The Temple Scroll

by D C Macey

  ‘Just call me mama, everyone here does.’ The old lady finished pouring the tea and put down the pot. ‘Would you like milk or sugar?’

  ‘Just milk please. But who are you?’

  ‘I own the hotel. Well, my son Haris thinks he does but, believe me, it’s mine until my time’s up,’ she gave a sharp little laugh, ‘and I’m not going anywhere yet!’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You have a friend you were asking after, a guest here.’

  ‘Yes, Sam. Sam Cameron. He seems to have vanished; I’m very worried about him. Do you have any news?’

  ‘We’ll see what can be found out. I have put out some feelers. I’m sure it will be fine. Don’t worry; I’m certain he will turn up. We don’t like to lose guests,’ the old lady fixed Helen with surprisingly bright eyes. ‘Meantime tell me about yourself and Sam, how do you know one another?’

  ‘I’m sorry; I haven’t got time to chat. I need to find Sam.’

  ‘Now, now, I told you I have made enquiries for you. I am sure we will find him soon enough. Now have some tea and let’s chat.’

  Accepting the inevitable, Helen picked up her cup. Almost before she realised it she was deep in conversation with the old lady, who proved a real charmer and seemed keen to know all about her and Sam.

  Finally, after twenty minutes or so of conversation, she told Helen of her own talk with Sam, about his search for the church of Saint Athanasius and of Father Andreas. Then the old lady stood and made her excuses.

  Mama could see her story had given Helen hope but she determinedly swept aside the younger woman’s renewed flood of questions. ‘Don’t go far, I’ll see what news there is of Sam and keep you informed,’ she said and left Helen alone in the room.

  • • •

  It was mid-evening when Helen got news. She was sat in the square, letting her fingers drum lightly on the bill for the evening meal she had just finished with her two Sardinian companions. They were all sipping coffees when she spotted a man making his way towards her from the hotel.

  The Sardinians bristled at his uninvited approach but Helen laid hands on their forearms and they settled down. ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Have you news?’

  ‘My name is Haris.’ He eyed her two companions a little nervously. ‘Mama says you should go in the car.’ He pointed across the square towards a battered old Peugeot 205.

  ‘Where will it take me?’

  Haris shrugged, irritated at having been reduced to a messenger boy. ‘Mama says go; we go. Mama says jump; we jump. Who knows? Always this, always that, always secrets.’ He stepped a little closer, bending a little, and added in a rueful tone. ‘But I tell you, she’s always right.’ Then he turned and left, waving his arm in the direction of the car.

  Looking more closely at the car Helen could see the driver was a young man. She stood, walked to the restaurant counter, settled the bill and crossed to the car. The Sardinians followed, close, like shadows pinned to her heels.

  Bending down she spoke to the driver through the open passenger window. ‘You want to take me somewhere?’

  Father Christos turned his face to look at her more closely. She could see his eyes conducting an appraisal, could not read the conclusions. He nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But only you.’

  Helen knew the Sardinians would not allow her to travel alone. ‘They’re with me,’ she said.

  Father Christos shrugged. ‘Then you must stay. Sorry, only you can come.’

  Helen thought for a moment before trying another tack. ‘Do you know Sam Cameron? We are his friends.’

  As her eyes adjusted to the light and shadow within the car she realised the man was dressed as a priest. ‘You’re a priest,’ she said.

  ‘That is so. Are you coming?’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Father Christos.’

  One of the Sardinians rested a hand on Helen’s forearm, drawing her attention to three neat little holes spread across the rear of the car - bullet holes. She looked at the man and nodded an acknowledgement before resuming her conversation with Father Christos.

  ‘Looks like you’ve been busy. Seen much action recently, Father Christos?’

  Father Christos gave a shrug.

  ‘Is shrugging all the men in this part of the world can do?’

  Father Christos shrugged again and then smiled at her.

  She smiled back. ‘Mama says I’m to come with you and I’m happy to. But my friends won’t let me go alone. I just need to find Sam, that’s all. Mama trusts me, I trust her. So I’ll trust you, but you have to trust me too. My friends come, that’s final.’

