gently, stroking his head.
She was intrigued by the boy's guilt. "You can tell me. I will not tell
the priests."
"Only once," he admitted. "The other boys. They sent me to touch the
tabot stone. They would have beaten me if I had not. All the new
acolytes are made to do this." He began to babble with the horror of the
memory of his initiation ordeal. "I was alone. I was very afraid. It was
after midnight when the priests were asleep. Dark. The maqdas is haunted
by the ghost of the saint. They told me that if I was unworthy the saint
would strike me down with lightning."
Nicholas removed the hat from his face and straightened up slowly. "My
word, the child is telling the truth," he said softly. "He has been into
the Holy of Holies-'Then he looked across at Royan, "Keep questioning
him. He may just give us something useful. Ask him about the tomb of St.
Frumentius."
"Did you see the tomb of the saint?" she asked, and the boy nodded
vigorously. "Did you go into the tomb?" This time he shook his head.
"No. There are bars across the entrance. Only the abbot is allowed into
the tomb, on the birthday of the saint."
"Did you look through the bars?"
"Yes, but it is very dark. I saw the coffin of the saint. It is wood and
there is painting on it, the face of the saint."
"Is he a black man?"
"No - a white man with a red beard. The painting is very old. The
picture is faded, and the wood of the coffin is rotting and crumbling."
"Is it lying on the floor of the tomb?" Tamre screwed up his face in
thought, then after careful consideration shook his head. "No, it is on
a shelf of stone in the wall."
"Is there anything else you remember about the tomb of the saint?" Royan
tried to prod his memory, but Tamre shook his head.
"It was very dark, and the opening in the bars is small, he apologized.
"It does not matter. Is the tomb in the back wall of the rrtmdu?"
."Yes, it is behind the altar and the tabot stone."
"What is the altar made of - stone?"
"No. It is wood, cedarwood. There are candies, and a big cross, and the
many crowns of the abbot, and the chalice and staff."
"Is it painted?"
"No, it is carved with pictures. But they are different from the
pictures inside the tomb of the saint."
"What is different? Tell me, Tamre."
"I don't know. The faces are funny. They wear different clothes. There
are horses." He looked puzzled. "They are different."
Royan tried for a while to get a clearer description from him, but he
became more and more confused and contradictorywhen she pushed him, so
she changed tack.
"Tell me about the tabot," she suggested, but Nicholas forestalled her.
"No, you tell me about the tabot," he demanded of her.
"Is it similar to the Jewish Tabernacle?"
"Yes, at least in the Egypti She turned to him, an Church it is. It is
usually kept in a jewelled box and wrapped in an embroidered cloth of
gold. The only difference is that the Jewish Tabernacle is carved with
the ten commandments, but in our Church it is carved with the words of
dedication of the particular church that houses it.
It is the living heart of the Church."
"What is the tabot stone?" Nicholas frowned with concentration.
"I don't know," she admitted. "Our Church does not have a tabot stone."
"Ask him!
"Tell me about the tabot stone, Tamre."
"It is so high, and so square." He indicated a height of a little above
his own shoulder, and the width of his spread hands.
"And the tabot stands on top of this stone?" Royan guessed.
Tamre nodded.
"Why did they send you to touch the stone and not the tabot itself?"
Nicholas demanded, but Royan shook her head to silence him.
"Let me do the talking. You are too harsh with him. She turned back to
the boy. "Why the stone, rather than the Ark of the tabot that stands on
top of it?"
Tamre shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. They just did."
"What does the stone look like? Are there paintings on it also?"
"I don't know." He looked distraught at not being able to satisfy her.
He wanted desperately to please her. don't know. The stone is wrapped
with cloth."
Nicholas and Royan exchanged startled glances, and then Royan turned
back to the boy.
"Covered?" Royan leaned closer to him. "The stone is covered?, "They say
that it is only uncovered by the abbot on the birthday of St..
Frumentius."
Again Nicholas and Royan stared at each other, and then he smiled
thoughtfully. "I would rather like to have a look at the tomb of the
saint, and the tabot stone - in its uncovered state."
"You' have to wait for the saint's birthday," she said, she broke and
have yourself ordained. Only the priests off and stared at him again.
"You aren't thinking of - no, you wouldn't, would you?"
"Who, me?" he grinned. "Perish the thought."
"If they caught you in the maqdas, they would tear you to little
pieces."
"The answer, then, would be not to let them catch me."
"If you go, I am going with you. How are we going to manage it?"
"Throttle back, dear girl. The thought only occurred to me ten seconds
ago. Even on my good days, I need at least ten minutes to come up wit a
brilliant plan of action."
They both stared out across the chasm in silence, until Royan whispered
softly, "The covered stone. Taita's stone testament?"
"Don't say it aloud," he pleaded, and made the sign against the evil
eye. "Don't even think it aloud. The Devil is listening."
They were silent again, both of them thinking furiously. Then Royan
started, "Nicky, what if-' she broke off. "No, that won't. work." She
relapsed into frowning silence again.
Tamre broke the quiet with a sudden squeak of excitement, "There it is.
Look!'
They were both startled by the interruption. "What is it?" Royan turned
to him.
