The Spirit Well (Bright Empires)

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “What will you have us do, my master?” asked Tutmose as soon as the doors were sealed and barred once more.

  “If any of them should try to get inside the temple precinct,” said Anen, “they are to be resisted—by force, if necessary.” He hurried off to have his wound dressed. Halfway across the courtyard he paused, changed direction, and proceeded to the guest lodge instead.

  Benedict was asleep, but lightly, and woke when the priest came bustling into his room. “Trouble has come to the temple,” Anen announced, knowing the youth could not understand him. He gestured for Benedict to rise and follow him; once outside, he cupped a hand to his ear and said, “Listen.”

  The young man heard the sound of voices raised and paving cobbles rattling the gate beams.

  “We must get you safely away from here,” said the priest; he pointed to Benedict and mimed the action of a bird flying away.

  Benedict caught the meaning on the second repetition and replied, “I understand. It would be best for me to leave.” He mimed the birdflying motion, nodded, and pointed to himself. “I am ready.”

  Anen turned and called for one of his senior priests to attend him. “You must take our guest from here by way of the hidden gate. Accompany him to the Sacred Road and see that he departs in safety.”

  “As you command, my master, so shall it be,” replied the priest. He turned to the young man, bowed, and gestured for him to follow.

  Benedict thanked Anen for his care. The priest put his hand on the young man’s chest over his heart, and then pressed it to his own heart. Benedict returned the gesture. “Farewell, Anen,” he said, and in that moment was a boy no longer, but a man with alliances and responsibilities. “Until we meet again.”

  The senior priest put a hand to Benedict’s arm and started to lead him away. Benedict hesitated. The priest gave his arm a tug, urging him to follow, pointing at Tutmose, who was waiting to conduct them out of the temple by way of the hidden gate.

  “Wait!” Benedict said, making a flattening motion with his hands. “There is something I must do.” He turned back and called to Anen. “I am sorry, but I cannot leave without copying my father’s map.”

  Anen regarded the youth quizzically.

  “My father’s map—see?” At this, Benedict opened his shirt and began drawing symbols on his chest with his finger in imitation of Arthur’s many tattoos. He then pantomimed drawing them. “You see? I must copy the map.”

  Understanding broke across Anen’s broad features. “You want the skin,” he said, placing his own hand against his chest and making little curlicues with his finger.

  “The map, yes.” Benedict nodded, confident that the priest had understood.

  “This will take time.” Anen pulled on his chin and frowned. “But we must get you away from here now before the fighting starts.” He turned and spoke a rapid command to the priest he had placed in charge of Benedict’s safety. “A new command—take him to the servant’s precinct beside the river. Go to Hetap and tell him to watch over our guest until I send for him. He will be rewarded.”

  The senior priest bowed in acknowledgment of the command, and then beckoned Benedict away. The young man hesitated. “You will bring me the copy of the map?” he asked, retracing the symbols on his chest.

  Anen smiled and pantomimed the symbols, then made a motion with his hands as if folding a cloth, which he then presented to Benedict.

  “Thank you, Anen,” Benedict repeated. “I am in your debt.”

  At the far end of the temple in a dusty little corner was a small door—large enough to accommodate a goat or dog, or a man on hands and knees—and after withdrawing the bolts and catches, Benedict was led out into the night-dark streets of Niwet-Amun. Once away from the temple, the city remained placid and quiet, the people asleep in their homes. They walked through a district of large houses—the homes of the wealthy nobility—and progressed by degrees through neighbourhoods of more modest means until they reached the humble mud-brick huts of the servant class that lined the river. Here there were people awake and already working: hoeing or watering their gardens, tending their chickens, sitting at looms, repairing tools, and other chores—labouring for themselves before going off to serve in the houses of their masters.

