by Lynn Austin
Flora was about to tell him that taking a leap of faith requires more than logic, when Becky said, “Fine. Leaving the Bible aside for a moment, what about Mr. Darwin’s book? He clearly had an agenda when he wrote On the Origin of Species. He wanted to disprove the biblical account of creation, even though he offers very little scientific proof aside from a few scattered fossils, and a great deal of speculation. Yet you suspended logic in order to believe his theory of evolution.”
“Well, Mr. Darwin’s explanation for the origin of life on earth is a very logical thesis. Much more logical, you must admit, than that a supernatural being scooped up a pile of mud to make a man then removed one of his ribs to create a woman.”
“Listen to yourself! You’re focusing on the details and not on the broader message of the Bible’s creation account—which is that God created mankind with a specific intention and gave him a purpose. Yet you read Darwin’s book and do the exact opposite—swallowing the broader message instead of focusing on all of his nonsensical details. Can a fish really grow legs and a pair of lungs all by itself and crawl onto dry land? Can an ape develop a brain, somehow, and write brilliant symphonies and exquisite poetry? It requires a gigantic leap of faith, in my opinion, to believe that theory.” Becky was raising her voice and gesturing wildly, which she always did when she grew excited. Flora glanced at Edmund, but he simply shrugged as if to say, she’s doing fine without my help.
“All of the books of the Bible, written over several centuries, share a common theme and a common thesis,” Becky continued, “and they paint a composite picture of the God we serve. He’s revealing to us that there is a Creator who loves us, who created this earth and all its creatures for us, and that He has intervened in history because He wants to restore us to Himself.”
Timothy captured one of Becky’s gesturing hands and held on to it. “The issue I have with the Bible is that it surely has been edited over the years. It’s like a thread of gossip that becomes altered a little bit each time it gets passed along to the next person. Jesus started off as a kindhearted rabbi centuries ago, and over the years He was gradually credited with more and more miracles, such as curing a man born blind, until pretty soon this ordinary rabbi was being described as the Son of God.”
Flora expected another theological lecture from Becky but instead, she lowered her voice and quietly said, “What if I could prove that the Bible hasn’t changed? That it’s the same document it was when it was first written down?”
“How would you do that?”
“You’ve read the research Edmund and I did on the Codex Sinaiticus. Edmund believes there may be more copies of very early manuscripts at the Monastery of St. Catherine on Mount Sinai. Complete ones. So far, we’ve only been able to find and purchase fragments of books and scrolls over the years, but as the experts have studied these fragments, they’ve concluded that they are virtually identical to the same passages we have in our Scriptures today. Suppose we could find more ancient Gospels, ones that were intact, and what if they also proved to be identical to our Bible?”
“I suppose if the weight of proof tilted in that direction . . .” Timothy conceded. But their discussion was interrupted when their carriage arrived home. Since he was unable to stay for dinner, Timothy and Becky agreed to continue the debate another day.
“What am I doing wrong, Edmund?” Becky asked as they shared a light meal in the breakfast room later.
“Nothing that I can see,” he replied.
“I’m sorry we weren’t more help,” Flora said. “But sooner or later you’ll wear him down, don’t you think?”
“No one has ever been ‘argued’ into the kingdom,” Edmund said. “It requires a leap of faith, a change of heart. And that’s the work of the Holy Spirit.” Flora knew he was right, but Becky didn’t seem to hear him.
“Timothy seemed open during the discussion today, didn’t he?” she asked. “We need to find more manuscripts, some very early ones, and show Timothy that the Scriptures haven’t been altered by man’s hand. And I think we all know where we might find them.”
“You want to go to the Monastery of St. Catherine on Mount Sinai, don’t you?” Flora asked. She could see how much her sister longed to not only spend her life with the man she loved, but to have him come to Christ. Becky had once brought Edmund and her together, and now Flora longed to do the same for her and Timothy. “How can I help?” she asked.
“Figure out a way for us to visit the monastery.”
