He was, I think, telling me what he had been through as much as he was answering the abbot, and my stomach turned at the picture. To be strung up with one’s arms together so as to make turning the head impossible; to stare at a blank wall and have pain inflicted without even seeing it coming, by a person—no, the abbot was right, this was not a person—by a creature who was no more than an accented voice, an elusive drift of odours, a step of shoes, and a rustle of clothing.
The abbot blinked his lizard blink. “Your ears and nose told you all this?”
“My mind told me this,” Holmes replied coldly.
“God has given you a great gift, my son.” It was Holmes’ turn to blink. “The man is, as you say, tall, perhaps an inch less tall than you, and heavier, but not fat. His hair is black and beginning to thin, his skin slightly swarthy, his eyes dark. His beard was full but neatly trimmed. Not a distinctive face, but his mouth betrays him. His lips are too heavy. His is a greedy mouth, never satisfied.”
“Would he appear European, if he had no beard?”
“No,” the abbot replied. “Not the least bit.”
So, this was not the man who had spoken with the mullah in Jaffa.
“Any scars, marks, features that stand out?”
The abbot thought. “A small scar, here.” He laid his finger at the outside edge of his left eye. “And a mark, a mole, just past his beard here.” He raised his chin and tapped the right side of his throat. “Also, I believe he was accustomed to wearing a ring on his right hand, although he did not have it on while he was here. There was a light patch on the finger,” he said.
“Abbot Mattias, you would have made a good detective,” said Holmes.
“And you, my son, in very different circumstances, might have made a good abbot.”
I had not thought to hear Holmes laugh for a long time. The sound cheered me a great deal.
The half-moon lit our way as we followed a sleepy brother up a path to a pair of cells—enlarged caves, in the hillside. The night was cold, but heavy wraps made it bearable, and I fell asleep quickly.
During the night a noise outside my monastic cell woke me: Holmes moving past, outlined against the moonlit sky. I slid from my pallet and went out onto the pathway, where I watched him make his way down from our quarters to the central portion of the monastery. He stopped outside the abbot’s door, and must have tapped or called quietly, because after a minute the door opened and Holmes went inside. He was still there an hour later when I went back to sleep.
I did not awaken until the sun crept through the cave entrance. I knocked a scorpion out of my boots, fixed my turban firmly in place, and came out to find Holmes sitting on the ground in front of his cell, watching the small signs of life in the wadi before us. He looked rested: the bruises were fading, his eyes were clear again. I sat down ten feet away from him, and considered asking him about his midnight visit to the abbot. If it was about information, it clearly had no urgency about it, but there was also the distinct possibility that he had gone to the man for what could only be called pastoral care. In that case it would be best to pretend I had slept through his nocturnal excursion. We sat together in the morning sun and meditated on the life of the Wadi Qelt.
The sun heated the rocks around us, causing a smell of warm dust to rise up and mingle with the crisp odour of the wet stones of the stream below. Our clothing smelt, too, although I was becoming accustomed to that, and the air moving down the valley brought with it a hint of incense from the chapel, accompanied now and then by the rhythm of chanted prayer. Bells had sounded earlier, the dull clatter so different from the resonant English bells; now I heard a tiny scuffle coming from beneath a bare shrub, which proved to be a small brown bird scratching in the dry leaf fall for its breakfast. Other birds squabbled and gossipped in the fronds of a palm tree, an eagle rode the heating air high over our heads, a pair of lizards came out to bask on the rocks, and once I caught a glimpse of a turbanned head passing by on the track on the opposite rim of the wadi. I could begin to understand the appeal of a monk’s cell in the desert. If only the vow did not include obedience…
Breakfast was bread and sour milk and dried apricots, and afterwards we went for a final interview with the abbot. He greeted us by holding out a letter.
“This is to my brethren in the monastery in Jerusalem. Would you please see that the abbot there receives it?”
“Certainly,” said Holmes, tucking it inside his robe.
“In it I mention the two of you. As you appear, shall I say, rather than as you are. It is possible you may need assistance in the city. That letter will ensure that you receive it.”
“Thank you, Abbot.”
“I wish you good hunting, my son. I shall pray for you.”
“Thank you.”
“And you, my silent daughter. Uncharacteristically silent, I suspect.” The gleam in the old man’s eyes was unmistakable now; it was nearly a twinkle. “I give you my blessing.”
I hated to disappoint him, but I had to tell him gently, “I am not a Christian, Abbot Mattias.”
“God does not mind, my child. He was, after all, your God before He was ours.”
“In that case I accept your blessing, with thanks.”
“And now you have before you a long and dusty walk. I have arranged safe passage for you. Not, I fear, an armoured vehicle; you will have to walk. However, you need not worry about being seen by your enemy. Gasim!” he called.
The door behind him opened and a Bedouin came in, looking enough like Ali to be a younger brother. “This is Gasim ibn Rahail.” the abbot told us in Arabic. “His people are on their way up to Jerusalem. You will go with them. Gasim, these are my friends. Care for them as brothers.”
“Your word, Holy Father,” the young man said, and gave us a grin that made me wonder if he spoke in mockery. It was, however, merely affection untempered by awe, and it suited us very well. We took our leave of Abbot Mattias and his monastery, and turned our faces, at long last, to Jerusalem.
EIGHTEEN
ع
Jerusalem, the centre of three religions, is not at all a town for amusement.
—
BAEDEKER’S
Palestine and Syria
,
1912 EDITION
We came to the city in the afternoon, climbing up the dusty road from Jericho in the company of six tents of Bedouins, ten camels, and an uncountable number of goats and fat-tailed sheep. The Bedu chose to stop the night on an over-grazed flat to the east of the city near a well called the Apostle’s Spring, the water of which was possessed of numerous small red wriggling creatures. After we had drunk a final cup of coffee with the sheikh (Gasim’s father), been presented with all his camels, goats, and horses, given our own meagre possessions to him in return, then reciprocally given back each other’s gifts with lengthy and painfully gracious protestations of unworthiness, we thanked him for his hospitality by declaring our worthless selves his slaves for eternity, and finally took our leave.
Walking towards the setting sun, we came to the Mount of Olives, a great sprawl of tombs and gravestones, and there at our feet lay Jerusalem.