The Tenth Saint

by D. J. Niko

  “Run,” Apostolos cried.

  She had no time to question where he was leading her. To her horror, it quickly became evident they were running toward the labyrinth. “Are you mad?” she protested. “We’ll never make it out alive.”

  Apostolos ignored her pleas and ran even faster, bare feet slapping the stone floor.

  She had no choice but to follow. With dread filling her, she crossed into the maze of dark stone passages. The weak flames of torches hanging on the walls flickered as they hurried past, casting enough light to illuminate a few feet ahead but not enough to reveal what was around the bend.

  Sarah marveled at the robed acolyte’s agility maneuvering through the darkened maze. Father Giorgis had told her Apostolos had defected here from another church twenty-odd years ago as a teenage novice. He hadn’t left these chambers since, not even for a day. The church had become his sanctuary, and he knew and loved every corner. Tonight Sarah was thankful for it.

  She heard the labored breathing and lumbering footsteps of their pursuers echo through the halls. Glancing back, she saw moving shadows on the far end of the corridor exaggerated by the dim torchlight. “They’re on us.”

  Apostolos stopped suddenly. He said nothing, but there was an undeniable urgency in his gaze. He groped around the wall as if he was looking for something. The approaching men were now in full view and would be upon them within seconds. He pushed on the stones, and a row of iron bars descended from the ceiling just ahead of the men. A trap. The old stone maze obviously was not only a thinking man’s game but also a fortress of defense.

  Apostolos grabbed Sarah’s arm again. She followed him through this turn and that, trusting he was leading them out of this nightmare.

  If only it were so easy. One of the men had slid under the descending bars and was still after them, moving through the maze as if he knew its secrets.

  The weight of her pursuer toppled her, and the world went dark. She struggled but could not shake her limbs loose from his hold. Desperate, she bit his forearm.

  He howled and struck her face.

  Her mind reeled from the blow, her attempts at self-defense weakening.

  Apostolos lay sprawled on the floor. Was he even alive? In the tumult of the confrontation, she hadn’t fully realized what had happened. She knew only that she would have to summon all her wits to avoid facing the same fate.

  The man yanked forcefully at the pouch around her neck containing the photos and her notes. The rope dug into her neck but did not break. With a foul grimace revealing a mouthful of rotting grey teeth, her attacker laughed and pulled out a knife.

  Sarah raised her hand in defense, her awkward maneuver landing her palm squarely on the blade.

  Just then she saw Apostolos rise. Though his white robes were red with his own blood, he was lucid. He thrust the full force of his body on the man. As the two struggled, the intruder overpowered the wounded monk and pinned him to the wall.

  “Run,” Apostolos yelled.

  Panic and loyalty rooted her where she stood. She couldn’t leave Apostolos to an uncertain fate. She looked around desperately for something she could use to give him the advantage.

  The torch. She took it out of its iron hanger and, with all her power, swung.

  At the moment of impact, the man’s head bobbed as if it were not attached to his neck. Sarah knew he would be rendered unconscious but did not anticipate his hair catching on fire. That was a bonus.

  She ran to the monk, who had once more saved her life. He clutched his abdomen, blood trickling through his fingers.

  “You’re hurt.”

  “It is not deep. Never mind it. He is not dead.”

  Indeed, the man was starting to stir, regaining consciousness thanks to the flames engulfing his head. He let out a horrific scream and pawed haphazardly at his scorched hair.

  The smell of singed flesh sent bile to her throat. “We should have finished him off.”

  “No.” Apostolos’ voice was strained. “It is not for us to judge. Come. We don’t have much time.”

  He was stoic, but Sarah could see he was in real pain. His movements were slow, his breathing labored as he tried to rush toward the trap door built into the stone floor centuries ago so the monks could escape persecution from heathen tribes. It was camouflaged well, but Apostolos was not taking any chances. When they lowered themselves into the dark realm of the passageway, he latched it from the inside. His brothers from generations past had thought of everything; they’d had to, for cleverness was their only defense.