“It has long been my dream to return to the Sinai, too,” Edmund added.
“Maybe the monks we befriended in Greece will give us letters of introduction to the archbishop in Cairo,” Flora said. “Edmund could ask for letters from Cambridge and Northwestern.”
“Good idea,” Becky said. “We aren’t scholars, and we don’t have any ties to czars and kings, so we shouldn’t be seen as a threat like that von Tischendorf fellow who stole their manuscript.”
“Photography is going to be the key,” Edmund said. “We need to assure the monks that the manuscripts will remain in the monastery where they belong. We’ll simply take photographs of the important documents so scholars can study and translate them. No harm will be done to the artifacts, nor will they be removed.”
“That’s brilliant, Edmund,” Becky said. “Timothy is a scholar with a deep respect for the historical record. He’ll have to concede that the Bible is a valid, historical document when faced with the overwhelming proof.”
“The things we do for love . . .” Flora said, shaking her head. “Edmund and I are with you, Becky. Let’s start planning a trip to the Sinai.”
“Wonderful. But first, I need to study photography.”
Part III
Petersen
Chapter 23
THE SINAI DESERT
1890
Soren Petersen never could have imagined traveling halfway around the world to the Sinai Desert, far from the slums of Chicago. Nor could he have imagined being abandoned here, with no idea where he was or how to get back to civilization. He tried not to panic at the thought he might die. He had to find a way out. He had promises to keep. No trees grow to the sky, he told himself. The wait would come to an end, one way or another.
“We need to pray,” Miss Flora said before she and Miss Rebecca retired for the night. Petersen was relieved when they didn’t ask him to join hands and pray with them again. Each time they did, it made him feel doomed. He groped in the dark tent until he located his cot, but he didn’t undress. He needed to be ready—for what, he didn’t know. He still had the cook’s knife.
Mr. Farouk and the cook rustled around for a while but eventually they both began to snore. Petersen had no idea how they could sleep under these circumstances. He was afraid to sleep, wondering if he would die tomorrow at the hands of the Bedouin. The unnerving dinner he’d eaten in their camp tonight, sitting among the men, separated from the sisters, had proven how helpless and far from home he really was.
When it came down to it, Soren was afraid to die. He’d been attending church with the sisters ever since he’d started working for them, and he’d accompanied them to Sunday school, too. But he still didn’t know if what he’d learned about God and heaven and hell was true. Either way, if his life was about to end, he hated that it would be because of Kate Rafferty. He wished he could sell her to the sheikh tomorrow and save the sisters’ lives, but Miss Flora would never allow it.
Why would anyone want such an ill-tempered woman for his wife—or even his servant, for that matter? Kate had been nothing but trouble since she’d barged into their lives a year ago. Miss Flora and Miss Rebecca were kindhearted women, taking pity on Kate when they should have called for the police and tossed her into jail. But since the sisters had taken him into their lives under similar circumstances, Petersen could hardly complain. If only they could have foreseen the trouble Kate would cause them, stranding them in the desert this way—well, they might have thought twice.
He remained awak
e, listening for sounds in the darkness until Mr. Farouk’s snoring grew so loud that Petersen feared he’d never hear any intruders until they were upon him. He gave up trying to sleep and went outside to sit under the stars in front of his tent, dragging his blanket with him for warmth. Fear squeezed the air from his chest at the thought that the sheikh and his thugs might sneak over in the night and murder them all. Petersen couldn’t bear it if anything happened to the sisters. They had rescued him from jail and helped him start a new life, and he had vowed to protect them in return. He hated his helplessness. And to think that the reason they might all die was because of that disagreeable girl. It made his blood boil.
What would his life be like tonight and tomorrow if he had stayed home in Chicago? Petersen couldn’t answer that question. He looked up at the endless stars and remembered gazing up at them as he’d huddled with Gunnar in a cold Chicago alley, hungry and alone. His parents’ faces were little more than hazy blurs in his memory, unless he looked at his own reflection in a mirror and saw the same pale hair and blue eyes that they’d had, the same fair skin. If he was going to pray, as Miss Flora had suggested, it would be for his brother, not for himself. He would pray that Gunnar was safe and warm in his bed tonight.
