Drummer In the Dark

by T. Davis Bunn

  “I hated everything to do with Christianity. It’s what took us to Cairo. It robbed us of Mom and Dad.”

  “It defined them.” Another swipe at her hair. “It defines me.”

  “Is that why you did this?” He knew his tone was hard, but couldn’t help that. All he could do was pull over a chair and sit down. Show her that he really wanted an answer. “Why you pulled me away from the life I’ve made for myself?”

  Sybel started to say, What life is that. He could read the words in her eyes, see them form, watch her open her mouth to speak. But she bit back the retort and said instead, “Wynn, listen to me. The only difference between a person who just exists and a person who lives is the vision of what lies ahead. Beyond tomorrow, beyond measured time. It’s not having a cause. People give themselves to causes all the time and still grow bitter or bored, or just empty themselves out in the endless battles of life. Causes don’t give you hope. Causes don’t give you a future.” She hefted the Book, held it between them. “I do what I do because I feel called by the One whom I love and to whom I have given my life. He gives me hope, even when there is none. Even when all is lost, still will I love Him. Because in the end, when time is gone and all is over, I know God will prevail.”

  Wynn shook his head in such a wide sweep he took in the wafting curtains at one end and the tin-shaded river at the other. “I just don’t get it.”

  She rose, wearing the same defeated expression he had seen a thousand mornings before. “We’d better be going.”

  KAY TRILLING STOOD in the lobby, watching Wynn’s approach with undisguised hostility. “This can’t possibly be a good idea.”

  “He’s coming, Kay.”

  Sybel’s hard resolve was too much even for the senator. Kay stalked through the glass doors and over to where Nabil stood beside a gleaming new Mercedes. She said something angry enough to shake her entire body. The Egyptian replied with a noncommittal shrug. Sybel sighed, a tight sound.

  Nabil drove them across the river and through the southern reaches of Giza. Kay Trilling sat beside Nabil. Sybel was in the back seat with Wynn. Both women were frozen into immobile stubbornness. The predawn light illuminated snarled traffic and pedestrian hordes. From within the safety of the Mercedes’ back seat, Wynn observed all manner of dress, representing a society in explosive transition. Fundamentalist women wore black tents that hid all but their eyes. The merely conservative made do with gray chadors and brightly colored ankle-length dresses. The nonreligious wore just about anything, particularly the young. Teenage girls in T-shirts and tight suede jeans wore even tighter expressions of fear and defiance. The fundamentalist papers daily offered remedies for their behavior—whippings, brandings, the shaving of heads.

  Once upon the desert highway, Nabil drove with reckless Egyptian verve, using the horn as much as the wheel and both more than the brake pedal. All about them, traffic rumbled and blared and flew. Wynn focused upon the view outside his window and did his best to ignore Nabil’s weaving and bobbing at eighty miles per hour. They passed clusters of half-finished apartment buildings in pale Nile brick that pushed back the verdant green of irrigated farmlands. Forests of date palms rose a hundred feet and more. Hawks hung high overhead, their wings fluttering ruddy gold in the sunrise. In the distance, the Giza pyramids rose from the morning mist, floating and shimmering like mystic islands.

  Then the desert struck, and the green disappeared. The asphalt ribbon and the dusty billboards and the flashy new cars were mocked by the emptiness that stretched to either side. Kay snuffled her discontent and buried herself in the papers spread across her lap. Sybel kept her attention focused upon her side window. Nabil remained locked upon the challenge of Egyptian traffic. The car’s silence was as complete as a noose.

  By the time they turned off the highway onto the road for Wadi Natrum, the sunlight was so fierce it was impossible to see any horizon. Brilliant sand weaved and melted into hazy hostility with the sky. They drove another hour and entered the valley approaching the wadi, or oasis. The cavern walls held none of the smooth-flowing grace of ancient waterways. Here tides of fierce winds had etched away the softer earth, leaving strange rounded shapes and alien markings in a hundred shades, all of them yellow. They descended deeper into the valley, where the rising wind no longer touched them, only the heat and the light.

