by Nancy Madore
Nadia wondered again what Helene had been thinking in that moment. Did she sense that her life was about to be irreversibly altered…or that that Polaroid would be the last picture ever taken of her?
“And after that?” someone prompted. Their questions seemed more like a hypnotist’s suggestions now.
“They went into Qumran. Lieutenant Brisbin and his troops were stationed near there. Brisbin secured them lodgings nearby, and he even got them a car.”
“Can you tell us about the area and the people they encountered there?” Gordon asked.
“I can tell you that my grandmother didn’t care for them,” Nadia replied—“Though her memories may have been marred by what happened later. But compared to Tel Aviv, she found Qumran… unpleasant. She described it as terra-cotta colored terrain with similar colored buildings popping out periodically like camouflaged predators. My grandmother preferred more traditional landscapes. She had a particular fondness for gardens and I think the barrenness of the desert frightened her a little. The Arab people offered some new interest at first, but even they became tiresome for her after a while. The women were covered from head to toe, usually in black, though occasionally she would spot a red or white skirt. The men dressed in lighter clothing and wore turbans on their heads. The thing Helene disliked most was the way the Arab men behaved around her. She thought them extremely rude. Her father explained that Muslim men were not permitted to speak to women they weren’t related to—out of respect for the women—but this didn’t make sense to my grandmother. And given the way the Arab men looked at her (Huxley tried to make her feel better by telling her that it was only her blonde hair that made them stare) their rule about not speaking to women seemed perfidious.
“The cottage Brisbin secured for them was only a few miles from his post. Helene didn’t say much about it other than it had two bedrooms with cots that were not very comfortable. She shared a room with her father while Huxley and Butch shared the other room. Having never been on this type of expedition—or any kind of expedition—before, Helene had nothing to compare it to, but Huxley and Butch seemed delighted to have an indoor bathroom, and they even made a fuss over finding silverware in one of the kitchen drawers, so Helene supposed it could have been much worse.
“An Arab man and his wife acted as caretakers for them, bringing food and supplies. There was nothing exceptional about the couple according to Helene. She remembered that the man—I think his name was Abdul—spoke very poor English and his wife, like the other women, never spoke at all.”
“What do you remember about the Bedouin with the scrolls?” prompted Gordon.
Nadia sighed. She knew she was probably exasperating them with all the little details but it was as if all the circuits to her brain had been fried and she was now running on auto-pilot. “You’ll get more accurate details if you just let me recite the stories the way my mother told me,” Nadia replied. “I’m really too tired to think.”
“You know the stories that well?” asked Clive.
“I know them by heart,” she said. “The same way other people can recite The Three Little Pigs or Snow White and the Seven Dwarves fifteen years later, to their children. These were my bedtime stories.”
Nadia was reminded, suddenly, of Shahryar, the jealous King of The Thousand and One Nights, whose wife (in order to delay her impending execution) created an endless string of fantastic tales, each of which she concluded with the beginning of a new story. Always left wanting more, the king kept postponing his wife’s execution until it was all but forgotten. Just like that wife, Nadia would let the stories lead the kidnappers where they may, stringing them along until she could find a way to escape.
The room seemed to grow even dimmer as Nadia searched her memory for the Bedouin with the scrolls. It was a little like traveling through time. When she located him he immediately sprang to life, and Nadia could picture him waiting anxiously in his tent, his fingers delicately handling the scrolls. She turned her head and looked around, half expecting to find the Bedouin there in the room with her. But there were only her three captors, silently waiting for her to continue. She turned back toward the ceiling, trying to shake off the feeling that something sinister—something even more sinister than what she had thus far experienced—was lurking in the shadows all around her. Perhaps her grandmother had been right. There did seem to be something ominous in this desert land, itself so bleak and barren, that sparked fanciful notions like those found in The Thousand and One Nights, of monsters and ghouls…and most definitely djinn.
Chapter 8
December, 1948
Qumran
The Bedouin camp was made up of several very large, blackish-gray tents the Bedouin people call beit al-sha’r, which in Arabic means ‘house of hair.’ The beit al-sha’r is woven from the hair of sheep and goats, and it’s said to be similar to the ones used by the first nomadic tribes of ancient Mesopotamia. To see these beit al-sha’r in the middle of the stark, deserted valley—together with the Bedouin people dressed in the traditional robes and head coverings, their livestock grazing on the sparse brush-lands while their camels sit idly by, watching their activities with bored, contemptuous sideways glances—was to be transported back in time by thousands of years. Helene felt as if she had stepped into an entirely different era, and it wouldn’t have surprised her all that much to see Christ himself—accompanied by his twelve apostles—emerging from one of the tents.
There was something about all of it that frightened Helene. Her fear began the moment they left Tel Aviv, and kept growing stronger the further away they got. It wasn’t the conflict that bothered her. Lieutenant Brisbin had set all of their minds at ease about that. “Getting you in and out will be a doddle,” he promised. “There’s a ceasefire as of last month but it wouldn’t have mattered anyhow. That territory—in and around Qumran—is completely secured by the Arab Legion. You’ll be as comfortable as pigeons in Trafalgar square.”
