“I forgot to wind my watch,” Ramses admitted. “Getting on for midday, at a guess. My message has been on its way for several hours. With luck we could be out of this place to night.”
His attempt at encouragement was a dismal failure. “Not bloody likely,” David said. “Don’t treat me as if I were a child, Ramses. I may be sick, but I’m not stupid.”
“You must feel better,” Ramses said, smiling. “Or you wouldn’t talk back to me. You’re right, of course. At best the messengers will take at least a day to reach Jerusalem. They won’t risk the main road, because it’s being patrolled by Turkish soldiers. Then they’ll have to track down the parents, who are notoriously unpredictable; God only knows where they’ve got to by now. It may take even Mother a while to figure out exactly where we are, my directions were necessarily vague, and even if they receive the message tonight, they won’t be stupid enough to start out in the dark. That’s the truth of the matter. I hope you like it.”
“You only left out one uncomfortable fact. The messengers may not get through at all.”
“That’s a possibility.”
“Then we had better get ready to move on our own,” David said coolly.
Ramses gave David’s shoulder a quick, awkward squeeze. “Thanks.”
“What for?”
“For not suggesting I leave you here and go to get help.”
“It would have been a waste of breath. You never listen to sensible suggestions.” He yawned. “Is there any more of that vile medicine left? It makes me sleepy, but it does seem to have lowered the fever.”
“Just the dregs.” He had put the cup, with its contents, into his belt pouch along with all the other evidence of their presence. He took it out and inspected what remained of the herbs. “I’ll try adding some boiling water, let it steep awhile. Go back to sleep, there’s nothing else to do.”
“Wake me in a few hours. Take it in turn to keep watch…”
His voice faded out and his eyes closed.
Ramses went back to the entrance and began gathering twigs and dried leaves for a fire. The thin smoke dissipated in the breeze, but he was afraid to let it burn too long; as soon as the water began to steam he stamped out the fire, taking care that no sparks reached the patches of dried grass. The water was running low, and had a distinct taste of goat. He’d seen a gleam of running water farther down the slope, on the side of the villages, but he was afraid to risk a sortie in case he might fall and break a limb. That would leave David alone and helpless.
When the brew was steeping he sat down, his back against the trunk of a fig tree. Keeping watch was definitely a sensible idea. They were too close to the road for comfort and the man who had brought them here had said not all in the villages were trustworthy. Did that mean that some of the villagers were not members of the Sons of Abraham, whoever those ambiguous individuals might be? They had done well by him and David so far. But Mansur had the same identifying mark, and if he was a member of the group, they couldn’t all be as well-intentioned. Or were they? Had Mansur been playing a double game all along? Their escape had been a little too easy, some of the items left in their luggage a little too useful. The word of their escape had spread with remarkable speed. Thinking back on that morning, Ramses began to wonder if they hadn’t been driven like cattle, headed off into byways that would lead them eventually to a safe refuge.
He hadn’t felt so stupid and ineffectual since he was ten years old, when the girl he was trying desperately to impress had had to save him from the grasp of an abductor. He had fallen on his head and rolled into a ditch, a figure of shame and ridicule. And here he sat, waiting for her and his parents to rescue him again…
The sound of a voice jerked him awake. He had fallen into heavy slumber, sitting there. Hazy with sleepiness and berating himself for his failure as a lookout, he hurried in to see if it was David who had called him. David was sound asleep; he didn’t stir even when Ramses spoke his name.
He made his way back to the entrance and peered out. There was no one in sight, and no further sounds—except the faintest of noises that might have been bare feet picking a path over pebble-strewn ground. The sounds faded into silence as he listened, and then he realized something was there, just inside the gate, something that hadn’t been there before. The shadows were thickening; the object was an amorphous shape whose outlines were hard to make out.
He waited for another five minutes, counting off the seconds. The object didn’t stir, and the sounds of movement had stopped. It wasn’t curiosity that brought him out into the open, but need. Their water was running low and their food was gone. If this was, as he dared hope, another contribution of supplies from allies in the village, it would get them through the night and he wouldn’t have to risk looking for a spring or a well. Still, it was with a long breath of relief that he recognized the object as a water skin and, behind it, a smaller cloth bag.
When he got back to the entrance, David was there. He looked terrible—sunken eyes peering out of a tangle of beard and hair, and he was leaning against the wall as if he couldn’t stand without that support. He was holding a rock.
“Why didn’t you wake me before you went gamboling out into the open?” he demanded. “There might be a whole damned troop of Turkish soldiers lying in wait for you to show yourself.”
“You’d have been a great help with that pathetic rock,” Ramses said. He lowered his burden to the ground and reached out a supportive arm. “Sit down before you fall down and let’s open our presents. One of the Sons of Abraham has paid us a visit.”
“Just like Christmas, isn’t it?” David said, after a long drink of fresh water. He passed the skin to Ramses and rummaged around in the bag. “Cheese, bread, grapes…What’s this?”
“It looks like more of the herbal medicine. I’ll brew up a fresh batch. You look better, but a few more doses wouldn’t do you any harm.”
“It makes me too sleepy.”
