The Spirit Well

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  He was on his fourth or fifth circuit of the room when he heard voices in the corridor outside. He turned to the door just as it opened to admit an elderly, white-haired priest in a black cassock and a young woman in a crisp grey nun’s habit.

  “Mio Dio!” cried the priest, upon confronting the wild man standing in the doorway. He gave a little jump, colliding with the woman entering behind him. She steadied the priest with a hand and moved around him into the room. Taking in the hairy apparition before her, the nun’s mouth fell open and her eyes went wide.

  “Wilhelmina!” gasped Kit.

  She leaned forward, studying his face. “Kit—is that really you under all that hair?”

  “It’s me, Mina.” He started forward, his arms outstretched to embrace her. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.”

  Her hands flashed up; she reeled back. Kit hesitated. “What are you wearing?” she said. Her face wrinkled. “What is that smell?”

  “It’s a long story,” replied Kit. “What are you doing here? Where are we, anyway?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  He shook his head. “Nobody tells me anything.”

  The white-haired priest, having overcome his shock, stepped forward. “Wilhelmina,” he said in German, “do you know this . . . this man?”

  Mina turned, grinning with joyful disbelief. “Let me introduce you to my dear friend, Kit Livingstone.”

  The priest let out a little gasp of amazement. He gaped at Kit, letting his astonished gaze sweep from head to toe and back again. “Unglaublich!” he breathed, shaking his head in wonder.

  “I know,” Wilhelmina agreed, watching Kit as if he might suddenly vapourise before her eyes. “It is unbelievable—but here he is! All this time we were trying to find him, and—voilà! He finds us. Incredible.”

  Then, turning suddenly, she grabbed Kit in a fierce hug. “Where have you been, my dear, filthy, wild-haired man?”

  Kit kissed her cheek and then buried his face in the hollow of her neck. “Oh, Mina,” he sighed, surrendering to an overwhelming relief. “It is so good to see you. You don’t know—”

  “Come on,” she said, pushing him away and taking his hand. “Let’s get out of here.” She cast a glance over her shoulder and spoke German to the priest, who answered, offering his hand, which Kit shook. “This is Brother Lazarus,” she said, making a quick introduction. “He is the astronomer here. We’ll go up to his quarters—we can talk and we won’t be disturbed up there.”

  She said something else in German, and the priest replied with a nod. To Kit she said, “Brother Lazarus will take care of the details. He will fix things with his superiors and make the necessary arrangements. You are to be his guest.”

  “Okay,” agreed Kit, “but could we eat something first? I haven’t eaten since . . . I don’t know when.”

  “Sure—I’ll fix you a nice meal,” she told him. “But first we’re going to get you a bath—and a haircut if possible. I’ll have to find some clothes.” She regarded Kit’s furry trousers and laughed. “How do you feel about a monk’s robe?”

  They moved into the corridor, where a few curious brothers had gathered outside to catch a glimpse of their unusual visitor. Brother Lazarus called to the onlookers and conducted a brief conference while Wilhelmina steered Kit away.

  “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “He’ll take care of everything. He has a fair bit of seniority around here. They all love him and trust him completely. You’ll like him too.”

  Kit nodded. They reached the vestibule and stepped out into a balmy evening where the stars were just beginning to kindle for the night. The ethereal sound of singing reached them on the soft night air—the monks were chanting evensong. Once out of sight of the others, Wilhelmina looped her arm through Kit’s and pulled him close.

  “Are you really a nun?”

  Wilhelmina laughed, her voice full of delight. The sound was delicious in the evening twilight. “Don’t be silly. It’s a role I play when I come here. The habit just makes everything so much easier.” She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. “A lot less explaining to do.”

  “It suits you.”

  Indeed, she was more attractive than ever—and it showed in her figure as well as her face. She had filled out a little and now had curves where before there had been only angles. Her dark eyes fairly gleamed with health and well-being. “You look wonderful.”

