The Spirit Well be-3

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Cass saw unkempt shelves and a table stacked high with books and pamphlets, and her heart sank. A bookshop? Was that all there was to it- some kind of weird cult pushing their odious literature and trying to convert unsuspecting suckers to their occult beliefs? Disappointment turned down the corners of her mouth. How dare they, she thought- pasting up signs promising help as a way to lure in gullible travellers; they ought to be ashamed of themselves. These and other thoughts were riffling through her mind as, thoroughly disgusted-with them for lying, and with herself for letting her hopes get so high on the basis of such flimsy evidence as a handwritten poster-she turned to go.

  No doubt all this bouncing around between worlds or dimensions or whatever-finding herself in new places every other minute-had momentarily thrown off her judgement. That could not be allowed to continue. She had to apply the rigour of her scientific mind to the situation at hand, and she would begin this very moment.

  With a last disdainful glance at the shop, she stepped away and started down the street when there was a click behind her, and the glossy black door opened. A stout older woman with straight white hair cut in a short bob stuck out her head. “Oh!” she said, “I have company. I thought I heard someone on the step.” Dressed in a longsleeved blouse with a large jade brooch at the throat, a green tartan skirt, and sensible brown shoes, she peered at her visitor through small, wire-rimmed glasses, offering the thin smile of a strict elder aunt or a Scottish school mistress a la Miss Jean Brodie who, in her prime, tolerated no nonsense in her classroom. The woman opened the door a little wider. “You must come in, dear.”

  “You speak English,” Cassandra observed with some relief. “I mean-that is, I was looking for the Zetetic Society.”

  “And you have found us.” The lady stepped to one side. “Please, this way.”

  “No, I–I was just leaving. I think I made a mistake.”

  “If you have come all this way,” the woman said, her enunciation precise and slightly clipped, “it is certainly no mistake.”

  She said it with such simple conviction that Cass was persuaded to agree. “Well, just for a moment, perhaps,” she allowed.

  Cassandra crossed the threshold and entered the bookshop. The interior was muted-the only light came from the window, and that was filmed with age and dust. But the shop itself was reasonably clean, and the soft furnishings of sofa and overstuffed chairs gave it the feel of an old-fashioned reading room or private library. The woman shut the door and regarded Cass over the top of her glasses. Cass caught a whiff of lavender water.

  “What brings you here, if I may be so bold?”

  “To Damascus?”

  “To the society,” corrected the woman, stressing the word for emphasis. Before Cass could answer, a shrill whistle sounded from another room. “There’s the kettle. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Um,” Cass hesitated.

  “I was just going to have one myself. Please, make yourself comfortable. I shan’t be a moment.”

  She hurried away, leaving Cassandra to gaze around the little shop. In addition to the bookshelves lining the walls, there was a round brass table of the kind much favoured in the Middle East, consisting of a tray balanced on a carved olive-wood stand. Two large easy chairs sat on either side of the table and, between them, a floor lamp with a purple silk shade. There was no counter or cash register, which Cass thought odd for a bookshop, nor any other accoutrements of commercial enterprise.

  Cass moved to the nearest shelf and took in some of the titles. The History of the Assyrian Empire… A Walk in Old Babylon… Life in the Ancient Near East… The Lost Treasury of Nebuchadnezzar… and other tomes of history, their leather spines creased and cracking with age. She moved along to a section of religious writing: The Habiru of Palestine… The Collected Writings of Josephus… The Desert Fathers… A Sojourn in the Carpathians… Sumerian Culture… Who Were the Hittites?… The Tombs of Catal Huyuk… and so on.

  Presently the woman returned carrying a wooden tray laden with a brass teapot, glass beakers half filled with fresh green leaves, and a plate of tiny almond cookies. She placed the tray on the table and invited Cass to join her. “I hope you like it with mint,” she said, and began pouring the hot tea over the leaves. “It is a local custom of which I’ve grown quite fond.” She passed a glass to her guest, settled back in her chair, took a sip, and sighed, “There, that’s better.”