  Gradually the cavern walls lessened and they rejoined the flat blanched desert. Soon after they entered the village of Natrum. They were slowed to the pace of the donkey cart up ahead. An Egyptian passed on his bicycle, wide-splayed feet pedaling furiously and leather sandals flapping like castanets. His daughter perched on the handlebars, all bright eyes and soft blue shawl. The buildings were baked to colorless unity, even the signs painted mostly with dust. The sky held no color, the earth no shade. Wynn sat in his air-conditioned car, insulated from the world, yet sweating from the furnace raging beyond his window.

  They drove a further hour beyond the village, along a road so sand-blanketed only the occasional sign suggested there was any path at all. One moment there was nothing but heat and a track turned white by reflected light, the next, a wall appeared to their right.

  Nabil said quietly, “We are here.”

  The wall surrounding the monastery was a mile to a side, high and stained a muted ocher by the dust of centuries. The broad wooden gates and the shutters around the sentry post were faded yellow with time and heat. So very much of both.

  Within the outer wall, the desert was not vanquished, merely softened. Low buildings fronted carefully tended gardens of cactus and palm and hardy plants. The tallest dovecotes Wynn had ever seen rose like guard towers and marched two abreast along the outer wall. They drove on to where a second wall rose, higher than the first. Two modern buildings flanked the wall, fronted by a dusty courtyard filled with cars and people in severe modern dress.

  Wynn rose from the car and watched as Kay Trilling marched resolutely over and began greeting the gathered throng. He looked across the car to where Sybel squinted into the sun and wind. “What should I do?”

  “I wish I knew what to tell you.”

  “That’s it? You bring me out here and that’s all you’ve got to say?”

  “Kay has come here to convince the representatives of nineteen different national governments that we remain committed to making this happen. That without Graham at the helm, we can still make it work.” She did not sound as though she believed it herself.

  Wynn spotted a familiar figure in a black cassock. “Is that Father Libretto?”

  “I told you. Sant’Egidio is the group that helped organize this meeting.”

  “So they’re in charge.”

  “No, Wynn.” Explaining adult things to an exasperating child. “This is a council of equals. Sant’Egidio has played the role of messenger.”

  He realized that Nabil still stood by his door, watching with the stone features of a human sphinx. “You’ve got something to say?”

  “This is important work, Congressman.” The Egyptian hesitated, then added, “Your father would call this the kind of work that makes God smile.”

  The words struck Wynn like a fist to his heart. He waited until the Egyptian had walked over to join the others, then said to Sybel, “What about Grant’s threat to destroy me if I don’t do what they want? And don’t tell me he hasn’t got the goods because he does. Line and verse. He could send us both to prison, and I could lose everything.”

  “What if I took care of Grant?”

  He understood instantly what she was saying. “You’d do that? Go back to him?”

  “I haven’t left him yet. But you heard Nabil. This work is vital.”

  “Tell me why.” When Sybel responded by glancing over to where the crowd was moving inside the conference hall, Wynn pressed, “Two minutes. You can spare me that much.”

  “Eighteen funds are now larger than all but six national economies. Two are larger than Italy’s GDP. Of America’s top ten banks, eight derive more than half the
ir total profits from derivatives and currency transactions. Their power to make or break economic recoveries and governments is a constant threat. They not only make profit from instability, they want it to continue. They respected no nation, no law, nothing except profit. National sovereignty and control of finances is at risk.”

  As though to emphasize her words, the wind chose that moment to attack. A giant’s fistful of grit was flung into Wynn’s face. The dreaded khamsin dominated that time of year, a blistering breath from the southern deserts that blew so hard and long it deposited tons of ocher and gold high up in the Alps, two thousand miles to the north.