He was eating grapes with more relish than he had yet shown for food. Ramses watched him with an affection he would never have displayed in words or actions. It was amazing what a difference that humble gesture of goodwill had made; the mellow evening light seemed rich and comforting, the hoary old walls protective rather than forbidding. The small fire he had started burned clean and bright.
“I think we can sleep without worry tonight,” he said gently. “People are looking after us.”
AS WE MADE OUR WAY toward the dining salon I pondered an idea that had only recently occurred to me. We had been contacted by the War office a day or two after we arrived in Jaffa, yet there had been no communication from them here. For all I knew, Jerusalem could be swarming with spies of all nations, including our own; certainly one would expect that MO2 would be on the trail of Frau von Eine and would notify us of her presence in the city. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that a message had gone astray, so when I saw Mr. Fazah behind the desk I told Emerson to go on ahead and I approached the assistant manager.
I was tempted to wriggle my nose at him again, in case he had had some reason for ignoring the first signal, but he was watching me so warily I decided it might alarm him. If my newfound theory was correct, he was not the contact I wanted. When I asked to speak to the manager he stiffened. Underlings always expect the worst when one asks for the manager.
“If madam has a complaint,” he began.
“No, not at all. Seeing you always on duty, and performing so well, I wanted to pass on my commendation to your superior.”
His face brightened. “Thank you, madam. If you would care to write a message to that effect, it would be most kind.”
Subtlety had not availed me. I took a more direct approach. “Is there some reason why I can’t speak to him in person?”
It took some persistence to get it out of him. The manager was at home, ill with the fever. He didn’t want the word to get out for fear patrons would think they might be in danger of catching the same illness. Mr. Fazah assured m
e earnestly that there was no danger of infection, that such fevers were common, debilitating but not life-threatening; that all food and drink served in the hotel were perfectly safe. I promised him I would keep the matter under my hat, regretting that I was unable to demonstrate the meaning of the phrase since I was not wearing that article of apparel.
As if to indicate his dedication to duty, Mr. Fazah informed me that although there had been no written messages for us, several persons had come round to see us. One had been Mr. Page, earlier that afternoon. The other, “a queer shabby sort of little old Jewish person,” had been there within the past hour. “I was forced to ask him to leave,” said Mr. Fazah, nose in the air, “since he began waving his arms and shouting.”
The description, unkind though it was, left no doubt as to the identity of our most recent visitor. The poor man was determined to help us, whether we wanted help or not—and I could not imagine any way in which he might be of use. However, simple civility dictated that I give him a few minutes of my time.
“I will send him away if he returns,” Mr. Fazah offered.
“No, no. Notify me unless the hour is unreasonably late.”
The unexpected absence of the manager might explain why we had not received any word from MO2, if such messages were only to be delivered to him in person. The process seemed haphazard and potentially dangerous. But after all, I reminded myself, the War Office was run by men.
I found the others, including Mr. Plato, in the dining salon.
“Did you have a fruitful encounter with your friend Major Morley?” I inquired of the latter.
“I rejoice to say that we are again in amity” was the reply, accompanied by a soulful look.
“In that case,” I said, “you will, I expect, prefer to take up your living quarters with him.”
Plato gave me a startled look. “But, Mrs. Emerson—”
“What precisely was the nature of your original agreement with him?” I asked.
Planting his elbows on the table, Emerson regarded me with approval. “See if you can winkle it out of him, Peabody. When I tried, all I got was vague biblical references.”
Unfortunately the waiter turned up to take our orders, which gave Plato time to organize his thoughts—or, as Emerson would have said, think up a convincing lie. I immediately resumed my interrogation.
“You supplied the information contained in the scroll,” I said. “He supplied the funds and financial support. Were you to divide the proceeds?”
“No such mercenary object was in my mind,” Plato said with a show of dignity. “I only wished to see the Holy Scriptures confirmed, the truth shown to the world.”
“Who paid your living expenses while you were in England?”
“We were as brothers, united in our burning faith.”
“Oh, yes, I can see Morley burning with faith,” said Emerson. He added, “If he mentions David and Jonathan I will send him to his room without his supper.”
“In other words,” I said sternly, “you lived off the money Morley brought in from his subscribers. Since you are now in amity again, he can go back to supporting you. I will arrange for a carriage to collect you and your luggage first thing tomorrow morning.”
No one had the temerity to protest. Nefret looked down at her plate, lips compressed, ignoring the pitiful looks Plato shot at her. Her tender heart was at war with her keen intelligence, and finally, it appeared, intelligence was in the ascendancy.
Plato ate his way through the soup course, the fish course, and all the other courses as if he expected it would be his last meal—which for all I knew might well be the case. When we retired to the lounge for coffee, he trailed after us. Since we needed to discuss our plans for the morrow, I told him to go to his room and begin packing. Thus far he had not got wind of our intentions, and I wanted it to remain that way.
I had reason, shortly thereafter, to be thankful I had sent him away. Scarcely had we taken our seats than Mr. Fazah came toward us. “That person,” he began. He did not finish; the little rabbi pushed past him and ran to me.
“God be thanked,” he panted. “You are here.”
