back along the terrace. They ate their dinner under a sky full of stars.
The air was still stiflingly hot, and clouds of mosquitoes hovered just
out of range of the repellents with which they had all smeared their
exposed skin.
"And so, English, I have got you where you wanted to be. Now, how are
you going to find this animal that you have come so far to hunt?" The
vodka was making Boris belligerent again.
"At first light I want you to send out your trackers to work the country
downstream from here," Nicholas told him. "Dik-dik are usually active in
the early morning, and again late in the afternoon."
"You are teaching your grandpapa to skin a cat," said Boris, angling
the metaphor. He poured himself another vodka.
"Tell them to check for spoor." Nicholas deliberately laboured his
point. "I imagine that the tracks of the striped variety will look very
similar to those of the common dikdik. If they find indications, then
they must sit quietly along the edge of the thickest patches of bush and
watch for any movement of the animals. Dik-dik are very territorial.
They won't stray far from their own turf."
"Da! Da! I will tell them. But what will you do? Will you spend the day
in camp with the ladies, English?" He grinned slyly. "If you are lucky,
you may soon not need separate huts?" He guffawed at his own wit,.and
Tessay , looked distressed and stood up with the excuse that she was
going to the kitchen hut to supervise the chef.
Nicholas ignored the boorish pleasantry. "Royan and I will work the
river in bush along the banks of the Dandera river. It looked very
promising habitat for dik-dik. Warn your people to keep clear of the
river. I don't want the game disturbed."
They left camp the next morning in the glimmer of the dawn. Nicholas
carried the Rigby rifle and a light day pack, and led Royan along the
bank of the Dandera. They moved slowly, stopping every dozen paces to
look and listen. The thickets were alive with the sounds and movements
of the small mammals and birds.
"The Ethiopians do not have a hunting tradition, and I imagine the monks
never disturb the wildlife here in the gorge." He pointed to the tracks
of a small antelope in the moist earth of the bank. "Bushbuck," he told
her. "Menelik's bushbuck. Unique to this part of the world. A much
sought-after trophy."
"Do you really expect to find your great-grandfather's dik-dik?" she
asked. "You seemed so determined when you discussed it with Boris."
"Of course not," he grinned. "I think the old man made it up. It should
rather have been named Harper's chimera.
It probably was the skin of a striped mongoose that he used after all.
We Harpers didn't get on in the world by always sticking to the literal
truth."
They paused to watch a Tacazze suribird fluttering over a bunch of
yellow blossoms high above them in the canopy of the river in forest.
The tiny bird's plumage sparkled like a tiara of emeralds.
"Still, it gives us a wonderful excuse to fossick about in the bushes."
He glanced back to make certain that they were well clear of the camp,
and then gestured for her to sit beside him on a fallen treetrunk. "So,
let's get it clear in our minds what we are looking for. You tell me."
"We are looking for the remains of a funerary temple, or the ruins of
the necropolis where the workers lived while they were excavating
Pharaoh Mamose's tomb."
"Any sort of masonry or stonework," he agreed, especially Ily some sort
of column or monument."
Taita's stone testament," se noc "It's engraved or chiselled with
hieroglyphics. Probably badly weathered, fallen over, covered with
vegetation - I don't know. Anything at all. We are fishing blind in dark
waters."
"Well, why are we still sitting here? Let's start fishing." In the
middle of the morning Nicholas found the tracks of a dik-dik along the
river bank. They took up a position against the hole of one of the big
trees and sat quietly for a while in the shadows of the forest, until at
last they were rewarded by a glimpse of one of the tiny creatures. It
passed close to where they sat, wriggling its trunklike proboscis,
stepping daintily on its fill hooves, nipping a leaf from a low-hanging
branch, and munching it busily. However, its coat was a uniform drab
grey, unrelieved by stripes of any kind.
When it disappeared into the undergrowth, Nicholas stood up. "No luck.
Common variety," he whispered. "Let's get on."
A little after noon they reached the spot where the river issued from
between the pink flesh-coloured cliffs of the chasm. They explored these
as far as they were able before their way was blocked by the cliffs. The
rock fell straight into the flood, and there was no foothold at the
water's edge that would allow them to penetrate further.
They retreated downstream, and crossed to the far bank over a primitive
suspension bridge of lianas and hairy flax rope that Nicholas guessed
had been built by the monks from the monastery. Once again they tried to
push on into the chasm. Nicholas even attempted to wade around of pink
rock that barred the way, around the first bus but the current was too
strong and threatened to sweep him off his feet. He was forced to
abandon the attempt.
"If we can't get through there, then it's highly unlikely that Taita and
his workmen would have done so."