  There was a long pause as Father Christos weighed up the options. He shrugged again then nodded agreement in Helen’s direction. ‘We should go now.’

  Without waiting for any further discussion, Helen pulled the front passenger door open while waving the two Sardinians into the back seats. She got in and fastened her belt.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  Father Christos drove off in silence. Helen tried once or twice to engage in conversation but finally gave up. They quickly left the lights of town behind. Driving through the darkness, lit only by the car’s headlights, it became pointless trying to keep a handle on their location.

  From high in the hills, they could look down into the blackness to see the light patterns of little villages and farmsteads glowing in the distance. Suddenly the car took a hard turn off the road; they were in complete darkness, climbing yet higher. Then, crossing a little ridge, they started to drop down the other side and Helen could make out the shadow of a building ahead of them. The car drove under an archway and into a darkly shadowed courtyard, a couple of faint lights showed through the slats of shuttered windows. Wherever they were, they had arrived.

  Leaving the car, Helen and the Sardinians followed Father Christos into a dimly lit entrance hall, up a flight of stairs and along a corridor. He guided them into a long room. Standing to one side Father Christos pointed towards the occasional chairs, ‘Your friends can sit here, and you may join Father Andreas at the desk.’ His hand swept to the other end of the room and Helen suddenly noticed a man sitting low behind a heavy wooden desk.

  Father Andreas beckoned for her to join him.

  Helen looked at the Sardinians, waved in the direction of the chairs and left them and Father Christos behind as she walked alone across the room to the desk.

  Father Andreas stretched out a hand to greet her. ‘Forgive me for not rising; I’m afraid that is a little beyond me now.’

  Helen circled the desk to shake the old man’s hand, while taking in the wheelchair and the strength in the man’s quiet voice.

  ‘Sit now,’ said Father Andreas, pointing her to a chair beside the desk. ‘Sit and let’s talk.’

  Helen was not in the mood for small talk. ‘I understand you have news of my friend Sam Cameron. It would be good to hear it and maybe get back to town.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But sit first, please. We have things that need to be discussed.’

  ‘The only thing I want to discuss is Sam. Where is he?’

  Father Andreas looked at Helen for a long moment; saw she was strong and concluded she was not going to give any ground. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You shall see him, but he cannot speak with you.’

  ‘Where is he? What have you done with him?’

  ‘We have done nothing; your friend was injured saving my life, for which we are all very grateful. I’m afraid he has been unconscious for some time. But we think he will be fine.’ As he finished speaking, Father Andreas raised his hand, giving the slightest of waves - the door beside the bookcase opened silently. A middle-aged priest stood beside it.

  Helen leapt up. ‘What? Where is he? Why am I here and not with him at the hospital?’

  ‘I’m afraid we had to keep him here. I didn’t think it was safe to go beyond these walls.’

  Helen glanced towards the opened door. She pointed. ‘That way?’

  Father Andreas nodded, the m
iddle-aged priest disappeared into the hallway and Helen chased after him. A commotion of Sardinians, priests and a wheelchair hurried behind her - it registered only slightly as she focused on what lay ahead.

  She followed the priest upstairs and into a room lit only by light from the corridor. Inside, lying asleep on the bed was Sam. A darkened line across the side of his head marked the site of a nasty gash. It had been cleaned and stapled. She knelt beside the bed and gently touched the wound.

  ‘What have you done to him?’ she said. ‘Why isn’t he in hospital?’

  The room darkened further as the chasing men caught up. ‘Give me some light here,’ ordered Helen and the men backed out of the room. Father Christos reached a hand round the doorframe, flicked on a wall switch and electric light filled the room just as Father Andreas arrived via the lift.

  ‘There’s no need to worry; he’s in good hands,’ said Father Andreas.

  ‘Good hands? Good hands is a hospital, not this back of beyond place. Why hasn’t he been treated properly?’

  ‘We’ve done the best we could; Father Manos was a military doctor before he received the call. Sam has been given the best of attention.’

  Father Manos, the middle-aged priest who had led the rush upstairs, inclined his head very slightly.