  They stopped at a house with a neatly tended garden and approached a squat, fat old man sitting on a stool outside the front door. The senior priest bowed and spoke to the man, then indicated Benedict. The fellow rose, bowed, and made a lengthy reply to the priest, then bowed again. Turning to his charge, the priest indicated that Benedict was to remain with the man.

  The priest departed then, and the old man addressed his guest. “Hetap,” he said, placing his fingertips against his pudgy chest.

  Benedict repeated the name, then said his own, whereupon the old temple servant took him by the hand and led him into the house to meet his wife, a plump, grey-haired woman with a ready, dimpled smile. Benedict was given the only chair in the house and, as the sun rose on a new day, he was fed figs, slices of sweet melon, and flat bread fried in palm oil and dipped in honey. Then he was shown where he could sleep.

  All this was accomplished with simple sign language and an impressive dose of goodwill. At each transaction, Benedict thanked his hosts and hoped they would be richly rewarded for their kindness to him, a stranger who could not even speak their language.

  He lay down a little while, but could not rest. Thoughts of his father’s last moments crowded out all other considerations. It was still difficult for him to accept that his father was dead. He continually relived the awful moment, and wondered how he would break the news to his mother. What would she do when she learned her husband of so many years would never return to her? How would she bear it?

  Bereft, lonely, grieving, unable to understand anyone or make himself understood save for blunt gestures that passed for sign language, Benedict spent the day in misery, watching the road for any sign of Anen bringing the copy of his father’s map. But the priest did not come. Toward the end of the day he saw a barge approaching on the river; as it passed the village, he saw that it was filled with soldiers. This he took as a sign that the trouble at the temple had come to the notice of the authorities and the situation would then be resolved.

  By the end of that first day, he went to his rest feeling certain that the map would arrive the next day and he would soon be on his way.

  The second day dragged by, and though Benedict rarely took his eyes off the road, no one came from the temple. The third day passed similarly—the only change was that the commotion in the city seemed to be spreading. The villagers were becoming restive, and many seemed fearful; there were furtive discussions amongst neighbours and everyone was wary.

  Almost beside himself with frustrated impatience, the young man determined that he would not wait another day but, come what may, would return to the temple to see for himself what was happening. Obviously, something had gone wrong. How long did it take to make a simple copy of the tattoos on his father’s chest? Benedict berated himself for leaving without insisting on making the copy himself—much as he would have dreaded the task, at least it would have been done. He spent a last restless night and rose at first light the next morning to set out; Hetap and his wife attempted to prevent him, but he remained adamant. He thanked his guardians for taking care of him and departed.

  He was halfway through the village when he saw a chariot speeding towards him. He waited, and as it drew near he recognised Tutmose. The chief of the guards had clearly been in a battle; he wore bandages on his right arm and left leg just above the knee, and his eye was black and discoloured from a nasty blow.

  Tutmose halted the horses and stepped from the chariot. From a bag on a strap over his shoulder he produced a parcel wrapped in papyrus and bound with a band of linen dyed red. The commander greeted Benedict and placed the parcel firmly in his hands.

  “Thank you,” said Benedict. The parcel, flat and decorated with a row of hieroglyphic symbols in black along on
e side, was so light as to weigh almost nothing.

  As Benedict tugged at the red band to untie the bundle, the commander reached out and prevented him, saying, “Rewi rok.”

  “No?” asked Benedict.

  Tutmose shook his head and indicated that he was to get into the chariot at once. Clutching the parcel, Benedict climbed into the vehicle, and with a jolt the horses clattered out of the village. Soon they were speeding past fields of beans and barley, heading up into the hills and out into the desert.

  By the time he had mastered his balance in the swerving, jouncing vehicle, the long avenue of ram-headed sphinxes came into view. But a few moments later, the chariot was drawing up at the end of the avenue where the sacred way leading to the temple commenced. Tutmose gestured for Benedict to get out, then turned his team and, raising his hand in farewell, sped off once more, leaving Benedict to make his departure alone and unseen.