  “Mm,” Cass remarked after an exploratory sip. “Delicious.”

  “There is sugar, if you like.” The woman nudged a tiny china bowl. “Where are my manners?” she said, replacing her cup. “I am Mrs. Peelstick.”

  “My name is Cassandra,” replied Cass.

  “What a pretty name. I’m very glad to meet you, Cassandra. I don’t believe I heard your answer when I asked what brought you here today.” She blew on her tea while waiting for a response.

  “Well, I guess I was just curious.”

  The woman nodded and said, “‘Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.’”

  “Pardon?”

  “A scrap of old poem.” She stirred sugar into her tea, swirling the green leaves around and around. “After all, we are pilgrims-are we not? Help yourself to biscuits.”

  Cass reached for one of the small round cookies. It was a relief just to sit and do something normal for a moment-if one considered taking mint tea with an English ex-pat in Damascus in any way normal. “Thank you.”

  The two sipped their drinks for a moment in silence. From somewhere in the next room a clock chimed the hour. “I hope I’m not keeping you from anything,” said Cass. “I was only curious about the society.” The old woman made no reply, so Cass, to fill the silence, continued, “Zetetic is an odd word. I don’t believe I have ever heard it. What does it mean?”

  “It comes from the Greek zetetikos — to seek. The Zetetic Society is a society of seekers.”

  “What do you seek?”

  “Ah, that is the question.” The old woman smiled and sipped her tea. At first Cassandra did not think she would answer, but the woman put down her glass and said, “I suppose one could say something pompous and embroidered. If Brendan were here he would no doubt offer up a phrase such as… ‘We seek not the treasures of knowledge, but the treasury itself! ’” She paused to frame a more considered answer. “Perhaps the simplest way to put it is that we of the society seek answers to life’s biggest questions.”

  “Which questions are those?”

  “The usual questions. Why are we here? Where are we going?” The woman paused, leaned a little forward, and regarding Cass meaningfully, added, “What is the true nature of reality?”

  “I wish I knew,” sighed Cass under her breath. The woman’s continued gaze made her uncomfortable. She seemed to be expecting Cass to say something, so she asked, “These books-are they for sale, then?”

  “Oh, dearie me, no,” the woman replied, retrieving her tea. “They are resource materials.”

  “I see.” Cass nodded, sipping thoughtfully. “But you do have some literature?”

  “No, I’m very much afraid that we do not.”

  “Nothing about the society-its aims, beliefs, membership requirements?”

  “You make us sound very grand-very grand, indeed. No, I’m afraid we’re just a small congregation of oddballs and eccentrics dedicated to the quest. There are no formal requirements.” She hesitated, again regarding Cass with that direct, appraising look. “No formal requirements other than finding your way to our door.”

  “That’s it? That’s all? A potential member only has to find his way to this shop?”

  “What made you think this was a shop?” she asked, picking up the brass teapot. “More, dear?”

  Cass offered her glass. “Thank you.”

  “As I was saying, there are no membership requirements because, you see, we find that only those who wish to become members of the society would bother inquiring at all.”

  “Your membership is self-selecting,”
mused Cass. “Then I suppose it must be a very large society.”

  “Why would you think that?” wondered the woman. “True seekers are very rare. Those willing to pay the price to join the quest are rarer still.” She shook her head. “No, we are a small, rather exclusive group. But the exclusion is not on our side, I assure you. People either choose to join us or not. Mostly, we find, they do not.”

  “That’s a shame,” quipped Cass. “At very least they’d get a nice cup of mint tea.”

  “They would indeed, dear.”

  Cassandra finished her cup and placed it on the tray. She stood. “Thank you for the chat, and for the tea. You’re very kind, but I really must be going. I didn’t intend to take up your morning.”

  “Didn’t you?” wondered the woman. “Then why did you come?”

  “The poster,” explained Cass. “I saw the poster-the orange one? — at the entrance to the bazaar. I thought it sounded interesting, so I came.”

