Statues and monuments populated the grounds. There was an old military cannon on a raised pedestal, an Ethiopian woman with a pickax resting over one shoulder, and a stone head that looked big enough to crush Indiana Jones. She crossed paths with a massive tortoise, ambling slowly towards whatever the day held for him.
Estelle wandered the grounds, figuring someone would come find her. It was the head that ultimately drew her own attention. There was something odd about it, beyond its size. The features certainly appeared African, and yet it struck her as off, somehow. She felt as if she had seen it before, but in an entirely different context.
“You’re trying to figure it out, aren’t you?”
She jumped slightly, turning towards the voice. A tall, dark-skinned man stood beside her, dressed in a navy suit that seemed totally inappropriate for the heat. “I’m sorry?”
He smiled, nodding towards the head. “You’ve seen it before, but you can’t remember where.”
It wasn’t a question, and his smile was knowing. Estelle nodded, her own smile a bit sheepish. “It’s driving me crazy, like a name that’s right on the tip of my tongue.”
In answer, the man pointed to a small placard mounted beneath the stone head, which she hadn’t noticed before:
FROM THE PEOPLE OF MEXICO
TO THE PEOPLE OF ETHIOPIA
2010
Estelle frowned, then laughed. “Oh, duh! The Olmec.” There were a number of colossal monuments just like it, scattered along the Gulf of Mexico, attributed to a culture known as the Olmec that predated both the Aztecs and the Maya.
“A replica, anyway. It was a gift, after Ethiopia lent financial aid to Mexico following a terrible earthquake years ago.”
She cocked her head, studying the stern stone visage. Now that she knew where it had come from, it placed her original assumptions in a new light. “I’ve seen pictures before, but I never realized – they don’t exactly look Mesoamerican, do they?”
“Who says the Olmec were Mesoamerican?” She looked at him, surprised, and he laughed. “Sorry. It just never gets old. Seeing people’s faces as they realize.”
“You’re telling me that the Olmec – what, came from Africa?”
“I’m not saying that, no. But the, ah, theory has been around for quite some time. And this monument has attracted no shortage of true believers, despite it being a replica.”
“I can imagine. The museum must get tired of explaining.”
“Oh, mostly we just like to watch the tourists try and figure it out.” He held out a hand. “Berhanu Abraham, Curator of the National Museum of Ethiopia.”
Estelle shook, feeling a bit foolish. His smile was friendly enough, but she couldn’t help feel a little taken advantage of. She opened her mouth to introduce herself, but he spoke again before she could.
“Estelle Kingston. I recognized you from your video.”
She blinked, her surprise deepening. “You’re Prester John?”
“After a fashion. I did not choose the name, but your father was fond of it. It, ah, appealed to his sense of humor.”
Estelle couldn’t help but snort at that. “No wonder I don’t get it.”
His grin widened. “Martin certainly had a unique perspective.” The smile fell slightly. “I was very sorry to hear of his passing. We may not have known each other for very long, but I feel we parted ways as friends.”
Estelle nodded, still trying to collect herself. “I’m glad to hear that. And I’m grateful that you agreed to meet with me, Mr. Abraham.”
“Berhanu, please. And it is my pleasure. I was hoping somebody from the project would reach out soon, though I never expected it to be you. Martin did not mention you were with Pharos.”
“That’s probably because I wasn’t. Not until he died.”
“Well. How can I be surprised? After all Martin told me, I suppose it could not have been anybody else who took up his mantle.”
“You spoke about me?”
“Only the good things.” Berhanu winked. “But yes, Martin was quite proud of you. I’m certain you knew that.”
“Of course,” Estelle said, nodding. She adjusted her glasses, mostly to hide the sudden stinging she’d felt in her eyes. Her father had talked about her while working with Pharos, yet still hadn’t seen fit to share the project with her.
Berhanu glanced around, maybe because he had noticed the sudden sparkling in her eyes. “Perhaps we should move to my office. We can speak in greater comfort there.”
“Lead the way.”
