We found the farm where we had left the mules; the place looked deserted. “If they’ve made off with our things, I’m going to commit murder,” I said to Holmes, but when we came into the clearing amongst the tangle of brush and thorny trees, the noise of the dogs brought an old woman out to investigate. Her face was heavily veiled though her arms and legs were bare, and the skin on her arms gathered into a thousand sun-darkened wrinkles before it disappeared beneath several pounds of silver and gold bangles.
“Good day, O my mother,” I said to her. “We have come for the mules and the… things,” I ended weakly. She nodded, but her eyes had the expectant look of someone who does not comprehend. Holmes intervened.
“My mother, a few days past we left our possessions here with your son.” She nodded. “And two days ago some men came here and took two of the mules and most of the bags.” She nodded. “Where is the remaining mule?”
She nodded.
Holmes and I set out to find our transportation, food, and bedding, followed by the amiable old woman and half a dozen equally amiable dogs. There were no out-buildings near the house, but a path led through the bush, and there were the prints of shod hoofs on it. At the end of the path we found one mule and two sacks filled with food, blankets, and water, precisely what Ali and Mahmoud had agreed to leave for us. We loaded up under the watchful eye of the woman and her dogs, and went back down the path and past the house to the road. We thanked the woman, and she nodded, then raised her hand with a mighty clatter and rattle of bangles to wave us good-bye. The dogs began to bark as soon as we crossed an invisible property line and became strangers once again.
“Why do I feel as if I’d just robbed a mental deficient?” I asked Holmes.
He nodded.
We stopped at the base of the wadi to share a cup of musty water and a handful of dates. I gazed sourly up the expanse of rough, uphill road that lay between us and the monastery, and drew a deep breath.
“Holmes,” I began. “It is hot. The humidity is debilitating. We have a minimum of food, barely enough water, and there is a group of men somewhere out there who would happily kill us both. It is, in a word, no time for an argument.”
“What do you propose?”
“I will beg you, Holmes. I will go on my knees if you wish, but please, as a favour to me, would you be so good as to let the mule carry you up this hill?” I took care not to add aloud, So I won’t have to when you collapse.
“Since you put it like that,” he said, and to my consternation he actually climbed on the mule’s back behind the rest of the load. And I had thought he was getting better: such easy acquiescence was a worrying sign.
Once again we were travelling in the direction of Jerusalem, and once again we were to be turned aside from that goal—although this time, I hoped, it would be only a peaceful and temporary diversion. What could happen to us in a monastery? The road, however, was a place of vulnerability, particularly with its antecedents in mind.
“Holmes, do you know what road this is?”
“Russell, if you are about to tell me the story of Joseph and Mary with the pregnant Virgin perched on the donkey, I warn you, I shall not ride one step farther.”
“No, no, I was thinking of something much darker than that, although also from the Greek Testament. I believe this is the road where the traveller was set upon by thieves, and rescued by the Good Samaritan after his own people had passed him by.” I paused, and the balmy afternoon suddenly seemed to turn chill. “Did you look to see that Mahmoud had left us one of the pistols?” I asked in a small voice.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Russell,” said Holmes, sounding reassuringly vigorous. “This country is wreaking havoc on your already excessive imagination. Do try to control yourself. And yes,” he added, “we are in possession of both pistol and bullets.”
We climbed up out of the river Jordan plain on the rough road that followed the southern side of the precipitous Wadi Qelt. The heavy, damp air made breathing difficult and a cooling breeze an impossibility, so we sweltered our way up the hill, all three of us ill-tempered and drenched with sweat.
A couple of boys on a scabrous and undernourished donkey passed us at a brisk trot, going uphill. They called out merry jokes until the next corner had swallowed them, and I decided to stop for a breather when we came to a cave-like overhang that might well have been the place where Obadiah hid a hundred prophets from Jezebel. I watered the mule and ourselves, and stood looking out over the Ghor Valley and the northern end of the Dead Sea, brooding and silent and lifeless.
“Herod chose to build his winter palace here,” I said to Holmes. “He enjoyed the climate and the social life.” He did not answer. We went on.
The next party to overtake us was a group of English tourists, too high-spirited and well dressed to qualify as pilgrims despite the presence of Jordan River mud on their horses’ hocks. Two women in silly hats and half a dozen young men in uniform trotted past us on their sleek mounts, paying us rather less attention than if we had been stray dogs on the road. We plodded on.
At long last, a track that was little more than a footpath branched off into the wadi to the right. It was very steep, in several places evolving into a stairway as it snaked down the sheer wall of the wadi, and in ten minutes we lost most of the altitude we had gained in the past two laborious hours. However, at the bottom of the wadi ran a deliciously cool, sweet stream, and we drank deeply and bathed our faces before starting up the path on the opposite side, towards the monastery that hung from a nearly perpendicular stone face.
If the Greek monastery we had visited at Mar Sabas was the product of mud wasps, I thought, the Russian St George’s had been constructed by cliff swallows. It was a thing of arches and windows balanced on an outcrop of striated rock, and looked as if the slightest earth tremor would flip it whole into the valley below; nonetheless, it was a lovely setting, for there was water here, perennial water, and if the higher reaches of the wadi were the standard mixture of rock and scrub, down here there were trees—not a great number, true, but they were actual, recognisable trees.
The clean air smelt of wet stone and green things, of incense and quiet, of sanctity and—flowers.
“Bees,” said Holmes thoughtfully as we passed a smattering of small, yellow blooms beside the path where the insects were working.
“Beehives,” said Holmes reflectively two hours later as we stood in the gardens with our monastic guide, watching the dusk draw in.
“Candles,” said Holmes happily later that night, when we were led into a small chapel ablaze with the light from half a thousand thin, brown tapers that gave off the strongest honey scent of any beeswax I have ever known. He plucked an unlit candle from a basket, held it to his nose, drew in a deep, slow breath, and went out of the chapel door with it in his hand. Outside on the dimly lit terrace, watched by our guide (who was by now completely baffled) and by a large cat (who, judging by the state of his ears, had retired to the monastery following a full life), Holmes took a small object from his robe and unwrapped it: Mikhail’s candle stub, which along with everything but his money and his knife had remained intact in his pockets. He worked the wax between his thumb and forefinger to warm it and increase the surface area, and then put it to his face. He smelt it deeply, then did the same to the candle he had just taken from the chapel, and again the stub. His bruised features relaxed into a look of satisfaction, and he turned to the uncomprehending and frankly apprehensive monk.
“I should like to see the abbot, please.”
SEVENTEEN
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