Tamre seized her arm and shook it. He was trembling with emotion. "There
it is. I told you." With his other hand he was pointing out across the
river, "There at the edge of the thorn bushes. Can't you see it?"
"What is it? What can you see?"
"The animal of John the Baptist. The holy marked creature."
Following the direction of his outflung arm, she picked out a soft,
brownish blur of movement at the edge of the thicket on the far bank. "I
don't know. It is too far-'
Nicholas scrabbled in his pack and brought out his binoculars. He lifted
and focused them, and then he began to chuckle.
"Hallelujah! Great-grandpa's reputation is safe at last." He passed the
binoculars to Royan. She focused them and found the little creature in
the field. It was three hundred yards away, but through the ten-power
lens she could make it out in detail.
It was almost half as large again as the common dikdik that they had
seen the previous day, and instead of drab grey its coat was a rich red
brown. Its most striking feature, however, was the distinct dark bars of
chocolate colour across its shoulders and back - five evenly spaced
markings that did indeed look like the imprint of fingers and thumb.
"Madoqua harperii, no less," Nicholas whispered to her.
"Sorry, great-grandfather, for doubting you."
The dik-dik stood half in shadow, wriggling its nose as it snuffled the
air. Its head was held high, suspicious and alert. The soft breeze was
quartering between them and the animal, but every so often a wayward
eddy gave it the faint whiff of humanity that had alarmed it.
Royan heard the snick of the rifle action as Nicholas worked the bolt
and chambered a round. Hurriedly she lowered the glasses, and glanced at
him. "You aren't going to shoot it?" she demanded.
"No, not at that range. Over three hundred yards, and a small target.
I'll wait for it to get closer."
"How can you bring yourself to do it?"
"How can I not? That's what I came here to do, amongst other things."
"But it's so beautiful."
"I take it, then, that it would be perfectly all right to whack it if it
were ugly?"
She said nothing, but raised the binoculars again. The eddy of the wind
must have changed, for the dik-dik lowered its head to nibble at a tuft
of coarse brown grass.
Then lifted its head again and came on down the clearing in the Thorn
scrub, stepping daintily, pausing every few paces to feed again.
"Go back. She tried to will it into safety, but it kept on coming,
meandering towards the edge of the chasm.
Nicholas rolled on to his stomach and settled himself behind the trunk
of the tree. He screwed up his hat into a soft pad on which to rest the
rifle.
"Two hundred yards," he muttered to himself "That's a fair shot. No
further." Resting the cushioned rifle on the twisted root, he aimed
through the telescopic sight. Then he lifted his head, waiting to let it
come within certain range.
Abruptly the dik-dik lifted its head again and came to a halt, quivering
with tension.
"Something he doesn't like. Dammit all, wind must have changed again,'
Nicholas growled. At that moment the little antelope bolted. It streaked
across the clearing, back the way it had come, and disappeared into the
thorn scrub.
"Go, dik-dik, go!" said Royan smugly, and Nicholas sat up and grunted
with disgust.
"I can't make out what frightened him." Then his expression changed and
he cocked his head. There was an alien sound on the air growing each
second - a harsh, rising clatter and a shrill, whining whistle.
"Chopper! What the hell!" Nicholas recognized the sound immediately. He
took the binoculars from Royan's hand and turned them to the sky,
sweeping the cloudless blue emptiness above the tops of the escarpment.
"There it is," he said grimly, adding, "Bell Jet Ranger," as he
recognized the profile. "Coming this way, by the looks of it. No point
in drawing attention to ourselves. Let's get under cover."
He shepherded Royan and the boy under the spread branches of the thorn
tree. "Sit tight," he told her. "No chance they will spot us under
here."
He watched the. approaching helicopter through the binoculars. "Probably
Ethiopian air force," he said softly.
"Anti-shufta patrol, most likely. Both Boris and Colonel Nogo warned us
that there are a lot of rebels and bandits operating down here in the
gorge-' he broke off abruptly.
"No. Hold on. That's not military. Green and red fuselage, and the red
horse emblem. None other than your old friends from Pegasus
Exploration."
The sound of the rotors crescendoed, and now with her naked eye Royan
could make out the flying horse on the fuselage of the helicopter as it
flew low across their front, half a mile out, headed down towards the
Nile.
Neither of them paid any attention to Tamre as he crouched behind Royan,
trying to hide behind her body.
His teeth were chattering with terror and his eyes rolled until the
whites showed.
"It looks as if our friend Jake Helm has got himself some fancy
transport. If Pegasus is in any way connected with Duraid's murder and
the other attempts on your life, then we can expect them to be breathing
heavily down our necks from now on. They are now in a position to
overlook us at will." Nicholas was still watching the aircraft through
the binoculars.
"When your enemy is up in the air, it gives you a helpless feeling."
Royan edged instinctively closer to him, staring up.
The green and scarlet machine disappeared over the hump of the subgorge,
down towards the monastery.
"Unless he's just on a joy-ride, he's probably looking for our camp,'
Nicholas guessed. "Under orders from the main man to keep tabs on us."
"He will have no trouble finding it. Boris made no attempt to conceal
the huts," Royan said uneasily. "Let's get out of here, then." She stood
up.
"Good plan." Nicholas was about to follow her, when suddenly he caught
her hand and drew her down again.