Helene believed him about that. Her fear was of something else, something in the desert itself, something malevolent and undefeatable that the Bedouins—like specters from the past—seemed a forewarning of.
They were looking for a Bedouin by the name of Khalid bin Malik. Most of the people in the camp didn’t appear to know English, but they recognized the name and led them to his tent. The children gathered all around them, showing a particular interest in Helene, whom they stared up at in awe and rushed alongside of as she self-consciously followed her father and the others to the tent of the Bedouin trader.
Khalid bin Malik was surprisingly refined and courteous, with a charming smile and sharp, knowing eyes. Unlike the other Arabs Helene had encountered, his beard and mustache were impeccably trimmed very close to his face. He greeted them all warmly, even Helene—he managed this very eloquently without speaking to her—and he invited them into his tent. He affectionately shooed the Bedouin children away, gently chiding them in Arabic.
“I trust you had a pleasant journey,” he said when they were alone. His English had only the merest hint of an accent, which seemed to enhance the meaning. He motioned for them to sit down—they were in a large, carpeted area scattered with oversized pillows surrounding a large, short-legged table—and nodded to a woman in the back. “We will have refreshments in a moment,” he told them.
“However did you discover the cave?” Butch asked once they were settled. Though he was highly intellectual, Butch had an agreeable manner that immediately put those around him at ease. There was a genial air about him, an old-fashioned gentlemanliness that made him seem more attractive than he actually was. His face was rather ordinary in and of itself, but his expression was one of the utmost interest and benevolence. His thick, wavy hair was so white it reminded Helene of the powdered wigs of their ancestors. He always wore ‘spectacles’—as he called them—though he only used them for reading, so he developed the habit of peering over or under them whenever he looked at anything larger than the written word. As he addressed the Bedou
in, he tipped his head to one side—as was also his habit—and considered him thoughtfully. Helene could never tell what he was thinking. His eyes often carried a glint of amusement, though he was generally serious.
Helene was trying not to fidget on the pillows.
“I wasn’t the one who found the scrolls,” Khalid explained. “A young shepherd boy stumbled upon them quite by accident. I was one of many who were interested. I do a great deal of trading with the British officers who come here and they, in turn, bring me buyers from around the world. The men who raided the cave have no idea of the scrolls’ worth and, even if they did, they wouldn’t know how to sell them. They were getting nowhere before I came into the picture. They were actually contemplating using the scrolls for fuel.”
“Good God!” ejaculated Huxley, horrified at the thought. His pale blue eyes seemed even lighter in contrast to his dark, reddish brown skin. There were deep lines at the corners of his eyes from years of squinting in the sun. His brownish hair was streaked with blonde and bits of gray. He looked the picture of health, and Helene sometimes felt herself blushing whenever his pale blue gaze fell upon her.
Several veiled women began bringing tea, water, and a kind of flat bread that looked rather dusty and unappetizing to Helene at first, but which was actually quite good when she tasted it.
“Most of the scrolls they had—the ones I saw anyway—appeared to be copies of religious texts already in circulation—many of which are in your Christian Bible.” Khalid picked up the conversation where it left off once the tea was poured and the women left. “Those scrolls still have value, of course, but I was looking for something more…unique. So I went and searched the cave myself.”
“Forgive me, but how are you able to identify these documents?” asked Butch, clearly impressed by the man.
“As an antiquities dealer I have learned to recognize and even translate some of the ancient languages. The Hebrew scrolls are easy to identify, but the older languages are only marginally harder. I can understand your uncertainty. Most Bedouins cannot even read Arabic, let alone other languages.” Khalid paused a moment and then moved on without really answering Butch’s question. “When I searched the cave, I was seeking apocryphal texts—that is, texts which were not biblical, but were, in fact, forbidden. Most such texts have been destroyed, as I’m sure you know. My goal is always to find something that has never been discovered before. To an experienced eye, the more common texts are easy to identify.”
“And this Book of the Dead that you found?” prompted Huxley rather breathlessly. All of his hopes seemed to have been steadily rising with every word the Bedouin uttered.
Khalid smiled. “I will let you judge that for yourself,” he said. He motioned again to the women, who were silently hovering in the background. They came forward at once and cleared the table.
Khalid rose from his pillow with surprising grace, and quietly disappeared behind a curtain in one corner of the tent. In a moment, he returned with a small, rolled up carpet which he set on the table and slowly unrolled. There, inside the rug, was a cluster of aged and tattered sheets the color of faded, desert sand and stained with dark streaks in varying shades of wet clay. The documents were stacked one on top of the other, with a thin layer of cloth placed in between.
“Your Book of the Dead is on top,” Khalid said.
The men wasted no time in circling the table and settling on their knees to get a closer look. Very carefully, without even touching it, the men examined the document while Khalid and Helene stood back and watched. They each took out a pocket microscope and leaned in close, studying the document for several long minutes without speaking.
“Did you notice…” she heard Butch murmur at last, but his voice was so hushed that she couldn’t catch the rest of his statement.
“Yes, yes, quite,” replied Huxley. Disappointment marred his features.