  Sybel tightened down her face to where not even the wind could penetrate. “During the first economic boom of the twentieth century, the robber barons had to be reined in through governmental control and their monopolies broken. Now there’s a different threat, one that knows no borders. To harness the globalized power, global laws are needed. Hutchings’ plan was to levy a very small tax on every international currency transaction, one-tenth of one percent. Not enough to harm any business making currency purchases for normal trade in goods and services, but enough to slow the tidal surges of speculation. Funds generated from this tax wouldn’t go to any country’s treasury. Instead, a world body would be formed. Perhaps a revamped World Bank, perhaps something entirely new. They’d use these funds to pay off all outstanding debts of the developing nations, starting with the poorest first.”

  She stopped and waited. Wynn knew she sought what he was unwilling to give, a commitment as total as her own. “I’ll think about it.”

  Sybel whirled about. “Sure. You do that.”

  “You can’t expect me—”

  “I’ve already told you, Wynn. I don’t expect anything.”

  WYNN SAT IN the corner of the conference hall by the exit. He sought to concentrate on Kay Trilling’s address, but felt barred from understanding as well as admission. Sybel sat far enough away for him to observe her tragic resignation. He had years of experience disappointing Sybel, yet the act never came easy. When she took the coffee break as an excuse to leave the building, he followed her. As they crossed the parking area, Wynn half expected to be told to disappear. He took her silence as the only welcome he deserved, and followed her towards the monastery’s fortresslike walls.

  Wynn slipped through the narrow gate behind Sybel and entered an interior square. The wind was muted here, kept at bay by the thick high walls. Eucalyptus trees perfumed the air. Together they crossed the square and started down a broad lane, shaded by a wooden lattice woven in geometric design. They passed several monks in their long black robes and strange embroidered caps. Most did not appear to notice them at all.

  They turned a corner and found themselves at the entrance to a chapel. Wynn followed her example, slipped off his shoes, and stepped inside. The church was composed of three interconnected rooms, with perhaps two dozen penitents scattered throughout. There were no seats, of course. But the reed mats were cool against his feet and gave way to thick Persian carpets up by the altars. Sybel approached the front, stood there a moment, then abruptly spun about and departed.

  Wynn found her standing outside, slipping on her shoes and blinking against the transition from interior cool to desert light. He asked, “Are you all right?”

  Before Sybel could respond, a robed figure stepped up and said, “You are wishing to see my home, yes?”

  Sybel seemed genuinely relieved at the invitation. “Very much.”

  The monk’s beard fell in gray waves upon his chest. He offered his hand to Wynn, but only a smile to Sybel. The man’s fingers were cool and hard as the surrounding stone. “I am Father Binyamin. Where you are from, please?”

  “America.”

  “America. How nice. Please, you are Christian?”

  Sybel answered for herself alone. “Yes.”

  “You are welcome.” He gestured to the right. “I will show you our heart, our church. This way, come please.”

  Sybel asked the monk as they walked, “That was not a church where we were?”

  “Oh yes, is chapel. We have seven. Where we are, this is outer court. All you see here is new. Seventeenth-century church, sixteenth-century walls.”

  “And that is new?”

  “Here, yes. Very new.” He stepped into an alcove, pushed open a heavy door, and beckoned Sybel to enter. Sybel hesitated, which the monk found humorous. “Is safe,” the monk assured her. “All is safe within these walls.”

  She ducked down and entered the passage, far thicker than it was broad. Wynn bent over, took the three steps, straightened and gasped aloud.

  “Is surprise, yes? Of course, of course, Baramous Monastery is a place of many surprises. Many mysteries. Please, you come.”

  The inner courtyard was ringed by walls so high Wynn felt as if he were standing inside a sky-domed cavern. The lane they walked was soft as golden flour, and broad enough for a line of poinciana trees to stand attendance down the middle, their red flowers bursting flames of color. Along one wall stretched a series of ancient doors. A sudden burst of wind hummed low and sullen overhead, hurtling great yellow spumes above the ramparts. The monk accepted the returning storm with a tiny shrug. “Do not worry, please. Our home has lived through many, many khamsin.”

  As they walked, he explained, “To our left are cells for monks who come out. You understand? Like me. We see the visitors, we work with poor, we farm, we teach. Farther on are cells for those who do not come out. There is a word, yes?”

