O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [86]
“As I said, Russell: many thoughts, no conclusions. We haven’t sufficient data.”
“What, then, do you recommend we do?”
“Keep well out of sight, keep our ears to the ground, and wait for the opportunity to trip him up.”
What we had been attempting to do all along, I reflected, with no great success.
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