The Skin Map

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Give, please. Mister, give!”

  “Looks like you’ve had it, old man!” called the tour leader. Chuckling, he walked back to join his group members, who had dismounted and were moving towards the temple. “You’ll have to give them something to get rid of them.”

  “Thanks for your help,” called Kit, still trying to extricate himself from the clutches of the insistent young vagabonds. His efforts aroused the attention of some older boys with donkeys; they rode their diminutive animals into the besieging horde, clicking their tongues and swatting their rivals with switches made from palm branches. “Mister! You ride donkey! We take you! Ride, mister!”

  “No! I don’t want a donkey ride,” said Kit, backing away.

  “What are you doing?” asked Lady Fayth, stepping up beside him.

  “I got a little tangled up here,” he said. “But I’m working on it.”

  “Pray, do not farce about. Ask them if they have seen Cosimo and Uncle Henry,” she suggested.

  “I was just about to do that,” replied Kit. “There probably isn’t much that happens around here that they don’t know about.”

  “Well?” she demanded, swatting away the hands that were trying to find their way into her pockets.

  “Excuse me!” shouted Kit. “Excuse me! We are looking for two Englishmen. Two English—big men. Has anyone seen Englishmen?”

  Though his repeated inquiries appeared to have no effect on the bawling horde, one of the donkey boys left the pack and returned a moment later with one of the camel drivers. “You English?” called the driver. “You look for men?”

  “Yes,” Kit answered, hurrying to meet him. His noisy entourage moved with him. “Two Englishmen. They came here a few days ago. Did you see them?”

  The camel driver waded into the throng and, with a word and a flick of his camel whip here and there, instantly scattered the begging children. They ran to catch up with the tour group just now entering the temple. “Old men,” said the Egyptian.

  “Yes,” confirmed Kit. “Old men—two of them. One was a big man, tall, with wavy white hair.” He rippled his fingers over his head to demonstrate. “The other had reddish hair and a pointed beard.” His fingers stroked an imaginary goatee on his chin. “They were wearing dark clothes—black coats.” He patted his own shirt and breeches. “Did you see them?”

  “Yes. Them I see.”

  “Do you know where they went? Can you show us where they went?”

  “Why you want knowing this?”

  “They are our friends. We were meant to meet them here.”

  “They are bad men,” said the camel driver, and spat.

  “No,” countered Kit quickly. “No, please—they are good men. But they may be in trouble. Bad men were following them. We have come to help.”

  The Egyptian considered this, his crinkled eyes examining Kit and his companions. “I take you.”

  Turning to Lady Fayth and Giles, Kit shouted, “He has seen them. He says he’ll take us to them.”

  “Fifty dirhams,” added the driver.

  “Ah, yes,” said Kit. “Wait here.” Returning to his companions, he said, “I need some coins—a few crowns should do it.”

  “Sir Henry and Cosimo—the fellow knows where they are?” said Giles as he stooped to remove a satchel from the bundle he carried. “He has seen them?”

  “And he’ll take us to them?” questioned Lady Fayth.

  “That’s what he says,” replied Kit. Taking the purse from Giles’s hand, he opened it and poured out a handful of coins, took up two of the larger silver ones, and passed back the rest. “This should do it.”

  He crossed to the camel driver and held up the two coins. “This one to take us to find our friends,” said Kit, handing the coin to the driver. “And this one when we have found them.” He returned the second coin to his pocket. “Agreed?”

  The Egyptian whipped the coin out of sight and made a little bow. “I am Yusuf,” he said. “We go now.” He turned and started toward the line of kneeling camels.

  Kit called to the others, “Come on! He’s taking us now.”

  They shouldered their bundles and hurried to join their guide and were soon clambering up onto the awkwardly sloping backs of three camels. Yusuf commandeered a donkey from one of the lads and without so much as a backward glance, they were soon jolting off along the avenue of sphinxes and into the desert. Of the three travellers, Giles most quickly mastered the odd swinging, lurching gait of their long-legged mounts, and Lady Fayth soon caught the knack; Kit, however, could not quite adjust to the jerky, undulating sway and resigned himself to an uncomfortable—and very smelly—ride. The camels, all but silent on their flat, padded feet, passed along a low rise of dust-coloured hills; away to the west, tawny dunes of sand undulated like the waves of a stationary sea.

