by Amanda Vink
Frank’s eyes flicked to her impatiently. “Babylon was the capital city of the Babylonian Empire. It most certainly existed—but not everyone agrees that the gardens were real.”
“Hmph,” Marjorie grunted. She sat back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest.
Amna ignored their babbling and spoke in hushed tones. Her expression was serious, and her eyes flashed.
“She thinks we should focus on opening the box,” Frank said. Surprisingly, he then proceeded to pull a lock pick from his supplies. Marjorie stared at him, amused. What else had he brought along with him? “Maybe we can force it open,” he said.
He ran the metal along the sides of the box, searching for a way to pry. Finding a spot, he positioned his other hand so he could apply the correct amount of pressure. Just as he was about to continue, Hamid flew at him and grabbed the box. “You can’t open it yet,” he pleaded. His eyes looked wild.
“Whoa!” Frank said. His hands lifted into the air in a fit of protest. Clearly, he didn’t like being pushed around. But, noticing the panicked expression in Hamid’s eyes, he lowered his arms. “Okay, it’s alright.”
“Do you know something, Hamid?” asked Marjorie.
The boy looked everywhere but at them. “Mama said that if you try to open the box without the right key, you’ll destroy it.”
Marjorie shot a glance at Frank, and then she focused her eyes back on Hamid. That funny feeling returned—the one she had felt when Hamid first snuck into their adventure. Her eyes narrowed at the boy. “How do you know that, Hamid?”
Finally, he broke. Tears welled in his eyes, and then burst over his cheeks. He said something in Arabic, blurred by emotion.
“Tell us,” she said.
“Mama said to come with you,” he finally sobbed. “She wanted me to find the box—and to go to the Tree.”
Frank shifted, and then he stood up. He put his hands on his head, his elbows sticking out like arrows on each side of him. “Can’t trust that woman for anything,” he muttered.
“Okay,” said Marjorie, her voice trying to soothe the boy. “Do you know where the Tree is, Hamid?”
“It’s between the two rivers,” he said.
He looked down at the map and stretched his finger over the place they needed to go—at the base of the Euphrates and the Tigris.
Frank’s expression clouded over. “You really believe it’s there?” He looked doubtful, his eyes running along the map where the two rivers created an upside-down triangle before coming together just before the Persian Gulf.
“I’m certain,” Hamid said. His eyes found Marjorie’s then. “Are you angry with me for lying?”
Maybe she should’ve been, but she wasn’t. She smoothed back his hair from his forehead. “No, Hamid. It’s alright. You were listening to your mother.”
His face relaxed after a long sniff.
“Go to bed,” she said. “We’ve got a long journey ahead of us.”
Hamid settled back into his spot among the cushions and blankets. But Marjorie could feel his eyes on her for a long time. She tried to ignore him so that he would go to sleep, but he didn’t relent. “What is it?” she demanded.
When he spoke, his voice was small but firm. “You still don’t believe, but you should.”
He rolled over and was quiet. By the steady rise and fall of his body, Marjorie thought he may be asleep already.
Marjorie thought about his words. To believe in something as far-fetched as the Tree of Life existing in modern times went against everything she stood for—the truth in what you can see and touch. Learning about photography had taught her that the world was made up of light and dark, that anything that didn’t look real was just a manipulation of the human eye and senses. Yet, she had already been through so much. The idea that there were things she couldn’t explain out there, especially in light of her father’s death, was—she had to admit—tempting. Maybe he was out there somewhere, still, guiding her. Maybe the Tree really did exist?
She could’ve laughed at herself. She was so tired she would believe anything right now.
Amna began clearing the coffee cups, and the sound of ceramic clanging together brought Marjorie out of her thoughts. She moved to help Amna, but the woman reached a hand out, stopping her. Clearly she doesn’t want help.
“Will you ask her if she would consider joining us?” Marjorie asked Frank. She hated to think of the woman alone and vulnerable. If their enemies discovered her involvement, they would do unspeakable things to her. Marjorie didn’t want to think about it, but violent images came to mind.