  He stopped to rest. Blood had saturated the entire front of his robes, and he was pale and weak.

  Sarah knew he was understating his injury. “You need help,” she said, panic in her voice. “Let me look at this.” She opened his robes. A gash stretched diagonally from his navel to his side, blood trickling slowly but persistently. “It could be worse. But if we don’t get you stitched up, you could bleed to death. Now tell me the way out of here, and I will carry you.”

  It was the first time she had seen the monk smile. His expression was so peaceful, so kind she was certain she was in the presence of something far greater than herself. She took his hand and shuddered. It was so cold.

  “Allow me to rest a moment,” he whispered, “and then we will go.” He closed his eyes, and she held his body close to warm him. His chest rose and fell with his shallow breaths.

  She had to get him out alive.

  He broke the silence with a gasp, fighting to catch his breath.

  Sarah’s heart sank.

  “That’s it. We’re getting out of here.” Her cut palm throbbed as she lifted him to his feet. He was remarkably light, this waif of a man. She put his arm over her shoulder and pressed forward.

  “There’s only one way out. It leads to the mountainside, but there is nothing to light our path.”

  “I’ll take the chance.”

  The path was pitch black, and Sarah had to feel her way around. The monk grew heavier. Though he made a valiant attempt to carry his own weight, he lost his strength and crumpled at Sarah’s side.

  ”Please,” she said with a hint of despair in her voice. “Please fight. I need you to fight.”

  Apostolos reached inside his shredded robes and pulled out a long chain from which hung a key. “This is what you need. This unlocks the secret to the prophecies.”

  The comment took her by surprise. “The what?”

  “The prophecies of Gabriel. The one they call the tenth saint.”

  “The inscriptions … are prophecies?”

  “They foretell the final doom that will befall the earth.” His voice was weak. “We swore to keep them secret.”

  Sarah was bewildered by the revelation. “How do you know this? Who’s we?”

  “Apocryphon,” he whispered.

  Sarah knew the Greek word. It meant “that which is hidden,” though religious scholars interpreted it more as “secret teachings.” It was the secret society Matakala had spoken of when they’d first met. Apos-tolos was obviously a member. She did not push him to explain but caressed his face. It was like touching ice. Life was leaving him. Finally he spoke, his voice barely audible. “Beneath the pulpit of the monastery lies a library of ancient documents …”

  “What does this key unlock?”

  “A vault … the prophecies … the saint’s cross.”

  “Who else knows about this?” She was afraid of the answer.

  ”You met him.” He touched her wounded hand. “He did this to you.”

  “The man who attacked us, who stabbed you, was a monk?”

  “May God forgive him …” Apostolos’ skin was gray. His emerald eyes, which had always sparkled with wisdom and light, were now dull. “You must … take the relics to Dabra Damo. They will be safe there. Please …” His skeletal fingers squeezed her hand as he exhaled his last breath.

  Sarah bent over him, her forehead touching his. “I promise.”

  With a sorrow she’d never known, she w
ept. It was as if all hope for goodness in the world was lost. She sat with Apostolos, the man who had saved her in so many ways, until her tears dried up.

  She slipped the chain off his neck.

  She would make good on her promise.

  Twelve

  By the time Sarah worked her way out of the subterranean tunnel, the sun had already flooded the mountainside with morning light. It was uncharacteristically warm and tomb-quiet, save for the rhythmic twittering of crickets. In spite of the despair seeping into the corners of her being, she summoned her resolve for the trek across the boulders.

  She looked down at her throbbing wound. The surrounding skin was red, swollen, and hot, and the gash was weeping fluid. She needed antibiotics.

  She climbed, negotiating the rocky ground as swiftly as the injury allowed.

  The rocks gave way to a thicket of brittle brush that crackled under her feet. She ascended the mountainside through the waist-high grasses, intentionally rustling the growth to scare off snakes potentially in her path.

