Falconer's Quest (23 page)
Nebo sidled his camel up beside Falconer. “The merchants wait out storm.”
“Should we?”
Nebo used his quirt, a supple stick as long as his arm and wrapped in beaded leather, to point up to where Wadi led the way. “He will say if storm harm camels.”
“Your friend does not speak much.”
“He was born slave. As boy, he must sing. Day after day. Now he hates all words. I am his friend because I speak for him.”
The wind grew steadily and lashed at them. The pack mules brayed a constant protest against the stinging dust. The camels snorted and plodded in a sameness Falconer felt in his very bones. He had never been good with horses and had ridden a camel only once before. His lower back and thighs felt on fire.
Bernard Lemi sidled to Falconer’s right. He uncorked his waterskin and swilled his mouth so that he could ask, “How much further?”
In truth, Falconer had no idea. But Bernard needed reassuring. “Not long.”
“This storm is worse than I had ever imagined.”
Nebo closed the distance behind them, while Soap moved in on Falconer’s left. Falconer knew there was greater risk to them being so tightly clustered. Although not much. The dust was so thick he could not see the camel’s footpads.
Nebo said, “This is not such bad wind.”
Bernard twisted in his saddle, but in the wrong direction, for the dust struck his unprotected eyes. He twisted back and used the burnoose’s edge to clear his vision. “You must be telling tales!”
Falconer said, “Further into the desert, storms rise that can strip a man’s bones in half a day.”
Wadi glanced back, as though in confirmation, but said nothing.
Soap’s voice was dry and cracked. “I smell a storm brewing out to sea.”
Falconer grunted. “I doubt it will strike here.”
Soap knew their plan well enough to fret, “What if it does? Rain will put paid to all our plans, it will.”
Nebo shook his head. “The rain passes out to sea. Not for years does this land see rain.”
Bernard broke in, “Why can’t we stop?”
Much as Falconer wanted the very same thing, he replied, “Because this storm is our ally.”
“Impossible!”
“Look at those hills.” Falconer pointed to his right. A brief clearing of the dust storm revealed steep cliffs that rose and fell in ocher waves. Eons of wind had blasted peculiar caves and narrow defiles. “This is a breeding ground for bandits.”
This time, Falconer was certain Wadi’s glance was agreement. He went on, “Desert tribes prey on smaller parties like ours. But we are hidden from them. The wind and dust are our best shield.”
Bernard slumped on his beast. “My body is one enormous ache.”
Falconer heard Soap mutter agreement. “We will halt as soon as it is safe.”
Falconer awoke to a hand upon his shoulder. Wadi stood over him, waiting until Falconer was fully alert. The Arab then slid into his own bedroll and within three breaths was snoring quietly.
Falconer emerged from the tent to a breathless night. The storm had disappeared while he slept. He moved to the rear of the shallow cave, where a low fire burned. He poured himself a cup of tea and feasted upon the dried bread and salted meat left out for those standing watch. He drank almost an entire pot of tea before his thirst was slaked. He refilled the pot from a waterskin, cast in more tea leaves from a leather pouch, and set the pot on a stone by the fire to brew. Then he walked around the sleeping men and entered the night.
Their shelter was a spoon-shaped enclosure hollowed by storms beyond time. It stood at the cliff ’s far eastern edge and faced out to a flat expanse that went on forever. Numerous piles of cold ashes attested to other travelers who had used the cave for shelter. Falconer moved to a rock shaped like a miniature throne, where one of the earlier watch keepers had left a blanket. The rising moon transformed the desert into a black and silver sea. He studied the vista and finished his tea.
There was a certain flavor to desert nights, unlike anything Falconer had experienced elsewhere. The slumbering men had no effect upon Falconer’s isolation. The night blanketed him with an aloneness so complete he could space out his thoughts as he did his breath. He recalled his farewell from Matt and ached anew for the young lad. His mouth shaped the silent word
son
. Falconer recalled other days when his heart had yearned for such a gift and his world had been a vacuum for what he thought would never come. Now the lad was bonded to him by love and shared grief. And their shared quest. Falconer recalled the day in the woodlands between Salem and the coast. What a remarkable lad Matt was.