They abandoned the colossal head, making room for a pair of men to move in for a closer look. Estelle followed the curator across the grounds, his long stride forcing her to almost jog in order to keep up. “So,” he said conversationally, “how are you liking Addis Ababa so far?”
“Oh,” Estelle stammered, caught slightly off-guard. “It’s -- it’s nice! I mean, I’ve only seen it from the back of a car, but -- yeah.”
He glanced at her, smiling slightly. “But?”
Estelle flushed. “I just…well, I expected things to be a bit -- different? What with the-the conflict and everything.”
“Fortunately, the fighting has been contained to the north by the ENDF. Although there are protests almost daily here in Addis. They are always peaceful, of course.” Berhanu sighed. “But yes. International media does like to focus on the negatives. On the fact that Ethiopian is fighting Ethiopian, for reasons older than anyone alive today. Meanwhile, we remain the fastest-growing nation in Africa. Our economy is strong, poverty is down, and some of the most exciting STEM breakthroughs are being made in our universities.” He smiled a tad disparagingly. “But that does not make for good headlines, does it?”
He wasn’t chiding her, but Estelle felt ashamed of her assumptions nonetheless. It was true that she had expected to land in a city ravaged by war and inhabited by a population of refugees. Instead, she had found a prosperous city, much like any other in the world.
She decided to change the subject before she made any more faux pas. “So, why Prester John?”
Berhanu chuckled. “A joke. For your father, at least. Prester John was -- well, he didn’t actually exist. The name comes from a series of letters the Roman Catholic Church received during the 11th century, supposedly from a Christian king who called himself Prester John. His kingdom was said to be a magical place, even the Garden of Eden. Strangely, however, no trader or traveller had ever encountered this wonderful kingdom, and its borders were said to be somewhere in ‘India’ -- which, in those days, could have meant anywhere between China and East Africa. Despite this, the legend of Prester John persisted for several centuries. At one time the Papacy even thought the Great Khan himself might be Prester John -- at least, until the Mongol hordes finished their conquest of the Muslims and began sacking Eastern Europe.”
Estelle frowned. “I’m still not sure I see the joke.”
“A mythical, anonymous figure, believed by some to rule over a realm full of ancient wonders that may or may not have been located in Ethiopia? Isn’t that the perfect alias for someone like myself?”
“Oh. I… suppose so.”
Berhanu chuckled. “Martin had his idiosyncrasies.”
“You can say that again,” Estelle muttered. It hadn’t been uncommon for many of her father’s jokes and allusions to go completely over both her own head and her mother’s. It had given the two of them an extra, private sort of bond.
A small and far less imposing building came into view, tucked away behind the museum proper. “You will always know a curator if he works in conditions far poorer than the ones he sets aside for his exhibits.” Berhanu chuckled at his own joke.
“So you’re not actually with the government?”
“No, not really – although I do have some connections in the Ethiopian Tourism Organization, which have proven to be more useful than you might think.”
Berhanu Abraham’s quip was closer to the truth than a joke: his office was only a little bigger tha
n one of the elevators back at Radical Dynamics. An air conditioner kept it reasonably comfortable. Berhanu pulled out a chair for her, then closed the door and took his own place behind a desk cluttered with papers and empty water bottles. He offered her a fresh one, pulling it from a mini fridge squeezed between two sagging bookshelves.
Estelle drank gratefully. She became aware of Berhanu watching her and quickly set the bottle aside, wiping her mouth.
“So,” he began, folding his long-fingered hands on the desktop. “You said you are a recent addition to Pharos. May I ask…how much you know?”
“About the Ark, you mean?”
He nodded.
Estelle drew a breath. “Well…I mean, I remember it from Sunday School. And from my dad, obviously. He loved to speculate about where it might have gone.” She gave an apologetic shrug. “But I’m afraid I don’t really know the full story about how it came to be in Ethiopia.” If it even is in Ethiopia. Part of her was still having trouble buying that particular detail.
