The Skin Map be-1

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “I’m fine.” Kit swallowed. “A little thirsty is all.”

  “I fear, sir, that we forgot to bring any water.”

  “I know. We’ll just have to wait.” Urging his mount forward, he came abreast of their guide. “Is it much farther?” he asked.

  The swarthy Egyptian pointed to the rock-rimmed hills. “There,” he said. “Not far.”

  Turning around on his saddle, Kit called back to Giles and Lady Fayth. “He says we’re almost there.”

  Lady Fayth, shielding her face with her hand, nodded grimly.

  They rode on a little longer, and then, quite unexpectedly, turned toward the same shattered hills the guide had indicated. As they approached the base of the nearest hill, they saw what appeared to be little more than a crease open out onto the desert. Yusuf turned into the crevice and, riding single file, they proceeded into a channel between two sheer rock walls-a wadi cut into the soft stone by the abundant rains of a much younger world. The air was dead still inside the wadi, but at least the high walls afforded significant shade; it was cooler at the bottom of the gulch, and Kit felt himself revive. They came to a place where the gap between the walls widened, and here their guide halted. “We leave the animals,” he said. “We walk from here.”

  Kit wasted not an instant scrambling down from his disagreeable perch and hurried to their guide. “We need some water,” he said.

  “There is a well,” replied Yusuf. “I take you.”

  After securing the beasts, they gathered their gear and started down the wadi, soon arriving at a place where the walls flattened slightly, and there, in a fissure at the base of one wall, a deep pit had been hollowed in the solid rock; the pit was covered by a stone that, after it had been removed, revealed the end of a rope of braided hemp. Yusuf pulled on the rope, and up came a leather bucket dripping with water. The liquid was tepid, but fresh enough, and they all slaked their thirst. Kit was last to drink. “Everyone okay?” he asked, passing the bucket back to their guide. He thanked him and asked, “How much farther?”

  “We walk a little,” replied Yusuf. Taking a water skin from one of the camels, he filled it and passed it to Kit. “This way.”

  They followed the gently meandering course of the ancient gully as it cut deeper into the arid hills. The sheer walls of banded rock soared on either hand; sometimes their tops were so high they could not be seen from the bottom. They passed beneath low overhangs and around long curving bends-so many that Kit lost count-until Yusuf finally stopped and said in a low voice, “We must climb.” The three looked around; they were standing at a crossroads of sorts where a smaller branch joined the larger. The walls here were lower, and much eroded. In looking at the broken walls, they saw that a set of narrow steps had been carved into the rock face on one side. Yusuf started up, gesturing for the others to follow.

  They reached the top and proceeded overland along a crumbling, much eroded goat track that ran along the edge of the wadi. Yusuf led them to a spindly acacia tree and stopped. “They are down there,” he said, indicating the wadi floor. “I stop here.” He held out his hand for his second coin.

  “We thank you, Yusuf. If we have need of your camels again, I will look for you.”

  “A’salaamu ’alaykum,” said Yusuf, turning to go. The Egyptian paused, then, glancing back over his shoulder added, “Be careful, my friends. They are bad men.”

  “Do you know how many are down there?”

  Yusuf thought for a moment, then held up four fingers. “May Allah the Merciful be with you,” he said as he hurried away.

  Giles glanced around the barren clifftop, then turned to Kit. “What is your pleasure, sir?” he asked, unslinging his bundle.

  “Let’s have a look down there and see what we can see,” suggested Kit. “Stay out of sight and keep quiet.”

  “If you please,” remarked Lady Fayth, “we are not children. Kindly refrain from treating us so.”

  “Sorry.” Kit turned towards the gaping crevasse. “Let’s take a look.”

  They moved to the edge of the cliff, crawling the last few feet on hands and knees and then squirming on their stomachs to peer down onto the wadi floor fifty or sixty feet below, where to their wondering eyes appeared the chiselled statues of Thoth and Horus standing either side of a doorway cut into the solid rock of the canyon wall facing them. Other branches of the wadi angled off to the left and right, and the junction formed a broad triangle. These walls were honeycombed with niches, hundreds of little nooks carved into the sandstone. “There’s a temple or something down there,” observed Kit softly. Even as he spoke, a man in a long white kaftan wandered into view. He paused in the open area in front of the temple and looked around, casting his gaze up the three separate canyon corridors in turn-almost as if he knew someone was watching him. Discovering nothing out of the ordinary, however, he called out to an unseen companion and then moved on.