They went back as far as the hanging bridge and found a shady place
close to the water to eat the lunch that Tessay had packed for them. The
heat in the middle of the day was stupefying. Royan wet her cotton
neckerchief in the river and dabbed at her face as she lay beside him.
Nicholas lay on his back and studied every inch of the pink cliffs
through his binoculars. He was looking for any cleft or opening in their
smooth polished surfaces.
He spoke without lowering the binoculars. "Reading River God, it looks
as if Taita actually enlisted help to switch the bodies of Tanus, Great
Lion of Egypt, and the Pharaoh himself." He lowered the glasses and
looked at Royan. "I find that puzzling, for it would have been an
outrageous thing to do in terms of his period and belief Is that a fair
translation of the scrolls? Did Taita truly switch the bodies?"
She laughed and rolled over to face him. "Your old chum Wilbur has an
overheated imagination. The only basis for that whole bit of
story-telling is a single line in the scrolls. "To me he was more a king
than ever Pharaoh been."' She rolled on to her back again. "That is a
good example of my objection to the book. He mixes fact and fantasy into
an inextricable stew. As far as I know and believe, Tanus rests in his
own tomb and the Pharaoh in his., "Pity!" Nicholas sighed and stuffed
the book back in his pack. "It was a romantic little touch that I
enjoyed." He glanced at his wrist-watch and stood up. "Come on, I want
to do a recon down the other spur of the valley. I spotted some
interesting ground up there whilst we were on the approach march
yesterday."
It was late afternoon when they arrived back at the camp, and Tessay
hurried out of her kitchen hut to greet them.
"I have been waiting for you to return. We have had an interesting
invitation from Jali Hora, the abbot. He has invited us to a banquet in
the monastery to celebrate Kateral the eve of Timkat. The servants have
set up your, shower, and the water is hot. There is just time for you to
change before we go down to the monastery."
The abbot sent a party of young acolytes to escort them to the
banqueting hall. These IMC_ , young men arrived in the short African
twilight, carrying torches to light the way.
Royan recognized one of these as Tamre, the epileptic boy. When she
singled him out for her warmest smile, he came forward shyly and offered
her a bouquet of wild flowers that he had picked from beside the river.
She was unprepared for this courtesy, and without thinking she thanked
him in Arabic.
"Shukran."
"Taffa"," the boy replied immediately, using the correct gender of the
response, and in an accent that told her instantly that he was fluent in
her language.
"How do you speak Arabic so well?" she asked, intrigued.
The boy hung his head with embarrassment and mumbled, "My mother is from
Massawa, on the Red Sea. It is the language of my childhood., When they
set off for the monastery, the boy monk followed Royan like a puppy.
Once more they descended the stairway down the cliff and came out on to
the torchlit terrace. The narrow cloisters were packed with humanity,
and as they made their way through the press, with the honour guard of
acolytes clearing a way for them, black faces called Amharic greetings
and black hands reached out to touch them.
They stooped through the low entrance to the outer nave of the
cathedral. The chamber was lit with oil lamps an torches, so that the
murals of saints and angels danced in the uncertain light. The stone
floor was covered with a carpet of freshly cut reeds and rushes, their
sweet herbal perfume leavening the heavy, smoky air. It seemed that the
entire brotherhood of monks were seated cross-legged on this spongy
carpet. They greeted the entrance of the little party of ferengi with
cries of welcome and shouts of benediction. Beside each seated figure
stood a flask of tej, the honey mead of the country. It was clear from
the happy, sweaty faces that the flasks had already done good service.
The visitors were led forward to a spot that had been left clear for
them directly in front of the wooden doors to the qkUst, the middle
chamber. Their escort urged them to sit and make themselves comfortable
in this space. As soon as they were settled, another party of acolytes
came in from the terrace bearing flasks of tej, and knelt to place a
separate pottery flask in front of each of them.
Tessay leaned across to whisper, "Better you let me sample this tej
before you try it. The strength and colour and taste vary in every place
that it is served, and some of it is ferocious." She raised her flask
and drank directly from the elongated neck. When she lowered the flask
she smiled, "This is a good brew. If you are careful, you will be all
right with it., The monks seated around them were urging them to drink,
and Nicholas raised his flask. The monks clapped and laughed as he
tasted the liquor. It was light and pleasant, with a strong bouquet of
wild honey. "Not bad!" he gave his opinion, but Tessay warned him,
"Later they will almost certainly offer you katikala. Be very careful of
that! It is distilled from fermented grain and it will take your head
off at the shoulders."
The monks were concentrating their hospitality on Royan now. The fac t
that she was a Coptic Christian, a true believer, had impressed them. It
was obvious also that her beauty had not gone entirely unremarked by
this company of holy and celibate men.