  The old woman placed her glass on the tray and faced her visitor, her gaze pointed and uncomfortably direct. After a moment she said, “Would it surprise you very much if I told you that not everyone can see that poster?”

  “Because it’s written in English, you mean?”

  “I did not say they could not read it,” replied the woman, adopting a pedantic tone. “I said they cannot see it. Our little advertisement is effectively invisible to all who are not ready and willing to see it. You, my dear, are ready-otherwise you would not be here.”

  Cass felt a queasy apprehension squirm over her. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

  “I mean exactly what I said. No more. No less.” Her smile became tight and sharp. “Do you think I cannot tell who and what you are?”

  Anxious now to terminate the interview and leave, Cass said, “Well, I really must be going.” She rose and stepped backward, edging towards the door. “It was nice meeting you.”

  “And you as well.” The old woman rose and followed her. “But I have a suspicion that we shall be meeting one another again very soon.”

  Cassandra nodded. Moving quickly to the door, she fumbled with the doorknob, twisted it, pulled open the door, and stepped outside.

  The woman followed her as far as the threshold. “There is a convent not more than a hundred paces farther on. It is run by the Sisters of Saint Tekla, and they offer beds and simple fare to pilgrims of all faiths or none.” She gestured vaguely farther along. “If you have no place to stay, I recommend them without reservation.”

  “Thank you,” said Cass. “Good-bye.”

  “God be with you.”

  Cass stepped away quickly and started off down the narrow, meandering street, aware that the woman was watching her until she was out of sight. A few dozen paces later she saw a small red-andwhite sign hanging into the street from its place over a wrought iron gate. The sign read Le couvent des soeurs de Sainte Tekla, and had a cross in the shape of a capital T with crossed palm fronds beneath it. In small letters at the bottom were the words Troisieme section. Another sign in Arabic featured the same crossed palms and capital T. Slowing her pace as she neared the gate, Cass heard children laughing, the sound drifting up over the convent walls. Although she had no intention of asking for a bed in a convent, Cass paused to look through the gate.

  She saw a plain, paved stone courtyard surrounding a neat, white church with small stained-glass windows and wide, brown, nailstudded doors. In one corner of the courtyard a handful of young girls were playing some sort of game with an older woman dressed in a voluminous blue gown topped with a long white headscarf- one of the sisters, Cass decided. Two other nuns were sweeping the already clean-swept courtyard with branches of natural green broom bound together around short handles. The scene looked so homely and happy that Cass lingered longer than she intended.

  “Puis-je vous aider?”

  The voice and face suddenly appearing at the gate startled Cass. She took a step back. “Sorry! No-I was just passing.”

  The face was that of a young woman about her own age with large dark eyes and dark hair beneath a tight-fitting white scarf; she was dressed in the habit of the nuns. “Parlez-vous l’anglais?” she asked, her voice rising gently.

  “ Oui,” confirmed Cass. “ Mon francais… is… um- est tres petit.”

  The nun offered a blithe smile. “Then we speak English together,” she declared in a workmanlike, if heavily French-tinted accent. “Would you like to come in, mon amie?”

  The invitation was so kindly and innocently offered that, as the iron gate swung open, Cass found herself stepping into the courtyard. To one side of the church grew a palm tree; a fig tree with broad green leaves shaded a simple wooden bench upon which another nun sat shelling peas into a big brass bowl.

  “Welcome to Saint Tekla’s,” said the nun, closing the gate once more. “I am Sister Theoduline.”

  “I am glad to meet you, Sister,” replied Cassandra. “Please, call me Cass.” She glanced around the neat yard. “What kind of church is this-if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Non,” replied the sister. “We are not only a church. As you see, we are also a couvent — an order of nuns and some lay sisters. We belong to a Syriac order. Very old. One of the oldest. Would you care to take some refreshment with me?”

  “Thank you, no,” declined Cass. “I had some tea at the Zetetic Society.” Then, feeling the need to explain, she added, “Actually, I am just passing through. I won’t be staying.”

  “No?” wondered the nun. “That is a pity. Damascus has many wonderful places to visit-including Saint Tekla’s. Come, I will show you.”