“It certainly is a story,” Berhanu said enthusiastically, eyes lighting up. He spun in his chair and selected a thick tome from one of his bookshelves, setting in carefully on the desk. “Its definitive version can be found here.” He tapped the book. “In the Kebra Nagast. It is a collection of oral histories and mythologies, written down by Ethiopian chroniclers in the 14th century. Its primary purpose is to trace the genealogy of the Solomonic dynasty in Ethiopia.”
Estelle, who had been studying the book’s handsome leather cover, looked up at him in surprise. “As in King Solomon? I didn’t know he had any sort of lineage in Ethiopia.”
“Well, that is really where our story starts. You know of the Queen of Sheba, yes? In Ethiopia she is called Queen Makeda, and -- according to tradition -- she ruled over the ancient empire of Ethiopia, which was then called the Kingdom of Axum. Her affair with King Solomon produced a son, Prince Menelik. Once the boy had grown into a man, he traveled back to Jerusalem, bearing a ring the king had given to his mother as proof of his identity. Solomon, delighted to be reunited with his son, took Menelik into his court, where he was anointed by High Priest Zadok. In this way, he was made an official member of the Davidic royal line. This was the true purpose of his visit, you see -- to establish a link with Israel by blood. His intent was to return to the Kingdom of Axum in the company of the first sons of Jewish nobility, so that they may marry his kin and reinforce the alliance between the two kingdoms. Instead, he left Jerusalem with something even more precious: the Ark of the Covenant.”
“Solomon just gave it to him?”
“I’m afraid he had little choice. Before departing, you see, Menelik entreated the priests of the great temple to make an offering to God in his name. To the great surprise of everyone, God spoke back, telling Menelik to bring the Ark to Axum, to safeguard it against the enemies of Israel. This, as you can imagine, did not go over quite so well with the priesthood. But, ultimately, King Solomon had the final say. And so the Ark was relocated.”
Berhanu opened the Kebra Nagast as he spoke, turning it for her to see. It was a full-page illustration, in what looked like a Medieval Ethiopian style. A group of travellers was shown, crossing a body of water with a large chest in their company. It seemed to be surrounded by an aura of golden light.
“And my father knew about this,” she said softly, still studying the picture.
Berhanu chuckled. “Well, it isn’t exactly a secret. The story of Menelik, the Ark, and the Solomonic dynasty has been important to Ethiopian identity for generations. For a long time Ethiopia had its own community of Jews, said to be descended from the sons of Moses himself. It was these same Ethiopian Jews who travelled with Menelik I to Jerusalem and back, bringing the Ark with them. A long line of emperors and kings claiming to be descendants of Menelik have ruled over the country ever since, as recently as Emperor Haile Selassie I, whose reign ended in 1974.”
“So it’s an open secret that the Ark has just been sitting here, all this time?”
“In the Church of Our Lady Mary of Zion, yes. It was built during the 4th century CE, under the reign of King Ezana of Axum, and has been reconstructed several times since. Much like the Temple of Solomon, Our Lady Mary of Zion was built specifically to house the Ark. As such, it is the single most important shrine in all of Ethiopian Christianity.”
“But…” Estelle leaned back from the book. “How is it that something like this could just…just be here? I always thought the Ark of the Covenant was this great big mystery. I wasn’t even certain it was real, to be honest. If it’s been in Axum all this time, then why doesn’t the rest of the world know?”
“They do know, Estelle. Or rather, they know the stories. But for many -- including in Ethiopia -- it remains a matter of faith. Only the Kohen, the guardian of the Ark sanctuary at Our Lady Mary of Zion, is ever permitted to view the Ark. At least, that was how it was for hundreds of years,” Berhanu went on. “Until your father arrived.”
She straightened in her chair. “He was allowed to see it? How?”
“It was a long and difficult process. Martin initially brought his proposal to Parliament, but I’m afraid few could spare the time or attention to listen. His proposal was eventually passed down to my level. In addition to my role as curator, you see, I am the President and founder of Yetarīki T’ibek’a Budini -- the Historical Preservation Committee. It is not as impressive as it sounds,” he added, smiling. “There are only four of us. When the terrorists were pushed back to Tigray and it became apparent that they would not simply crawl into their holes, the Committee came together with the purpose of saving the many historical sites and artifacts that exist in the region. So far, we have had very little success, for many of the same reasons that obstructed your father. I am certain that he was directed to the Committee in hopes that he would share our fated obscurity and remain harmless. And, I must admit, when he came to me and told me of Pharos, of what Radical Dynamics was proposing, I was initially skeptical.”