Frank asked the question, but Amna shook her head, resolute. “She says there is too much for her to do here in Marvdasht. She will not leave her work.”
Amna came back to the table, reaching for the lantern. Marjorie placed her hand on the woman’s arm. “Thank you, my friend.”
Chapter Nineteen
Marjorie startled awake. It was still dark outside, but the gas lantern positioned on the small table next to her inside still burned. It cast long shadows against the wall, reminding Marjorie of childhood monsters. Her heart raced, only calming when she recognized Frank kneeling over her. Behind him stood Amna, her expression fearful. Marjorie sat up quickly.
“Taavi came and left,” Frank explained. “They’ve discovered the missing map, and Seif is going crazy trying to find it. Taavi said he’s questioning everyone, having houses searched. It’s only a matter of time before they get here. He risked his life to come and warn us.”
Marjorie looked around for Taavi, but he was nowhere in the small room.
“He left already, and we need to leave as soon as possible,” Frank said, as if reading her thoughts. His voice was soothing, despite the tense circumstances.
Marjorie sent a prayer for Taavi to get home quickly and safely. She pushed the blankets off and collected her things. While Frank woke Hamid, Marjorie rolled the map and put it in its carrying case. Amna wrapped up the box in a white linen kitchen towel and handed it to Marjorie, who carefully placed it in her rucksack. She slung it over her shoulder, noting how heavy it was getting.
Marjorie hurried outside, where she was surprised to find two camels tied to part of the house. They munched on some grains, content and knowing nothing of the danger around them. In fact, they barely stopped to look at her as she approached them.
“Taavi left them for us,” Frank explained, stepping out into the night.
“How can we ever repay him?” she asked. She had already left a sizable wad of cash for Amna, Taavi, and Baraz. But what they had done for her, Frank, and Hamid, she knew she could not repay. She didn’t have anything else on her of value. If I get out of this, I’ll find a way.
They climbed onto the saddles, the camels still unfazed by the whole ordeal.
“Be careful, my friends,” Amna said. This time she spoke in English. Marjorie’s eyes widened, and she wondered just how much Amna had understood this whole time. The woman’s eyes twinkled, a mischievous look passing over her face. She raised a hand, a farewell.
***
It was difficult to cross Persia. The day was hot, exceedingly hot. The two camels carried just enough supplies, and once they started, they had to keep moving. Hamid sat in front of Marjorie in the saddle, and with every jerk he nestled a little closer into her. Finally, his body grew limp and he fell asleep. For Marjorie, sleeping was uncomfortable. She tried not to think about it, settling into a strange state of dozing. But her mind worked.
Each step away from Persepolis was one step farther from Seif—and one step closer to the supposed location of the Tree of Life. Marjorie had to admit that she was warming to the idea. All these clues and strange happenings could mean something, couldn’t they? She thought about how she felt when she had held the box inside Darius’s tomb—warm and foggy, almost like in a dream. Even still, she could sense a presence acutely. She fought off the feeling of wanting to hold the box again.
“You okay?” Frank asked. He direct
ed his camel toward them, slowing the beast down and falling next to Marjorie and Hamid.
Marjorie blinked and adjusted her veil—a gift from Amna—over her head so it better blocked out the sun’s rays. She squinted at Frank in the bright light. “Fine, why do you ask?”
“You look pensive, yeah?”
Marjorie noticed the glimmer of concern in his eyes and was grateful. “Are you doing alright?” she asked.
He smirked and pulled a face. “To tell you the truth, my rear end is aching something fierce.”
Marjorie couldn’t help but laugh, which woke Hamid. He tried to stretch. Marjorie noticed him blinking, looking around at their surroundings. The terrain was changeable, the strongest feature being the mountain range.
“The Zagros Mountains,” Frank explained. “They cut northwest across the region and act as a natural boundary—different cultures have grown up on the varying sides. Once we get a little further in, it would be smart for us to try to hire a plane.”