"Hold it. They are coming back this way."
The engine beat was rising again. Then they caught a glimpse of the
helicopter through the canopy of leaves and thorn branches overhead.
"Now he is following the river. Still searching for something, by the
looks of it."
"Us?"Royan asked nervously.
"If they are under orders from the head man, could be," Nicholas agreed.
The machine was very close now, and the shrill whine of the engine was
deafening.
At that moment Tamre's nerve broke. He let out a wail of terror, "It is
the Devil, come to take me; Save me, Jesus Christ the Saviour, save me!'
Nicholas put out a hand to restrain him, but he was not quick enough.
Tamre broke free and leaped to his feet.
Still howling with fear of the pit and the flames of hell, he darted
away down the path into the Thorn scrub, the skirts of his shamma
swirling about his skinny legs and his shiny black face swivelled back
over his shoulder to watch the approaching machine.
The pilot spotted him immediately, and the nose of the helicopter sank
in their direction. It came directly towards them, slowing as it
approached the lip of the chasm. They could make out the heads of the
two occupants behind the windscreen of the forward cabin. Still
decelerating, the aircraft hung suspended over the river, pivoting on
the spinning disc of its rotor, while Royan and Nicholas crouched down
in the scrub, trying to avoid detection.
"That's the American from the prospecting camp." Royan recognized Jake
Helm, despite the bulky radio earphones and the mirrored dark glasses.
He and the black pilot were craning their necks to search the river
banks.
"They haven't spotted us-' But even as Nicholas said it, Jake Helm
looked directly at them across the open void.
Although his expression did not change, he tapped the pilot's shoulder
and pointed down at them.
The pilot let the helicopter sink lower until it hovered in the opening
of the chasm, almost on the same level as they were. Only a hundred feet
separated them now. No longer making any attempt at concealment,
Nicholas leaned back against the hole of the Thorn tree. He tipped his
Panama hat forward over one eye and gave Jake Helm a laconic wave.
The foreman made no response to the greeting. He regarded Nicholas with
a flat, baleful stare, then struck a match and held the flame to the tip
of the half-smoked cigar between his lips. He flipped the dead match
away and blew a feather of smoke in Nicholas's direction. Still without
change of expression, he said something to the pilot out of the corner
of his mouth.
Immediately the helicopter rose vertically and banked away to the north,
heading back directly towards the wall of the escarpment and the base
camp on its summit.
"Mission accomplished. He found what he was looking for."Royan sat up.
"Us!'
"And he must have spotted the camp. He knows where to find us
again,'Nicholas agreed.
Royan shivered and hugged herself briefly. "He gives me the creeps, that
one. He looks like a toad."
"Oh, come on!" Nicholas chided her. "What have you got against toads?"
He stood up. "I don't think we are going to see great-grandfather's
dik-dik again today. He has been thoroughly shaken up by the chopper.
I'll come back for another try tomorrow."
"We should go and look for Tamre. He has probably had another fit, the
poor little fellow."
She was wrong. They found the boy beside the path.
He was still shivering and weeping, but had not suffered another
seizure. He calmed down quickly when Royan soothed him, and followed
them back towards the camp.
However, when they neared the grove he slipped away in the direction of
the monastery.
That evening, while it was still light, Nicholas took Royan back to the
monastery.
"I believe that the criminal fraternity refer to a reconnaissance of
this nature as "casing the joint"," he remarked, as they stooped through
the entrance of the rock cathedral and joined the throng of worshippers
in the outer chamber.
"From what Tamre says, it sounds as though the novices wait until they
know that the priests on duty are ones that will nod off during their
watch," Royan told him softly, as they paused to gaze through the doors
into the middle chamber.
"We don't have that sort of insider knowledge," Nicholas pointed out.
There were priests passing backwards and forwards through the doors as
they watched.
"There doesn't seem to be any sort of procedure," Nicholas noted. "No
password or ritual to allow them through."
"On the other hand, they greeted the guards at the door by name. It's a
small community. They must all know each other intimately."
"There doesn't seem any chance at all that I could dress up like a monk
and brazen my way through,'Nicholas agreed-A wonder what they do to
intruders in the sacred areas?"
"Throw them off the terrace to the crocodiles in the cauldron of the
Nile?" she suggested maliciously. "Anyway, you are not going in there
without me."
This was not the time to argue, he decided, and instead he tried to see
as much as possible through the open doors of the qiddist. The middle
chamber seemed much smaller than the outer chamber in which they stood.
He could just make out the shadowy murals that covered the portions of
the inner walls that he could see. In the facing wall was another
doorway. From Tamre's description, he realized that this must be the
entrance to the maqdas. The opening was barred by a heavy grille gate of
dark wooden beams, the joints of the cross-pieces reinforced with
gussets of hand hammered native iron.
On each side of the doorway, from rock ceiling to floor, hung long
embroidered tapestries depicting scenes from the life of St. Frumentius.
In one he was preaching to a kneeling congregation, with the Bible in
one hand and his right hand raised in benediction. In the other tapestry
he was baptizing an emperor. The king wore a high golden crown like that
of Jali Hora, and the saint's head was surrounded by a halo. The saint's
face was white, while the emperor's was black.