  The sight of the church in the distance invigorated her. A chill rippled through her as she considered the consequences of the previous night’s events. She wondered about Father Giorgis and the other monks, and her heart sank at the possibility that they had not escaped.

  As she approached Yemrehana Krestos, it became evident that the authorities had already been notified. Two police jeeps, an ambulance, and a few unmarked cars lined the entrance to the church, their emergency lights throwing a surreal blue hue onto the stones. Scores of villagers gathered, jostling each other for position at the front of the crowd for the best view.

  Sarah hoped the presence of emergency units meant someone inside the church was alive and had been able to call for help. She slumped under a tree and monitored the activity as paramedics brought out bodies wrapped in white sheets, one after another, on stretchers, and lined them on the ground. There must have been half a dozen.

  Sarah looked to the sky, resisting the urge to scream. She couldn’t bear the thought that so many of these gentle, devout men had lost their lives simply because they had offered her asylum.

  Her spirits were lifted when she saw a couple of monks being wheeled out on gurneys. They were injured but alive. One of them was apparently unconscious, but the other was waving his arms toward the onlookers, seemingly demanding they go away. His robes were those of the high priest.

  The paramedics wheeled him and the other monk into the ambulance, and the vehicle, with lights flashing and a terrible siren wailing, ambled down the dirt path toward the only hospital in Lalibela.

  Two survivors.

  Sarah clenched her teeth.

  But that wasn’t the full extent of it. One of the cops was going through a pile of things scattered on the ground. She recognized them immediately as her own belongings: her backpack, emptied to reveal her books, notebooks, jeep key, and a few old clothes.

  She had everything of significance—all the photos, translation notes, the correspondence with Apostolos, and the monk’s key—in the pouch around her neck. But one thing was missing.

  Her passport.

  No sooner did she realize she had left it in her backpack than she saw the policeman leafing through it and waving his colleagues over.

  “Bloody brilliant,” she whispered. So much for getting out of the country.

  But her problem was greater than that. The presence of her personal effects would implicate her. Armed with new ammunition since the death of Rada Kabede, the Ethiopian police surely would begin searching for her. At a minimum, her connection to the massacre would hit the local news, which would likely be picked up by the English and possibly international press, imperiling the expedition and throwing her reputation deeper into the gutter.

  She had to get to the vault quickly and extract the documents. But the church, now a crime scene, surely would be guarded. She would have to find a way to enter undetected.

  Only one person could tell her how.

  She remained hidden until well after sundown before making her move. Under cover of night, she had made her way across the backcountry to the hospital. The trek on foot had taken hours, but so much the better. By the time she arrived, it was so late the hospital’s corridors were practically empty.

  She walked to the unmanned front desk and located the admissions chart. Giorgis’ name was preceded by The Holy, the honorific for a man of the cloth, and was followed by the number two hundred twelve. Sarah slipped into the stairwell and up to the second floor.

  The abbot lay peacefully sleeping on the rudimentary hospital cot, his dark profile illuminated by the streetlamps outside his window. His head was bandaged almost entirely, and the skin around his left eye was horribly cut, bruised, and swollen. He looked like a boxer who had lost the prize fight.

  She sat next to the bed and watched him sleep. How sorry she felt for what had befallen him and his monastery. Nothing she could say or do would ever make up for the calamity she had caused.

  Giorgis awoke and looked at Sarah as if he had been expecting her. “You are alive. It is a miracle.”

  “Father … I am so sorry.”

  “Do not be. You had no evil intent. You were doing a service to the church, to our faith. We are all victims here.”

  “But this would not have happened had I—”

  “No. Do not blame yourself.” He hesitated. “Did you see Apostolos?”

  “I was the last to see him. He died in my arms.” She choked back tears.

  Giorgis’ eyes clouded. “My good acolyte. At least he won’t suffer knowing the intruders destroyed his beloved stone.”

