The 22 Letters

by King, Clive; Kennedy, Richard;

  “Sorry, sir,” he said. “Your cloak, please.” Meekly the Chaldean took it off and handed it to him. He considered it for a while, and at last devised a kind of sling that could go under his companion’s armpits and which he could wriggle out of when he reached the ground.

  The beds, now deprived of their stringing, could still be useful. He stood one against the wall by the window, and the other on its side upon the first. This provided a solid bar across the window frame which could not possibly slip through it. He passed the cord several times round the bar, so that he could lower the weight of the Chaldean slowly to the ground by easing the rope out round the bar.

  “We’re ready, sir,” he said to the old man. Without a word, the Chaldean let himself be secured into this sling. Nun showed him how to climb through the window and lower himself from the bar until the rope took his weight. Then, muttering what was presumably a prayer to his gods, he took his hands from the bar and Nun paid out the rope as slowly and smoothly as he could, and watched the courageous old man descending, as he had said he would never do, like a spider on its thread to the ground.

  Nun sweated quietly as the friction of the rope round the bar caused a groan like the rigging of a ship in a storm, and the knots threatened to snag and jam—and then he felt his heart stop as the dead end of the rope came into his hand. The strain of the Chaldean’s body was still on the rope, which meant that his feet were not on the ground, and there was no more to pay out! He hung on blindly to the end of the rope, while beneath him the Chaldean seemed to be floundering like a fish on the end of the line, trying to free himself, Nun supposed. Then the rope snapped slack, and Nun leant his head against the bar and felt he would cry like a child, as he realized it had broken!

  He took several deep breaths and controlled himself. Then he forced himself to look down into the obscurity below. The Chaldean was not lying in a broken heap below the window, as he had feared, but had moved away a little and was standing against the wall. Nun could see his white face looking up. Then he let his eyes follow the rope dangling down the wall. His heart settled to a normal beat again as he saw that there was still quite a length of rope, perhaps two-thirds of it, intact. There was nothing else for it, he must slide down what was left of the rope, and drop the rest of the way.

  It was Nun’s turn to pray to his gods as he secured the end of the rope to the bar and swung off on to it. It is not easy to slide down a thin doubled cord with knots in it. He braked himself with his legs and feet as best he could, then he was dangling only by his handhold, and then there was nothing he could do but let go. The drop was shorter than he had thought it was going to be, and he landed hard but safely on his feet.

  The Chaldean came up to him muttering something about “Too old for this kind of thing.” But he seemed to be unhurt, and Nun took him by the arm and hurried him off toward the shore, and the ship.

  They made their way in silence along a sandy track that led through cultivated ground behind the harbor, and came at last to the beach. The landscape was so peaceful under the setting moon, the air was so balmy with the scent of growing things, and the sea was so calm with its tiny wavelets falling softly on the sand, that Nun found it difficult to believe that he was still in great danger; he had to remind himself that he had not the slightest idea of how to get out of his predicament.

  They walked along the beach until they were opposite the island. Nun judged it to be within easy swimming distance from the shore, though after misjudging the length of the rope he did not have too much confidence in himself. It was certainly near enough for him to be able to hear voices drifting over the water. Somebody on the island was singing—and then Nun clutched his companion’s arm and stood listening. He knew the song, a doleful sailor’s love-song from Gebal—and what was more, he knew the singer. There was surely only one man in the world who sang that song with always the same mistakes, and he knew just which member of his crew it was. So the crew, or at least some of it, were on the island too.

  Nun took off his upper garment and handed it to the Chaldean in silence. His companion became agitated, put his mouth to Nun’s ear and whispered, “I cannot swim!” as if fearful of being forced into some other impossible activity.

  “Stay here!” breathed Nun. “Don’t move. I’ll come back for you.” And he slipped as quietly as he could into the warm clear water.