Nicholas leaned close to her, and whispered, "You will have to fake it
for their benefit. Hold it up to your lips and pretend to swallow, or
they will not leave you in peace."
As she lifted the&ask the monks hooted with delight and saluted her with
their own upraised flasks. She lowered the flask again, and whispered to
Nicholas.
"It's delicious. It tastes of honey."
"You broke your vow of abstinence!" he chided her laughing. "Did you?"
"Just a drop," she admitted, "and anyway I never made any vows."
The acolytes knelt in turn in front of each guest, offering them a bowl
of hot water in which to wash their right hands in preparation for the
feast.
Suddenly there was the sound of music and drums, and a band of musicians
filed through the open doors of the qiddist. They took up their
positions along the side walls of the chamber, while the congregation
craned expectantly to peer into its dim interior.
At last Jali Hora, the ancient abbot, appeared at the head of the steps.
He wore a full-length robe of crimson satin, with a gold
thread-embroidered stole around his shoulders. On his head was a massive
crown. Though it glittered like gold, Nicholas knew that it was gilt
brass, and the multi'coloured stones with- which it was set were just as
certainly glass and paste.
JahbHora raised his crook, which was surmounted by an ornate silver
cross, and a weighty silence fell upon the company.
"Now he will say the grace," Tessay told them, and bowedh'er head.
JahHora's grace was fervent and lengthy, his reedy falsetto punctuated
When at last he came to the end, two splendidly robed debteras helped
Jali Hora down the stairs and seated him on his carved jimmera stool at
the head of the circle of senior deacons and priests.
The religious mood of the monks changed to one of festive bonhomie as a
procession of acolytes entered from the terrace, each of them bearing
upon his head a flat woven reed basket the size of a wagon wheel. They
placed one of these in the centre of each circle of guests.
Then at a signal from JahHora, acting in unison they whipped the lid off
each basket. A jovial cheer went up from the monks, for each basket
contained a shallow brass bowl that was filled from rim to rim with
round sheets of the flat grey unleavened iniera bread.
Two acolytes staggered in from the terrace, barely able to carry between
them a steaming brass pot filled with gallons of wat, a spicy stew of
fat mutton. Over each of the bowls of injera bread they tipped the great
pot and slopped gouts of the runny red-brown wat, the surface glistening
with hot grease.
The assembly fell on the food voraciously. They tore off wads of injera
and scooped up the mess of wat with it, and then stuffed the parcel into
their open mouths, which remained open as they chewed. They washed it
down with long swallows from the flasks, before wrapping themselves
another parcel of running wat. Soon every one of them was greasy to the
elbow and their chins were smeared thickly, as they chewed and drank and
shouted with laughter.
The
serving acolytes dumped thick cakes of another type of injera beside
each guest. These were stiffer and less yeasty in taste, friable and
crumbling, unlike the latex rubber consistency of the thin grey sheets
of the first kind.
Nicholas and Royan tried to show their appreciation of the food without
coating themselves with layers of it as the oth _rs were doing. Despite
its appearance the wat was really rather tasty, and the dry yellow
injera helped to cut the grease.
The communal brass bowls were emptied in remarkably short order. Only
the churned up mess of bread and grease remained when the acolytes came
tottering in under the weight of another set of pots, this time filled
to overflowing with curried chicken wat. This was splashed into the
bowls on top of the remains of the mutton, and again the monks had at
it.
While they gobbled up the chicken, the tej flasks were replenished and
the monks became more raucous.
"I don't think I can take much more of this," Royan told Nicholas
queasily.
"Close your eyes and think of England," he advised her.
"You are the star of the evening. They aren't going to let you escape."
As soon as the chicken was eaten, the servers were back with fresh pots,
this time brimming with fiery beef wat. They dumped this on the remnants
of both the mutton and the chicken.
The monk in the circle opposite Royan emptied his flask, and when an
acolyte tried to refill it, he waved the lad away with a shout of,
"Katikala!'
The -cry was taken up by the other monks. "Katikala!
Katikalar The acolytes hurried out and returned with dozens of bottles
of the gin-clear liquor and brass bowls the size of tea cups.
"This is the stuff to be careful of," Tessay told them.
Surreptitiously both Nicholas and Royan were able to dribble the
contents of their bowls into the mat of reeds on which they were
sitting, but the monks guzzled theirs down greedily.
"Boris is getting his share," Nicholas remarked to Royan. The Russian
was red-faced and sweating, grinnin 9 like an idiot as he downed another
bowlful.
Enlivened by the katikala the monks started playing a game. One of them
would wrap a packet of beef wat with a sheet of injera, and then, as it
dripped fat from his poised right hand, he would turn to the monk
beside. The victim would open his mouth until his jaws were at full