“What do we do now, Petros?”
“Let’s get some dinner and rest. We’ll come back late tonight and find out if you’re allowed inside.”
MAYA DIDN’T WANT to eat at a hotel where they might encounter tourists, so Petros drove to a bar and restaurant outside the city. After dinner, the place began to get crowded and two musicians stepped onto a small stage. One man carried a drum while his friend had a single-string instrument called a masinko that was played with a curved bow like a violin. They performed a few songs, but no one paid attention until a little boy led a blind woman into the room.
The woman had a massive body and long hair. She wore a white dress with a full skirt and several copper and silver necklaces. Sitting on a chair in the middle of the stage, she spread her legs slightly as if anchoring herself to the ground. Then she picked up a microphone and began to sing in a powerful voice that reached every part of the room.
“This is a praise singer. A very famous person here in the north,” Petros explained. “If you pay her, she’ll sing something nice about you.”
The drummer kept the beat going as he circulated through the crowd. He would accept money from a customer, learn a few things about him, and then return to the stage, where he whispered the information into the blind woman’s ear. Without missing a beat, she would sing about the honored man-lyrics that caused the man’s friends to laugh and pound the table with their hands.
After an hour of this entertainment, the band took a short break and the drummer approached Petros. “Perhaps we could sing for you and your friends.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“No, wait,” Maya said when the drummer began to walk away. As a Harlequin, she had lived a secret life under a series of false names. If she died, there would be no memorial to mark her passing. “My name is Maya,” she told the drummer, and handed him a wad of Ethiopian currency. “Perhaps your friend could make up a song for me.”
The drummer whispered in the blind woman’s ear and then returned to their table. “I am very sorry. Please excuse me. But she wants to speak to you.”
While people ordered more drinks and the bar girls wandered around looking for lonely men, Maya stepped onto the stage and sat on a folding chair. The drummer knelt beside the two women and translated as the singer pushed her thumb against Maya’s wrist like a doctor taking her pulse.
“Are you married?” the singer asked.
“No.”
“Where is your love?”
“I’m searching for him.”
“Is the journey difficult?”
“Yes. Very difficult.”
“I know this. I can feel this. You must cross the dark river.” The singer touched Maya’s ears, lips, and eyelids. “May the saints protect you from what you must hear and taste and see.”
The woman began singing without a microphone as Maya returned to the table. Surprised, the masinko player hurried back to the stage. The song for Maya was different from the praises that had been given earlier in the evening. The words came sad and slow and deep. The bar girls stopped laughing; the drinkers put down their beers. Even the waiters paused in the middle of the room, money still clutched in their hands.
And then, just as suddenly as it started, the song was over, and everything was the same as before. Petros’s eyes glistened with tears, but he turned away so that Maya couldn’t see him. He threw some money on the table and spoke in a harsh voice. “Come on. It’s time to get out of here.” Maya didn’t ask him for a translation. For once in her life, she had been given her own song. That was enough.
IT WAS ALMOST one o’clock in the morning when they returned to the compound and parked in the courtyard. Most of the area was filled with shadows, and they stood under the only light. Wearing his black suit and necktie, Simon Lumbroso looked somber as he stared at the sanctuary. Petros, the smaller man, seemed nervous. He ignored the sanctuary and watched the church.
This time, everything happened much faster. First the young men appeared with their rifles; then the church door opened and the guardian came out, followed by the other priests. Everyone appeared very solemn, and it was impossible to predict the old man’s decision.
The guardian stopped on the pathway and raised his head as Petros approached him. Maya was expecting a special ceremony-some kind of proclamation-but the guardian simply tapped his walking staff on the ground and said a few words in Amharic. Petros bowed and hurried back to the Land Rover.
“The saints have smiled on us. He has decided that you are a Tekelakai. You have permission to enter the sanctuary.”
Maya slung the talisman sword over her shoulder and followed the guardian to the sanctuary. A priest with a kerosene lantern unlocked the outer gate, and they went inside to the fenced-in area. The guardian’s face was a mask without emotion, but it was clear that he felt pain whenever he moved his body. He climbed one step to the front door of the sanctuary, stopped to compose himself, and then took another step forward.
“Only Weyzerit Maya and the Tebaki will go inside the sanctuary,” Petros said. “Everyone else stays here.”
“Thank you for your help, Petros.”
“It was an honor to meet you, Maya. Good luck with your journey.”
Maya was going to offer her hand to Simon Lumbroso, but the Roman stepped forward and embraced her. This was the most difficult moment of all. Some small part of her wanted to stay within that circumference of comfort and safety.
“Thank you, Simon.”
“You’re as brave as your father. I know he’d be proud of you.”
A priest lifted up the red plastic tarp, and the guardian unlocked the door to the sanctuary. The old man placed the key ring inside his robes and accepted the kerosene lantern. He grunted a few words in Amharic and gestured to Maya. Follow me.
The door was opened very slowly until there was a two-foot gap. The guardian and Maya slipped into the building and the door was shut behind them. She found herself in an anteroom about twelve feet square. The only light in the room came from the lantern. It swung back and forth as the guardian shuffled across the concrete floor to a second door. Maya looked around her and saw that the history of the Ark had been painted on the walls. Israelites with the skin color of Ethiopians followed the Ark during the long journey through the Sinai desert. The Ark was carried into battle against the Philistines and stored within Solomon’s temple.
Now the second door was open, and she accompanied the guardian into a much larger room. The Ark had been placed in the middle of the room and was covered with an embroidered cloth. Twelve earthenware pots surrounded it, their lids sealed with wax. Maya remembered Petros explaining that this consecrated water was removed once a year and given to women who were unable to conceive.
The priest kept glancing at Maya as if he expected her to do something violent. He placed the lantern on the floor, walked over to the Ark, and removed the cloth. The Ark was a wooden box completely covered with gold leaf. It stood up to her knees and was about four feet long. There were poles on both sides held by rings, and the gold figures of two cherubim were kneeling on the lid. These angelic beings had the bodies of men and the heads and wings of eagles. Their wings glowed brightly in the lantern light.
Maya approached the Ark and knelt before it. She gripped the two cherubim, removed the lid, and placed it on the embroidered cloth. Be careful, she told herself. No reason to move quickly. Leaning forward, she looked inside the Ark and found nothing but the acacia-wood interior. It’s nothing, she thought. A complete fraud. This wasn’t an access point to another realm-just an old wooden box protected by superstition.