A River in the Sky

by Elizabeth Peters

  After passing out through the barrier, we had collected the usual followers, half-naked children and idle men, some asking for baksheesh, some simply curious to see what we would do next. They had stopped when we stopped and were watching us interestedly.

  “Aunt Amelia,” Nefret said.

  “In private, Nefret.”

  Never had the walk back seemed so long and arduous; never had I so regretted not having nearby accommodations. I accepted the help of Emerson’s strong arm as we climbed the slope. Always (almost always) sensitive to my state of mind, sensing my agitation, he towed me along with such vigor that my feet seldom touched the ground. Our followers abandoned us when we reached the Dung Gate. Wending our way past donkeys and carts, stepping over the money changers and letter writers who had set up shop along the narrow streets, we were passing David Street, the main thoroughfare, when we were intercepted.

  “Honored lady! Mrs. Emerson! Hear me, please. Talk.”

  The rabbi’s gray beard was in wild disarray, his speech even more disjointed. His hands on my arm held me fast.

  “Here now,” said Emerson, pulling me away. “What do you think you are doing? Mrs. Emerson is not to be manhandled by strange men, even if they are rabbis.”

  “He only took my arm, Emerson. I don’t believe he understands what you are saying. Curse it, I wish one of us could speak Hebrew.”

  One of us could. But he was not here.

  “Curse it,” Emerson echoed. “We haven’t time for a chat about religion. Tell him so. Politely.”

  Addressing the rabbi, who continued to pluck at my sleeve, I said slowly, shaking my head, “Not now. Good-bye.”

  “That was very polite,” Emerson said approvingly. “Good-bye, adieu, auf Wiedersehen, God be with you.”

  Continuing to shout words of farewell in various languages, he led me away.

  By the time we reached the hotel I had decided how best to deal with the situation. It had changed dramatically, and not for the better.

  “Let us all meet in our sitting room in one half hour’s time,” I said. “Nefret, you will want to bathe and change. Daoud, do go and have a little something to eat. Selim, go with him. Emerson, ask at the desk whether there have been any messages for us. Don’t be too long.”

  I left at once, without giving anyone a chance to protest. In fact, I did want to change my dusty, crumpled garments; I have found one thinks more clearly when one is clean and tidy. The bath chamber was occupied, so I had to content myself with the jug and basin at the washstand. I was engaged in this process when Emerson came in. His scowl changed to a pleased smile.

  “In private, you said?” he inquired, advancing toward me with outstretched arms.

  “Emerson, how can you be so frivolous at a time like this?”

  I slid out of his grasp and adjusted the shoulder straps of my combinations.

  “A time like what? Something is worrying you, I can see that, but I fail to understand why it should—”

  “Get out the whiskey, Emerson. And lock the door.”

  It was not necessary for me to say more. Brows furrowed, Emerson at once complied. Seating myself on the sofa, I motioned him to take a place at my side.

  “We must discuss this before Nefret comes, Emerson. I take it there were no messages from the boys?”

  “I would have told you at once,” Emerson said reproachfully. “What have you to say that Nefret must not hear? You haven’t changed your mind about—”

  “No, no, it has nothing to do with that. Or at least I hope it has not. It concerns Frau von Eine.”

  “She does seem to be a legitimate scholar,” Emerson admitted. “I remember hearing her name. She worked at Boghazkoy with—”

  Had it not been for the soothing effect of the genial beverage, I might have shouted at him. Instead I interrupted in almost my normal tone.

  “Have you forgot the code message and the one word—phrase, rather—we could not interpret?” Knowing he had, and would start making excuses for having done so, I hurried on. “It was a lower case v, followed by a stop, and a capital I. Or so I thought. It is a number, Emerson, the number one. And the number one in German is ein, or eins. Frau von Eine is a German spy!”

  I AM SORRY TO SAY that Emerson’s first thought was of himself.

  “But—but that must mean that Morley is in German pay! Hell and damnation! Do you mean to say that the confounded War Office was right, and I was wrong?”