“On the other hand, it isn’t decisive,” added her father encouragingly.
“No, it isn’t,” agreed Huxley more hopefully.
They were silent again as they continued their scrutiny for several minutes more.
“Let’s have a look at the others,” suggested Butch finally.
“May I?” Huxley asked the Bedouin, placing his hands on the corners of the cloth that separated the first scroll from the one beneath it.
“Of course,” said Khalid agreeably.
“Do you mind grabbing that end?” Huxley said to Helene’s father. Carefully they lifted the cloth beneath the scroll and placed it gently to one side. Then they examined the next scroll. They repeated this procedure with each of the scrolls until they had inspected them all. There were, perhaps, twenty documents in the pile, and it took well over an hour for the men to go through them. To Helene, the scrolls looked a lot like everything else in that desert wilderness; ancient and faded, obscure and inscrutable. However, she was on pins and needles to hear their conclusions. Was it the scroll Huxley sought? And if so, would it prove to be authentic? She could feel the tension in the air. The men were giving nothing away, and the few words they spoke only added to the suspense.
Huxley was the first to address the Bedouin, who had been standing off to one side, observing them with watchful eyes and a strangely confident smile.
“The documents might be imitations,” Huxley remarked thoughtfully. “Though we can’t say for certain without a thorough examination.”
“You’re thinking of the parchment,” remarked Khalid, unconcerned.
The men started in surprise. “Well, yes,” said Huxley. “It’s very odd. Though the contents appear to come from all different sources, they’re all written on the same material.”
“That is correct; but it was common practice to copy decaying documents in order to preserve their content, was it not?” asked Khalid.
“Yes, quite!” agreed Huxley. Helene could hear the hope in his voice.
“But let’s not forget that the texts would have been translated into the language of whoever copied them,” interjected Butch—“which in this case appears to be the Jews, judging from the material it was printed on. And too, it would have to be approved by the church.”
“Not always,” Khalid replied with his strange, knowing smile.
“No, not always,” Butch agreed. “But it seems strange that the Jewish scholars who copied these didn’t translate them.”
“I would have to examine the document more closely before I could agree to your price,” Huxley concluded. “Would you consent to let us take it for, say, a day or two?”
Khalid was thoughtful a moment.
“I’m sure Lieutenant Brisbin would vouch for us,” Huxley added.
The Bedouin raised his hand, dismissing the issue of theft with a look of distaste.
“If the document is authentic, we will naturally pay your price,” said Butch.
Khalid nodded. “You may examine it for one day,” he said.
“A few of the other documents appear to be apocryphal as well,” Helene’s father reminded Huxley.
“Take the Book of the Dead first, and we will discuss the others later,” said Khalid.
“Since we have only one day in which to make our determination, I wonder if we should put off our trip to the cave,” Butch suggested.
“Could you take us out there tomorrow afternoon, do you think?” asked Huxley.
“Of course,” said Khalid. “Take the book with you now, and return tomorrow.” He went to fetch another small carpet and carefully rolled the Book of the Dead up in it. They hastily said their goodbyes and drove directly back to the cottage.
It was mid-afternoon. Despite their uncertainties about the scroll, the men were excited.
“It’s almost certainly gevil,” Butch remarked as they carefully unrolled the scroll.
“What’s gevil?” asked Helene.
“It’s a kind of parchment that was used by the Jews,” explained her father. “It’s made from animal skins like other parchments, but it’s prepared diffe
rently.”
“Is that bad?” she asked.
“It means that this particular document wasn’t written by ancient Sumerians,” said Butch.
“Though it could be a copy of a document that was,” interjected Huxley.
“What I can’t figure out is why the Jews would copy and preserve a scroll they would have considered pagan and apocryphal,” mused Butch. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“The only way to find out is to translate it,” said Huxley.
The men wasted no time in setting up for the task at hand, and once they began, it was as if Helene wasn’t even there. They were completely absorbed in what they were doing. She watched them anxiously, though she was quickly growing bored. There were long, tedious periods of silent analysis followed by lengthy debates over complex details. Helene had no idea what they were talking about, except that it was clear that they couldn’t agree on a single point where the book was concerned. Huxley was ever optimistic while Butch remained skeptical. Helene’s father wavered between the two.
“It simply cannot be translated,” Butch blurted out in frustration. “The letters might be Sumerian but the language most certainly is not.”
“It could have been copied incorrectly,” her father murmured regretfully.
“But that would render the document useless!” cried Huxley, throwing up his hands and walking away. He began pacing the floor around the table where the document was laid out.
“So it would seem,” agreed her father with a little sigh of disappointment.
With no further possibilities to debate—no remaining hopes to dash—Butch became thoughtful and morose. He continued to brood over the document while the other two sat back in grim silence.
Helene decided to write another letter to Edward.
“Mr. Huxley is ever so disappointed!” she wrote, though she didn’t understand his disappointment well enough to explain it to Edward. She tried to describe Qumran, starting out on a positive note but ending with how dreary and dull everything was. “At least I’m not freezing my bloomers off,” she teased, knowing how cold it must be in London.