  The three adventurers continued to watch, but nothing more happened, so with the sun scalding their unprotected heads, they edged back from the overlook and returned to their bundled provisions and weapons. “Well, I suppose if it is to be four against two-” Kit said, then hastily corrected himself, “four against three, I mean-then I suggest we make our move tonight.”

  “When everyone is asleep,” said Lady Fayth approvingly. “Very shrewd.”

  “I’ve watched a lot of movies,” muttered Kit.

  “Sir?” wondered Giles. He and Lady Fayth exchanged a puzzled look.

  “Never mind,” Kit said, looking around. The brave little acacia provided the only shade to be seen atop the overlook; it would be close quarters, but better than nothing. “It’s getting pretty hot out here. I suggest we get out of the sun and try to keep cool.”

  “And then?” asked Lady Fayth.

  “We wait.”

  CHAPTER 35

  In Which an Alliance of Consequence Is Formed

  The long hot day passed. As the blistering sun sailed high overhead, Giles passed around the water skin, then opened the bundle of provisions and made a meal of apples and barley bread. As they ate, Kit dug out Sir Henry’s green book. He unwrapped it and, after orienting himself anew to the tight, crabbed script, began to read. “This is interesting!” he announced, laying aside his apple.

  When nothing more seemed forthcoming, Lady Fayth said, “Pray, do you intend to relate that which has so obviously piqued your interest?”

  Kit thumbed back a page in the little book. “Listen to this,” he said, and began to read aloud. “Sir Henry writes, ‘I hold two precepts absolute: That the universe was created to allow Providence its expression, and therefore nothing happens beyond Its purview.’ ” He glanced up to see his audience wholly puzzled by this nugget. “Wait, there’s more. ‘Secondly, all was made for the benefit of each: man, woman, child, and beast, down to the curve of every wave, and the flight of the lowliest insect. For, if there be such a thing as Providence, then everything is providential, and every act of Providence is a special providence.’” He looked up again. “Do you see?”

  “A curious musing, perhaps,” conceded Lady Fayth. “Yet, I fail to see that it has anything do with the particular undertaking before us. Does it?”

  “Well,” allowed Kit, “not at the moment maybe. But see here.” He turned the book toward her. “What is it that he’s scribbled in the margin?”

  Lady Fayth bent her head to the text and squinted at the smudgy words Kit’s finger marked. “If I am not mistaken, it says ‘No Coincidence Under Heaven.’”

  Kit pointed to another annotation. “And this one?”

  “‘Providence Not Coincidence,’” replied Lady Fayth, glancing up again.

  “No coincidence,” echoed Kit. “I think he’s trying to say that nothing happens that Providence does not permit.” Kit frowned and amended the thought immediately. “No, I mean-nothing happens that Providence cannot use to express itself.”

  “Or,” volunteered Giles, “nothing happens that Providence cannot use for the
benefit of all things.”

  “It is a fascinating notion, to be sure,” agreed Lady Fayth doubtfully. “Do you believe it?”

  Kit thought for a moment. “I don’t know. But Sir Henry seems to.”

  Just then, a loud popping sound came echoing up from the canyon basin; it was followed by the rumbling growl of a combustion engine. “Whatever is that?” said Lady Fayth, looking toward the canyon.

  “It is a motor,” Kit explained, wrapping the book and tucking it back into his pocket. “A machine that powers things. My guess is it’s either a vehicle engine or a generator.”

  They moved to the clifftop and gazed down. The engine rumbled on, growing louder, filling the air with its rough growl. A moment later, a vintage flatbed truck swung into view, and the vehicle proceeded slowly down the wadi, trailing thick white plumes of smoke. “We’re in luck,” observed Kit. “They’re leaving.”

  “What is it?” asked Giles, pointing to the truck rattling out of sight along the gully floor.

  “I guess you’d call it a horseless carriage,” Kit told him. “The motor powers it.”

  “And a very disagreeable machine it is,” remarked Lady Fayth, holding her nose as the petrol fumes reached them. “Most unnatural.”