  “Hermits,” Sybel supplied.

  “Hermits, yes, of course. Before, they live in caves. Now, we make caves for them here.” He pointed to the open chambers lining the right-hand wall. “Here we make lime for the walls. Olive press. Grape press. Grain room. Kitchen. Wells. All this is the middle court. Ninth century, some eleventh. Mostly ninth. Here another chapel, no, we do not enter here. This way, please.”

  He led them down six crumbling steps and into another deep-set alcove. He halted before a door of barred iron and parched wood, searched his robes, and extracted a ring of keys. The door was almost a foot thick but swung open with silent ease. They stepped into another world, one of impossible age.

  “Saint Anthony was world’s first monk. His monastery was in Western Desert. He passes to heaven in 325. His student was Saint Baramous. He and others come here in 310. They build this home.”

  Wynn stood before a limestone monolith. There were no windows on the ground level, and those higher up were mere cross-shaped slits. High overhead ran a wooden drawbridge.

  “Saint Baramous is man of peace in time of war. Barbarians come here many times, attacking oasis villages of Wadi Natrum.” He pointed to the left. “This is northeast corner of monastery. This wall and this house, all fourth century. There you see our caves for hermits.”

  Along the outer wall’s rim were crudely carved openings. They looked indeed like entrances to caves, set far apart and utterly isolated. The wind moaned overhead but did not enter. Here the world’s storms were not welcome. Here was only light and heat and silence beyond time.

  The monk escorted them away from the hermit caves, toward a flight of stairs carved up the outer wall, steep and curved and slippery with age. “Careful here, please. Very careful.”

  Sybel cast Wynn a glance full of questions, then turned and followed the monk. Wynn used both hands to search the decayed surface for holds. They followed a narrow path around the corner of the wall, until the drawbridge came into view. There they halted once more.

  When the monk realized they were no longer following, he turned and laughed delightedly. “You think this bridge stands for sixteen centuries, waiting for pretty English lady and gentleman to come and fall down?”

  “We’re American.”

  “American, English, is making no difference to bridge. Please to come.”

  When she turned and looked at him a second time, Wynn said, “Your call.”

  Sybel followed the monk. The planks were warpe
d so that Wynn could see the sandy lane far below. One railing was gone entirely. The other shivered in what wind found its way over the parapet. He chose his steps carefully and did not breathe until he reached the other side.

  The monk welcomed them with benevolent humor. “When barbarians come, they are not liking bridge either. The monks pull it into long hall here, you see? They close this door, then they wait. There is well for water, there is meal for bread. One time they wait seven years.”

  He led them down the narrow hall, dark save for light filtering through cross-shaped windows. His keys rattled again as he unlocked another door. “Here is the church of Saint Baramous. Our heart, our home. Please, you are welcome.”

  A faint breath of wind followed them inside, as the monk walked to the nave and returned with a lighted candle. The flame weaved and beckoned, causing wall frescoes made faint by eons to come alive and bid them silent welcome. Seventeen centuries of incense perfumed the air.

  The monk carried the candle back to stand before Sybel. His smile danced with the flames. “Here in the heart of our home, we may speak the truth, yes? I think you carry sadness with you.”

  If she found the comment strange, Sybel made no sign. Perhaps she shivered, perhaps it was a nod. The monk seemed satisfied, for he said, “Also I think you carry a servant’s heart. The eternal lesson is hard to remember sometimes for servants. So I remind you. You can save only one person. Who is that, please?”

  “Myself,” she whispered, the trembling visible now.

  “Yes, is very true. We pray for others. We serve with joy. We trust in the One who can save all else. And we hold fast to His gift.” He ushered them from the chapel. “Peace. Peace now. Peace always.”

  Sybel’s words rippled like wind scattering dust over the parapet. “This lesson is beyond me.”

  As the monk relocked the chapel, he said, “No, Miss. No. You do not understand. So many servants, they learn only to work, to struggle. But this peace, you do not earn. Is gift. To receive, you must only do as desert teaches. Be still. Trust. Wait.”