The Spirit Well be-3

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Cass took one look at the fez-topped heads and came to the conclusion that she had arrived in Turkey-Istanbul, maybe? In any case it was a city she had never visited before and had no wish to be in right now. Glancing quickly right and left to make sure no one was watching, she ducked into the alley from which she had just emerged and strode back the way she had come. Passages opened on either hand, but she continued straight on until reaching a blank wall. The old track had once passed through the wall; she could see the outline of an arch framed in stone, but the opening had been bricked up some time in the past.

  She spun on her heel and headed back the opposite way, moving with the same swift, purposeful steps that had brought her this far; this time, however, they did not produce the desired result. The air remained still, the alleyway did not grow misty, there was no sudden gust of wind or rain or mist, no momentary lurch into another world. She paused, drew a deep breath, and repeated the attempt… with no better result.

  Cold sweat beaded between her shoulder blades. “No,” she whispered under her breath. “Fear will get you nowhere. Turn around, and let’s try this again.”

  After one more effort, Cass concluded that she was stuck-at least until sunset or, failing that, early the next morning. In the meantime, she would find somewhere to hide and lie low until nightfall. That would keep her out of sight and out of trouble. Looking around, she decided to hunker down in one of the little passageways branching off the alley; it was shady and cool, and though other doors opened onto it, there was no one around. Slipping off her backpack, she sat down on the ground and settled in to wait.

  An hour or so passed, during which she grew bored, and she was rethinking her strategy when a pack of dogs came wandering down the alley. They saw her and began barking. Cass did not like dogs all that much, and disliked being barked at even more. She tried to hush them and made shooing motions with her hands to drive them away. While she was doing this, one of the alley doors opened and a man put his head out to see what had stirred up the pack. He saw her and started towards her, calling out in a language Cass could not identify, and Cass, to avoid an explanation or a confrontation, shouldered her pack, gave him a cheery wave, and hurried away, leading her doggy escort.

  Back on the street once more, she decided that she might as well make the best of it and at least explore the place while she was here. She had taken but a few steps from the alley entrance when she heard a shout and spun around in time to avoid a man on a motor scooter bearing down on her. Balanced on the handlebars was a tray of pomegranates. Cass scrambled out of the way as the scooter spurted past, the man still shouting and weaving wildly, narrowly missing a donkey cart carrying crates of live chickens stacked in a high, unsteady tower. The dogs followed the cart, yapping at the donkey, and Cass proceeded on her way down the street, looking for any hints that might tell her where in the world she was.

  The signs she saw on the shops and in windows, or hanging over the streets on wires, were all in some form of Arabic-which did not entirely square with her scant knowledge of Turkey. The snatches of language she caught as she passed-from those nearby and the street sellers who called out to her-sounded to her like Arabic too. So, not Turkey then, but somewhere in the Middle East. This impression was immediately strengthened when a group of women emerged from a side street, each wearing a black veil and carrying a parcel on her head-bags bulging with fruit or neatly folded sheets of flat bread.

  One of the women saw Cass, nudged her neighbour, and pointed. The group stopped, turned towards her, and stared.

  My clothes! Cass suddenly felt very conspicuous and vulnerable. Her first thought was to buy something from one of the street merchants, but realised she had only a handful of loose change in a foreign currency. Ducking behind one of the marble pillars lining the street, she hastily readjusted her wardrobe; buttoning her floppy shirt to the top and pulling out the shirttails, she put her belt around the outside to make it look like some sort of short tunic. She could not do much about the trousers, but unfolded the cuffs and pulled them down over her boots. Then, taking her scarf, she arranged it to cover her hair, roughly in the manner of the other women. In all, this thin disguise was not the best way to pass unnoticed by the locals, but it would have to do.

  When she ventured into public view once more, she kept to the shadows and tried to remain inconspicuous. Carrying her backpack like a parcel under her arm rather than wearing it, she slowly made her way along, pausing now and again to take surreptitious photos of the place-for future reference, if nothing else. For some reason, she was especially drawn to doors and doorways-these, and even some of the walls of surrounding buildings, were of a distinctive blackand-white stone in wide alternating bands. Basalt for the black, Cass decided, and pale limestone or marble for the white.

  On closer inspection, there were traces of other periods of architecture mixed in here and there, a melange of styles, each distinctive of an empire past-Greek and Roman from the classical period, Byzantine, Arabic, and, though Cass was no expert, what looked to her like Ottoman. She passed beneath a ruined Roman arch, still standing, with distinctive Acacia-topped columns on either side, and a few yards or so farther on another arch in the characteristic Arab onion shape framing a Byzantine bronze door.

  She walked on, eventually coming to the city wall set with a huge triple gate-two smaller doors flanking a large central portal; all three doors were open wide, and through them she could see a wide boulevard of palm trees with traffic passing to and fro outside the wall. Oddly, for a busy city there were few vehicles plying this thoroughfare- Cass would have expected more-and all of them appeared as if they belonged in a museum for vintage motors. With low-slung chassis and small windows, and fat, white-walled tires below wide, rounded fenders that swooped into running boards, these automobiles and small trucks were definitely from another era. Cassandra had the sensation of having wandered onto a movie set of a film about the 1930s.