  “You think so?” She smiled, enjoying the compliment. “There’s a lot to be said for the convent life. What about you—what’s the explanation for what you’re wearing?”

  “What do you mean? This is the height of fashion where I’ve come from.”

  She laughed again. “Look at you! I hardly recognise you under all that hair. You look like a big old bushy bear. What—they didn’t have clippers or razors where you were?”

  “Actually, no,” Kit said, running his fingers through the tangles of his beard.

  “And those muscles!” she hooted, giving his biceps a squeeze. “No more puppy fat. You’re positively brawny—a lean, mean fighting machine,” she said approvingly. “Whatever they were feeding you, it didn’t do you any harm.”

  “Thanks, I guess.” He looked down at his torso. Beneath the layer of smudgy dirt he could see the ripples of a six-pack, and his arms were corded muscle. Now that she mentioned it, he supposed he had trimmed down and bulked out a bit.

  “Oh, Kit, it is so good to see you and have you back safe and sound. I’ve been worried about you. Where have you been, anyway?”

  “You won’t believe the half of it,” Kit replied. “I’m not entirely sure I believe all of it myself.” He fell silent, thinking about where to start, or even how to begin to frame an explanation.

  “Well?” she said after a moment. “Are you going to keep a girl in suspense?”

  “No—no, I don’t mean to, it’s just . . . I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Well,” she said, “the last time I saw you, Burleigh was hot on your tail. He chased you and Giles out of the city, and you made for the river.” She went on to describe the chain of events as she knew them. “Giles is okay, by the way. The bullet did no irreparable harm, and as soon as he could move, I took him home. He should be good as new very soon, if not already.”

  “Good. I’m glad he’s okay,” mused Kit, and explained how he had come under gunfire but found the ley and made the jump, landing in the place Mina had told him about. “But the time was all off, and I ended up in what I guess you could call the Stone Age.”

  “That would explain the fur trousers.”

  “I was found and, well, more or less adopted by a tribe of people— River City Clan, I call them. They live in this enormous gorge—”

  “The one I’ve visited,” surmised Mina.

  “The same one, but in a different time—far different. Anyway, they are the most amazing people. They don’t speak much—they have a very limited vocabulary. They communicate mainly by a sort of telepathy—kind of like a mental radio.”

  Wilhelmina gave him a sideways glance.

  “It’s true,” he insisted. “I could hardly believe it the first time it happened. But one of them, this incredibly old chieftain called En-Ul—he’s a master at it, and he taught me how to—”

  He stopped walking—so abruptly that Wilhelmina took two more steps without him. She turned, and he blurted, “Mina, I’ve been to the Well of Souls.”

  “You what?”

  “The Spirit Well,” Kit said, his voice ringing in the empty plaza. “I’ve been there, Mina—I know how to find it.”

  CHAPTER 24

  In Which Communication Breaks Down

  The death of Arthur Flinders-Petrie could not have come at a worse moment. The land was in upheaval, and it was all Pharaoh’s fault. If the crisis did not pass soon, the kingdom would descend into civil war.

  “You had the misfortune to die at a very bad time, my friend,” Anen sighed, then smiled ruefully at the foolishness of his own th
ought. For the young and healthy, death always arrived at a bad time, did it not?

  As senior priest of the Temple of Amun he had scores of minions at his command, yet Anen took charge of the funeral preparations himself out of respect and honour for a friendship that had spanned decades. In his mind, there was no question but that Arthur’s body would be embalmed and a suitable tomb made ready. The embalming procedure—from the ritual washing of the corpse with water from the Nile to its nitre bath and the final anointing with oils and swathing in linen—would require seventy days. Under the circumstances, it would not be possible to build a tomb in such a short time; therefore, an extension of Anen’s personal tomb would be carved out and painted, and a wooden sarcophagus constructed to hold the earthly remains of the late Arthur Flinders-Petrie.