  It was early yet. The sun was just rising above the line of hills to the east. Benedict knew which sphinx to mark in order to make the leap—his father had taught him well. But first he had to look at the map copied from his father’s tattoos. Kneeling down where the stone pavement ended, he carefully untied the red linen band and unwrapped the papyrus.

  What he saw caused him to jump to his feet and take two involuntary steps back. He stared at the parcel on the ground, amazement and revulsion churning through him in waves that made him gasp and fight for breath.

  For on the ground before him was no mere copy of the map made by the temple scribes, but the map itself: his father’s skin made into parchment. His inability to communicate had led to this monstrous misunderstanding. No mere copy, the embalmers had preserved the original. The horror of the deed overwhelmed him, and Benedict retched into the dust at his feet.

  When the dry heaves subsided, he stood gazing at the ghastly artefact, wondering what to do. He could not bear to take it, neither could he leave it. Caught in a spiral of indecision, he stared at the grisly thing—a roughly rectangular piece of near translucent integument covered with the blue symbols applied during the life of its owner— knowing he must decide, and quickly. The sun climbed higher above the hills. Time was fast approaching when the ley would cease its activity and he would be forced to spend another day in this hateful place.

  Benedict swiftly reached the conclusion that he had only one option. He knelt down and gathered up the ends of the papyrus, carefully folding them back into their original shape and retying the red band. Then, tucking the packet into his shirt, he turned and stepped to the centre of the Avenue of Sphinxes outside the half-finished temple. He walked to the fifth sphinx from the end, stopped, cast a last look around at the unforgiving desert, and, with the even, measured pace his father had taught him, began making his long way home.

  CHAPTER 25

  In Which the Best Theory Is Expounded

  Brendan proved himself an able and erudite guide to the attractions of Damascus. He led his willing charge on a leisurely tour of the Old City, visiting the Great Umayyad Mosque with its golden domes and shrine to John the Baptist; the Pasha’s Palace with its serene palm-shaded fountains and room after room of ornate tile and scrollwork screens; the Chapel of Saint Paul on the very spot where he escaped the city in a basket from the city wall in the dead of night; Bab Faradis, or Gate of Paradise; the Great Souq al-Hamidiyya, with its miles of aisles and dizzying myriad of shops; Straight Street and its marble columns and Roman arches. And while they strolled and took in the sights, they talked, and Cass got a better grasp on the nature of ley travel, to be sure, as well as the work and philosophy of the society, which, she learned, had all started with a man named Arthur Flinders-Petrie.

  “An extraordinary fellow—inquisitive, resourceful, fearless as the day is long—an explorer of the highest order.” They were sitting at a tiny round table under a striped awning sipping sweet, fragrant hibiscus tea from glasses in silver holders as the day faded around them. “Ever come across that name at all?” asked Brendan.

  “No, never,” said Cass.

  “Pity. But I’m not surprised. That he is not now remembered in the annals of human achievement is due to the fact that his work was largely clandestine and confined almost exclusively to exploration of the lines of telluric energy—ley lines, in other words. That alone, I suppose, would be reason enough to found a society in which to carry on his work. But there is more.” Brendan paused and regarded her closely, as if gauging her readiness to hear.

  Cass felt her pulse quicken. “I’m listening.”

  “Arthur discovered something,” Brendan said, lowering his voice. “On one of his many journeys he discovered something of such unimaginable magnitude that it changed the course of his life. Though he continued his travels, he held his discovery a close-guarded secret, refusing to speak of it to anyone.”

  “What did he discover?”

  Brendan leaned back, frowning. “The truth is, we do not know.”

  “That’s it?” blurted Cass, exasperation pinching her voice. “Since we’re speaking frankly, I don’t mind saying that, frankly, I expected more.”

  “And I truly wish I could tell you more. Members of our society have been working over many lifetimes to answer the riddle of what it was that Arthur discovered and did not feel he could share with the rest of the world. We have sworn life and blood to this quest, and some have died in pursuit of it. We trust their lives have not been given in vain.”