  The sun rose higher, growing steadily hotter beneath a cloudless sky. The line of hills stretched into the distance, disappearing into the silver shimmer of the burgeoning heat haze. It was not long before Kit began wishing he had thought to bring a hat—and a canteen filled with something cool and refreshing. It was an unfortunate thought, because once it had entered his head, it quickly passed from idle fancy into fixation. The more he thought about it, the more it grew to occupy his mind, filling it and driving out all other thoughts. He began to feel as if his mouth were stuffed with cotton and his throat made of tree bark; his vision became rimmed and distorted as if he were peering through cheap binoculars.

  “Sir?” Kit became aware of someone calling him. “Kit, sir?”

  He turned his head to see that Giles had reined up beside him. “Hmm?”

  “Are you well, sir?”

  “I’m fine.” Kit swallowed. “A little thirsty is all.”

  “I fear, sir, that we forgot to bring any water.”

  “I know. We’ll just have to wait.” Urging his mount forward, he came abreast of their guide. “Is it much farther?” he asked.

  The swarthy Egyptian pointed to the rock-rimmed hills. “There,” he said. “Not far.”

  Turning around on his saddle, Kit called back to Giles and Lady Fayth. “He says we’re almost there.”

  Lady Fayth, shielding her face with her hand, nodded grimly.

  They rode on a little longer, and then, quite unexpectedly, turned toward the same shattered hills the guide had indicated. As they approached the base of the nearest hill, they saw what appeared to be little more than a crease open out onto the desert. Yusuf turned into the crevice and, riding single file, they proceeded into a channel between two sheer rock walls—a wadi cut into the soft stone by the abundant rains of a much younger world. The air was dead still inside the wadi, but at least the high walls afforded significant shade; it was cooler at the bottom of the gulch, and Kit felt himself revive. They came to a place where the gap between the walls widened, and here their guide halted. “We leave the animals,” he said. “We walk from here.”

  Kit wasted not an instant scrambling down from his disagreeable perch and hurried to their guide. “We need some water,” he said.

  “There is a well,” replied Yusuf. “I take you.”

  After securing the beasts, they gathered their gear and started down the wadi, soon arriving at a place where the walls flattened slightly, and there, in a fissure at the base of one wall, a deep pit had been hollowed in the solid rock; the pit was covered by a stone that, after it had been removed, revealed the end of a rope of braided hemp. Yusuf pulled on the rope, and up came a leather bucket dripping with water. The liquid was tepid, but fresh enough, and they all slaked their thirst. Kit was last to drink. “Everyone okay?” he asked, passing the bucket back to their guide. He thanked him and asked, “How much farther?”

  “We walk a little,” replied Yusuf. Taking a water skin from one of the camels, he filled it and passed it to Kit. “This way.”

  They followed the gently meandering course of the ancient gully as it cut deeper into the arid hills. The sheer walls of banded rock soared o
n either hand; sometimes their tops were so high they could not be seen from the bottom. They passed beneath low overhangs and around long curving bends—so many that Kit lost count—until Yusuf finally stopped and said in a low voice, “We must climb.” The three looked around; they were standing at a crossroads of sorts where a smaller branch joined the larger. The walls here were lower, and much eroded. In looking at the broken walls, they saw that a set of narrow steps had been carved into the rock face on one side. Yusuf started up, gesturing for the others to follow.

  They reached the top and proceeded overland along a crumbling, much eroded goat track that ran along the edge of the wadi. Yusuf led them to a spindly acacia tree and stopped. “They are down there,” he said, indicating the wadi floor. “I stop here.” He held out his hand for his second coin.

  “We thank you, Yusuf. If we have need of your camels again, I will look for you.”

  “A’salaamu ’alaykum,” said Yusuf, turning to go. The Egyptian paused, then, glancing back over his shoulder added, “Be careful, my friends. They are bad men.”