  This would also give time enough for young Benedict to return to his home world and break the sad news of his father’s decease to his mother. The two of them could then return to attend the grand funeral ceremony and oversee the entombment. As head of the Flinders-Petrie family, Benedict would host the funeral feast. This is how it was done. This is how it had always been done since time out of mind. Observing the rituals of life and death in proper order—including the time-honoured rites of embalming and entombment—brought order to the affairs of men, which in turn led to order in the universe.

  Satisfied that he had thought of everything, he summoned the boy and, through the use of signs, communicated to Benedict all that must be done in the days ahead. Benedict appeared to understand, whereupon Anen ordered a mild sleep-inducing herbal infusion to be prepared and commanded his personal servants to see the grief-stricken lad to his rest. He then turned his attention to readying Arthur’s corpse for transfer to Per-Nefer, the House of Embalming, to begin the process of readying it for life in eternity. As the shroud was being wrapped to secure the body for transport, however, commotion erupted in the courtyard—accompanied this time by angry voices from beyond the wall.

  Anen stepped from the House of Wholeness and Healing; the moon was high and bright, spilling light into the sacred enclosure. In the moonlight he saw priests and temple soldiers milling about the gates. He hailed one of the servants just then hurrying past. “What is the reason for this uproar?” he demanded. “I was given to understand that the mob had gone away.”

  “They dispersed, my master,” answered the servant. “The temple guards drove them back to the river.”

  “Well?” demanded Anen, as if this should have been the end of the matter.

  The servant lifted his palms. “They have returned.”

  With a flick of his hand Anen sent the impertinent fellow on his way and proceeded to the gate, where a group of priests and servants had gathered. “Where is Tutmose?” he demanded, scanning the crowd quickly for the commander of the temple guard. “He should be dealing with this breach of the peace.”

  “Commander Tutmose is out there,” explained the nearest priest. He turned and saw that it was Anen who addressed him. He bowed low. “My master, I did not know—”

  “Outside the gates?” he said, cutting off his subordinate’s instinctive apology.

  “He went out to talk to them,” said the priest. “To find out why they are doing this and demand that they leave us in peace.”

  Anen cocked his head to one side, listening to the hubbub of voices from over the wall. “Tell the commander I wish to see him as soon as he returns. I will await him in my chamber.”

  The priest bowed low, and Anen took his leave, returning to his rooms in the palatial Prophet’s House. He bathed and dressed in a clean robe, then lay down on his bed. He had just closed his eyes when he heard swift footsteps in the corridor outside his sleeping chamber. His housemaster came padding into the room an instant later, saying, “Loath as I am to disturb you, my master, Commander Tutmose has returned with word of the uprising.”

  “Bid him enter.” Anen rose and stood ready to receive the chief of the guards.

  “The wisdom of Amun Ascendant be yours, master,” said Tutmose, entering on the heels of the servant. He bowed and waited to be addressed.

  “What news?” said Anen impatiently. “Come, man. Speak.”

  “We are besieged by a rabble of common labourers from Akhenaten’s city,” said Tutmose. “They are demanding that the temple be closed.”

  Anen stared at his commander. “Impossible! Are they insane?”

  “It is likely,” affirmed Tutmose. “But they say they possess an edict from Pharaoh himself.”

  Anen gaped in astonishment. “Such a thing has never been known.”

  “I do not say it is true,” Tutmose added, “only tell you what they themselves have told me.”

  Anen gazed at his chief of guards and saw that he was bleeding from a cut on the side of his face; blood also trickled down his leg from a gash in his thigh. “You are injured, commander,” he observed. “They did this to you?”

  “They refused to show this decree to anyone but you, master. They demand an audience at once.”

  “Do they!” sneered Anen. He drew himself up. “I will speak to them. But by the power of Horus, I will not have them run riot on holy ground. Tell them, ‘Thus says Anen, Second Prophet of Amun, you are to choose four from among your number to represent you. These four representatives and these alone will be admitted to the temple courtyard after morning prayers. We shall sit down with the High Priest and discuss this matter like civilised men.’ This is what I have decided.”

  “So shall it be done, master.” Tutmose bowed and hurried away to deliver Anen’s message.