  So, as well as moving through space, she had also travelled in time. The scientist in her rose up in a cry of Impossible! Even as this thought entered her head, another voice asked, More impossible than travelling from one place to another in a pretty good imitation of “Beam-me-up-Scotty”?

  The possibility of chronological migration had simply never occurred to her, and it took her a moment to adjust to yet another radical new paradigm shift. Clearly, everything she knew was wrong. A new theory would have to be created to account for this new reality. Cass turned and gazed back down the street. Nothing she saw contradicted the time-travel premise; neither did anything readily confirm it. The architecture certainly was archaic-but that was true of most places throughout the region. The people were dressed in simple garb that might belong to any decade in the last two hundred years or more-again, that was inconclusive. The vehicles alone gave her a clue; one or two might be explained away, but every single one of them belonging to the same era? No. So, taken together, these clues led to the conclusion that, in addition to moving through space, she had somehow slipped backward in time.

  Reluctant to wander any farther from the one street she knew, Cass turned around and started back the way she had come, walking along, taking in the simple brick-and-timber style construction mingled with more substantial stone structures. She passed a church behind a gate of iron filigree and, across the street from it, a mosque with a green dome topped with a crescent moon in brass. She walked beneath the Roman arch once more and noticed, immediately on the other side, a generous gated doorway contained within an arch of alternating black-and-white stone. The huge wooden doors were open, revealing the entrance to a covered marketplace. Veiled and shrouded women were congregating around the entrance chatting to one another; they darted glances at her but did not stare, and for that Cass was grateful. Beyond them she could see merchants selling vegetables and cloth from stalls either side of a long aisle that disappeared into the dark interior of the bazaar. She moved towards the entrance, keeping to the edge of the milling throng. As she near
ed the archway wall, her eye fell upon a sign-a single sheet of orange paper printed in neat black letters-written in English and pasted to the plaster of the wall. She stopped automatically and read:

  Lost? Lonely?

  Looking for Something to Believe In?

  We Can Help

  For Information Ring

  Damascus 88-66-44

  Or Come to 22 Hanania Street nr.

  Beit Hanania

  The Zetetic Society

  She read the words again with the uncanny feeling that in some inexplicable and wholly improbable way the message on the sign was meant for her. She stood, transfixed by the simple orange sign as by the dancing flame of a fire, while the conviction hardened within her that she must go to this place at once, and that if she could only find the Zetetic Society, all her questions would all be answered.

  Already one question had been answered: she now knew that she was not in Turkey but in Syria. What else could this mysterious society tell her?

  PART THREE

  The Street Called Straight

  CHAPTER 14

  In Which Some Things Are Not to Be

  The Nile flowed on without so much as a ripple beneath the barges carrying the priests of Amun back to Niwet-Amun and the temple. Though the sun blazed high in the clear Egyptian sky and life along the river continued serene and quiet as always, Benedict’s small world was shaken to the very core. He looked upon the lush green banks sliding silently by, and all he saw was desolation. In his mind, moment by moment, he relived the riot in Akhenaten’s Holy City; he heard the angry cries and saw the stones striking the priests, striking his father.

  Refusing to leave his injured father’s bedside, he sat in misery, rarely stirring, filled with dread and fear, while a succession of ministering priests came and went.

  “I will not swear falsely,” Anen told him. “Your father’s injury is very grave.”

  Benedict turned anxious, uncomprehending eyes upon the priest.

  “But know you,” Anen continued, “our skills are great, and every possible remedy will be availed for him. Take courage in this knowledge.” He placed a comforting hand on the young man’s shoulder. “On this, I have made my vow. In the name of Amun, it shall be.”

  Unable to understand the language of those around him, Benedict derived little comfort from this assurance. Still, he heard the sound of hope in the priest’s voice and felt his encouragement in the gentle touch. He did take courage, and he prayed as he had never prayed before, using the only prayer he knew well, and saying it over and over until it became only Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done… Amen.

  It took two days for the barge to sail upriver to Amun’s Holy City; by the time they reached the temple, Arthur had rallied somewhat. He was able to sit up and take a little water and, though the priests were reluctant to give him too much food, they allowed him a little of the flat bread sprinkled with salt. Benedict was relieved and took this as a good sign.

  Upon arrival at Niwet-Amun, a cadre of servants carried Arthur’s pallet from the dock to the House of Wholeness and Healing, a large square structure occupying the eastern quarter of the temple compound. There the injured man was placed on a low bed in a cool, dark room to be watched night and day. The temple physicians busied themselves with a thorough examination of the livid wound, which had swollen the entire left side of Arthur’s head. Arthur endured their gentle probing, groaning and grinding his teeth.

  “You’re going to be all right,” Benedict assured him.

  When the physicians finished, Arthur sank back into a deep sleep and did not awaken again until sunset. “Water,” he said, his voice a croaking whisper.

  The priests in attendance did not know what he said, so Benedict repeated it and mimed drinking from a cup. One of the younger physicians poured a shallow bowl of water infused with honey and herbs.

