O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [92]
The sun heated the rocks around us, causing a smell of warm dust to rise up and mingle with the crisp odour of the wet stones of the stream below. Our clothing smelt, too, although I was becoming accustomed to that, and the air moving down the valley brought with it a hint of incense from the chapel, accompanied now and then by the rhythm of chanted prayer. Bells had sounded earlier, the dull clatter so different from the resonant English bells; now I heard a tiny scuffle coming from beneath a bare shrub, which proved to be a small brown bird scratching in the dry leaf fall for its breakfast. Other birds squabbled and gossipped in the fronds of a palm tree, an eagle rode the heating air high over our heads, a pair of lizards came out to bask on the rocks, and once I caught a glimpse of a turbanned head passing by on the track on the opposite rim of the wadi. I could begin to understand the appeal of a monk’s cell in the desert. If only the vow did not include obedience…
Breakfast was bread and sour milk and dried apricots, and afterwards we went for a final interview with the abbot. He greeted us by holding out a letter.
“This is to my brethren in the monastery in Jerusalem. Would you please see that the abbot there receives it?”
“Certainly,” said Holmes, tucking it inside his robe.
“In it I mention the two of you. As you appear, shall I say, rather than as you are. It is possible you may need assistance in the city. That letter will ensure that you receive it.”
“Thank you, Abbot.”
“I wish you good hunting, my son. I shall pray for you.”
“Thank you.”
“And you, my silent daughter. Uncharacteristically silent, I suspect.” The gleam in the old man’s eyes was unmistakable now; it was nearly a twinkle. “I give you my blessing.”
I hated to disappoint him, but I had to tell him gently, “I am not a Christian, Abbot Mattias.”
“God does not mind, my child. He was, after all, your God before He was ours.”
“In that case I accept your blessing, with thanks.”
“And now you have before you a long and dusty walk. I have arranged safe passage for you. Not, I fear, an armoured vehicle; you will have to walk. However, you need not worry about being seen by your enemy. Gasim!” he called.
The door behind him opened and a Bedouin came in, looking enough like Ali to be a younger brother. “This is Gasim ibn Rahail.” the abbot told us in Arabic. “His people are on their way up to Jerusalem. You will go with them. Gasim, these are my friends. Care for them as brothers.”
“Your word, Holy Father,” the young man said, and gave us a grin that made me wonder if he spoke in mockery. It was, however, merely affection untempered by awe, and it suited us very well. We took our leave of Abbot Mattias and his monastery, and turned our faces, at long last, to Jerusalem.
* * *
EIGHTEEN
ع
Jerusalem, the centre of three religions, is not at all a town for amusement.
—BAEDEKER’S Palestine and Syria,
1912 EDITION
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We came to the city in the afternoon, climbing up the dusty road from Jericho in the company of six tents of Bedouins, ten camels, and an uncountable number of goats and fat-tailed sheep. The Bedu chose to stop the night on an over-grazed flat to the east of the city near a well called the Apostle’s Spring, the water of which was possessed of numerous small red wriggling creatures. After we had drunk a final cup of coffee with the sheikh (Gasim’s father), been presented with all his camels, goats, and horses, given our own meagre possessions to him in return, then reciprocally given back each other’s gifts with lengthy and painfully gracious protestations of unworthiness, we thanked him for his hospitality by declaring our worthless selves his slaves for eternity, and finally took our leave.
Walking