What a blessing
was all he could think to express what he felt.
He lifted his gaze and stared at the heavens. The stars were a wash of light, eternal signs of the Creator’s borderless sea. Falconer spoke aloud the first solitary prayer he had uttered since setting his beloved Ada into the ground. Just twelve words. But he knew God was fully aware of the condition of his soul, knew that he was a man of stumbling prayers in the best of times.
Thank you for my son. Keep him safe. Hold him close. Amen
.
When he lowered his gaze, it seemed to him that Ada had entered the night. He vividly sensed her presence. Not wracked by her final illness, but as she was before. As she was
now
.
Falconer also sensed a great change within himself and knew it was vital. Yet he did not wish to give it either thought or emotion, because he feared that Ada’s closeness might vanish. But her invisible presence generated a remarkable understanding, as though she spoke to him in heaven’s voice, silent and close and illuminating. Deep in his chest he felt his heart unfold, and knew that the moment held a greeting and departure both. Dear, sweet, beloved woman. The gift he had not thought would ever be his. Every day a treasure. If only there could have been more. If only…
And then it happened.
He did not see a vision. But the image was clear just the same. So vivid, in fact, that to Falconer’s mind the revelation would have been no stronger had it risen before him in physical form.
It seemed that something like Jacob’s ladder appeared before him. Just as it had to the son of Isaac in the desert of Haran, where he had laid his head upon a pillow of stone. Upon the ladder, angels descended to earth and rose to the heavens. Over and over in a smooth and constant stream.
Ada was with him still. Though his attention was focused as tight as a storm-drawn hawser, Falconer knew she was there because of his heart’s fullness. And through this loving presence Falconer saw the ladder, this bridge to heaven, in a new way. He watched with his mind’s eye as angels proceeded from God’s throne to the desert floor and back. A constant stream of heavenly presence and light. Falconer saw the ladder as his own life. He saw how God was with him in every stage. In the moments of divine exultation, when heaven was almost close enough to touch, and God’s glory filled his being. And He was there in the desert times. The times of basest despair. The dry bones of human existence, the days of empty wasteland and biting storms, the moments when his heart was a stone lodged in his chest.
God was
.
The image faded. Ada remained an instant longer, gracing him with a last sigh of eternal love.
Falconer’s eyes blinked and refocused. He realized he stared into the first faint tendrils of a new dawn.
He pushed himself from the rock and walked further into the desert, so that his sobs, not of grief but of joy, would remain unheard.
They resumed their journey the hour following sunrise. The air held the nighttime stillness, with not a breath of wind. It seemed to Falconer that he had scarcely settled into the saddle before the previous day’s discomforts returned. Clearly Bernard Lemi and Soap felt the same, for each sway of their beasts brought winces. But neither man complained.
By midmorning, Falconer had the measure of his men, or so he hoped. Soap was a game foot soldier, loyal as they came. Nebo had decided to trust Falconer, which meant the African would obey him. And that was enough for Wadi. The three more seasoned men clearly questioned Bernard Lemi’s mettle, and wondered silently why Falconer had allowed the banker to come along. Falconer questioned it as well, though not overmuch. He had a warrior’s trust in his gut. And his gut told him there was more to Bernard than met the eye.
They knew they were arriving at their destination long before the city came into view. A tall yellow cloud of smoke, soot, and desert dust hung over the east, like a bilious mountain suspended upon nothing save heat. Then came the smells, a distinctly desert mix of charcoal and animals and meat and cumin and men. The camels snorted and the mules brayed. Wadi had to draw hard on his reins to keep his beast from galloping forward, drawn by the scent of water.
Falconer motioned to Soap. “Give Nebo a handful of gold.”
