The Dark River

by John Twelve Hawks

  She moved to the left and disappeared into the shadows. Hollis stood up and fired the submachine gun until the clip was empty. The mercenaries returned fire—from three points on the left side of the room. A second later, he heard a man screaming, and then more gunfire.

  Hollis drew the semiautomatic pistol, then pulled back and released the slide mechanism, forcing a round into the firing chamber. He heard an ammunition clip being loaded into a rifle and ran toward the sound. Light came from the open elevator at the end of the room, and he fired at a dark shape standing beside one of the machines.

  Another burst of firing. And then silence. Hollis switched on the flashlight and found a dead man lying six feet in front of him. Cautiously, he moved across the basement and almost tripped over another body near the air-conditioning unit. The mercenary’s right arm had been separated from his shoulder.

  Hollis swept the flashlight beam across the room and spotted another dead man near the far wall and a fourth body near the elevator. A crumpled figure was a few feet away, and when Hollis ran forward he saw it was Mother Blessing. The Harlequin had been shot in the chest and her sweater was soaked with blood. She still gripped the handle of her sword as if it could save her life.

  “He got lucky,” she said. “A random shot.” Mother Blessing’s voice had lost its usual harshness, and it sounded as if she were trying to catch her breath. “It seems right that death comes from randomness.”

  “You’re not going to die,” Hollis said. “I’m going to get you out of this place.”

  Her head rolled toward him. “Don’t be foolish. Take this.” Mother Blessing extended her hand and forced him to accept the sword. “Make sure you pick the right Harlequin name, Mr. Wilson. My mother chose my name. I’ve always hated it.”

  Hollis placed the sword on the ground and reached down to pick her up. With her remaining strength, Mother Blessing pushed him away.

  “I was a beautiful child. Everyone said so.” Her speech became slurred as blood trickled from her mouth. “A beautiful little girl…”

  40

  W hen she was eighteen, Maya was sent to Nigeria to retrieve the contents of a safe-deposit box kept at a bank in downtown Lagos. A dead British Harlequin named Greenman had left a packet of diamonds there, and Thorn needed the money.

  There was a power failure at the Lagos airport, and none of the conveyer belts was working. It started to rain as she was waiting for her luggage. Dirty water poured through holes in the ceiling. After paying bribes to everyone wearing a uniform, Maya entered the airport’s main lobby and was surrounded by a crowd of Nigerians. Taxi drivers fought for her suitcase, screaming and waving their fists. As Maya pushed toward the exit, she felt someone tugging at her purse. An eight-year-old thief was trying to cut the leather strap, and she had to twist a knife out of his hand.

  IT WAS A different experience to fly into Bole International Airport in Ethiopia. Maya and Lumbroso arrived about an hour before dawn. The terminal was clean and quiet, and the passport officials kept saying tenastëllën—an Amharic word that meant “May you be given health.”

  “Ethiopia is a conservative country,” Simon Lumbroso explained. “Don’t raise your voice and always be polite. Ethiopians usually call one another by their first names. For men, it is respectful to add Ato—which means ‘Mister.’ Because you’re unmarried you’ll be called Weyzerit Maya.”

  “How do they treat women in this culture?”

  “Women vote, run businesses, and attend the university in Addis. You’re a faranji—a foreigner—so you’re in a special category.” Lumbroso glanced at Maya’s travel clothes and nodded with approval. She was wearing loose linen pants and a long-sleeved white shirt. “You’re dressed modestly, and that’s important. It’s considered vulgar for women to display bare shoulders or knees.”

  They passed through customs to the welcome area, where Petros Semo was waiting for them. The Ethiopian was a small, delicate man with dark brown eyes. Lumbroso towered over his old friend. They shook hands for almost a minute as they spoke Hebrew to each other.

  “Welcome to my country,” Petros said to Maya. “I’ve hired a Land Rover for our journey to Axum.”

  “Did you talk to the church officials?” Lumbroso asked.

  “Of course, Ato Simon. All the priests know me quite well.”

  “Does this mean that I can see the Ark?” Maya asked.

  “I can’t promise that. In Ethiopia we say Egziabher Kale—if God wills it.”

  They left the terminal and got into a white Land Rover that still showed the emblem of a Norwegian aid organization. Maya sat up front with Petros while Lumbroso took the backseat. Before leaving Rome, Maya had sent Gabriel’s Japanese sword to Addis Ababa. The weapon was still in its shipping container, and Petros handed the cardboard box to Maya as if it were a bomb.

  “Forgive me for asking, Weyzerit Maya. Is this your weapon?”

  “It’s a talisman sword forged in thirteenth-century Japan. It’s said that a Traveler can take talisman objects into different realms. I don’t know about the rest of us.”

  “I think you are the first Tekelakai to be in Ethiopia for many years. A Tekelakai is the defender of a prophet. We used to have many of these people in Ethiopia, but they were hunted down and killed during our political troubles.”