  “You have no idea,” said Kit.

  They watched a while longer, but all remained quiet. “Do you think they have gone?” asked Giles.

  “Maybe,” allowed Kit. “There is only one way to find out.” He stood. “Let’s go down.”

  “Have you ever used a pistol?” asked Lady Fayth, brushing dust from her clothes and hands.

  “No,” admitted Kit, with a shake of his head.

  “Then I shall take the pistol,” she decided. “You and Giles will do better with the cutlasses-if it should come to that.”

  “Fine,” agreed Kit. “Cutlasses it is.”

  Giles opened the bundle and handed out the weapons. Kit gripped the hilt of the sword; fully as long as his arm, the slightly curved, tapering blade was somewhat heavier than he expected, but well balanced and reasonably sharp. After a few practice swipes, he felt suitably armed and dangerous. “Ready?” The others nodded. “Right. Stay alert and keep quiet. Here we go.”

  They started down the broken staircase, picking their way among the rocks one step at a time, as silently as possible. Upon reaching the wadi floor, they stopped and crouched, waiting to see if they had been heard or observed. All was calm and silent. “So far, so good,” Kit whispered. “This way.”

  They moved quickly to the temple, darting into the entrance so as not to be seen in the open. The interior, illumined only by the light coming in from the doorway, revealed a simple square hollowed from the living rock. A stone ledge three feet off the floor ran around the perimeter of the room, which, save for the sand drifted into the corners, was empty. Turning back toward the doorway, they looked both ways down the two connecting branches of the wadi. To the right, a lean-to hut of rough timber had been constructed against the canyon wall and, beside it, a large tent; to the left, there was nothing but a series of door-size niches carved into the rock: three of them, each a few yards from the next.

  “Which way?” asked Kit. “Right or left?”

  “The fellow we saw earlier went that way,” suggested Giles, indicating the tent on the right. “We might try the other way first.”

  “Sounds good to me,” agreed Kit. “Stay close.”

  Leaving the temple entrance, the three flitted along the wall towards the first niche. “Wait here,” said Kit. “And keep a sharp lookout.” He crept to the doorway and paused, listened, then ducked inside. An overpowering smell of fumes in the close confines of the small chamber made him gasp. He could just about make out the black boxy shape of a generator, but nothing else.

  “Not in there,” Kit reported when he stepped out again. “Let’s try the next one.”

  As before, he positioned his watchers either side of the doorway and then ducked into the rock-cut chamber; this one was slightly larger than the first and, from what Kit could make out, seemed to be filled with crates and casks and boxes. “It’s a storage room,” he reported, then motioned the others to follow him to the third doorway. A swift inspection revealed that the last chamber was filled with oil drums. “Another storage room,” Kit said. “That’s it for this side.” He turned with some reluctance toward the tent. “I guess we look there next.”

  “There may be something down there.” Lady Fayth pointed farther along the wadi.

  Kit looked where she indicated and saw another opening thirty or so yards away and all but hidden in a fold in the smooth canyon wall. Smaller than the others, and narrower, Kit had mistaken it for a shadow. Lady Fayth was already starting for the place. Kit overtook her and hurried to the low doorway. “Fourth time lucky,” he said and, stepping in, almost broke his neck when he lost his footing and plunged down a steep flight of stairs. The cutlass spun from his grasp and clattered down the stone steps with him.

  The sound of his fall echoed up from the hollow chamber below. “What happened?” asked Lady Fayth in a strained whisper.

  “Careful!” replied Kit, his voice echoing in the empty chamber. “There are some steps.”

  “Are you injured, sir?” asked Giles. “Shall I come down?”

  “No, I’m all right. Just stay put,” answered Kit. “There’s another room down here.”

  Light from the doorway above flowed down into the chamber, illuminating a small vestibule and revealing a doorway to a narrow connecting tunnel. Kit started forward; his foot struck the cutlass and sent it rattling across the floor. A voice rasped out of the darkness from the unseen room beyond. “This is horrific! You must release me at once.”

  Kit recognized the voice immediately. “Sir Henry-it’s me.”

  “Kit?”

  “We’ve come to help you.” He retrieved the cutlass and moved to the doorway. He had just put his foot on the low step when there came a shout from outside, followed by the sharp report of a pistol.