  Before Anen could return to his rest, the commander was back with word that the workers refused to enter the temple precinct because they considered it an unclean place. “They insist that you come out to them,” Tutmose reported.

  The demand was so audacious, Anen could only stare in disbelief at his commander. That this should come to pass so swiftly after their confrontation with the workers at Akhetaten could not be a coincidence. It was a deliberate act of aggression. But why send mere labourers? It made no sense. Pharaoh commanded armies; he had only to whisper a word, and his royal bodyguard would march into the sea at his behest. Either the mob was lying about the edict— which seemed only too likely—or there was some darker purpose at work that he did not yet perceive.

  “My master?” asked Tutmose, stirring him from his thoughts. “What is your will?”

  “This rebellion must end. I will go out and speak to them.”

  Tutmose inclined his head. “The temple guard stands ready to attend you.”

  “No,” countered Anen. “I go out alone. They should not feel threatened by a solitary priest. Return to your troops and see they are armed and stand ready behind the gates. If anything should happen to me, you are to march on them.” He began removing his robe and collar. “Go.”

  A few moments later Anen emerged, dressed in the simple shendyt and belt of an ordinary priest. At his approach those gathered at the gate bowed. “Open the door,” he commanded.

  The gatemen pulled, and the gates swung slowly open. Anen stepped forward and was instantly confronted by a crowd of swarthy men who, at sight of him, began shaking fists and tools and shouting abuse. He held up his hands to quiet them and waited to be heard. After a moment a grudging silence came upon the throng, and he said, “Who speaks for you? Who among you is leader?”

  A long-haired fellow moved out from the rabble; bearded in the Habiru fashion, dark from long hours in the sun, muscled arms crossed over his massive chest, he carried a hammer in his thick hands. “I speak for my people and carry the demands of Pharaoh that this temple be closed and the priests dispersed. The stones of these walls and buildings are to be carried off to Akhetaten.”

  Anen regarded the fellow with a dubious expression. He paused to let his gaze travel around the close-packed ring of angry faces. “If that is so, how is it that I have heard nothing of this until now?”

  “I bring an edict from Pharaoh,” the laboure
r proclaimed loudly, glancing around at his men, some of whom shouted in support of this assertion.

  “May I see this edict of yours?”

  The man nodded to one of those behind him. A papyrus scroll was passed forward into the hands of the priest.

  Anen calmly unrolled the papyrus and read the contents. What he saw there brought the blood to his head. It was much as the Habiru labourer had said—by decree of Akhenaten, the temple was to be dismantled and used for building stone at Akhetaten, Pharaoh’s new city. Anen took a deep breath and forced himself to answer calmly, “If this is truly from Pharaoh’s own hand, it will have to be studied and verified. I will take possession of it and begin an inquiry.”

  The belligerent fellow snatched back the scroll. “We have come to begin the work of tearing down this temple.”

  “That is over-hasty and premature,” Anen told him, his voice flat. “No one will be permitted to begin anything until we have made petition for clarification and received confirmation from Pharaoh’s own lips.” He paused and added, “For all I know, that is a false document—a fraud and a forgery.”

  “By the Living God!” swore the labourer. His fellows muttered dangerously, “You dare accuse us so?”

  “I make no accusations,” Anen replied coolly. “I only state a simple fact. Since I was not present when Pharaoh made this proclamation, I cannot be certain it carries his true intent.”

  This argument might have continued some considerable time, but the mob, having heard enough, began shouting that the temple must be pulled down at once. Someone threw a stone, striking Anen high on the chest. The priest staggered back, bleeding from a gash below his collarbone. The angry crowd surged forward.

  The commander of the guard, having seen enough, drew his sword and dashed to Anen’s side. Raising his shield, he thrust his master behind him and backed away as the crowd began hurling paving stones ripped from the street with picks and pry bars. “Close the gates!” shouted Tutmose, and the gatemen leapt to obey as the stones smashed against the massive timbers.