  Gently he launched himself into deeper water and began to swim toward the island, trying not to break the surface with his arms. If the crew and the ship were on the island, there must be guards to keep them there, though they might have little reason to be vigilant in this peaceful spot. He made for the ship, which seemed silent and deserted, and after a while he was in its shadows and his movements were less conspicuous among the cluck of waves that surrounded the hull.

  There was a rope hanging over the side, and Nun grasped it, hung on for a while listening hard, and then pulled himself painfully and carefully out of the water and into the ship.

  For a time he was content to rest upon the planking, as if he had come home at last. But what to do next? He listened to the voices on the island. A regular sing-song was now shattering the peace of the night, and as far as Nun could make out there were Cretan songs as well as the songs of Gebal. Apparently the guards were joining in. This might be to his advantage, he thought. Then he froze as he saw a figure outlined against the stars, coming along the wooden jetty toward the ship.

  The man carelessly put his foot on the bulwark of the ship, causing the whole vessel to roll, and jumped aboard. He started rummaging about among the stores stowed in the forepeak, cursing as he blundered against the timbers in the dark. The curses were from Gebal too. Nun took a chance and let out a low hiss to attract his attention. The man straightened up, and said in a normal voice, “Who’s there?” and Nun recognized the tones of the boatswain.

  “Shh!” hissed Nun. “It’s I, Nun, the captain.” The boatswain came over to him and peered at him in the dark.

  “That really you, sir? What are you doing here?”

  “We’re escaping, boatswain. Is all the crew here?”

  “Yes,” came the reply. “All present, sir. They’re treating us well enough, as you can hear. Having a good time. They call us their guests, but I reckon we’re prisoners just the same.”

  “You’re right, boatswain. How many guards?”

  “Fewer than we are, anyway. But they’ve taken away our weapons, and they’re fully armed.”

  “Could you rush them?” suggested Nun.

  The boatswain considered. “I daresay we could, with things as they are. All very matey tonight. Why don’t you join the party, sir? Guards wouldn’t notice another Giblite among the rest of us.”

  “Very well. But find me some clothing. It will look pretty odd if I appear naked.”

  When the boatswain had found Nun a sailor’s tunic, they went back together along the jetty and casually joined the party of Giblites and Cretan guards who were sitting around on the rocks by the light of one or two torches. No one took any notice of them in the gloom. It was not a very hilarious party, rather a means of whiling away the tedium of the hot night, it seemed. The Giblites had embarked upon one of their interminable, repetitive chorus songs—and Nun seized his opportunity. He joined a little group of sailors, and confident that whatever words might be sung would mean nothing to the Cretans, joined in the chorus loud and clear, but with his own words:

  “I am your captain, I am Nun,

  We must escape from Crete.

  When this song ends, rush the guards!

  Bind and gag them, keep them quiet!

  Then to the ship without a sound,

  And off we’ll go to sea!”

  The sailors’ looked startled, and nearly stopped singing, but Nun kept the rhythm going with hand-claps. When he saw by their nods that they were understanding, he moved on to another group, and repeated the chorus to
them. The words caught on, and he could see the men grinning and joining in the joke. As the song continued the original words of the chorus, were abandoned, and one by one the sailors joined in together with:

  “When this song ends, rush the guards!

  Bind and gag them, keep them quiet,

  Then to the ship without a sound

  And we’ll away to sea!”

  It was not poetry, but it was certainly popular. Clearly none of the guards understood the language: and to Nun’s delight he heard some of the Cretans trying to join in the song parrot-wise, little knowing what they were inciting the prisoners to do.

  The, presumably, sad old story of the girl that had loved a sailor drew to its end. The sailors rose to their feet as the final chorus was reached. Then with a united shout on the words “We’ll away to SEA!” each Giblite jumped on the nearest Cretan soldier. The guards, too astonished to do anything, had their heads muffled in cloaks and their limbs secured with good sailors’ knots before they knew what was happening.