  “We were both wrong, Emerson. Apparently.”

  My willingness to share the blame failed to console my husband. “What do you mean, apparently? The message can only be interpreted as referring to—”

  “What it said was that Morley had been in contact with v.I. That contact may have been for what seemed to him harmless purposes. He may not know that she is in the employ of the German government. In fact,” I went on, seeing Emerson’s face brighten, “we don’t know for certain that she is. The War office is obsessed with espionage. She may be just what she claims to be, an archaeologist visiting Palestinian sites.”

  “Do you believe that, Peabody?”

  In point of fact, I did not. I preferred not to explain my reasons to Emerson, lest I be accused of “jumping to conclusions, as usual, Peabody.” My instincts, which have seldom been wrong, told me that Frau von Eine was not what she seemed. That steady stare had felt as if it were boring into my brain, trying to read my thoughts.

  Other facts might have seemed equally inconclusive to Emerson, but Emerson has absolutely no grasp of the social conventions. It had been out of character for a well-bred lady to propose a definite time for what had been an indefinite invitation. She had followed this by mentioning two specific places, one to the north and one to the west of Jerusalem. A subtle attempt to discover where we meant to go? It would have been natural, had our purpose been innocent, for us to answer yes or no. I wished even more that Nefret had not told her we planned to leave the city.

  I was saved from replying by a peremptory knock at the door. The half hour was up.

  “Let her in, Emerson,” I said, reaching for my dressing gown.

  It was Nefret, of course, her faithful shadow Daoud behind her.

  “I took the liberty,” said Nefret, “of making arrangements for us to leave tomorrow. Selim is selecting the horses now.”

  “That was very thoughtful of you, my dear,” I said. “What about our baggage?”

  “All taken care of,” said Nefret. “I have already packed a small valise and my medical supplies. You can ride in the carriage with the luggage, Aunt Amelia, if you prefer. Or stay here.”

  “Thank you,” I replied.

  Her frozen expression melted. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Never mind, Nefret.”

  “It’s just that I—”

  “Quite,” I said. “Has Mr. Plato turned up?”

  “I don’t know. Shall I go and see?”

  “If you will, please. I must change for dinner. We will meet you in the dining salon.”

  Nefret took her departure looking subdued but not repentant. She closed the door very softly.

  “You were rather hard on her, weren’t you?” Emerson asked.

  “She is taking too much on herself, Emerson. I approve of independent young women, but in recent days she has made decisions without consulting me, and some of them may have unpleasant consequences. For instance, her mentioning to Frau von Eine that we were leaving Jerusalem. If the woman is a German spy and if we are the ones she is after—”

  “Too many ifs, Peabody, even for you. Why should she give a curse about us?”

  “If the War office has discovered her true mission, Emerson, German Imperial Intelligence may have discovered ours.”

  I could see that this eminently logical deduction shook Emerson, but he was in no mood to admit it. “More ifs,” he grumbled. “I still think you were unkind to Nefret.”

  “I understand her worry, but not this sudden urgency.” I slipped into my evening frock of black-b
eaded silk georgette and turned so that Emerson could deal with the buttons. I was becoming very tired of the frock, and of black in general. Too many people—Moslem ladies, Christian pilgrims, and Orthodox Jews—seemed to favor that dismal shade.

  “Well, curse it, Peabody, I am worried too. We ought to have heard something from the boys by now.”

  “We ought to have heard something from someone,” I agreed, running a brush over my hair and twisting it into a neat coil. “Emerson, are you sure you were not told how to reach the Jerusalem representative of MO2? After all their fuss and bother, they have left us dangling. And you laughed at me the other day when I gave you the signal.”

  Emerson tried not to grin but failed. “My dear, someone was teasing you. Whoever heard of one hardened spy making that absurd gesture to another of the same?”

