Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [57]
The moment comes and goes, too quick, but what I catch, what I see fly past his eyes, is enough to incline me in one direction. Unless I’m clinging to something that’s not there, and his expression was the simple result of an odd question.
The answer he gives is of the one-size-fits-all sort. “You came to see me so that I could tell you a Bible story?”
“I came to see you because you’re my friend. And because you’re the only Ethiopian Orthodox priest I know well enough that I can ask strange questions without feeling like a complete idiot.”
Alem’nesh appears to digest this, and he starts that tongue-clicking thing again. I can’t read his face. Finally he says, “You must help me understand your question. You do not wish a recounting of the biblical story, but what more could I give you?”
It’s a valid point. Fortunately, Espy saves me from the duty of clarification.
“What we want to know, Reverend Father, is if the bones of the prophet Elisha are part of some international conspiracy spanning over twenty-five hundred years, several families, the ancient Egyptians, the Coptic church, and at least one South American trade organization.” When she finishes, she offers a smile, yet it does nothing to fill the silence that settles on us. If I’m grateful for nothing else, it’s that Al has stopped making that infernal noise.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but what I see on Al’s face isn’t it. There is something resembling incredulity, that’s certain, only it seems the degree is off a bit. I imagine my expression looks more surprised than his—a result of hearing how outrageous my hypothesis sounds when stated so concisely. No, what I see in Alem’nesh is something else—not fear, but something like it. Worry, perhaps?
I don’t know how much time passes, but it seems like a great deal. During the interval, the worry, if that’s what it is, melts away, replaced by something I can’t qualify. The eyes that see everything are also able to reveal nothing. I’m comfortable waiting for him to speak. I suppose that’s a result of bearing up under so much of Duckey’s scrutiny.
He’s the one who breaks the silence. Al leans forward in his chair and steeples his fingers on the desk. I can’t read his expression; I can only acknowledge that there are a number of things fighting for premier placement.
“I do not know how to respond to something like that, Ms. Habilla,” he says. “Where did you come up with such an engaging story?”
“Al, I have the evidence,” I say. “It’s not enough to prove anything in court, and it wouldn’t stand up under peer review. But I can follow clues as well as the next guy.”
“Clues that say we are involved in the preservation of holy relics over a period of more than two millennia?”
“In a nutshell.”
“Preposterous.”
“Why? Your church makes no secret of the fact that you have the Ark of the Covenant. Now, you never let anyone actually look at it, but you say you have it.”
“Careful, my friend,” he says after a few beats. “There is no cause for insults.”
“That’s not what I meant, Al.”
“I know what you meant.” He sighs. “I’m not certain what this is all about, why you are chasing phantoms, things with no substance, but I cannot help you in this.”
There is finality to the statement, and in retrospect I’m not sure what I was expecting. He’s a priest, one who will never become a bishop because he chose to marry. Why would he be privy to one of his faith’s most well-kept secrets? I’d hoped that because of the church in which he was placed, and the fact that he has a talent for cultivating the right contacts, and because there are always rumors whispered in the dark, he would know something. Still, I have one more card to play.
“What’s at Lalibela, Alem’nesh?”
He reacts with a start—one that no amount of preparation could have kept in check. He knows now that I’m not just fishing, that I have some of the pieces