And happy.
More than anything else, Petersen hoped his brother was happy.
He managed to doze a little during the night and awoke just before dawn when both camps began to stir. Petersen stood guard, watching the Bedouin closely while the rest of his camp ate breakfast. He continued watching as the other men bowed down for their morning prayers. But he made a mental note of where the sun had risen, knowing that if he walked in the opposite direction, the desert would eventually end at the gulf. Miss Flora had convinced him that they had no hope of finding the monastery by themselves, but they could follow the sun west, couldn’t they?
“Here they come,” he warned when the sheikh and his men finished their prayers and started walking the short distance to the sisters’ camp. “Kate needs to get inside the tent and stay there.” He hoped the ladies couldn’t detect the fear that raced through his body and knotted his gut.
“We’re praying for you, Soren,” Miss Flora said, resting her hand on his shoulder. “God will be with you.”
The Bedouin halted a few feet away, and one of them rolled a rug out on the stony ground. The sheikh beckoned for Petersen and Mr. Farouk to sit down on it with him. The other men crowded behind the sheikh, while the two sisters stood behind Soren. If it came to a fight, the two teams were greatly mismatched.
The sheikh began to speak, gesturing broadly, his hawk-nosed face tilted with pride. “He offers you many gifts for the girl,” Mr. Farouk translated. “Sheep . . . camels . . . goats . . . gold, and more.”
“Tell him she isn’t for sale or for trade—or whatever it’s called,” Petersen replied. He waited, growing anxious while an animated conversation passed between the two men. At last the sheikh finished, and Mr. Farouk translated for Petersen.
“He say his wives give him only daughters. He say a flame-haired woman of such fire surely gives a strong son.”
“That’s absurd,” Petersen mumbled, shaking his head. Once again the sheikh began to speak, his voice growing louder, his gestures broader as he pointed to the empty desert, the endless sky.
“He say to name your price, no matter how high.”
“We’re getting nowhere,” Miss Rebecca said from behind Soren. “The Bedouin think bartering is part of the game. He’s going to keep offering more and more, isn’t he, Mr. Farouk?”
“It takes many days until deal is made.”
Petersen tried not to groan.
“Mr. Farouk,” Miss Flora said. “Is there any way to convince the sheikh that he can’t have Kate for his wife?”
He thought for a moment. “Only if price you ask is too high.”
“We don’t dare do that,” Miss Rebecca said. “What if we name one and he agrees to pay it?”
Mr. Farouk thought again, scratching his shiny head. “If the girl already is promised as a wife—”
“You mean, engaged to another man?” Miss Flora asked.
“Yes . . . But even then he may offer more for her.”
Petersen gazed up at the sisters as they digested this information. “We could tell him she is betrothed to me,” he said after a moment.
Miss Rebecca gave a short laugh. “The sheikh has seen the way you two fight. We all have. He’ll never believe it.”
“But no,” Mr. Farouk said, holding up his hand. “The sheikh say he admire the golden man for keeping the girl her in place.”
“Should we try it?” Miss Rebecca asked. “Do you think it will work?”
“No, no, no. It’s too risky,” Miss Flora said. “What if he views Petersen as a rival and challenges him to a duel or something?”
Petersen had thought of that, too.
“Well, I don’t think we have any other choice, at this point,” Miss Rebecca said. “I think we should try it.”
“I don’t like this at all,” Miss Flora said, shaking her head. “We brought these two young people all the way out here with us, and I don’t want to lose either one of them.”
An idea suddenly occurred to Petersen. “I’ll tell him that Kate is betrothed as my wife, but that I’ll consider selling her if he takes us to the monastery, as he promised.”
“Then what?” Flora asked.
“Then we’ll hope the monks will protect us until we figure out how to get out of this desert again.”
“Soren, that’s brilliant!” Miss Rebecca said. “It just might work.”
