yesterday.'
It was late afternoon when they arrived back at the camp, and Tessay
hurried out of her kitchen hut to greet them.
'I have been waiting for you to return. We have had an interesting
invitation from Jali Hora, the abbot. He has invited us to a banquet in
the monastery to celebrate Kateral the eve of Timkat. The servants have
set up your, shower, and the water is hot. There is just time for you to
change before we go down to the monastery.'
The abbot sent a party of young acolytes to escort them to the
banqueting hall. These IMC_ , young men arrived in the short African
twilight, carrying torches to light the way.
Royan recognized one of these as Tamre, the epileptic boy. When she
singled him out for her warmest smile, he came forward shyly and offered
her a bouquet of wild flowers that he had picked from beside the river.
She was unprepared for this courtesy, and without thinking she thanked
him in Arabic.
'Shukran.'
'Taffa',' the boy replied immediately, using the correct gender of the
response, and in an accent that told her instantly that he was fluent in
her language.
'How do you speak Arabic so well?' she asked, intrigued.
The boy hung his head with embarrassment and mumbled, 'My mother is from
Massawa, on the Red Sea. It is the language of my childhood., When they
set off for the monastery, the boy monk followed Royan like a puppy.
Once more they descended the stairway down the cliff and came out on to
the torchlit terrace. The narrow cloisters were packed with humanity,
and as they made their way through the press, with the honour guard of
acolytes clearing a way for them, black faces called Amharic greetings
and black hands reached out to touch them.
They stooped through the low entrance to the outer nave of the
cathedral. The chamber was lit with oil lamps an torches, so that the
murals of saints and angels danced in the uncertain light. The stone
floor was covered with a carpet of freshly cut reeds and rushes, their
sweet herbal perfume leavening the heavy, smoky air. It seemed that the
entire brotherhood of monks were seated cross-legged on this spongy
carpet. They greeted the entrance of the little party of ferengi with
cries of welcome and shouts of benediction. Beside each seated figure
stood a flask of tej, the honey mead of the country. It was clear from
the happy, sweaty faces that the flasks had already done good service.
The visitors were led forward to a spot that had been left clear for
them directly in front of the wooden doors to the qkUst, the middle
chamber. Their escort urged them to sit and make themselves comfortable
in this space. As soon as they were settled, another party of acolytes
came in from the terrace bearing flasks of tej, and knelt to place a
separate pottery flask in front of each of them.
Tessay leaned across to whisper, 'Better you let me sample this tej
before you try it. The strength and colour and taste vary in every place
that it is served, and some of it is ferocious.' She raised her flask
and drank directly from the elongated neck. When she lowered the flask
she smiled, 'This is a good brew. If you are careful, you will be all