"Politically correct?" Nicholas asked himself, with a smile.
"What is amusing you?" Royan asked. "Have you thought of a way of
getting in there?"
"No, I was thinking of dinner. Let's go!
At dinner Boris showed no ill effects from the previous night's debauch.
During the day he had taken out his shotgun and shot a bunch of green
pigeons. Tessay had marinated these and barbecued them over the coals.
"Tell me, English, how was the hunting today? Did you get attacked by
the deadly striped dik-dik? Hey? Hey?" He bellowed with laughter.
"Did your trackers have any success?" Nicholas asked mildly.
."Da! Da! They found kudu and hushbuck and buffalo.
They even found dik-dik, but no stripes. Sorry, no stripes."
Royan leaned forward and opened her mouth to intervene, but Nicholas
cautioned her with a shake of the head. She shut her mouth again and
looked down at her plate, slicing a morsel from the breast of a pigeon.
"We don't really need company tomorrow," Nicholas explained mildly in
Arabic. "If he knew, he would insist on coming with us."
"Did your Mummy never teach you no manners, English? It's rude to talk
in a language that others can't understand. Have a vodka."
"You have my share," Nicholas invited him. "I know when I am
outclassed."
During the rest of the meal Tessay replied only in low monosyllables
when Royan tried to draw her into the conversation. She looked tragic
and defeated. She never looked at her husband, even when he was at his
loudest and most overbearing. When the meal ended, they left her sitting
with Boris at the fire. Boris had a fresh bottle of vodka on the table
beside him.
"The way he is pumping the liquor, it looks as if I might be called out
on another midnight rescue mission," Nicholas remarked as they made
their way to their own huts.
"Tessay has been in camp all day with him. There has been more trouble
between them. She told me that as soon as they get back to Addis Ababa
she is going to leave him.
She can't take any more of this."
"The only thing I find surprising is that she ever got mixed up with an
animal like Boris in the first place. She is a lovely woman. She could
pick and choose."
"Some women are drawn to animals," Royan shrugged.
"I suppose it must be the thrill of danger. Anyway, Tessay has asked me
if she can come with us tomorrow. She cannot stand another day in camp
with Boris on her own.
I think she is really afraid of him now. She says that she has never
seen him drink like this before."
"Tell her to come along, Nicholas said resignedly. "The more of us the
merrier. Perhaps we will be able to frighten the dik-dik to death by
sheer weight of numbers. Save me wasting ammunition."
It was still dark when the three of them left camp the next morning.
There was no sign of Boris and, when Nicholas asked about him, Tessay
said simply, "After you went to bed last night he finished the bottle.
He won't be out of his hut before noon. He won't miss me."
Carrying the Rigby, Nicholas led them tip into the weathered limestone
hills, retracing the path along which Tamre had taken them the previous
day. As they walked, Nicholas heard the two women talking behind him.
Royan was explaining to Tessay how they had sighted the striped dik-dik,
and what they planned.
The sun was well up by the time they again reached the spot under the
thorn tree on the lip of the chasm, and settled down to wait in ambush.
"How will you retrieve the carcass, if you do manage to shoot the poor
little creature?" Royan asked.
"I made certain of that before we left camp," he explained. "I spoke to
the head tracker. If he hears a shot he will bring up the ropes and help
me get across to the other side."
"I wouldn't like to make the journey across there." Tessay eyed the drop
below them.
"They teach you some useful things in the army, along with all the
rubbish," Nicholas replied. He made himself comfortable against the
thorn tree, the rifle ready in his lap.
The women lay close by him, talking together softly.
It was unlikely that the sound of their low voices would carry across
the ravine, Nicholas decided, so he did not try to hush them.
He expected that if it came at all, the dik-dik would show itself early.
But he was wrong. By noon there was still no sign of it. The valley
sweltered in the midday sun. The distant wall of the escarpment, veiled
in the blue heat haze, looked like jagged blue glass, and the mirage
danced across the rocky ridges and shimmered like the waters of a silver
lake above the tops of the thorn thickets.
The women had long ago given up talking, and they lay somnolent in the
heat. The whole world was silent and heat-struck. Only a bush dove broke
the silence with its mournful lament, "My wife is dead, my children are
dead, Oh, me! Oh, my! Oh, me!'Nicholas found his own eyelids becoming
leaden. His head nodded involuntarily, and he jerked it up only to have
it flop forward again. On the very edge of sleep he heard a sound, close
by in the thorn scrub behind him.
It was a tiny sound, but one that he knew so well. A sound that
whiplashed across his nerve endings and jerked him back to full
consciousness, with his pulse racing and the coppery taste of fear in
the back of his throat. It was the metallic sound of the safety-catch on
an AK-47 assault rifle being slipped forward into the "Fire' position.
In one fluid movement he lifted the rifle out of his lap and rolled
twice, twisting his body to cover the two women who lay beside him. At
the same time he brought the Rigby into his shoulder, aimed into the
scrub behind him from where the sound had come.
"Down!" he hissed at his companions. "Keep your heads down!'
His finger was on the trigger and, even though it was a puny weapon with
which to take on a Kalashnikov, he was ready to return fire. He picked
up his target immediately, and swung on to it.