“A plane?” This was the first time Hamid had come out of his funk since leaving Amna that morning. Now his eyes grew bright with excitement.
“That’s right,” said Frank, his tone indulgent.
“I’ve never ridden in a plane before,” said Hamid. “What is it like, flying?”
“You almost feel weightless,” said Marjorie, remembering her first experience in an airplane a few years before just outside of Buffalo. “Everything on the earth looks small—people become the size of ants!”
“Ants!” Hamid gasped and looked toward the sky. Marjorie guessed he was trying to imagine the sensation.
“But we have a way yet to go,” Frank reminded them. “We couldn’t leave by plane—too conspicuous.”
“I want to fly an airplane one day,” Hamid said, slumping over the saddle and dreaming.
“You could,” Marjorie replied. “It’s not very hard if you know what to do.”
“Do you know how to fly an airplane?” Hamid asked, sitting back up. He turned around to look at her as best as he could, his eyes wide.
“As a matter of fact, I do. My friend Shorty Barns taught me. He owns a Ford-Stout 2-AT.”
Well, I almost know how to fly. Marjorie thought back to that adventure. Shorty taught her everything except landing the plane. Still, she was a good study.
They walked on. It was slow going over the terrain. Frank’s camel was a sweet beast, though lazy. When they stopped to rest, the camel refused to start again. They stopped during the hottest part of the day and set up a makeshift tent, just big enough to allow them some reprieve from the baking sun.
Marjorie felt her face turning red, and it began to burn. There was not much she could do for it except cover it with more of her veil. She closed her eyes and listened to the desert. Its sounds were so unlike anything she had experienced before. It was desolate, isolating. She found comfort in it, though. It had its own way of life. Small creatures that made the desert their home had to adapt to it in ways she had never considered.
She thought about her life back in Buffalo, about the blankets of snow that came in December, Christmas in the city, the lights in shop windows flickering. Her friends right at that moment were probably enjoying the breeze off the lake or sitting in their gardens drinking tea and talking business and politics, the only things that seemed real in that area of the world. In the desert, she knew these things were important too. But here she could also allow her mind to quiet, to drift in and out of consciousness. To be.
It was still hot when Frank shook her awake. “We had better get moving again,” he said. “It’s only a matter of time before Seif sends a search party after us. I don’t think we’ll be lucky again if that happens. Not out here.”
“You’re right,” Marjorie said.
They woke Hamid, who was cranky in the afternoon sun. With two fists, he rubbed his eyes. “It’s hot.”
“It is,” she agreed. “That’s why we sleep during midday.”
“Can we sleep a little longer?” asked Hamid.
“I’m afraid not. We still have a good distance to go.”
That evening, the small group stopped and made camp. They set a fire and made some food—lentils with a handful of spices. For Marjorie, the experience of making her own food was exciting. She could cook, but she rarely did. She supposed she had grown used to having this task done for her. When I get home, she thought, I’ll do my own cooking once in a while.
The red lentils cooked quickly—it only took about twenty minutes for them to turn to mush in the pot, which they had suspended over the fire. An earthy smell lingered.
Hamid didn’t much care for the lentils—he had only pushed them around his small bowl.
“You need to eat,” Frank told him. Marjorie laughed—mostly because she wasn’t expecting them to have to do any parenting on this trip. Frank looked at her, cocking an eyebrow.
Hamid shrugged. “I’m not hungry.”
“Suit yourself!” Marjorie said. “More for me.”
She made a show of taking another scoop. But she left some in the bowl for him. Later, she saw him going back for more.
When they finished their meal, they settled back. The night took over the camp, the darkness filling in the gaps. The camels close by stirred. It was a comforting feeling, despite being all alone in the wilderness and likely being followed by men who would kill them if given the chance. Marjorie pushed those thoughts away, trying to stay centered in the present. Hamid was soon dozing, wrapped tightly in a blanket near the fire.
Marjorie tried to sleep, but she couldn’t. She tossed and turned for an hour, but her mind kept rolling over different possibilities. Finally, she sat up. “I can’t sleep,” she said to Frank. “You might as well try to. I’ll keep watch.”