“I guess it’s worth a try,” Miss Flora agreed.
Petersen knew he would need to put on a convincing show, and he hoped the stubborn girl would have sense enough to play along with him. “Miss Flora, would you please go into the tent and tell Kate she has to do exactly what I tell her to do. Her life and everyone else’s depends on it.”
“I’ll try.”
He waited, then turned to Mr. Farouk, who looked worried and confused. Petersen wanted to shout at him and tell him this was all his fault for hiring these Bedouin in the first place. And he never should have allowed the sheikh to come along with the caravan drivers. But Soren held his temper and waited until he was calm again.
“Mr. Farouk, you need to apologize to the sheikh and explain that you were at fault for not telling me about his offer from the very beginning. Tell him I am the one he needed to approach concerning the girl, but you didn’t realize my relationship to her. Tell him that Kate has been promised to me as my wife.” Soren waited for Farouk to translate, glancing at Miss Rebecca to see if he was saying what he was supposed to. She gave a slight nod.
The sheikh’s face darkened at the news. He glared at Petersen, which made Petersen’s heart race, but he forced himself not to react. “Tell him I will call for the girl now, Mr. Farouk. And then make sure you go along with everything I do and say, understand?”
“Yes.” Farouk’s life was on the line, too. As soon as Farouk finished translating, Petersen stood and turned toward the tent.
“Kate! Come out here at once!” he called as loudly as he could. The sheikh wouldn’t understand his words but there was no mistaking his authority. Petersen held his breath, hoping Kate would do what she was told for once in her life.
Thankfully, she did come out, but she couldn’t quite manage to look submissive. Petersen was peeved to see that she was as defiant as ever, standing with her hands on her hips as she asked, “What do you want?”
“Stupid girl! Don’t you realize the sheikh sees your stubbornness as a challenge? He’ll want you all the more!” He reached for Kate’s arm and yanked her toward him. “Tell him you’re going to be my wife.”
“When pigs fly,” she replied.
“Don’t translate that, Mr. Farouk,” Petersen said quietly.
“I have an idea,” Miss Rebecca said. “We’ll tell him Kate’s father sold her to you against Kate’s will to rep
ay a debt before he died. We’ll say that you’ve been waiting for her time of mourning to end before you claim her.”
“Good. That’s good,” Petersen said. He gestured to Farouk to translate. The sheikh narrowed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest as he listened. Then he began to shout.
“He’s asking Mr. Farouk why he didn’t explain this sooner,” Miss Rebecca whispered. “He’s asking for proof that it’s true.”
Petersen had to think fast. He wrapped his arm around Kate’s shoulder and drew her close beside him. “Don’t fight me, Kate, or we’re all dead,” he whispered to her. He could feel her body trembling, but knowing Kate, it was probably from anger, not fear. “Now, Mr. Farouk, tell him I’m willing to consider his generous offer to buy the girl from me, but not under these circumstances and not out here in the middle of nowhere. First, he needs to honor his side of the bargain and take us to the monastery, as he promised to do.”
The sheikh listened to Mr. Farouk’s translation but didn’t reply. Petersen stared at the man, not flinching, a battle of wills. He wondered if he had earned the sheikh’s respect by standing up to him—or if this would be the moment when the Bedouin would murder him, grab Kate, and disappear into the vast desert. He decided to give one last show of authority and hope Kate would play her part. He released her and spun her around, pointing to the tent. “Get back inside!”
She immediately started one of her tirades. “You think you’re the big hero, don’t you? But you’re not! You’re no better than me, and you know it. I don’t have to take orders from you, Petersen. . . .” On and on she ranted as she walked to the tent, but she lifted the flap and went inside with a huff. Petersen exhaled.
The sheikh finally spoke, and Soren waited for Farouk to translate: “The sheikh say she may be promised to you but she is a wild mare that has yet to be broken. He wants her for his wife.” The sheikh spoke again, then nodded his head. “He will take us to the monastery.”