There was a man crouched twenty paces away, the assault rifle he carried
aimed into Nicholas's face. He was black, dressed in worn and tattered
camouflage fatigues and a soft cap of the same material. His webbing
held a bush-knife and grenades, water bottle' and all the other
accoutrements of a guerrilla fighter.
"Shufta!" thought Nicholas. "A real pro. Don't take chances with this
one." Yet at the same time he realized that if the intention had been to
kill him, then he would be dead already.
He aimed the Rigby an inch over the muzzle of the assault rifle, into
the bloodshot right eye of the shufta behind it. The man acknowledged
the stand-off with a narrowing of his eyes, and then gave an order in
Arabic.
"Salim, cover the women. Shoot them if he moves.
Nicholas heard movement on his flank and glanced in that direction,
still keeping the shufta in his peripheral vision.
Another guerrilla stepped out of the scrub. He was all: similarly
dressed, but he carried a Soviet RPD light machine gun on his hip. The
barrel was sawn off short to make the weapon more handy for bush
fighting, and there was a loop of ammunition belt draped around his
neck. He came forward carefully, the RPD aimed point-blank at the two
women. Nicholas knew that, with a touch on the trigger, he could chop
them both to mincemeat.
There were other stealthy rustling sounds in the bush all around them.
These two were not the only ones, Nicholas realized. This was a large
war party. He might be able to get off one shot with the Rigby, but by
then Royan and Tessay would be dead. And he would not be far behind
them.
Very slowly and deliberately he lowered the muzzle of the rifle until it
was pointing at the ground. Then he laid the weapon down and raised his
hands.
"Get your hands up," he told the women. "Do exactly what they tell you."
The guerrilla leader acknowledged his surrender by coming to his full
height and speaking rapidly to his men, still in Arabic.
"Get the rifle and his pack."
"We are British subjects," Nicholas told him loudly, and the guerrilla
looked surprised by his use of Arabic. "We are simple tourists. We are
not military. We are not government people."
Be quiet. Shut your face!" he ordered, as the rest of the guerrilla
patrol emerged from cover. Nicholas counted five of them all told,
though he knew there were probably others who had not come forward. They
were very professional as they rounded up their prisoners. They never
blocked each other's field of fire, nor offered an opportunity of
escape. Quickly they searched them for weapons, then closed in around
them and hustled them on to the path.
"Where are you taking us?"Nicholas demanded.
"No questions!" The butt of an AK-47 smashed between his shoulder blades
and almost knocked him off his feet.
"Steady on, chaps," he murmured mildly in English.
"That wasn't really called for."
They were forced to keep marching through the heat of the afternoon.
Nicholas kept a check on the position of the sun and the distant
glimpses of the escarpment wall.
He realized that they were heading westwards, following the course of
the Nile towards the Sudanese border. It was late afternoon, and
Nicholas estimated that they had covered some ten miles, before they
came upon a side shoot of the main valley. The slopes were heavily
wooded, and the three prisoners were herded into a patch of this forest.
They were actually within the perimeter of the guerrilla camp before
they were aware of its existence. Cunningly camouflaged, it consisted
merely of a few crude lean, to shelters and a ring of weapons
emplacements. The sentries were well placed, and all the light machine
guns in the foxholes were manned.
They were led to one of the shelters in the centre of the camp, where
three men were squatting around a map spread on a low camp table. These
were obviously officers, and there was no mistaking which of the three
was the commander. The leader of the patrol which had captured them went
to this man, saluted him deferentially and then spoke to him urgently,
pointing at his captives.
The guerrilla commander straightened up from the table, and came out
into the sunlight. He was of medium height, but was imbued with such an
air of authority that he seemed taller. His shoulders were broad and his
body square and chunky, with the beginning of a dignified spread around
the waist. He wore a short curly beard which contained a few strands of
grey, and his features were refined and handsome. His skin tones were
amber and copper. His dark eyes were intelligent, his gaze quick and
restless.
"My men tell me that you speak Arabic," he said to -Nicholas.
"Better than you do, Mek Nimmur,'Nicholas told him.
"So now you are the leader of a bunch of bandits and kidnappers? I
always told you that you would never get to heaven, you old reprobate."
Mek Nimmur stared at him in astonishment, and then began to smile.
"Nicholas! I did not recognize you. You are older. Look at the grey on
your head!'
He opened his arms wide and folded Nicholas into a bear hug.
"Nicholas! Nicholas!" He kissed him once on each cheek. Then he held him
at arm's length and looked at the two women, who were standing amazed.
"He saved my life," he explained to them.
"You make me blush, Mek." Mek kissed him again' "He saved my life
twice."
"Once," Nicholas contradicted him. "The second time was a mistake. I
should have let them shoot you."
Mek laughed delightedly. "How long ago was it, Nicholas?"
"It doesn't bear thinking about."
"Fifteen years ago at least,'.Mek said. "Are you still in the British
army? What is your rank? You must be a general by now!'
"Reserves only," Nicholas shook his head. "I have been back in civvy
street a long time now."
Still hugging Nicholas, Mek Nimmur looked at the women with interest.
"Nicholas taught me most of what I know about soldiering," he told them.
His eyes flicked from Royan to Tessay, and then stayed on the Ethiopian
girl's dark and lovely face.