  “Here, drink this,” Benedict said, bending near. “How do you feel?”

  “Hurts,” whispered Arthur. “Inside… it hurts.” He made to turn his head, but the effort defeated him. “Where are we?”

  “We are back in the temple. There are doctors here. They are taking care of you,” Benedict told him. “They are going to make you well. You’re going to be all right.”

  “Good.” Arthur offered the bare hint of a nod. “Well done, son.”

  The young physician offered the cup once more, and Arthur was given a little more to drink. After taking a few sips, he tried to sit up. The movement brought him pain, and he lay back, panting with the effort.

  “Just rest now,” Benedict told him. “They will take care of you.”

  Arthur slept then and awoke in the night complaining about the noise in his ears. Benedict tried to convey to the priest in attendance what his father was saying; he pulled on his ears and made a sound like the buzzing of angry bees. The doctor nodded and hurried away, returning with two senior physicians. He pointed to Benedict and gestured for him to perform the pantomime again, which he did. The elder doctors nodded, and one of them stepped close to the patient; holding his hand before Arthur’s face, he clicked his fingers. When this failed to elicit a response, he clapped his hands-first in front of his face, and then next to his ear.

  Arthur’s eyelids fluttered, and he opened his eyes.

  “Did you hear that?” asked Benedict. When his father did not reply, he asked again, more loudly.

  “Ah… yes… I heard.” He opened his mouth and swallowed. “… Mouth is dry.”

  Benedict took up the cup of honey water and, gently raising his father’s injured head, gave him another drink. Arthur seemed to relax somewhat; he closed his eyes and went back to sleep. The next time he awoke, he called out for Benedict who, asleep beside him, rose and bent near. “I am here, Father,” he said. “What do you need?”

  Arthur raised a trembling hand and pawed the air. “I can’t see you,” he gasped. “I can’t see.”

  Benedict took his hand and held it. “I am here.”

  “My eyes… I can’t see.”

  The young physician, hearing the exchange, appeared, and Benedict explained as best he could what his father had said. The night doctor ran to fetch the two senior physicians, and they examined Arthur, carefully lifting his head and feeling the massive discoloured lump and gazing long into the injured man’s left eye using a candle and disk of polished bronze.

  They exchanged a few words over their patient, then sent the younger one away. He returned a short time later with Anen, and the three held close consultation for a moment. Then Anen nodded and turned to Benedict.

  “What is wrong?” said the young man. “What does it mean?”

  “I am sorry,” Anen said, placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “There is bleeding inside his head. It is making a swelling and a pressure in the brain.”

  Benedict did not understand a word of what he was being told, but he understood the priest’s grave tone. “He’s going to be well, isn’t he? He’s going to get better.”

  “We must open his skull to let out some of the blood and relieve the pressure.”

  “What are you saying?” demanded Benedict, frustrated at not being able to comprehend the priest. “I don’t understand.”

  Anen gestured to the young physician, who came forward and offered his own head for examination. Anen proceeded to demonstrate what he was talking about by way of indicating on the young man’s head what he intended. He drew a small circle on his subject’s scalp, then lifted it away and proceeded to tap and pick at the centre of the imaginary circle.

  “You are going to open my father’s skull?” wondered Benedict, aghast at the very idea.

  Anen caught the disbelief in the youth’s tone and shocked expression. He sought to reassure him. “It is dangerous, truly. All such procedures carry great risk. Yet this treatment is well established among us, and our physicians are skilled in its application.” He gazed intently at Benedict. “We must begin at once.”

>   Benedict could only nod helplessly. He gazed at his father’s inert form. “Do what you must.”

  Anen led the youth to his father’s bedside and with a gentle touch roused the suffering man. “We will treat you, my friend, using a special procedure. I have every confidence in its success, but if you have anything to say to your son, you should speak now.”

  Arthur understood what Benedict did not. He stretched out his hand to his son and gripped it hard. “I am not afraid,” he whispered.

  “They are going to make you better,” insisted Benedict, clasping his father’s hand tight in both his own. “Do you hear? They are going to make you well again.”

  “I love you, son,” replied Arthur. “Take care of your mother. Tell her I… I am sorry.”

  Anen, stepping near, took Benedict by the arm and drew him away. “We must begin at once if we are to save him.”

  The senior priest clapped his hands, and four physicians appeared. They wore white linen robes and small white caps, and each carried a tray of instruments, jars, and vials. Temple servants scurried behind them with stands on which to place the trays; other servants brought torches on high stands, which they placed around the bed. Still others appeared bearing basins of water and piles of folded cloths.

  They went straight to work. While one of the priest physicians shaved the left side of Arthur’s head, one administered a tincture of herbs mixed with opium, and a third undressed him. His shirt had to be cut off; the priest applied the scissors, pulling the cloth away in strips to reveal a torso decorated with bright blue tattoos-all in the same neat hand, all of them utterly incomprehensible symbols. When the last shreds of his shirt had been removed, the priest spread cloths under Arthur’s head and shoulders and washed his neck, shoulders, and chest; while all this was going on, the fourth priest prepared the instruments, rinsing them in a special mixture of distilled vinegar.