The Seventh Scroll (Novels of Ancient Egypt)

by Wilbur Smith

  “You want me to hold your hand this time, English? Make sure you don’t lose yourself again?”

  “Thanks, old chap, but I think I can manage without you.”

  While they ate Nicholas nudged Royan and told her, “Your admirer has arrived.”

  He jerked his head at the lanky, ungainly figure of Tamre, who had sneaked up quietly and was now sitting near the kitchen hut. As soon as Royan looked at him his face split into a doting idiotic grin, and he bobbed his head and squirmed with ecstatic shyness.

  “I will not come with you this afternoon,” Royan told Nicholas quietly, when Boris was not listening. “I think there is going to be trouble between him and Tessay. I want to stay here with her. Take Tamre with you.”

  “My word, what an attractive alternative. All my life I have waited for this moment.” But when he had picked up his rifle and pack, he beckoned the boy to follow him. Tamre looked around eagerly for Royan, but she was in her hut. At last, dragging his feet, he followed Nicholas up the valley.

  “Take me to the other side of the river,” he told the boy. “Show me how to reach the side where the holy creature lives.” Tamre perked up at the prospect, and broke into a shambling trot as he led Nicholas over the suspension bridge below the pink cliffs.

  For an hour they followed the path, but gradually it petered out until it ended in bad and broken ground amongst the erosion-carved hills. Undeterred, Tamre plunged into the thorny scrub, and for another two hours they scrambled over rocky ridges and through thorn-choked valleys.

  “I can see why you didn’t want to bring Royan this way round,” Nicholas grunted. His bare arms were scored by thorn, and the legs of his trousers were ripped in half a dozen places. However, he was memorizing the route and knew that he could find his way back again without difficulty.

  At last they topped another ridge and Tamre stopped and pointed down over the far side. Below them Nicholas could make out the cleft of the chasm, and the small open glade from which the dik-dik spring issued. He could even recognize the thorn tree on the far bank of the Dandera river under which they had been sitting when Mek’s men had surprised them.

  He rested a few minutes and swallowed a few mouthfuls from the water bottle before passing it to Tamre. “He’s a monk, for goodness’ sake,” he consoled himself. “The little devil is not going to have AIDS, now, is he?” But he wiped the mouth of the bottle carefully when Tamre handed it back to him.

  Before starting down the slope he checked the Rigby rifle again, blowing dust off the lens of the scope. Then he sighted through it at a dik-dik-sized rock at the foot of the slope, whilst he twisted the ring on the telescope down to its lowest magnification. He was now ready for a quick shot at close range in thick bush. Satisfied at last, he chambered a round, set the safety-catch and stood up.

  “Keep behind me,” he told the boy. “And do what I do.”

  He drifted down the slope, pausing after every few slow steps to check the thorn scrub ahead and on both sides. When he reached the spring head, the earth was damp and soft. A number of animals and birds had been drinking here. He recognized the spoor of both kudu and bushbuck, but amongst these were the tiny, heart-shaped prints of his quarry.

  He moved on quietly and at the edge of the scrub he found a midden, a boundary post which the dik-dik had used to mark out its chosen territory. The pile of buckshot-sized pellets of dung would be added to each time the little antelope returned to defecate at this spot.

  By now Nicholas was totally absorbed in the hunt. His earlier failures had merely served to pique his fascination. He brought as much concentration to bear as if it had been a man-eating lion he was following. He crept forward a pace at a time, checking the ground before he let his foot fall on a dry twig or patch of rustling leaves, his eyes moving more swiftly than his feet, picking out any movement or touch of colour in the thorny palisade.

  It was a flicker of an ear that gave the creature away. It was standing half in shadow, its ruddy coat blending into the backdrop of dried branches, still as if carved from mahogany. Only that small movement betrayed it. It was so close that Nicholas could see the reflection of light from one eye bright as polished onyx, and then the elongated nose wriggled with agitation. It was aware of danger, but uncertain from what quarter it was to come.