"I know you," he said. "I saw you in Addis, years ago.
You were a young girl then. Your father was Alto Zemen, a great and good
man. He was murdered by the tyrant Mengistu."
"I know you also, Alto Mek. My father held you in high esteem. There are
many of us who believe that you should be the president of this Ethiopia
of ours, in place of that other one." She dropped him a graceful little
curtsey, hanging her head in a shy but appealing gesture of respect.
"I am flattered by your opinion of me." He took her hand and lifted her
to her full height. Then he turned back to Nicholas, "I am sorry for the
rough welcome, Some of my men are over-enthusiastic. I knew that there
were ferengi asking questions at the monastery. But enough, you are with
friends here. I bid you welcome."
Mek Nimmur led them to his shelter, where one of his men brought a
soot-blackened kettle from the fire and poured viscous black coffee into
mugs for them.
He and Nicholas plunged into reminiscences of the days prior to the
Falklands war when they had fought side by side, Nicholas as a covert
military adviser, and Mek as a young freedom fighter opposing the
tyranny of Mengistu.
"But the war is over now, Mek, Nicholas remonstrated at last. "The
battle is won. Why are you still out in the bush with your men? Why
aren't you getting rich and fat in Addis, like all the others?"
"In the interim government in Addis there are enemies Of mine, men like
Mengistu. When we have got rid of them, then I will come out of the
bush."
He and Nicholas embarked into a spirited discussion of African politics,
so deep and complicated that Royan knew very few of the personalities
whom they were discussing. Nor could she follow the nuances and the
subtlety of religious and tribal prejudices and intolerance that had
persisted for a thousand years. She was, however, impressed by
Nicholas's knowledge and understanding of the situation, and the way in
which a man like Mek Nimmur asked his opinion and listened to his
advice.
In the end Nicholas asked him, "So now you have carried the war beyond
the borders of Ethiopia itself? You are operating in Sudan, as well?"
"The war in the Sudan has been raging for twenty years," Mek confirmed.
"The Christians in the south fighting against the persecution of the
Moslem nor the-"
"I am well aware of that, Mek. But that is not Ethiopia.
It's not your war."
"They are Christians, and they suffer injustice. I am a soldier and a
Christian. Of course it is my war." Tessay had ty to every word that Mek
spoke, and been listening avid now she nodded her head in agreement, her
eyes dark and solemn with hero worship.
"Alto Mek is a crusader for Christ and the rights of the common
man,'Tessa told Nicholas in awed tones.
"And he dearly loves a good fight," Nicholas laughed, punching his
shoulder affectionately. It was a familiar gesture which could easily
have given offence, but Mek accepted it readily and laughed back at him.
"What are you doing here yourself, Nicholas, if you are no longer a
soldier? There was a time when you also loved a good fight."
"I am completely reformed. No more fighting. I have come to the Abbay
gorge to hunt dik-dik."
"Dik-dik?l Mek Nimmur stared at him with disbelief, and then he roared
with laughter. "I don't believe it. Not you. Not dik-dik. You are up to
something."
"It is the truth."
"You are lying, Nicholas. You never could lie to me. I know you too
well. You are up to something. You will tell me about it when you need
my help."
"And you will still give me your help?"
"Of course. You saved my life twice."
"Once,'said Nicholas.
"Even once is enough," said Mek Nimmur.
while they talked, the sun slanted down the sky.
"You are my guests for tonight," Mek Nimmur told them formally. "In the
morning I will escort you back to your camp at the monastery of St..
Frumentius.
That is also my destination. My men and I are going to the monastery to
celebrate the festival of Timkat- The abbot, Jali Hora, is a friend and
an ally."
"And the monastery is probably your deep cover base.
You use it and the monks for resupply and intelligence.
Am I right?"
"You know me too well, Nicholas."Mek Nimmur shook his head ruefully.
"You taught me much of what I know, so why should you not be able to
guess my strategy? The monastery makes a perfect base of operations.
It's close enough to the border-' he broke off, smiling. "But there is
no need to explain it to you, of all people."
Mek had his men build a night shelter for Nicholas and Royan, and cut a
mattress of grass to cushion their sleep. They lay close together under
the flimsy roof. The night was sultry, and they did not miss their
blankets.
Nicholas had a tube of insect repellent in his pack to keep the
mosquitoes at bay After they had settled down on the grass mattress,
their heads were close enough together to allow them to converse in
quiet tones. When he turned his head Nicholas could see the dark
silhouettes of Mek Nimmur and Tessay still sitting close together by the
fire.
"Ethiopian girls are different from the Arabs, and from most other
African women." Royan too was watching the other couple. "No Arab girl
would dare be alone with a man like that. Especially if she were a
married woman."
"Any way you cut it, they make a damned fine pair," he gave his opinion.
"Good luck to them. Tessay hasn't had much of that lately - she is
overdue."
He turned his head and looked into her face, "What about you, Royan,
what are you? Are you a decorous, submissive Arab, or an independent,
assertive Western girl?"
"It's both a little early and much too late for intimate questions of
that nature," she told him, and turned over, presenting him with her
back.
"Ah, we are standing on ceremony this evening!
Goodnight, Woizero Royan."