  ‘He’s been unconscious; he should have a head scan,’ said Helen.

  ‘Well, yes, but we were attacked here yesterday. I could not be sure there were not others watching who might attack again even in the hospital,’ said Father Andreas.

  Helen checked the flood of reprimands that were on her tongue, as she thought for a moment of the attack on Xavier in hospital in Cagliari. Perhaps Father Andreas was right. She looked again at Sam, his wound had been treated well and he seemed comfortable. ‘Okay, until morning anyway. I’m going to stay here with him until then. Once it’s daylight we can sort something out.’ Helen was not asking and nobody was arguing with her.

  ‘I agree,’ said Father Andreas. ‘You may stay here with Sam. Father Christos will organise refreshments for you all and show your, urh, your colleagues to some sleeping quarters.’

  Then Helen was alone with Sam. She spoke to him through the stillness of the night, telling him off, telling him of her feelings, saying the things she would never dream of mentioning to him under ordinary circumstances. She kept talking until at some point before the dawn she fell asleep on the bed.

  CHAPTER 28 - FRIDAY 6th SEPTEMBER

  Helen woke late in the morning. Days of worry had caught up with her on the warm bed beside Sam. She sat up quickly and checked him. He was breathing, she gave a sigh of relief and then a gasp of joy; Sam’s eyes were blinking. He was awake.

  She kissed him and, under the circumstances, he gave what passed for a reasonable response. Helen began checking him. Could he feel this? Could he feel that? What could he see? What could he hear?

  ‘Helen, stop it. Stop worrying or I’m going back under, that’s a promise,’ said Sam.

  ‘Well, we need to know you’re functioning properly. It’s not as though you’ve been in hospital. You’ve had a head injury. And I thought we had agreed you’d keep a low profile - fact finding, avoid any risks. In, out and away, you said.’

  ‘Just five minutes more. Then I’ll be fine,’ he muttered as his eyes closed. Helen let him sleep. Feeling happier in herself, she headed off along the corridor in search of a bathroom to freshen up. She really wanted a shower but that would have to wait for now.

  A little while later, she emerged from the bathroom just as Father Manos was emerging from Sam’s room. He nodded to her and smiled. She found herself smiling back. The priest beckoned to her and headed along the corridor towards the stair. Helen followed, glancing in on a sleeping Sam as she passed his room.

  ‘Nice job with the wound staples,’ she said to Father Manos’ back. ‘Your work?’

  The priest raised a hand in acknowledgement.

  Entering the long room, she found herself directed towards the broad table where a place had been set for her. As soon as she sat, a much older priest appeared. He was wheeling a trolley with a canteen of coffee on it, some croissants, butter and a selection of fruit. The old man lifted the breakfast on to the table, and gave her a little smile in acknowledgement of her thanks. Another non-talker, she thought. Then she ate.

  Once finished, she stood to look out of the window, anxious to get a feel for their location. It took just an instant to confirm they were remote, very remote. The courtyard below was still. Beyond the building, the land rose up to a ridge. Its slope covered in determinedly green scrub and punctuated by occasional pines and little stands of slim pointy cypress trees. The grass, turning gold and dry was less resilient in resisting the late summer sun that bore down on everything - nothing moved. Just a worn single-track lane led away up the slope - not much passing trade here she thought.

  A creaking floorboard had her turn as Father Andreas rolled across the room in his chair.

  ‘I see you’re up. Good, good. And I’m told Sam is awake. Success all round.’ He glanced at the table as he rolled past it. ‘You’ve eaten. So things are looking better. Yes?’

  ‘Yes, it’s good news about Sam. Though I still don’t understand what happened here or why. Perhaps you’re gonna tell me now?’

  ‘Sit, sit,’ said Father Andreas. Waving Helen towards the cluster of easy chairs, he wheeled across to join her. ‘Yes, we should talk. There are some things I don’t understand either, things that I would really like you to explain.’

  ‘Shoot,’ said Helen. ‘You first. What do you want to know? Then I’ll want some answers too.’