  FROM MANUSCRIPT H

  After the boy had gone, with Ramses’s note tucked carefully into his belt pouch, Ramses decided he could chance making a small fire. The herb, whatever it might be, would be easier to take and probably more effective if it was brewed, like tea. He had eaten a small quantity himself; so far, no ill effects. Anyhow, why should the village healer take the trouble of poisoning them when all he had to do was call in the Turks?

  Ramses was able to collect enough dry twigs and branches to get a fire going. Waiting for the water to boil, he thought over the latest encounter with the Sons of Abraham. He had assumed the name referred only to Arabs, the descendants of Ishmael, but apparently the membership included both Jews and Moslems. The boy spoke a little Arabic, but he was more at home in what must be his native tongue. Ramses’s Hebrew had been good enough to understand him and to ask questions. However, he hadn’t got much useful information. The boy had been in a hurry to get away, explaining that his absence would be noted if he wasn’t in his usual place on time. No, he would not carry the message himself; it would be passed on, from one hand to another, until it reached its destination. When, he could not say. With luck, today. If not, tomorrow. Ramses had written his father’s name in all three languages. “I don’t know where they are staying,” he explained. “The last messenger will have to inquire at the major hotels—”

  The boy had cut him short. “We have our own ways. Now write the same again.”

  Complying, Ramses thought to himself that someone in the group had a good head on his shoulders. Two messengers stood a greater chance of getting through than one.

  The water was boiling. He stirred in the rest of the dried herb. Waiting for it to cool, he wiped David’s hot face with a wet towel. David stirred slightly; his forehead wrinkled, and then his eyes opened. They focused on Ramses’s face and then moved slowly from side to side.

  “Where—” he croaked.

  “Someplace safe. How do you feel?”

  David tried to moisten his dry lips. “Thirsty.”

  Ramses lifted his head and helped him drink. “Better,” David said, lips cracking in a smile.

  He did seem better, his temperature a few degrees lower, but Ramses didn’t dare hope too much. Some fevers behaved this way, lower in the morning, climbing as the day went on.

  “I’ve got some medicine for you,” he said, testing the water with a forefinger. “Drink it down like a good boy.”

  David managed a few sips, and Ramses decided to save the rest for a second dose. “Can you eat something?” he asked. “We’ve got food. Cheese, grapes…”

  “Not hungry. Tell me where—”

  “Lie still and rest while I talk. Nothing new about that, is there?”

  He brought David up-to-date, starting from the moment when he had collapsed. “So you see,” he concluded, “things are looking up. My note is on its way to the parents and we have friends hereabouts.”

  “That’s nice.” David’s eyes were half closed. “So damn sleepy…Sorry, can’t…”

  His voice trailed off into a snore. The medicine must be a soporific as well as a febrifuge. Ramses wished he had kept a sample of the herb. Nefret would want to test it.

  It was the first time he had dared think about her for several days. David had told him he had had a hard time talking her out of coming with him. Only his assurance that he alone could carry out the plan had won her over.

  He put out the fire and went to the gate. It was a beautiful morning. A few white clouds moved overhead, like sheep in a blue pasture. High above, a hawk balanced on a current of air, and from the ruined heights of the keep a chorus of birdsong arose. In the valley below he saw neat little patches of green and gold, vineyards and fields of ripened grain. This was a peaceful land, fertile enough to support a small industrious population. It was hard to imagine the crops ablaze and the hillside strewn with the bodies of the dead; yet it must have happened many times, not only during the Crusades but for centuries before and centuries after.

  This was the first time he had had a chance to find out exactly where they were. He had been too preoccupied with getting David up the hillside and then with exploring the inside of the castle before night fell. He was higher up than he had expected. The hill was almost a miniature mountain, its slopes steep and rocky. If there were people working the fields below, they were surely too far distant to see him, but he moved cautiously, close to the base of the wall. The view was spectacular from that height; the city they had left was hidden by the hills, but to the east he could see as far as the coastal plain. He moved on, picking his way around spiny shrubs and gnarled trees that had struck their roots down into the subsoil, till he reached the south side of the castle. The slope wasn’t as steep there; goats grazed on the coarse patches of weeds, and several groups of small flat-roofed houses were visible below, some marked by the minaret of a mosque.