"Goodnight, Alto Nicholas," she replied, keeping her face turned away
from him so that he could not see her smile.
The gorilla column moved out before dawn the next morning. They marched
in full battle order, with scouts moving ahead and flankers covering
each side of the path.
"The army come down here into the gorge very seldom, but we are always
ready for them when they do come," Mek Nimmur explained. "We try to give
them a hearty welcome."
Tessay was watching Mek Nimmur as he spoke; indeed, she had seldom taken
her eyes off him that morning. Now she murmured to Royan, "He is a truly
great man, a man who could unite our land, perhaps for the first time in
a thousand years. I feel humble in his presence, and yet I also feel
like a young girl again, filled with joy and hope."
The march back to the monastery took the entire morning. When they came
in sight of the Dandera. river, Mek Nimmur drew his men back off the
path into thick bush, while sending only one scout forward. After an
hour's wait, a party of acolytes came up from the monastery, each
carrying a large bundle balanced upon his head.
They greeted Mek with deep reverence, and handed over their bundles to
his men before returning down the pathway into the gorge of the Abbay.
The bundles contained priestly shammas, headcloths and sandals. Mek's
men changed out of their camouflage fatigues into these garments, all of
which were well worn and unwashed for the sake of authenticity. They
wore only their sidearms under the robes. All their other weapons and
equipment they cached in one of the caves in the limestone Cliffs, and
left a detachment to guard them.
Now as a party of monks they covered the last few miles to the
monastery, to be welcomed joyously by the community there. Here Nicholas
and the women left Mek, and climbed the steep path up into the grove of
wild fig trees. Boris was waiting for them, pacing about the camp, angry
and frustrated.
"Where the hell have you been, woman?" he snarled at Tessay. "Been
whoring around all night, have you?"
"We lost our way yesterday evening." Nicholas fed him the cover story
that they had agreed with Mek Nimmur, to maintain his security. Boris
was hardly the man to trust.
"And we were picked up by a party of monks from the monastery this
morning. They brought us back."
"You are the big hunter and tracker, are you?" Boris sneered at him.
"You didn't need me to guide you, hey? You got yourself lost, did you,
English? I see now why you want only to shoot dik-dik." He guffawed
without humour, and looked at Tessay with those pale dead eyes. "I will
talk to you later, woman. Go and see to the food."
Despite the heat, both Nicholas and Royan were hungry. In short order,
Tessay was able to serve a tasty cold lunch under the shady branches of
the fig trees. Nicholas refused the wine that Boris offered him.
want to go out hunting again this afternoon. I have lost almost a whole
day."
"You want me to hold your hand this time, English?
Make sure you don't lose yourself again?"
"Thanks, old chap, but I think I can manage without you."
While they ate Nicholas nudged Royan and told her, "Your admirer has
arrived."
He jerked his head at the lanky, ungainly figure of Tamre, who had
sneaked up quietly and was now sitting near the kitchen hut, As soon as
Royan looked at him his face split into a doting idiotic grin, and he
bobbed his head and squirmed with ecstatic shyness.
"I will not come with you this afternoon," Royan told Nicholas quietly,
when Boris was not listening. "I think there is going to be trouble
between him and Tessay. I want to stay here with her. Take Tamre with
you."
"My word, what an attractive alternative. All my life I have waited for
this moment." But when he had picked up his rifle and pack, he beckoned
the boy to follow him.
Tamre looked around eagerly for Royan, but she was in her hut. At last,
dragging his feet, he followed Nicholas up the valley.
"Take me to the other side of the river," he told the boy. "Show me how
to reach the side where the holy creature lives." Tamre perked up at the
prospect, and broke into a shambling trot as he led Nicholas over the
suspension bridge below the pink cliffs.
For an hour they followed the path, but gradually it petered out until
it ended in bad and broken ground amongst the erosion'carved hills.
Undeterred, Tamre plunged into the thorny scrub, and for another two
hours they scrambled over rocky ridges and through thorn-choked valleys.
"I can see why you didn't want to bring Royan this way here. You will
not move. You will not speak. You will even breathe very, very quietly,
until I come back to fetch you.
If you utter even one little prayer before I return, I will personally
start you on your journey to meet St.. Peter at the gates of heaven. Do
you understand me?"
He went forward alone, but the little antelope was thoroughly alarmed by
now Nicholas saw it twice more, but he only had fleeting glimpses of
ruddy brown movement almost entirely screened by bush. He stood
directing bitter imprecations towards the boy monk and listening to the
tick of small hooves on dry earth as it raced away, deeper into the
thickets. In the end he was forced to give up the hunt for that day.
It was after dark when he and Tamre got back to camp.
As soon as Nicholas stepped into the circle of firelight, Royan came to
meet him.
"What happened?" she asked. "Did you see the dik-dik again?"
"Don't ask me. Ask your accomplice. He scared it off.
It is probably still running."
"Tamre,'you are a fine young man, and I am very proud of you," she told
him. The boy wriggled like a puppy, giggling and hugging himself with
the joy of her approval as he scurried away down the path to the
monastery.
Royan was so pleased with the outcome of the hunt that she poured
Nicholas a whisky with her own hand and brought it to him as he sagged
wearily by the fire.
