longsleeved blouse with a large jade brooch at the throat, a green tartan skirt, and sensible brown shoes, she peered at her visitor through small, wire-rimmed glasses, offering the thin smile of a strict elder aunt or a Scottish school mistress a la Miss Jean Brodie who, in her prime, tolerated no nonsense in her classroom. The woman opened the door a little wider. “You must come in, dear.”
“You speak English,” Cassandra observed with some relief. “I mean-that is, I was looking for the Zetetic Society.”
“And you have found us.” The lady stepped to one side. “Please, this way.”
“No, I–I was just leaving. I think I made a mistake.”
“If you have come all this way,” the woman said, her enunciation precise and slightly clipped, “it is certainly no mistake.”
She said it with such simple conviction that Cass was persuaded to agree. “Well, just for a moment, perhaps,” she allowed.
Cassandra crossed the threshold and entered the bookshop. The interior was muted-the only light came from the window, and that was filmed with age and dust. But the shop itself was reasonably clean, and the soft furnishings of sofa and overstuffed chairs gave it the feel of an old-fashioned reading room or private library. The woman shut the door and regarded Cass over the top of her glasses. Cass caught a whiff of lavender water.
“What brings you here, if I may be so bold?”
“To Damascus?”
“To the society,” corrected the woman, stressing the word for emphasis. Before Cass could answer, a shrill whistle sounded from another room. “There’s the kettle. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Um,” Cass hesitated.
“I was just going to have one myself. Please, make yourself comfortable. I shan’t be a moment.”
She hurried away, leaving Cassandra to gaze around the little shop. In addition to the bookshelves lining the walls, there was a round brass table of the kind much favoured in the Middle East, consisting of a tray balanced on a carved olive-wood stand. Two large easy chairs sat on either side of the table and, between them, a floor lamp with a purple silk shade. There was no counter or cash register, which Cass thought odd for a bookshop, nor any other accoutrements of commercial enterprise.
Cass moved to the nearest shelf and took in some of the titles. The History of the Assyrian Empire… A Walk in Old Babylon… Life in the Ancient Near East… The Lost Treasury of Nebuchadnezzar… and other tomes of history, their leather spines creased and cracking with age. She moved along to a section of religious writing: The Habiru of Palestine… The Collected Writings of Josephus… The Desert Fathers… A Sojourn in the Carpathians… Sumerian Culture… Who Were the Hittites?… The Tombs of Catal Huyuk… and so on.
Presently the woman returned carrying a wooden tray laden with a brass teapot, glass beakers half filled with fresh green leaves, and a plate of tiny almond cookies. She placed the tray on the table and invited Cass to join her. “I hope you like it with mint,” she said, and began pouring the hot tea over the leaves. “It is a local custom of which I’ve grown quite fond.” She passed a glass to her guest, settled back in her chair, took a sip, and sighed, “There, that’s better.”
“Mm,” Cass remarked after an exploratory sip. “Delicious.”
“There is sugar, if you like.” The woman nudged a tiny china bowl. “Where are my manners?” she said, replacing her cup. “I am Mrs. Peelstick.”
“My name is Cassandra,” replied Cass.
“What a pretty name. I’m very glad to meet you, Cassandra. I don’t believe I heard your answer when I asked what brought you here today.” She blew on her tea while waiting for a response.
“Well, I guess I was just curious.”
The woman nodded and said, “‘Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.’”
“Pardon?”
“A scrap of old poem.” She stirred sugar into her tea, swirling the green leaves around and around. “After all, we are pilgrims-are we not? Help yourself to biscuits.”
Cass reached for one of the small round cookies. It was a relief just to sit and do something normal for a moment-if one considered taking mint tea with an English ex-pat in Damascus in any way normal. “Thank you.”
The two sipped their drinks for a moment in silence. From somewhere in the next room a clock chimed the hour. “I hope I’m not keeping you from anything,” said Cass. “I was only curious about the society.” The old woman made no reply, so Cass, to fill the silence, continued, “Zetetic is an odd word. I don’t believe I have ever heard it. What does it mean?”
“It comes from the Greek zetetikos — to seek. The Zetetic Society is a society of seekers.”
“What do you seek?”
“Ah, that is the question.” The old woman smiled and sipped her tea. At first Cassandra did not think she would answer, but the woman put down her glass and said, “I suppose one could say something pompous and embroidered. If Brendan were here he would no doubt offer up a phrase such as… ‘We seek not the treasures of knowledge, but the treasury itself! ’” She paused to frame a more considered answer. “Perhaps the simplest way to put it is that we of the society seek answers to life’s biggest questions.”
“Which questions are those?”
“The usual questions. Why are we here? Where are we going?” The woman paused, leaned a little forward, and regarding Cass meaningfully, added, “What is the true nature of reality?”
“I wish I knew,” sighed Cass under her breath. The woman’s continued gaze made her uncomfortable. She seemed to be expecting Cass to say something, so she asked, “These books-are they for sale, then?”
“Oh, dearie me, no,” the woman replied, retrieving her tea. “They are resource materials.”
“I see.” Cass nodded, sipping thoughtfully. “But you do have some literature?”
“No, I’m very much afraid that we do not.”
“Nothing about the society-its aims, beliefs, membership requirements?”
“You make us sound very grand-very grand, indeed. No, I’m afraid we’re just a small congregation of oddballs and eccentrics dedicated to the quest. There are no formal requirements.” She hesitated, again regarding Cass with that direct, appraising look. “No formal requirements other than finding your way to our door.”
“That’s it? That’s all? A potential member only has to find his way to this shop?”
“What made you think this was a shop?” she asked, picking up the brass teapot. “More, dear?”
Cass offered her glass. “Thank you.”
“As I was saying, there are no membership requirements because, you see, we find that only those who wish to become members of the society would bother inquiring at all.”
“Your membership is self-selecting,” mused Cass. “Then I suppose it must be a very large society.”
“Why would you think that?” wondered the woman. “True seekers are very rare. Those willing to pay the price to join the quest are rarer still.” She shook her head. “No, we are a small, rather exclusive group. But the exclusion is not on our side, I assure you. People either choose to join us or not. Mostly, we find, they do not.”
“That’s a shame,” quipped Cass. “At very least they’d get a nice cup of mint tea.”
“They would indeed, dear.”
Cassandra finished her cup and placed it on the tray. She stood. “Thank you for the chat, and for the tea. You’re very kind, but I really must be going. I didn’t intend to take up your morning.”
“Didn’t you?” wondered the woman. “Then why did you come?”
“The poster,” explained Cass. “I saw the poster-the orange one? — at the entrance to the bazaar. I thought it sounded interesting, so I came.”
The old woman placed her glass on the tray and faced her visitor, her gaze pointed and uncomfortably direct. After a moment she said, “Would it surprise you very much if I told you that not everyone can see that poster?”
“Because it’s written in English, you mean?”
“I did not say they could not read it,” replied the woman, adopting a pedantic tone. “I said they cannot see it. Our little advertisement is effectively invisible to all who are not ready and willing to see it. You, my dear, are ready-otherwise you would not be here.”
Cass felt a queasy apprehension squirm over her. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
“I mean exactly what I said. No more. No less.” Her smile became tight and sharp. “Do you think I cannot tell
