O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [87]
“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