Soap squinted against more than the glare, but did not speak. He reined in his camel, swinging it so that he drew alongside the African. He opened his money belt and passed over a cluster of glinting sovereigns. The clinking music drew Wadi’s head around. Both former slaves stared at the money, then at Falconer. A British seaman was promised a guinea a year, and not always paid. Nebo held more than both men together could hope to earn in a lifetime.
Falconer said to them both, “You two are to speak for us and pay for everything as you see fit.”
Nebo studied him a moment longer, then slipped the handful into his cloth belt and tied it shut. “It will be as you say.”
Wadi, however, was slower to return his attention to the road. He lifted the hand from which his quirt dangled. He touched the tips of his fingers to his heart, his lips, and his forehead—the desert salutation of respect.
The desert gave way grudgingly. The road swept southward and entered a valley with gently sloping hills. There was water here, for the hillsides were planted with date palms and ancient olive groves. Sheep and goats cropped the meager grass beneath the trees. The farmhouses were all the same, low and square and flat-roofed. Children watched from doorways, silently observing the constant flow of traffic upon the ancient road. Falconer noted that their group attracted no more attention than any of the other travelers.
They passed through one small hamlet, then more farms, then a larger village. They finally paused when the ancient walls came into view. Falconer pushed back his burnoose to look at the space where the old gates must have once stood, with the road framed by two mounds of rubble as high as the surrounding hills. The mounds had been flattened and brick guard stations built atop them. But the flagpoles were empty, and Falconer saw only one bored sentry loitering inside the shaded doorway.
Falconer pulled their group over to the side of the road and instructed Bernard and Soap to stow away their Arab robes as he was doing. Tunis was used to foreigners of all kinds.
The road’s traffic condensed inside the city walls. The five men allowed themselves to be slowed and pushed more closely together. Falconer tried to stay alert to danger, but he could not keep himself from gaping. They passed a side road given over to weavers. The road was roofed with drying racks and strung with a rainbow collection of dyed yarn. The road curved north and broadened into a teeming market. The stalls were jammed cheek by jowl. At one, three lads as young as Matt pounded designs into copper plates. At the next, a small girl pulled upon a string looped to a turnstile, while an older man chiseled a block of wood into a table leg. The girl’s attention remained fastened upon the road, while her hands continued in constant motion. A woman approached them with two chickens dangling from each hand. Her face was tattooed in the intricate tribal fashion, and her voice was as shrill as a chattering bird.
Wadi slowed his camel further and nudged Falconer with his quirt. The one-eyed Arab made a tiny gesture with his chin. Falconer followed the man’s focus and saw a pair of Europeans seated at an outdoor tavern. “We stop there,” Falconer said.
Soap had seen them as well. “Is it safe?”
“Nothing is safe inside this city,” Falconer replied, his voice low. “So long as we remain, we stand upon the knife’s edge. Remember that, all of you.”
When their direction was clear, the innkeeper emerged from the tent’s shade and barked a command. Instantly a pair of lads shot forward to take hold of their reins. The innkeeper greeted them with the traditional salaam as they descended from their animals. He personally seated them, vanished, and swiftly returned with a copper basin and towel, which he offered first to Falconer. The towel was almost as filthy as the innkeeper’s robe. Falconer dipped his hands into the basin in the ceremonial fashion, then swept his fingers through his hair and retied the leather thong. He could feel a dozen sets of eyes upon him.
Anywhere else, the tavern’s shape would have seemed most curious. Here, it was so common as to be unremarkable. The rear area was desert brick and Falconer knew it would be separated into kitchen, storeroom, and a single great room for guests during storms. Today’s weather was clear, however, so the guests sat at tables beneath a rectangular awning. The tentlike cover reached to the road’s edge, such that camels and customers passed within inches of the closest table. From old habit, Falconer selected a table far back, lost to shadows and where he could sit with his back to a solid wall. The two other westerners occupied a table at the restaurant’s far side and pretended to ignore the newcomers.