He tasted it and shuddered, "Never let a teetotaller pour for you. With
a heavy hand like that you should take UP tossing the caber or
blacksmithing." Despite the complaint, he took another tentative sip.
She sat close to him, fidgeting with excitement, but it was a while
before he became aware of her agitation.
"What is it? Something is eating you alive."
She threw a cautionary glance in the direction of where Boris sat on the
opposite side of the fire, and then dropped her voice, leaned close to
him and spoke in Arabic.
"Tessay and I went down to the monastery this afternoon to see Mek
Nimmur. Tessay asked me to go with her, just in case Boris - well, you
know what I mean."
"I have a vague idea. You were playing chaperone." Nicholas took another
sip of the whisky and gasped. He exhaled sharply and his voice was
husky. "Go on," he invited her.
"At one stage, before I left them alone together, we were discussing the
festival of Timkat. On the fifth day the abbot takes the tabot down to
the Abbay. Mek tells us there is a path down the cLiff to the water's
edge."
"Yes, we know that."
"This is the interesting part - this you didn't know.
Everybody joins the procession down to the river. Everybody. The abbot,
all the priests, the acolytes, every true believer, even Mek and all his
men, they all go down to the river and stay there overnight. For one
whole day and night the monastery is deserted. Empty. Nobody there at
all."
He stared at her over the rim of his glass, and then slowly he began to
smile, "Now that is very interesting indeed," he admitted.
"Don't forget, I am coming with you," she told him severely. "Don't you
dare to even think of leaving me behind."
Nicholas went to her hut again that evening after dinner. This was the
only place in camp where they could be sure of privacy, and where they
were safe from eavesdropping. However, this time he did not make the
mistake of sitting on her bed.
While she perched on the end of it, he took the stool opposite her.
"Before we start planning this thing, let me ask you one question. Have
you considered the possible consequences?"
"You mean, what happens if the monks catch us at it?" Royan asked.
"At the very least we can expect them to run us out of the valley. The
abbot has a tremendous amount of power.
At the worst we can be physically attacked," Nicholas told her. "This is
one of the most sacred sites in their religion, and don't underestimate
that fact. There is a great deal of danger involved. It could go as far
as a knife between the ribs, or something nasty in our food."
"We would also alienate Tessay. She is a deeply religious woman,'Royan
added.
"Even more importantly, we would probably outrage Mek Nimmur as well."
Nicholas looked distressed at the thought. "I don't know what he would
do, but I don't think our friendship would stand the test."
They were both quiet for a while, considering the cost that they might
have to pay. Nicholas broke the silence.
"Then again, have you considered your own position?
After all, it is your own Church that we will be desecrating.
You are a committed Christian. Can you justify this to yourself?"
"I have thought about it, she admitted. "And I am not altogether happy
about it, but it isn't really my Church. It's a different branch of the
Coptic Church."
"Splitting hairs, aren't we?"
"The Egyptian Church does not deny anyone access to even the most sacred
precincts of its church building. I do not feel myself bound by the
abbot's prohibition. I feel that as a believing Christian I have the
right to enter any part of the cathedral that I wish."
He whistled softly, "And you are the one who once said that I should
have been a lawyer."
"Please don't, Nicky. It's not something you should joke about. All I
know is that, no matter what, I have to go in there. Even if I die to do
it."
"You could let me do it for you," he suggested. "After all, I am an old
heathen. It would not spoil my chances of salvation. I don't have any."
"No." She shook her head firmly. "If there is an inscription or
something of that nature, I need to see it.
You read hieroglyphics quite well, but not as well as I do, and you
don't know the hieratic script. I am the expert you are just a gifted
amateur. You need me. I am going in there with you."
"All right. That is settled, then," he said with finality.
"Let's start planning. We had better draw up a list of equipment that we
may need. Flashlight, knife, Polaroid camera, spare film-'
"Art paper and soft pencils to lift an impression of any inscriptions,'
she added to the list.
"Hell!" He snapped his fingers with chagrin. "I didn't think to bring
any."
"See what I mean? Amateur. I did."
They talked on until late, and at last Nicholas glanced at his
wrist-watch and stood up.
"Long after midnight. I am scheduled to turn into a pumpkin at any
moment. Goodnight."
"There are still two days of the festival before the tabot is taken down
to the river. Nothing we can do until then.
What are your plans
"Tomorrow I am going back after that damned little Bambi. It has made a
fool of me twice already."
"I am coming with you," she said firmly, and that simple declaration
gave him a disproportionate amount of pleasure.
"Just as long as you leave Tamre at home," he warned her as he stooped
out through the door.
The tiny antelope stepped out from the deep shadow of the thorn thicket,
and the early morning sunlight gleamed on the silky pelt, It kept
walking steadily across the narrow clearing.
Nicholas's breathing quickened with excitement as he followed it with
the telescopic sight. It was ridiculous that he should feel so wrought
up with the hunting of such a humble little animal, but his previous
failures had sharpened his anticipation. Added to that was the peculiar
passion that drives the true collector. Since he had lost Rosalind and
the girls, he had thrown all his energy into the building up of the
collection at Quenton Park. Now, suddenly, procuring this specimen for
it had become a matter of supreme importance to him.