  Father Andreas bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement. ‘Your friend Sam came to our island as thousands of tourists do every year. But he didn’t come as a tourist, though he did ask about a church. Not churches, you understand; some tourists like churches. No, he asked about a church, my church, one that has not existed for a long, long, time: not since I was a young priest, a lifetime ago. Do you know, I’m over ninety now. Most of my friends from then are gone. Mama you met, we grew up together. There aren’t many others left.

  ‘Even the locals don’t think about the St Athanasius church any more. The church is history. So naturally, I was interested when I heard Sam was asking questions.’ He paused and fixed Helen with a quizzical look. ‘And he is from Edinburgh, Scotland.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ said Helen. ‘Is that any reason for him to have his head broken?’

  ‘That was not us,’ protested Father Andreas, throwing his hands up in horror. ‘No, no, I was, how would you say? Interested; yes, interested to speak with Sam.’

  ‘Well, that was some heavy chatting.’

  ‘No, I told you, trouble followed him here. Oh, don’t worry now; we dealt with it. But I had thought he was somebody. Somebody I hoped to meet… No, somebody I prayed to meet before my time. But it was not him.’

  ‘How do you know he’s not who you wanted?’ said Helen.

  Father Andreas gave a drawn smile. ‘Oh, I would know. He is a lecturer. I am looking, hoping for a priest.’

  ‘A priest? Why’s that?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I think that moment has gone now. It was not to be…’ His voice trailed off into a moment’s silence. Then bringing himself back to the present he carried on with his questioning. ‘But you are his friend. An American, I think. Can you explain what brought the trouble to our door?’

  ‘Maybe, I’m not sure what happened. Sam can tell us now he’s awake. He has an eye for things. But now my question. Tell me, if you were priest of St Athanasius’ in town, why are you up here?’

  The old man sighed. The sparkle and power that she had seen the night before were gone. He suddenly looked washed out, shrunken. His vitality was visibly ebbing away as though his moment had passed him by and he was ready for an end.

  ‘After the earthquake my body was broken, I needed time to recuperate. So many innocents were killed.’ Suddenly, there were tears in his eyes. ‘
I did what I could but how could you save everyone? It was not possible. St Athanasius’ church had always maintained this place, part of our heritage. A retreat, a sanctuary, for priests and for lay people who needed time and quiet. We moved everything up here after the church was destroyed and I have been happy to stay ever since.’

  Helen leant forward, reached her hand out and squeezed his forearm. Deep inside, she knew she had found her man. A poor, brave, man who had fought a long struggle against adversity. She could tell he was near the end. His body clock had simply wound down.

  His eyes looked up to hers. A sad smile played across his lips. Kneeling beside him, she put her arms round the old man and hugged, kissed his cheek, and then pulled back a little, looked him in the eyes. ‘You have been waiting for a priest. A priest from Edinburgh?’

  He nodded. ‘All my life.’ His eyes dropped to his lap. ‘Waiting in vain. Perhaps one day he will come for Christos. But not for me now, the moment is gone. When Sam Cameron turned up it lit a fire in me, for a moment I was fifty years younger, I thought the time had come.’ He was talking to himself now, happy to be close to somebody, anybody, but almost unaware of who.

  ‘Come on Andreas, don’t give up, there’s always time, another chance.’

  He gave a smile; the tears had stopped now and he looked at her again. ‘No, it’s over.’

  ‘Andreas, you need a priest, a priest from Edinburgh. A particular priest? Maybe one who carries a ring?’

  Father Andreas nodded, head down, forlorn. ‘Yes, a special ring.’ Slowly his head pulled up, he looked at Helen again. ‘And how do you know this?’

  Helen leant forward and kissed him again, on both cheeks, pulled back and, gently squeezing the old man’s arms, she almost whispered to him. ‘Not all the clergy are men today.’

  He looked puzzled, trying to grasp what she said and what lay behind it. ‘Yes, I know that.’ He looked at her, trying to find something in her words.

  ‘Father Andreas, I am a minister of the church.’

  He nodded acknowledgement, without really understanding.

  ‘Father Andreas, I am a minister from Edinburgh. I sent Sam to find you.’