“Oh, good Gad,” said Emerson. “Tell him we do not need his help and get rid of him. Be polite, of course.”
The rabbi reached into the breast of his robe and took out a folded paper, which he thrust at me. “Help,” he said. “Help.”
I cannot say what I expected; but one glance at the crumpled paper dispelled any doubts as to the rabbi’s intentions. I recognized the paper as a page from my son’s notebook, and the handwriting as that of Ramses.
“It appears to be addressed to you, Emerson,” I said. “In Arabic, Hebrew, and English. Rabbi, how did you—”
“For pity’s sake, Aunt Amelia, open it!” cried Nefret. Seated next to me, she had also identified the handwriting. In her agitation she actually snatched the note from my hand and unfolded the paper. The flush of health faded from her cheeks as she read.
“What?” shouted Emerson. “What?”
“Sssh,” I said. “Let us not draw attention to ourselves. Read it aloud, Nefret. Quietly.”
In fact quite a number of other patrons were looking in our direction. A gathering of pilgrims, the same ones we had observed in the dining salon, turned to stare, and a Turkish dignitary edged closer.
Looking over Nefret’s shoulder, I saw that Ramses’s handwriting was even more irregular than usual, but she read it off without hesitating. It began abruptly, with no salutation. “‘A friend is bringing this message. We were prisoners but got away. We are holed up in Crusader castle approx. ten m. south of Nablus, e. of the main road. David ill. Would appreciate assistance but please be careful, think we are being pursued.’”
“We must go at once,” Selim exclaimed. “Where is this place?”
“We will find it,” Nefret said quietly. “But, Selim, we cannot leave this moment.”
I looked at her with surprise and admiration, for I had been about to make that point myself. As was so often the case, she could control her fiery temper when the occasion was desperate. The color had rushed back into her cheeks; they glowed as if with fever.
“Quite right,” I said. “We cannot set out in darkness, particularly when we don’t know the precise location of the place. Rabbi, how did you come by this message?”
But when I turned to address him, he was gone.
I DOUBT THAT ANY of us slept well that night. Emerson certainly did not; he kept tossing and turning and muttering to himself. We were all afire to be gone, but as I had pointed out, it would be folly to charge blindly ahead, risking an accident or missing the place in the dark. Paging patiently through my guidebook—whose index had no entry for “castles”—I had finally found a reference to a place that must be the one Ramses had referred to. Known as Tal’at-ed-dam, or “Hill of Blood,” it was described as the ruins of a Crusader castle, and I did not doubt that in its heyday the name had been only too appropriate. Under other circumstances I would have considered it a most interesting side trip.
The only other thing we could do before retiring was to make certain our means of transportation would be available on time. There was now no need to pack changes of clothing and other nonessentials, but we decided to retain the carriage in case David was not able to ride. Despite the press of new arrangements, I found time to inform Mr. Fazah that we would no longer be responsible for Plato’s hotel bills.
Lying awake beside my restless spouse, I addressed a little prayer of thanks to Him who watches over us—and also to the governesses and nannies who had instilled in me their notions of proper behavior. (My esteemed father had taught me languages but not manners; his own left a good deal to be desired.) Had I not had the courtesy to listen to the little rabbi, we might have set out on a fruitless quest, never knowing our dear ones were so close, and in mortal danger. I did not minimize that danger, despite Ramses’s offhand request for assistance. He hated asking for help, but I wished he had gone straight to the point and m
entioned details such as the time and date. As it was, we had no idea how long the message had taken to reach us; it might have been days.
He and David must have been on their way to Jerusalem when David fell ill. The illness must be severe enough to prevent David from going on. I had packed every variety of medicine I had with me, and I knew Nefret had done the same. If only Ramses had had the decency to add a few more words that would give us a clue as to what ailed the boy, and how serious it was!
The friend who had offered to carry a message could not have been the rabbi; he was not the sort of person to go tramping in the hills. Grubby and tattered as the paper was, it might have passed through several hands before reaching its destination—and that destination was the rabbi. The final messenger had delivered it to him instead of going the rounds of the Jerusalem hotels.
What did it all mean? I was unable to concentrate on any single issue, my mind kept wandering off into irrelevant byways. I had just convinced myself I would not get a wink of sleep when I was awakened by a knock at the door and a voice calling my name.
All the worries of the night came flooding back. I sprang out of bed, instantly alert, and fell over Emerson’s boots, which I had placed near the door in preparation for the morrow.
“Are you all right, Aunt Amelia?” Nefret asked.
“Yes, yes, and wide awake.” I rose, rubbing my shin. The room was pitch-dark—the utter darkness before the dawn, as some poet or other has put it.
Nefret had obviously been up for some time. She had rousted out (her phrase) the cook and had carried to our door, with her own hands, the beverage essential to Emerson’s arousal. On this occasion he was much easier to manage; like myself, he had been awake half the night, itching to be on our way. When we assembled on the steps of the hotel the sky was still black, but my watch, which I never neglect to wind, assured me dawn was not far distant. I beheld not a single star. The morning fog had moved in, mixing with the varied and noxious effluvia of the city.
A River in the Sky Page 23