“You didn’t believe the Ark existed?”
Berhanu made an uncertain motion with his head. “Let’s say the authenticity of the object kept in Axum was up for debate. In truth, there are many historical inaccuracies to be found in the Menelik story. It was the subject of my doctoral thesis, and while I cannot deny that there was a Menelik I, the rest of the details are far less certain. So, when you father arrived, I thought him nothing more than an eccentric western writer, hoping to crack the greatest mystery of our time. I was ready to let him down easy, as it were, with the facts about Menelik and Queen Makeda. But to my surprise, he was ten steps ahead of me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Martin had uncovered something in his research. A document that shed new light on the disappearance of the Ark from Scripture.”
He opened a drawer and pulled out a single sheet of paper, sliding it towards her. Estelle looked down and felt a small lurch in her stomach as she read what were unquestionably her father’s own words, annotating a larger document:
Text copied from an artifact in the archives of a private collector in Scotland. The original was written in Standard Biblical Hebrew on tanned sheepskin. Due to the condition of the vellum, I was unable to obtain a sample for dating, but the orthography, phonology, and dialect correspond with the 6th-5th centuries BCE forms of Hebrew. The direct reference to the prophet Jeremiah also helps date this artifact to the mid-to-late 6th century. Despite the unusual prose, I believe this to be an authentic discovery.
There was a photo of the original document, a patch of crumbling, curling leather pocked with holes. The ink on it had faded almost completely.
“Scotland,” Estelle repeated softly. She remembered -- that had been her father’s last trip before Africa, almost eight months ago. He’d brought her a wool sweater.
“I do not know who the private collector was,” Berhanu said. “Apparently they insisted on anonymity. But I am inclined to agree with Martin’s assessment, which makes what the
text says all the more significant.”
She read on:
What follows is a translation. Certain words, marked by brackets, had faded or otherwise were rendered indecipherable by the decay of the vellum. In these instances, I have supplied my best guess:
“Today, I abandoned my people, perhaps as Adonai has already abandoned us. I write this for myself, a [testimony?] and a trail for others to follow, should I fail the task my [teacher?] has charged me with.
[Brother?] Jeremiah. Have I abandoned him too? I smell smoke on the night wind and know it is my home that is burning. The valley of [hell -- Gehinnom] ablaze. That [he, formal] urged me to leave, gave me holy purpose, does nothing to quiet the [lamentations?]
[Indecipherable -- a significant portion of the vellum has rotted away here.]
[…urge/suggest haste.] Mizraim [Egypt] is so far, and yet already I am tired. How can one man, one servant, be expected to [save?] a people?
I look back and see [fire?] A false dawn, painted with the blood of my people. Perhaps we have been abandoned, but there is still hope for redemption. The Throne of Adonai must be returned. Jerusalem must be [saved.]
I must not fail. I will not.”
Estelle could feel the regret and anguish of the person that had written it, as well as their hope. She turned the page over, but that was it. She looked up to find Berhanu watching her. “I’m not sure I understand. The Throne of Adonai -- is that the Ark?”
He nodded. “Another name for it, and perhaps a more apt one. The Israelites believed the Ark of the Covenant to be God’s literal presence on Earth. His throne.”
“So whoever wrote this was looking for it. Which means it was taken from Jerusalem. By Menelik?”
“Unlikely. If this was written between the 5th and 6th centuries BCE, then that would place it long after the reign of Solomon and Makeda. It would also correspond with the first destruction of Jerusalem and the Babylonian exile, which I believe is referenced in the text. A false dawn, painted with the blood of my people. And then, of course, there is Jeremiah.”
“The prophet?”
A Covenant of Thieves Page 24