  Cass spent a pleasant half hour examining the church with its garish icons and, in the buildings behind it, the orderly little school and dormitory.

  “We operate an orphanage for girls,” Sister Theoduline explained. “So many children lost their parents in the revolt, and to disease. We have twenty-seven girls with us, and thirty-three more at Ma’aloula, our parent couvent.”

  “I see,” replied Cass. “They seem happy here. I am sure you are doing a very good work.”

  “Pray God this is so,” agreed the nun. “But caring for orphans is a secondary service, you might say. We were originally charged with aiding and providing hospitality to pilgrims on their way to and from the holy sites here in Damascus and beyond.” She sighed. “We get so few pilgrims these days-times being what they are. If you have nowhere else to go, you are most welcome to stay here with us during your sojourn in Damascus.” She offered a hopeful smile. “It would support our mission simply to have you here.”

  Cass thanked her, but said, “I don’t expect to be in Syria very long.”

  “Oh, I thought you said you had been visiting the Zetetic Society, n’est-ce pas?”

  “I did, yes, but-” She paused, then changed tack. “Excuse me, why do you ask?”

  “We have, from time to time, extended hospitality to the society members. They are very fascinating people. If you are with them, you must be fascinating too, I think.”

  “I don’t know about that,” replied Cass diffidently. “I’m not really with them-that is, I’m not a member of the society.”

  “Oh,” remarked Theoduline. “Forgive my presumption.” Her smile returned instantly. “But you are still very welcome to stay with us if you wish-however long your visit.”

  “Thank you,” said Cass. Considering that she had nowhere else to go and no money anyway, she surprised herself by saying, “I think I would like that.”

  This pleased the young nun, who offered to show her to a room at once-a small, clean, cell-like apartment with a bed and table, a chair, and a bright Persian rug on the floor beside the bed. On one wall was a plain wooden cross, and on the other a painting of a young woman in a flowing robe, a halo around her head. Cass took one look at the painting and felt her stomach tighten. The young woman in the painting was making her way between two towering walls of stoneunmistakably a canyon.

  It was such a vivi
d depiction of what Cass herself had experienced that she felt an instant connection to the woman; she stepped closer to inspect it in more detail.

  Sister Theoduline, who had been instructing her about soap and clean towels, noticed her interest and moved to her side. “That is Saint Tekla,” she explained. “Do you know the story?”

  Cass confessed that she did not.

  “It is quite interesting,” the sister said, and went on to tell the legend of the Syrian saint who, as a young woman, became a Christian and was baptised by Saint Paul. One day she was being pursued- perhaps by a ruthless suitor because of her exceptional beauty, or perhaps owing to her refusal to abandon her faith and bow to the emperor-the reason was not entirely clear. But having fled into the wild hills, she found her way blocked by a steep impasse of stone. “Tekla offered up a prayer, and miraculously a way opened through the stone-a sentier. You know this word?”

  Cass shook her head.

  “It is like a path-a small road-a crevasse.”

  “I see,” murmured Cass, transfixed by the picture. “A path through the rocks.”

  “Oui,” agreed the nun. “Tekla fled into the rocks and disappeared. Her pursuers were never able to find her. Later she returned to establish one of the first churches in Syria. And it is still there,” concluded Theoduline. “It is at Ma’aloula.”

  “The same place as the orphanage?”

  “The same, yes. It is our mother church.”

  “A fine story,” replied Cass, her mind racing freely along trajectories of extreme improbability. Later, after a nap and a ramble through the city, then a simple supper of soup, bread, olives, and hummus, followed by a sung evensong by the nuns and their young charges, Cass retired to her room and ended her eventful day sitting on the edge of her bed and meditating on the painting of the beautiful young Christian fleeing through the canyon of stone. She went to sleep thinking she knew very well the makings of Tekla’s miracle. The neophyte saint had stumbled upon her own Secret Canyon and, like Cass herself, had travelled a Sacred Road to become a World Walker.