  “Oh, great!” Kit muttered, already racing for the steps. “Hold on,” he called behind him. “I’ll be back.”

  Kit leapt up the stairs and scrambled out into the wadi, where Giles was grappling with two attackers: Burley Men. Kit managed to be surprised by what was merely inevitable-that the Burley Men would always appear at the worst possible moment. Although dressed in light-coloured Arab garb-kaftans and kaffiyehs instead of their former black coats, tall boots, and wide-brimmed hats-there was no mistake; Kit had seen them before. Giles seemed to be holding his own, so Kit turned his attention to the third attacker, who was struggling to hold on to a very angry and animated Lady Fayth. Drawing a deep breath, Kit launched himself at the fellow’s back. Gripping the cutlass with both hands, he raised it and brought the knob of the hilt down on the man’s head. The rogue gave out a yelp and released Lady Fayth. Shaking herself from his grasp, she spun around, raking at his face with her fingernails while Kit, with a well-aimed kick, lashed out at his knees. The Burley Man’s legs folded under him, and he went down in a hail of blows from Lady Fayth’s fists.

  Kit rushed to Giles’s aid. He closed on the nearest of the two clinging to the coachman’s arms. “Stop!” he shouted. “Let him go!”

  The brute half turned to meet this new threat, and Kit thrust the point of the cutlass at his unprotected chest, stopping just short of piercing the skin. The attacker growled and made an ill-judged swipe at the blade. Kit held firm. “I said stop!” he shouted, driving the man back onto his heels with the point of the rusty blade.

  “Tav!” cried the Burley Man. “Over here!”

  Kit gave another jab with the point of the blade, and the man fell over backward. In the same instant, Giles swung his free hand into the face of the thug still clinging to his arm, connecting with a satisfying crunch of bone on gristle. “Agh!” shrieked the man, staggering back, both hands clutching his nose as blood gushed down the front of his kaftan.

  Lady Fayth screamed, and Kit turned t
o see her attacker on the ground, clutching her ankle as she swiped at him with the butt of the pistol. He raced back to her side, reaching her just as the Burley Man succeeded in toppling her. Kit caught her as she fell, taking her weight. Momentarily unbalanced, Kit felt his own foot clasped and yanked from under him. He sat down hard, losing his grip on the cutlass as he crashed onto his rump. Lady Fayth fell on top of him, and as they lay in a tangled heap, Kit felt his weapon wrenched from his grasp. He made a wild grab, snagged the hilt, and hung on. “Giles!” he cried. “Help!”

  With his free hand, Kit punched at his attacker and succeeded in landing a solid blow in the man’s gut. He felt the blade loosen and, with a mighty heave, pulled the cutlass from the Burley Man’s grasp. The rogue roared and smashed him in the eye with an elbow.

  Kit, his eyes watering, clutched the cutlass hilt and rolled away. He pushed himself up and tried to rise-only to be met with a boot in the ribs. Unable to breathe now, he tried to squirm away. He heard Lady Fayth scream again, and he swung blindly at his attacker with the cutlass, making a wide sweep of his arm, driving his assailant back. But before he could swing the blade again, the resounding crack of a rifle shot exploded in the canyon, and a chunk of rock above his head shattered, sending splinters and dust over him. Instinctively, Kit ducked; and even as he turned in the direction of the shot, a second, gut-clenching sound rumbled through the wadi: the feral growl of a very large and angry cat.

  Two more Burley Men in Arab dress were standing before the temple. One was tall and lank with a white kaffiyeh, the other thickset and bareheaded; the tall one held a rifle, and his muscular companion grasped the iron chain linked to the cave lion’s heavy collar. The beast itself strained forward, the hair across its shoulders raised in bristling spikes, its mouth open, tongue lolling as it watched the newcomers with its pale yellow eyes. Giles and Lady Fayth, startled by the sight of the beast as much as by the rifle shot, ceased struggling. All grew deathly still.

  “That’s right,” said the tallest man, striding toward them. “Everybody calm down now before someone gets hurt. Baby hasn’t eaten today, and she’s getting a little restless. You, there”-he waved the rifle barrel at Kit-“put down that blade-slowly, slowly. We don’t want you to cut yourself. There’s not a doctor within a hundred miles of this place.”