  Sarah was shocked. “The Sheba Stone was destroyed?”

  “Yes. They beat me and left me for dead before taking my keys and entering the sacred chamber. I heard gunfire … endless gunfire.” A pained expression crossed his face, but he composed himself and continued. “After they had all gone, I used whatever strength was left in me to crawl to the chamber. The door was off its hinges. Inside, the stone was riddled with bullets. The texts were incomprehensible.” He looked out the window and sighed. “Such vengeful men.”

  “What do they want?”

  “They know of the inscriptions. They do not want them translated. I do not know the reasons. What does it matter? All is lost now.”

  “Maybe not all.” She looked around the room, then at the door behind her. “Father, I need to know something. How do I enter the library?”

  Giorgis looked surprised. “Did Apostolos tell you of it?”

  “It was his dying wish that I take something of his, something he kept in a vault.”

  “Did he give you a key?”

  Sarah reached inside her pouch and produced the ancient iron key. “Please. We have no time. They will strike again. They know about the vault. If I don’t get to it, they will.”

  Giorgis nodded. He outlined in detail the route leading to the entrance of the library—a secret that, till this moment, was known by none except the highest ranking officials of the church.

  Sarah squeezed his hand and swore she would repay him for the kindness he had shown her.

  On her way past the nurses’ station, she grabbed some bandages, iodine, and antibiotics and stuffed them into her coat pockets. So far, so good. She hoped her luck would hold.

  The light of dawn found Sarah in an alleyway hidden behind a row of garbage bins. She had crouched there to get a few winks of sleep, which she desperately needed after the ordeal of the last forty-eight hours. She awoke shivering and looked at her watch: six. The day’s newspapers would be out by now. She tucked her blonde mane into the hood of her coat and pulled the drawstrings to make a tight seal around her face. She could not afford to be recognized. She walked toward the main street to get a glimpse at the news before the locals started stirring.

  Outside the newsagent’s kiosk the Ethiopian papers were secured by clothespins on stretches of rope. The Ethiopian Herald displayed a huge frontpage headline: “Carnage in Lalibela.�
�� And beneath it: “Eight dead; English archaeologist missing.” Under other circumstances, she might have willingly appeared before the police and cooperated with their investigation. But not now, not here. There was no time, and corruption was rampant. No one could be taken at face value, least of all the officials.

  She had to do this alone. The possibility at once unnerved and excited her. She found a piece of scrap paper in her pouch and sketched a diagram based on her conversation with Father Giorgis. It was a long trek through rough territory to the back entrance of the cave housing the library. She had to move quickly to get there before nightfall.

  On the first leg of her journey, she followed a footpath above the main road. The dry brush was high enough to camouflage her, so she walked swiftly and decisively. She had walked miles when the midday sun beat down, filling her with a thirst so cruel it was impossible to move on.

  Looking down toward the road, she spotted an anemic stream. She’d be exposed, but she was desperate. Just for a minute, she told herself and made her way down.

  The cold mountain water felt like nectar to her dry mouth, and she drank greedily.

  The sound of a car engine startled her. A jeep approached.

  She ducked into the brush, hoping her khaki coat would blend with the surroundings, but it was too late. The vehicle stopped, the door opened, and the blood in her veins turned to ice.

  She ran as fast as she could in the opposite direction, hoping to get enough of a lead to find another hiding place, but the dry undergrowth cracked with her every step. Behind her, a man shouted, but she could not distinguish his words.

  Sarah fell into a thicket of trees and army crawled to a place with plenty of ground cover to camouflage her. If she kept perfectly still and quiet, she might just lose him. She cupped her nose and mouth in both hands, trying to muffle her rapid breaths.

  Closing her eyes, she thought about Apostolos, about the tenth saint, about the task before her, and concentrated on the promise she’d made. It was the closest she’d come to prayer since childhood, before she’d rejected religion.