But Frank didn’t move. Instead, he was busy examining the bull figurine, which he had taken out of the rucksack. He held it up in the light of the fire, his eyes roaming its contours.
“What are you going to do when all of this is over?” Marjorie asked.
He looked into the distance. “I’ll probably stay in Egypt. I’ve been there so long it’s started to feel like home.” He shrugged. “Maybe some historical institution will want a dogged Irishman somewhere. Wouldn’t it be something to work for a museum? Back at Trinity, I dreamed of one day becoming the director of a fancy museum—I dreamed of priceless artifacts in basements, of arranging them so people could understand how we came to be here.”
“Sounds great,” Marjorie said. Her fingers distractedly picked at a thread on her clothing. “But to be honest, I’d much rather be in the field. That’s one of the reasons I like photography so much. With a camera in my hand, the world feels simple.”
Frank turned his eyes on her and was silent for some time. Then, he asked, “You still don’t think any of this is real?”
“If I’m being honest, I don’t know any more,” Marjorie said. “It seems so extraordinary. But it’s hard for me to believe that my father laid down his life. It makes him just another one of so many people dying for no reason.”
“It’s not without reason,” Frank said. “Your father died believing in the very best of people—like you. I would say that’s something worth living for. My head tells me that I’m foolish to believe any of this could be a possibility. It tells me that I’m an eejit to have gotten caught up in such a strange turn of events, in the middle of some political game of cat and mouse. I often doubt myself, but I can’t help believing in things greater than us.”
He looked almost depressed, and Marjorie wanted to soothe him. She got up and, wrapping her blanket about her shoulders, made her way to where he was and sat down.
“What does your heart say?” she asked.
“Well, my heart tells me that anything’s possible.” He said this quietly, and then Marjorie felt something else in the air. A spark, a collection of starlight. Frank leaned into her, his lips almost brushing hers.
But then, Hamid stirred in his sleep, and Frank and Marjorie
broke apart, blushing in the firelight.
“You better get some sleep,” she told him.
He hesitated, and for a moment, Marjorie thought he would say something else. But instead, he made his way over to his blankets and crawled underneath. “Goodnight, Miss Hart.”
“You can call me Marjorie,” she said. It was almost an afterthought.
He opened his eyes and watched her in the glow of the fire. “Goodnight, Marjorie.”
Chapter Twenty
The next evening, they reached a small village at the base of the mountains. Behind them stretched a long valley. There was a charter service there—which amounted to one man with one cargo plane. The man’s name was Gian DuPont. An American of French descent, he had been in the region since the Great War. With no other options, they hired his services, and he agreed to take them to the Kingdom of Iraq the next morning.
The plane resembled its pilot: a little rough around the edges. DuPont appeared in his mid-forties, and he most certainly needed a shave. But he had an amiable face, and he was quick to laugh.
Despite herself, Marjorie liked him. She didn’t trust him—but then, she didn’t trust anyone outside their immediate group. Yet she decided that she liked him, and that counted for something. Besides, they needed to make haste, and he could help them do that. She had a feeling that Seif and his men would soon be on their trail.
“Just the three of you, eh?” said DuPont when they’d first approached him. “Not a problem.”
“Thanks,” Frank responded, handing over some banknotes—half now, and half when they arrived at their destination. “I learned that from an American,” he murmured to Marjorie under his breath.
She raised an eyebrow at that, not particularly impressed. “Really?” she said, humoring him. She turned to DuPont. “We’d like to leave as early as possible.”
DuPont grunted, then reached under the plane, checking something. “I will have the plane fueled and ready to leave in the morning.”
With the deal made, they rented a room, just a place to lay their heads that evening, and went to find somewhere to eat. The village had a public house, which provided warm meals: rice with bits of carrot, orange peel, and pistachios mixed in. These ingredients still had a bite to them. The dish tasted sour—but using the dollop of yogurt left on the side, Marjorie found herself enjoying it. It was a simple—but good—meal.