  “Keep singing, boys!” said Nun. If anyone was listening from the shore a sudden silence might raise suspicion. Keeping the regular chorus going as they made for the ship, the sailors unshipped the oars, cast off the moorings, and pushed off from the jetty. When the ship’s head was pointed north to the open sea, Nun gave the order, “Heave away!” and the vessel leaped forward.

  Then suddenly—“Avast! Hold water! Back her down!” Nun cried, to the bewilderment of the crew. “Ye gods! We’ve forgotten the pilot!”

  They backed the ship over the short stretch of water to the shore. As they got as near as Nun dared, he could see the Chaldean standing patiently on the beach, holding Nun’s clothes. “Come on, sir,” he called across the water, “you’ll have to get a little wet.”

  Without hesitating the Chaldean walked into the dead calm water until it was up to his shoulders and he was under the quarter of the ship. Then Nun and the boatswain quickly reached over and hoisted him aboard.

  Once again Nun gave the order to row, and the ship moved away from the land. Soon as they moved farther out, they began to meet rougher water and could feel the breeze from which the mountains had hitherto protected them. Putting the steering-oar over Nun turned the ship’s head to the East.

  “Which stars for the eastern passage, Chaldean?” he sang out.

  8

  The Mine in the Desert

  Aleph, the scribe, continues his journey—The Dead Sea—The Egyptian copper mines in the Sinai peninsula—Information of attack on Gebal by the Egyptians—The first inscription in the new alphabet—Pigeon post

  When Aleph returned with Ish to Jericho, after their patrol in the mountains, they found everything in a state of turmoil. The column was already re-forming, getting ready to resume its march south. Though the soldiers of the patrol, and Aleph, and Ish, were weary, the commander of the column told them to prepare to leave at once and barely listened to their report on the hill tribes. Ish was roughly ordered to get his things packed, and Aleph was beaten for being late to fall in with the prisoners. The easy-going discipline of the previous part of the journey had vanished, and there was nothing but bad temper, cursing, and grousing. What had happened? Soon they were on their way again, marching due South. Aleph was surprised when an hour’s march over the plain brought them to the shore of another sea. It was more than a lake, for though both sides were easily visible its ends could not be seen in the hot haze that hung over it. There was something strange about its waters, a leaden color even in the sunlight, and a sluggish motion to its waves, but the sight of it was refreshing as they journeyed along at the foot of the mountains on its eastern shore. The air was oppressive, the sun beat down and there was no vegetation at all, yet Aleph felt happier to be between the mountains and the sea again; and he promised himself the pleasure of a bath when they halted in the evening.

  The sun was going down behind purple mountains on the far shore when they halted and prepared camp. Aleph approached the sergeant in charge of the prisoners.

  “May I bathe?” he asked.

  The sergeant exchanged a curious glance with some of the other soldiers. “Feel like a nice swim, lad?” he grinned.

  “I can’t swim,” Aleph said, “but I’d like to cool down after the march.”

  “Better have a proper swim, hadn’t he?” the sergeant said to the soldiers, and they laughed.

  “But I can’t swim,” repeated Aleph. “I’ll just paddle in a shallow place.”

  The sergeant turned cross. “You prisoners come to me and bother me with requests to go paddling like children! We’ll give him paddle, won’t we, men? All right, you four, see that this prisoner has his swim like a man. See that he dives in where it’s good and deep.”

  The four soldiers got up grinning and took hold of Aleph. “No, no!” he protested. “I don’t want to swim, I can’t swim. I don’t know how.”

  They dragged him to a rock overhanging deep water.

  “Don’t push me in! I can’t dive! I’ll drown!” cried Aleph.

  When he struggled in panic they found a rope and tied his hands and legs and carried him bound to the water. “How can I swim if you tie me up?” moaned Aleph. Why had they suddenly decided to drown him? “You’ll get into trouble if you drown a valuable prisoner,” he panted. “They need me in Egypt, I’m a scribe.”

