Dark River (41 page)

IT BEGAN TO rain as they drove across the mountains into northern Ethiopia. The road passed through a bleak landscape, bare of any vegetation except for some terraced farm plots and a few eucalyptus trees planted as a windbreak. The houses, schools, and police stations were all built with chunks of yellow sandstone. Stones were piled on the sheet-metal roofs, and stone walls ran up the hillside in a useless effort to stop erosion.

Maya kept the sword on her lap and stared out the window. In this area, the only points of interest were other human beings. In one village all the men wore blue rain boots. In another village, a three-year-old girl stood by a drainage ditch holding an egg between her thumb and forefinger. It was Friday and the farmers were heading toward the open-air market. Umbrellas bobbed up and down like an army of different-colored mushrooms marching up the hill.

It was evening when they reached the ancient city of Axum. The rain had stopped falling, but a light mist lingered in the air. Petros looked tense and worried. He kept glancing at Maya and Lumbroso. “Everyone get ready. The priests have been told that we’re coming.”

“What’s going to happen?” Lumbroso asked.

“I’ll do the talking at first. Maya should carry her sword to show she is a Tekelakai, but they might kill her if she takes it from the scabbard. Remember, these priests will die to protect the Ark. You can’t force your way into the sanctuary.”

The church compound in the center of the city mingled garish modern architecture with the gray stone outer walls of the Church of Saint Mary of Zion. Petros drove the Land Rover into a central courtyard and everyone got out. They stood in the mist waiting for something to happen as storm clouds passed overhead.

“There…” Petros whispered. “The Ark is there.” Maya looked to the left and saw a cube-shaped concrete building with an Ethiopian cross on the roof. Steel shutters and iron bars covered the narrow windows, and the door was covered with a red plastic tarp.

Suddenly, Ethiopian priests began to come out of the various buildings. They wore different-colored cloaks over their white robes and a wide variety of head coverings. Most of the priests were old and very skinny. But there were also three younger men carrying assault rifles who stood guard around the Land Rover like the three points of a triangle.

After about a dozen priests had appeared, a side door opened on the Mary of Zion church, and an old man came out wearing spotless white robes and a skullcap. Clutching a dula with a carved handle, he took one slow step and then another. His sandals made a faint shuffling sound on the flagstone pathway.

“This is the Tebaki,” Petros explained. “The Ark’s guardian. He is the only person allowed into the sanctuary.”

When the guardian was about twenty feet from the Land Rover, he stopped and motioned with his hand. Petros approached the old man, bowed three times, and then launched into a passionate oration in Amharic. Occasionally, he gestured at Maya as if he were reciting a long list of her virtues. Petros’s speech lasted about ten minutes. When it was over, his face was covered with sweat. The priests waited for the guardian to say something. The old man’s head trembled as if he were considering the matter; then he spoke for a short time in Amharic.

Petros hurried back to Maya. “This is good,” he whispered. “Very promising. An old monk on Lake Tana has been saying that a powerful Tekelakai is coming to Ethiopia.”

“A woman or a man?” Maya asked.

“A man— perhaps— but there is some disagreement. The guardian will consider your request. He wants you to say something.”

“Tell me what to do, Petros.”

“Explain why you should be allowed into the sanctuary.”

What am I supposed to say? Maya wondered. I’m probably going to insult their traditions and get shot. Keeping her hands away from the sword, she took a few steps forward. As she bowed to the guardian, she remembered the phrase Petros had used back at the airport.

“Egziabher Kale,” she said in Amharic. If God wills it. Then she bowed again and returned to her place next to the Land Rover.

Petros’s shoulders relaxed as if a disaster had just been avoided. Simon Lumbroso was standing behind Maya, and she heard him chuckle. “Brava,” he said softly.

The guardian stood quietly for a moment, considering her words, and then he said something to Petros. Still clutching his walking staff, he turned and shuffled back to the main church followed by the other priests. Only the three young men with the assault rifles remained.

“What just happened?” Maya asked.

“They’re not going to kill us.”

“Well, that’s an accomplishment,” Lumbroso said.

“This is Ethiopia, so there must be a long conversation,” Petros said. “The guardian will make the decision, but he will hear everyone’s opinion on this matter.”

“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.

Feeling angry and disappointed, she glanced back at the guardian. He leaned on his walking staff and smiled at her foolishness. Once again, she looked inside the Ark and saw a tiny black spot near the bottom edge. Is that a burn mark? she wondered. An imperfection in the wood? As she watched, the black spot grew larger— to the size of the British penny— and began to float across the surface of the wood.

The spot appeared to be immensely deep, a patch of dark space without limit. When the spot grew to the size of a dinner plate she reached into the Ark and touched the darkness. The tips of her fingers completely disappeared. Startled, she jerked her hand back. Still in this world. Still alive.

When the access point stopped moving, she forgot about the guardian and the other priests, forgot about everything but Gabriel. If she reached forward, could she find him?

Maya steadied herself, and then forced her right arm into the darkness. This time, she felt something— a painful coldness that caused a tingling sensation. She pushed her left arm in and the pain startled her. She suddenly felt as if she were being knocked over by an enormous wave, dragged out to sea by a powerful current. Her body wavered and then surged forward into nothingness. Maya wanted to say Gabriel’s name, but that was impossible. She was in darkness now. And no sound came from her mouth.

** CHAPTER 41

It was raining hard when Boone reached Chippewa Bay on the Saint Lawrence River. When he stood at the edge of the dock, he could barely see the castle on Dark Island. Boone had been on the island only a few times. Recently, it had been the site of the meeting where Nash had presented the Shadow Program to the executive board. Boone had expected to be in Berlin right now, looking for the criminals who had destroyed the computer center, but the board had insisted that he travel to the island. Although the job was going to be unpleasant, he had to follow orders.