  In order to reach the northern road they had to pass through Addis Ababa—Ethiopia’s largest city. It was early in the morning, but the streets were already clogged with blue-and-white taxi vans, pickup trucks, and yellow public buses covered with dust. Addis had a core of modern hotels and government buildings surrounded by thousands of two-room houses with sheet-metal roofs.

  The main streets were like rivers fed by dirt roads and muddy pathways. Along the sidewalk, the Ethiopians had put up brightly painted booths that sold everything from raw meat to pirated Hollywood movies. Most of the men on the street wore Western clothes. They carried an umbrella or a short walking staff called a dula. The women wore sandals, full skirts, and white shawls wrapped tightly around the upper body.

  On the edge of the city, the Land Rover had to force its way through herds of goats being driven into the city for slaughter. The goats were only a prelude to more encounters with animals—random chickens, sheep, and slow-moving groups of humpbacked African cows. Whenever the Land Rover slowed down, the children standing beside the road could see that two foreigners were inside the vehicle. Little boys with shaven heads and skinny legs would run beside the vehicle for a mile or more laughing and waving and shouting, “You! You!” in English.

  Simon Lumbroso leaned back in his seat and grinned. “I think it’s safe to say that we’ve stepped out of the Vast Machine.”

  After passing through low hills covered with eucalyptus trees, they followed a dirt road north though a rocky highland landscape. The seasonal rains had fallen a few months earlier, but the grass was still a yellowish green with patches of white and purple Meskel flowers. About forty miles from the capital they passed a house surrounded by women dressed in white. A high-pitched wailing came through the open doorway, and Petros explained that Death was inside the building. Three villages down the road, Death appeared again: the Land Rover came around a curve and almost hit a funeral procession. Wrapped in shawls, men and women carried a black coffin that appeared to float above them like a boat on a white sea.

  The Ethiopian priests in the villages wore cotton togas called shammas, and their heads were covered with large cotton caps that reminded Maya of the fur hats worn in Moscow. A priest holding a black umbrella with gold fringe was standing at the beginning of the zigzag road that led down a gorge to the Blue Nile. Petros stopped and handed the priest some money so that the old man would pray for their safe journey.

  They descended into the gorge, the Land Rover’s wheels just inches away from the edge of the road. Maya looked out the side window and saw only clouds and sky. It felt as if they had two wheels on the road and two wheels riding on air.

  “How much did you pa
y the priest?” Lumbroso asked.

  “Not much. Fifty birr.”

  “Next time, give him a hundred,” Lumbroso muttered as Petros negotiated another switchback.

  They crossed the metal bridge that spanned the Nile and drove out of the gorge. Now the landscape was dominated by cactus and desert vegetation. Goats still blocked the road, but they also passed a line of camels with wooden carrying frames lashed to their humps. Lumbroso fell asleep in the backseat, his fedora mashed up against the window. He slept through the potholes and the loose stones that rattled up inside the wheel wells, the vultures outlined against the blue sky, and the dust-covered trailer trucks that groaned their way up each new hill.

  Maya rolled down the side window to get some fresh air. “I’m carrying both euros and American dollars,” she told Petros. “What if I gave the priests a gift? Would that push things forward?”

  “Money can solve a great many problems,” he answered. “But this discussion concerns the Ark of the Covenant. The Ark is a very important object for the Ethiopian people. The priests would never allow a bribe to influence their decision.”

  “What about you, Petros? Do you think the Ark is real?”

  “It has a power. That’s all I can say.”

  “Does the Israeli government think it’s real?”

  “Most of the Ethiopian Jews are now in Israel. There’s no advantage for the Israelis to give foreign aid to this country, but the aid still continues.” Petros smiled slightly. “That’s a curious fact to consider.”

  “Legend says that the Ark was taken to Africa by the son of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba.”

  Petros nodded. “Another theory is that it was removed from Jerusalem when King Manasseh brought an idol into Solomon’s temple. Some scholars believe that the Ark was first taken to the Jewish settlement on Elephantine Island in the Upper Nile River. Hundreds of years later, when the Egyptians attacked the settlement, it was removed to an island in the middle of Lake Tana.”

  “And now it’s in Axum?”

  “Yes, it’s kept in a special sanctuary. Only one priest is allowed to approach the Ark, and he does that once a year.”

  “So why would they give me permission to go inside?”

  “As I told you at the airport, we have a long tradition of warriors defending Travelers. The priests can understand this idea, but you present a difficult problem.”

  “Because I’m a foreigner?”

  Petros looked embarrassed. “Because you’re a woman. There hasn’t been a woman Tekelakai for three or four hundred years.”

  IT BEGAN TO rain as they drove across the mountains into northern Ethiopia. The road passed through a bleak landscape, bare of any vegetation except for some terraced farm plots and a few eucalyptus trees planted as a windbreak. The houses, schools, and police stations were all built with chunks of yellow sandstone. Stones were piled on the sheet-metal roofs, and stone walls ran up the hillside in a useless effort to stop erosion.