  “Do you know how many are down there?”

  Yusuf thought for a moment, then held up four fingers. “May Allah the Merciful be with you,” he said as he hurried away.

  Giles glanced around the barren clifftop, then turned to Kit. “What is your pleasure, sir?” he asked, unslinging his bundle.

  “Let’s have a look down there and see what we can see,” suggested Kit. “Stay out of sight and keep quiet.”

  “If you please,” remarked Lady Fayth, “we are not children. Kindly refrain from treating us so.”

  “Sorry.” Kit turned towards the gaping crevasse. “Let’s take a look.”

  They moved to the edge of the cliff, crawling the last few feet on hands and knees and then squirming on their stomachs to peer down onto the wadi floor fifty or sixty feet below, where to their wondering eyes appeared the chiselled statues of Thoth and Horus standing either side of a doorway cut into the solid rock of the canyon wall facing them. Other branches of the wadi angled off to the left and right, and the junction formed a broad triangle. These walls were honeycombed with niches, hundreds of little nooks carved into the sandstone. “There’s a temple or something down there,” observed Kit softly. Even as he spoke, a man in a long white kaftan wandered into view. He paused in the open area in front of the temple and looked around, casting his gaze up the three separate canyon corridors in turn—almost as if he knew someone was watching him. Discovering nothing out of the ordinary, however, he called out to an unseen companion and then moved on.

  The three adventurers continued to watch, but nothing more happened, so with the sun scalding their unprotected heads, they edged back from the overlook and returned to their bundled provisions and weapons. “Well, I suppose if it is to be four against two—” Kit said, then hastily corrected himself, “four against three, I mean—then I suggest we make our move tonight.”

  “When everyone is asleep,” said Lady Fayth approvingly. “Very shrewd.”

  “I’ve watched a lot of movies,” muttered Kit.

  “Sir?” wondered Giles. He and Lady Fayth exchanged a puzzled look.

  “Never mind,” Kit said, looking around. The brave little acacia provided the only shade to be seen atop the overlook; it would be close quarters, but better than nothing. “It’s getting pretty hot out here. I suggest we get out of the sun and try to keep cool.”

  “And then?” asked Lady Fayth.

  “We wait.”

  CHAPTER 35

  In Which an Alliance of Consequence Is Formed

  The long hot day passed. As the blistering sun sailed high overhead, Giles passed around the water skin, then opened the bundle of provisions and made a meal of apples and barley bread. As they ate, Kit dug out Sir Henry’s green book. He unwrapped it and, after orienting himself anew to the tight, crabbed script, began to read. “This is interesting!” he announced, laying aside his apple.

  When nothing more seemed forthcoming, Lady Fayth said, “Pray, do you intend to relate that which has so obviously piqued your interest?”

  Kit thumbed back a page in the little book. “Listen to this,” he said, and began to read aloud. “Sir Henry writes, ‘I hold two precepts absolute: That the universe was created to allow Providence its expression, and therefore nothing happens beyond Its purview.’ ” He glanced up to see his audience wholly puzzled by this nugget. “Wait, there’s more. ‘Secondly, all was made for the benefit of each: man, woman, child, and beast, down to the curve of every wave, and the flight of the lowliest insect. For, if there be such a thing as Providence, then everything is providential, and every act of Providence is a special providence.’” He looked up again. “Do you see?”

  “A curious musing, perhaps,” conceded Lady Fayth. “Yet, I fail to see that it has anything do with the particular undertaking before us. Does it?”

  “Well,” allowed Kit, “not at the moment maybe. But see here.” He turned the book toward her. “What is it that he’s scribbled in the margin?”

  Lady Fayth bent her head to the text and squinted at the smudgy words Kit’s finger marked. “If I am not mistaken, it says ‘No Coincidence Under Heaven.’”

  Kit pointed to another annotation. “And this one?”

  “‘Providence Not Coincidence,’” replied Lady Fayth, glancing up again.

  “No coincidence,” echoed Kit. “I think he’s trying to say that nothing happens that Providence does not permit.” Kit frowned and amended the thought immediately. “No, I mean—nothing happens that Providence cannot use to express itself.”

