“Will we see him?”
“Anen?”
“No-I mean Jesus. Will we see Jesus?”
“No, we won’t see him.”
“Why not?”
“Well, because Jesus lived in another place and time from the one we are going to visit.”
He watched his son puzzling over this and resisted the urge to say more. It had long been an ambition to find the line of force that might lead to the Holy Land in the time of Christ. He had yet to find it, but knew it was out there somewhere. The search went on, and Arthur contented himself with the thought that his relentless mapping of the cosmos would eventually yield the location. To this end, Arthur still faithfully recorded the coordinates of his travels on his skin through the tattoos he gathered and meticulously refined with every journey into the ether. He watched his son eating the barley cake. One day soon, he would share with Benedict the meaning of the strange runes that covered his torso, and how to read them-a secret known only to one other: his own dear wife, Xian- Li.
“How long will it take?”
“To go to Egypt?” guessed Arthur. “Not long. As I told you, it happens in the blink of an eye. It is travelling to the jumping-off place that takes all the time. The jumping-off place for this journey is very close to our farm.”
“Black Mixen Tump,” offered Ben, stuffing the remainder of his barley cake into his mouth.
“That is right.” Arthur scrutinised his son closely. “How do you know about that?”
“I heard you and Mother talking,” Ben told him. “Can I have another barley cake?”
“Later. Have a little cheese or an egg instead.” Arthur dug into the bag and brought out a lump of cheese wrapped in muslin and a clutch of eggs boiled in the shell. He offered an egg to his son and took one for himself. He tapped it on the window ledge of the carriage and began to peel it, tossing the shards out the window.
They talked of what they would see in Egypt and how ley travellers were expected to comport themselves on their journeys. “We must always be respectful of the people we meet. It is their world, and we are guests. We never do anything to call unwanted attention to ourselves. We try to be good guests. We mind our manners.” He regarded the boy, willing him to understand. “Promise me you’ll always mind your manners, son.”
“I promise, Papa.”
“Good,” said Arthur. “Now look outside. You can see Black Mixen Tump from here.”
The great hulking eminence of the Stone Age mound stood out as an ominous dark shadow. A hill in a landscape of hills, it was a place apart, sacred to the ancients who had built it. Early-morning mist wreathed the broad base and swirled up along the winding trail leading up the steep slope to the strangely flattened top. The Three Trolls-the trio of great old oak trees guarding the top-stood out against the greying dawn sky. Black Mixen still kindled in Arthur a singular dread, in spite of his long familiarity with the place. What power the site contained, he hardly knew; but he suspected he had only skimmed the surface of its manifold energies.
Timothy brought the coach to a halt on the west side of the mound and waited while his passengers climbed out. Then, handing down the leather satchel his employer always carried, he said, “I will wait until you have gone, sir. Just to make certain no one comes by-if you know what I mean.”
“Thank you, Timothy,” replied Arthur. He reached out for Benedict’s hand. “Ready, son?”
The boy pulled his hand away. “No.”
“Now, son.”
“I don’t want to go.” He crossed his arms over his chest, staring balefully at the great conical hump of Black Mixen rising before them.
“Why?” said Arthur. “We’ve come all this way.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Nothing bad is going to happen,” Arthur assured him.
“I’m afraid.”
“There is nothing to be afraid of.”
“I don’t like the trolls.”
“The trolls are trees-just ordinary trees. Now come along, and stop this foolishness at once.”
“Excuse me interrupting, sir,” said Timothy, speaking up. He indicated the sky with a tilt of his head. “The sun is coming.”
“We must go. It is time to be a brave boy,” Arthur said firmly. “Now, take my hand and come along. I will be right here beside you. There is nothing to fear.”
The two travellers followed the serpentine trail to the summit, and Arthur quickly located the stone he had planted a few years ago to mark the location of the prime energy field. Taking his customary stance on the stone, he placed his son before him and said, “Put one hand to my belt.” The boy did as he was told and snaked his fingers around his father’s wide leather belt; with the other hand he held tight to his father’s free hand. “That’s right. Now, whatever happens, do not let go. Remember what I told you about the wind and rain?”
“I remember-the wind will scream and the rain will sting. And I will feel a bump.”
“A bump, yes. Who told you that?”
“Mum said.”
“She is right. You will probably feel a bump-like a little jump-but do not worry. You won’t fall. I will be there with you to catch you.”
“And I won’t throw up.”
“You might,” his father advised, slinging the satchel strap over his shoulder. “But if you do, it is nothing to worry about. Just go ahead and throw up, and you will feel better.”
Clasping his son’s hand tightly, Arthur raised his arm in the air above his head. He felt the familiar shimmer of the force field on his skin; the hair on his arms and on the back of his neck stood up. The air crackled with the presage of lightning, and a heavy mist descended around them. The wind howled down as if descending from distant, blizzard-scoured heights. “Hold on!” he cried, shouting into the whirling maelstrom of forces writhing around them. He tightened his grip on the boy’s hand. “Ready! Here we go!”
The familiar English hilltop dimmed, and the rain flew sideways in stinging torrents. Arthur felt his feet leave the marking stone, but only for an instant-the lurch between steps on uneven ground-and the solid ground of a new land rose beneath them.
It was done.
The wail of the wind died away, and the rain ceased abruptly. The mist cleared. The hill was gone, the Trolls, the grey English sky-all replaced by the soft warmth and gleaming bright blues and golds of a desert morning. They were standing in the centre of an avenue lined with crouching sphinxes. Benedict, his eyes wide, stared at the long double row of statues and the empty white desert and rock-bare hills beyond.
He gave a cry of delight and darted forward, remembered himself, and halted. Far from being made sick by the experience, the boy positively enjoyed the wild, disorienting leap across the dimensional divide. Here was something new in Arthur’s experience; perhaps the very young did not experience the effects of what was for older folks a most uncomfortable transition. It had taken him a fair few journeys before he finally became inured to the more unpleasant sensations; the minor inconveniences of extreme temporal dislocation no longer bothered him.
“Let’s do it again,” Ben chirped, his earlier anxiety entirely forgotten.
“We will do it again, yes,” replied Arthur. “When it is time to go home. Just now we are going to visit Anen.”
“Is this Egypt? It’s hot!”
“It is very hot.” Arthur opened the satchel and pulled out two lightweight linen cloths. He wrapped one around his son’s head, and then fashioned a turban for himself. “There. That’s better.” He held out his hand. “Come along. We should be on our way before it gets even hotter. When we get there Anen will have a cool drink for us.”
CHAPTER 16