  Achingly slowly, Nicholas lifted the Rigby to his shoulder. Through the lens he could make out every hair in the tuft between the pricked ears and the little black needle horns. He moved the cross hairs down on to the junction between neck and head. He wanted to restrict the damage to the pelt, so as to make the mounting and taxidermy easier.

  “It is the holy creature. Praise God and St. John the Baptist!” cried Tamre in a loud voice at his elbow, and he fell to his knees with his hands clasped in front of his eyes.

  The dik-dik dissolved like a puff of brown smoke out of the field of the lens, and there was only a soft rustle in the scrub as it fled. Nicholas lowered the rifle slowly and looked down at the boy. He was still on his knees, gabbling out praises and prayers.

  “Nice work. I think Woizero Royan must have you in her pay,” he said in English. He reached down, hauled the boy to his feet and switched into Arabic. “You will stay here. You will not move. You will not speak. You will even breathe very, very quietly, until I come back to fetch you. If you utter even one little prayer before I return, I will personally start you on your journey to meet St. Peter at the gates of heaven. Do you understand me?”

  He went forward alone, but the little antelope was thoroughly alarmed by now. Nicholas saw it twice more, but he only had fleeting glimpses of ruddy brown movement almost entirely screened by bush. He stood directing bitter imprecations towards the boy monk and listening to the tick of small hooves on dry earth as it raced away, deeper into the thickets. In the end he was forced to give up the hunt for that day.

  It was after dark when he and Tamre got back to camp. As soon as Nicholas stepped into the circle of firelight, Royan came to meet him.

  “What happened?” she asked. “Did you see the dik-dik again?”

  “Don’t ask me. Ask your accomplice. He scared it off. It is probably still running.”

  “Tamre, you are a fine young man, and I am very proud of you,” she told him. The boy wriggled like a puppy, giggling and hugging himself with the joy of her approval as he scurried away down the path to the monastery.

  Royan was so pleased with the outcome of the hunt that she poured Nicholas a whisky with her own hand and brought it to him as he sagged wearily by the fire.

  He tasted it and shuddered. “Never let a teetotaller pour for you. With a heavy hand like that you should take up tossing the caber or blacksmithing.” Despite the complaint, he took another tentative sip.

  She sat close to him, fidgeting with excitement, but it was a while before he became aware of her agitation.

  “What is it? Something is eating you alive.”

  She threw a cautionary glance in the direction of where Boris sat on the opposite side of the fire, and then dropped her voice, leaned close to him and spoke in Arabic.

  “Tessay and I went down to the monastery this afternoon to see Mek Nimmur. Tessay asked me to go with her, just in case Boris—well, you know what I mean.”

  “I have a vague idea. You were playing chaperone.” Nicholas took another sip of the whisky and gasped. He exhaled sharply and his voice was husky. “Go on,” he invited her.

  “At one stage, before I left them alone together, we were discussing the festival of Timkat. On the fifth day the abbot takes the tabot down to the Abbay. Mek tells us there is a path down the cliff to the water’s edge.”

  “Yes, we know that.”

  “This is the interesting part—this you didn’t know. Everybody joins the procession down to the river. Everybody. The abbot, all the priests, the acolytes, every true believer, even Mek and all his men, they all go down to the river and stay there overnight. For one whole day and night the monastery is deserted. Empty. Nobody there at all
.”

  He stared at her over the rim of his glass, and then slowly he began to smile. “Now that is very interesting indeed,” he admitted.

  “Don’t forget, I am coming with you,” she told him severely. “Don’t you dare to even think of leaving me behind.”

  * * *

  Nicholas went to her hut again that evening after dinner. This was the only place in camp where they could be sure of privacy, and where they were safe from eavesdropping. However, this time he did not make the mistake of sitting on her bed. While she perched on the end of it, he took the stool opposite her.

  “Before we start planning this thing, let me ask you one question. Have you considered the possible consequences?”

  “You mean, what happens if the monks catch us at it?” Royan asked.