  Cass leaned back in her chair and stared at the gentleman across the table, fighting down her frustration and disappointment. “But you must have some idea what you are searching for?”

  “We have no end of ideas, theories, notions, suppositions, and so forth,” Brendan replied with a rueful laugh. “Too many, in fact. But the very best theory—and this is not mine alone, others share it—is that Arthur Flinders-Petrie discovered nothing less than the means to alter reality.”

  “Excuse me?” said Cass, disbelief edging into her tone once more. Scientific training and her own native scepticism—honed by years in academia fighting from her corner against considerable odds—made her wary of anything that sounded even remotely oddball. “For a moment I thought you said alter reality—what does that even mean?”

  Brendan nodded. “I don’t blame you for being dubious. It took me years to accept it myself. Even now I’m not sure I fully grasp all the implications, but it would seem to be bound up in the ordinary mystery of time. Arthur may have found a way to manipulate time itself.”

  “That would be the greatest discovery in human history,“ Cass observed dryly. “Your man Flinders-Petrie must have been one heck of a discoverer.”

  “Oh, he was,” agreed Brendan. “Of course, that is only a theory— but it is the best one we have so far. Consider,” he said. “What if, just for example, you possessed the ability to change the past—”

  “Then instead of a dirt-sucking PhD grunt, I would be fabulously wealthy and living on a tropical island paradise, and we would not be having this conversation—that is, if I could change the past.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve presented you with too much, and all at once,” Brendan sympathised. He drew a deep breath and gazed at a sky fading from gold to violet as evening came on. “We should get back. Rosemary will wonder what has become of us.”

  He laid a few coins on the table, and they resumed their walk through the Old Quarter’s rabbit warren of streets. After a moment he said, “Here in Syria, the grand panoply of the past is all around us—everything from pre-historic to Assyrian, Babylonian, Persian, Roman, Byzantine—you name it—every epoch of human existence has left its mark on the land. Here, it is easy to imagine travelling to the past because the past is never far away.”

  “You are talking to a palaeontologist,” Cass said. “I spend a lot of time with my head in the past.”

  “Then you should have a good feel for the mystery that lies at the heart of time itself. We live and move in time, but none of us really knows much about it. For example
, in normal experience time flows in only one direction—from past to present. We can visit the past, at least vicariously, through photographs, the written word, our memories, the fossils you find, and such like. The past is always with us; we carry it around with us in the form of memories, we live in a world shaped entirely by it, and it continually exerts a direct influence on the present, yes? The choices you made yesterday affect what happens to you today, and the choices you make today will affect what happens to you tomorrow. We all reach the future at the same rate, and we have to live with what we find when we get there.”

  “In large part because of the choices we’ve made,” said Cass. “We shape our reality through the exercise of intention, through the application of our free will as conscious beings.”

  “Correct,” agreed Brendan. “With ley travel, however, the experience of time and reality is somewhat more fluid.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  “Indeed, ley journeys normally involve visits to a particular version of the past—a past where many things will be the same as we remember them, but other things are different. People, events, and, in some cases, even places will differ from those we recognise from our personal experience.” He paused and raised his eyes to take in her expression. “But what if the past was fully as malleable, as ripe with potential, as the future seems to be?”

  “Then, by changing the past, we might make a better future than we might otherwise have had,” Cass suggested.

  “That is why you get to be fabulously wealthy and live on your island in tropical splendour—because of the changes you made to your past reality.” Brendan regarded Cass with a knowing look. “In short, by changing the past one also creates a future that might not have existed if things had stayed the way they were.”

  “If only,” remarked Cass. “The fly in the ointment, of course, is that you never know exactly what the outcome of any change might be. Since everything is intertwined with everything else, even a small change in one tiny area might result in terrible, or at least unwanted, consequences somewhere else—chaos theory in a nutshell.”