  “Or,” volunteered Giles, “nothing happens that Providence cannot use for the benefit of all things.”

  “It is a fascinating notion, to be sure,” agreed Lady Fayth doubtfully. “Do you believe it?”

  Kit thought for a moment. “I don’t know. But Sir Henry seems to.”

  Just then, a loud popping sound came echoing up from the canyon basin; it was followed by the rumbling growl of a combustion engine. “Whatever is that?” said Lady Fayth, looking toward the canyon.

  “It is a motor,” Kit explained, wrapping the book and tucking it back into his pocket. “A machine that powers things. My guess is it’s either a vehicle engine or a generator.”

  They moved to the clifftop and gazed down. The engine rumbled on, growing louder, filling the air with its rough growl. A moment later, a vintage flatbed truck swung into view, and the vehicle proceeded slowly down the wadi, trailing thick white plumes of smoke. “We’re in luck,” observed Kit. “They’re leaving.”

  “What is it?” asked Giles, pointing to the truck rattling out of sight along the gully floor.

  “I guess you’d call it a horseless carriage,” Kit told him. “The motor powers it.”

  “And a very disagreeable machine it is,” remarked Lady Fayth, holding her nose as the petrol fumes reached them. “Most unnatural.”

  “You have no idea,” said Kit.

  They watched a while longer, but all remained quiet. “Do you think they have gone?” asked Giles.

  “Maybe,” allowed Kit. “There is only one way to find out.” He stood. “Let’s go down.”

  “Have you ever used a pistol?” asked Lady Fayth, brushing dust from her clothes and hands.

  “No,” admitted Kit, with a shake of his head.

  “Then I shall take the pistol,” she decided. “You and Giles will do better with the cutlasses—if it should come to that.”

  “Fine,” agreed Kit. “Cutlasses it is.”

  Giles opened the bundle and handed out the weapons. Kit gripped the hilt of the sword; fully as long as his arm, the slightly curved, tapering blade was somewhat heavier than he expected, but well balanced and reasonably sharp. After a few practice swipes, he felt suitably armed and dangerous. “Ready?” The others nodded. “Right. Stay alert and keep quiet. Here we go.”

  They started down the broken staircase, picking their way among the rocks one step at a time, as
silently as possible. Upon reaching the wadi floor, they stopped and crouched, waiting to see if they had been heard or observed. All was calm and silent. “So far, so good,” Kit whispered. “This way.”

  They moved quickly to the temple, darting into the entrance so as not to be seen in the open. The interior, illumined only by the light coming in from the doorway, revealed a simple square hollowed from the living rock. A stone ledge three feet off the floor ran around the perimeter of the room, which, save for the sand drifted into the corners, was empty. Turning back toward the doorway, they looked both ways down the two connecting branches of the wadi. To the right, a lean-to hut of rough timber had been constructed against the canyon wall and, beside it, a large tent; to the left, there was nothing but a series of door-size niches carved into the rock: three of them, each a few yards from the next.

  “Which way?” asked Kit. “Right or left?”

  “The fellow we saw earlier went that way,” suggested Giles, indicating the tent on the right. “We might try the other way first.”

  “Sounds good to me,” agreed Kit. “Stay close.”

  Leaving the temple entrance, the three flitted along the wall towards the first niche. “Wait here,” said Kit. “And keep a sharp lookout.” He crept to the doorway and paused, listened, then ducked inside. An overpowering smell of fumes in the close confines of the small chamber made him gasp. He could just about make out the black boxy shape of a generator, but nothing else.

  “Not in there,” Kit reported when he stepped out again. “Let’s try the next one.”

  As before, he positioned his watchers either side of the doorway and then ducked into the rock-cut chamber; this one was slightly larger than the first and, from what Kit could make out, seemed to be filled with crates and casks and boxes. “It’s a storage room,” he reported, then motioned the others to follow him to the third doorway. A swift inspection revealed that the last chamber was filled with oil drums. “Another storage room,” Kit said. “That’s it for this side.” He turned with some reluctance toward the tent. “I guess we look there next.”