  “At the very least we can expect them to run us out of the valley. The abbot has a tremendous amount of power. At the worst we can be physically attacked,” Nicholas told her. “This is one of the most sacred sites in their religion, and don’t underestimate that fact. There is a great deal of danger involved. It could go as far as a knife between the ribs, or something nasty in our food.”

  “We would also alienate Tessay. She is a deeply religious woman,” Royan added.

  “Even more importantly, we would probably outrage Mek Nimmur as well.” Nicholas looked distressed at the thought. “I don’t know what he would do, but I don’t think our friendship would stand the test.”

  They were both quiet for a while, considering the cost that they might have to pay. Nicholas broke the silence.

  “Then again, have you considered your own position? After all, it is your own Church that we will be desecrating. You are a committed Christian. Can you justify this to yourself?”

  “I have thought about it,” she admitted. “And I am not altogether happy about it, but it isn’t really my Church. It’s a different branch of the Coptic Church.”

  “Splitting hairs, aren’t we?”

  “The Egyptian Church does not deny anyone access to even the most sacred precincts of its church building. I do not feel myself bound by the abbot’s prohibition. I feel that as a believing Christian I have the right to enter any part of the cathedral that I wish.”

  He whistled softly. “And you are the one who once said that I should have been a lawyer.”

  “Please don’t, Nicky. It’s not something you should joke about. All I know is that, no matter what, I have to go in there. Even if I give offence to Tessay and Mek and all the priesthood, I have to do it.”

  “You could let me do it for you,” he suggested. “After all, I am an old heathen. It would not spoil my chances of salvation. I don’t have any.”

  “No.” She shook her head firmly. “If there is an inscription or something of that nature, I need to see it. You read hieroglyphics quite well, but not as well as I do, and you don’t know the hieratic script. I am the expert—you are just a gifted amateur. You need me. I am going in there with you.”

  “All right. That is settled, then,” he said with finality. “Let’s start planning. We had better draw up a list of equipment that we may need. Flashlight, knife, Polaroid camera, spare film—”

  “Art paper and soft pencils to lift an impression of any inscriptions,” she added to the list.

  “Hell!” He snapped his fingers with chagrin. “I didn’t think to bring any.”

  “See what I mean? Amateur. I did.”

  They talked on until late, and at last Nicholas glanced at his wrist-watch and stood up.

  “Long after midnight. I am scheduled to turn into a pumpkin at any moment. Goodnight.”

  “There are still two days of the festival before the tabot is taken down to the river. Nothing we can do until then. What are your plans?”

  “Tomorrow I am going back after that damned little Bambi. It has made a fool of me twice already.”

  “I am coming with you,” she said firmly, and that simple declaration gave him a disproportionate amount of pleasure.

  “Just as long as you leave Tamre at home,” he warned her as he stooped out through the door.

  * * *

  The tiny antelope stepped out from the deep shadow of the thorn thicket, and the early morning sunlight gleamed on the silky pelt. It kept walking steadily across the narrow clearing.

  Nicholas’s breathing quickened with excitement as he followed it with the telescopic sight. It was ridiculous that he should feel so wrought up with the hunting of such a humble little animal, but his previous failures had sharpened his anticipation. Added to that was the peculiar passion that drives the true collector. Since he had lost Rosalind and the girls, he had thrown all his energy into the building up of the collection at Quenton Park. Now, suddenly, procuring this specimen for it had become a matter of supreme importance to him.

  His forefinger rested lightly on the side of the trigger guard. He would not fire until the dik-dik came to a standstill. Even that walking pace would make the shot uncertain. He had to place his bullet precisely, to kill swiftly but at the same time to inflict the least possible damage to the skin.

  To this end he had loaded the Rigby with full metal jacket bullets—ones that would not expand on impact and open a wide wound channel, nor rip out a gaping hole in the coat as they exited. These solid bullets would punch a tiny hole the size of a pencil that the taxidermist at the museum would be able to repair invisibly.