  The soldiers roared with laughter, swung him three times, and launched him into the water. His last hour had come, and he prepared himself to sink into chill depths and never breathe air again.

  But what was this—mouth and nose full of the tastes of an apothecary’s pots? Eyes smarting with salt? A warm sticky liquid that bore him up and left him floating ridiculously on the surface, while his arms and legs stuck up in the air, and to his ears came the shouts of laughter from the soldiers on the shore?

  They left him in the Dead Sea until he drifted like a log to the shore. It was Ish who helped him out and untied him; he was none the worse except that he felt ridiculous and longed for a wash in fresh water to get rid of the salt from his body and clothes. But it was to be a long time before he would be able to do that.

  Ish, as they sat talking that night in the camp, told him the reason for the sullenness of the troops and the despondency of the prisoners. The news had got round that they were not going to Egypt at all. There was a shortage of workers in the copper and turquoise mines of Sinai, and so the destination of both guards and prisoners had been changed.

  Aleph was silent. Was he not even to see the palaces and temples of Egypt, after all this journeying?

  “What is Sinai like?” he asked.

  “I know a little about it,” Ish replied; “A God-forsaken wilderness of barren mountains, they say. Only a Pharaoh could condemn people to live there, and only copper and turquoise come out of it.”

  It was a dreary march from then on. They came to hate this sea of dead chemical liquid, where no fish jumped, no birds hovered or dived, but when they left it there was even less relief for the eyes among the burning rocks. They climbed up again to plateau country, where the air was drier and more tolerable, then to a few oases and cultivated settlements, and at last to a port on what Ish said was an arm of the Red Sea. This was a real sea, apparently linked with the great ocean that surrounded the world.

  Ish had sought out Aleph among the prisoners the day after they arrived, and found him looking longingly at the waves.

  “If I got on a ship here, could I sail back to Gebal, do you think?” Aleph asked him.

  “It is best not to torment yourself with such thoughts,” said Ish. “Besides, I think that would be impossible.”

  “All the same,” said Aleph, “it looks the same as the sea at Gebal. It is some comfort.”

  “I am glad,” said Ish, “for I fear I have little comfort for you. You must go your way to Sinai. And I—”

  “You are not leavi
ng us?” said Aleph anxiously.

  “I am to take a ship to Egypt,” said Ish.

  Aleph hung his head. “It is a good thing for you. I am happy for it,” he said at last.

  “Perhaps we shall meet again,” said Ish encouragingly. “In Egypt, perhaps even in Gebal some day. And maybe some good will even come of your being in Sinai.”

  They said their farewells, but Aleph felt they would not see each other again.

  Aleph was never to remember much about the southward march to Sinai. He was not living, yet not dead; he had no friend, no hopes, and hardly any recollections. Existence was merely a matter of putting one foot before the other in the shimmering heat of the rocky desert, and collapsing into exhausted sleep at the end of each day. The one thing that reminded him that he was a person, with a life of his own, was the companionship of the incongruous bird in its cage, miraculously thriving despite all the rigors of the march. The effort to keep it alive was perhaps the only thing that kept him going. Perhaps it would have been kinder to have let it go before, but Beth’s words ran through his head as if they were a solemn vow he had taken. “Let him go when you get to where you are going.” And while he still had to put one foot in front of another, he had not yet got there.

  He was hardly aware of arriving at their destination, a valley like a great open oven among the baking mountains. Scorched slaves toiled in galleries digging out the copper ore and carrying it away in baskets on their heads; others suffered worse torments at the refinery, where the heat of the smelting furnaces was added to the fantastic heat of the sun. He looked dazedly at the infernal scene. Could anyone live long in such a place? Or had he perhaps died already and been sent to a region of eternal punishment?

  Yet when he was led to his place of work he found that he was asked to do something even more impossible. He was being asked to work with his brain, although he felt that it had long ago oozed out in sweat through his scalp.