  Shadows hid him from anyone who might look in that direction, but he decided he had better get back to David. Another truncated tower stood at the southeast corner. The sun was directly in his eyes when he got round it. What he saw when his vision adjusted made him draw back into the angle between tower and wall: a stretch of road hugging the curve of the hill below. It could only be the main road to Jerusalem, and it was less than half a mile from the castle height—close enough for him to make out the shapes of moving vehicles and the forms of animals and people. One group was distinguishable by their vivid red headgear—the fezzes worn by Turkish soldiers.

  He went back the way he had come as fast as he dared. David was awake and trying to sit up. “Thank God,” he said weakly. “I didn’t see you. I thought…”

  “Sorry.” Ramses braced his shoulders and reached for the water skin. “I went out to reconnoiter.”

  “Anything new?”

  “No.” He helped himself to a drink after David had finished. “But I think we had better move farther inside. We’re too exposed here. Do you feel up to it?”

  “I’ll crawl if I have to. I was just thinking that I was in plain view to anyone who walked through that gate and past the tower.”

  “You won’t have to crawl.” Ramses began gathering their scanty supplies together. “Here, finish the medicine. I’ll go ahead and find a good spot, and come back for you.”

  Ramses felt a little easier after he had got David through the gate in the inner wall. David managed to stay on his feet but he didn’t argue when Ramses suggested they rest awhile before going on. If Ramses hadn’t known it was impossible, he would have thought David had lost a stone or more in the past twenty-four hours. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes sunken. He hadn’t lost his nerve, though. Looking round at the wilderness of tumbled stone and stunted trees and brambly shrubs, with the dark mass of the keep rising in its midst, he let out a low whistle.

  “All the comforts of home. Plenty of hiding places, wood for a fire…Those can’t be fig trees, surely.”

  “They say olives and figs can grow out of solid rock,” Ramses said somewhat absently.

  “Pity there isn’t a spring.”

  He was making idle conversation in order to hide the fact that he needed to catch his breath, b
ut the comment got Ramses’s attention.

  “One would think there would be, wouldn’t one? A place like this wouldn’t be defensible for long without a source of water. I’ll have a look round later.”

  Brambles tugged at their clothes as they went on. David kept stubbing his toes on chunks of stone hidden by the rampant weeds and leaning more heavily on Ramses’s arm. He was weakening fast, or perhaps the medication had begun to take effect. Ramses got him inside the keep and lowered him onto the ground. He was out of breath himself. David looked as if he had lost weight, but he didn’t feel as if he had.

  “Cozy, isn’t it?” he wheezed.

  “Forbidding” would have been a better word. The walls of the lower floor of the keep were intact except for the gap through which they had entered. There had never been a door on this level; invaders would have to climb a steep narrow flight of stairs, under constant fire from the defenders, in order to reach the entrance. The stairs had slumped into a steep uneven ramp. The stairs inside remained, though Ramses hoped they would not have to use them; they circled the inner wall, but after seven centuries, give or take a decade, he would not have wanted to trust his weight to them. There were no windows on this level either. The only light came from above, through sections of the ceiling that had fallen in. The floor was littered with scattered stones, possibly the remains of partition walls, with bird droppings and straggling weeds, and with a grisly collection of bones. The bones, those of small animals like hares, were dry and brittle; he could only hope this was an indication that the predator had taken up residence elsewhere.

  He cleared away bones, weeds, and rocks from a space behind a pile of stones and persuaded David to lie down, with one of the galabeeyahs under his head for a pillow. “Can you eat something?” he asked.

  David made a wry face. “I’m not hungry, but I suppose I had better. What have we got?”

  The answer was, nothing to tempt an invalid’s appetite; the bread was hard, the cheese pungent, and the grapes were withering. David forced down some of the grapes and bread soaked in water to make a tasteless gruel. “What time is it?” he asked.