  He felt his nerves screwing up as he realized that the dik-dik was not going to stop in the open. It made steadily for the thick scrub on the far side of the clearing. This might be his last chance. He fought the temptation to take the shot at the moving target, and it required an effort of will to lift his finger off the trigger again.

  The antelope reached the wall of thorn scrub and, the moment before it disappeared, stopped abruptly and thrust its tiny head into the depths of one of the low bushes. Standing broadside to Nicholas, it began to nibble at the pale green tufts of new leaves. The head was screened, so he had to abandon his intention of going for that shot. However, the shoulder was exposed. He could make out the clear outline of the blade beneath the glossy red-brown skin. The dik-dik was angled slightly away from him, in the perfect position for the heart shot, tucked in low behind the shoulder.

  Unhurriedly he settled the reticule of the scope on the precise spot, and squeezed the trigger.

  The shot whip-cracked in the heavy heated air and the tiny antelope bounded high, coming down to touch the earth already at a full run. Like a rapier rather than a cutlass, the solid bullet had not struck with sufficient shock to knock the dik-dik over. Head down, the dik-dik dashed away in the typical frantic reaction to a bullet through the heart. It was dead already, running only on the last dregs of oxygen in its bloodstream.

  “Oh, no! Not that way,” Nicholas cried as he jumped to his feet. The tiny creature was racing straight towards the lip of the cliff. Blindly it leaped out into empty space and flipped into a somersault as it fell, dropping from their sight, down almost two hundred feet into the chasm of the Dandera river.

  “That was a filthy bit of luck.” Nicholas jumped over the bush that had hidden them and ran to the rim of the chasm. Royan followed him and the two of them stood peering down into the giddy void.

  “There it is!” She pointed, and he nodded. “Yes, I can see it.”

  The carcass lay directly below them, caught on an islet of rock in the middle of the stream.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I’ll have to go down and get it.” He straightened up and stepped back from the brink. “Fortunately it’s still early. We have plenty of time to get the job done before dark. I’ll have to go back to camp to fetch the rope and get some help.”

  * * *

  It was afternoon before they returned, accompanied by Boris, both his trackers and two of the skinners. They brought with them four coils of nylon rope.

  Nicholas leaned out over the cliff and grunted with relief. “Well, the carcass is sti
ll down there. I had visions of it being washed away.” He supervised the trackers as they uncoiled the rope and laid it out down the length of the clearing.

  “We will need two coils of it to get down to the bottom,” he estimated and joined them, painstakingly tying and checking the knot himself. Then he plumbed the drop, lowering the end of the rope down the cliff until it touched the surface of the water, and then hauling it back and measuring it between the spread of his arms.

  “Thirty fathoms. One hundred and eighty feet. I won’t be able to climb back that high,” he told Boris. “You and your gang will have to haul me back up.”

  He anchored the rope end with a bowline to the bole of one of the wiry thorn trees. Then he again tested it meticulously, getting all four of the trackers and skinners to heave on it with their combined weight.

  “That should do it,” he gave his opinion as he stripped to his shirt and khaki shorts and pulled off his chukka boots. On the lip of the cliff he leaned out backwards with the rope draped over his shoulder and the tail brought back between his legs in the classic abseil style.

  “Coming in on a wing and a prayer!” he said, and jumped out backwards into the chasm. He controlled his fall by allowing the rope to pay out over his shoulder, braking with the turn over his thigh, swinging like a pendulum and kicking himself off the rock wall with both feet. He went down swiftly until his feet dangled into the rush of water, and the current pushed him into a spin on the end of the rope. He was a few yards short of the spur of rock on which the dead dik-dik lay, and he was forced to let himself drop into the river. With the end of the rope held between his teeth he swam the last short distance with a furious overarm crawl, just beating the current’s attempt to sweep him away downstream.

  He dragged himself up on to the island and took a few moments to catch his breath, before he could admire the beautiful little creature he had killed. He felt the familiar melancholy and guilt as he stroked the glossy hide and examined the perfect head with the extraordinary proboscis. However, there was no time now for regrets, nor for the searching of his hunter’s conscience.