  Maya kept the sword on her lap and stared out the window. In this area, the only points of interest were other human beings. In one village all the men wore blue rain boots. In another village, a three-year-old girl stood by a drainage ditch holding an egg between her thumb and forefinger. It was Friday and the farmers were heading toward the open-air market. Umbrellas bobbed up and down like an army of different-colored mushrooms marching up the hill.

  It was evening when they reached the ancient city of Axum. The rain had stopped falling, but a light mist lingered in the air. Petros looked tense and worried. He kept glancing at Maya and Lumbroso. “Everyone get ready. The priests have been told that we’re coming.”

  “What’s going to happen?” Lumbroso asked.

  “I’ll do the talking at first. Maya should carry her sword to show she is a Tekelakai, but they might kill her if she takes it from the scabbard. Remember, these priests will die to protect the Ark. You can’t force your way into the sanctuary.”

  The church compound in the center of the city mingled garish modern architecture with the gray stone outer walls of the Church of Saint Mary of Zion. Petros drove the Land Rover into a central courtyard and everyone got out. They stood in the mist waiting for something to happen as storm clouds passed overhead.

  “There…” Petros whispered. “The Ark is there.” Maya looked to the left and saw a cube-shaped concrete building with an Ethiopian cross on the roof. Steel shutters and iron bars covered the narrow windows, and the door was covered with a red plastic tarp.

  Suddenly, Ethiopian priests began to come out of the various buildings. They wore different-colored cloaks over their white robes and a wide variety of head coverings. Most of the priests were old and very skinny. But there were also three younger men carrying assault rifles who stood guard around the Land Rover like the three points of a triangle.

  After about a dozen priests had appeared, a side door opened on the Mary of Zion church, and an old man came out wearing spotless white robes and a skullcap. Clutching a dula with a carved handle, he took one slow step and then another. His sandals made a faint shuffling sound on the flagstone pathway.

  “This is the Tebaki,” Petros explained. “The Ark’s guardian. He is the only person allowed into the sanctuary.”

  When the guardian was about twenty feet from the Land Rover, he stopped and motioned with his hand. Petros approached the old man, bowed three times, and then launched into a passionate oration in Amharic. Occasionally, he gestured at Maya as if he were reciting a long list of her virtues. Petros’s speech lasted about ten minutes. When it was over, his face was covered with sweat. The priests waited for the guardian to say something. The old man’s head trembled as if he were considering the matter; then he spoke for a short time in Amharic.

  Petros hurried back to Maya. “This is good,” he whispered. “Very promising. An old monk on Lake Tana has been saying that a powerful Tekelakai is coming to Ethiopia.”

  “A woman or a man?” Maya asked.

  “A man—perhaps—but there is some disagreement. The guardian will consider your request. He wants you to say something.”

  “Tell me what to do, Petros.”

  “Explain why you should be allowed into the sanctuary.”

  What am I supposed to say? Maya wondered. I’m probably going to insult their traditions and get shot. Keeping her hands away from the sword, she took a few steps forward. As she bowed to the guardian, she remembered the phrase Petros had used back at the airport.

  “Egziabher Kale,” she said in Amharic. If God wills it. Then she bowed again and returned to her place next to the Land Rover.

  Petros’s shoulders relaxed as if a disaster had just been avoided. Simon Lumbroso was standing behind Maya, and she heard him chuckle. “Brava,” he said softly.

  The guardian stood quietly for a moment, considering her words, and then he said something to Petros. Still clutching his walking staff, he turned and shuffled back to the main church followed by the other priests. Only the three young men with the assault rifles remained.

  “What just happened?” Maya asked.

  “They’re not going to kill us.”

  “Well, that’s an accomplishment,” Lumbroso said.

  “This is Ethiopia, so there must be a long conversation,” Petros said. “The guardian will make the decision, but he will hear everyone’s opinion on this matter.”

  “What do we do now, Petros?”

  “Let’s get some dinner and rest. We’ll come back late tonight and find out if you’re allowed inside.”

  MAYA DIDN’T WANT to eat at a hotel where they might encounter tourists, so Petros drove to a bar and restaurant outside the city. After dinner, the place began to get crowded and two musicians stepped onto a small stage. One man carried a drum while his friend had a single-string instrument called a masinko that was played with a curved bow like a violin. They performed a few songs, but no one paid attention until a little boy led a blind woman into the room.

  The woman had a mas
sive body and long hair. She wore a white dress with a full skirt and several copper and silver necklaces. Sitting on a chair in the middle of the stage, she spread her legs slightly as if anchoring herself to the ground. Then she picked up a microphone and began to sing in a powerful voice that reached every part of the room.

  “This is a praise singer. A very famous person here in the north,” Petros explained. “If you pay her, she’ll sing something nice about you.”

  The drummer kept the beat going as he circulated through the crowd. He would accept money from a customer, learn a few things about him, and then return to the stage, where he whispered the information into the blind woman’s ear. Without missing a beat, she would sing about the honored man—lyrics that caused the man’s friends to laugh and pound the table with their hands.

  After an hour of this entertainment, the band took a short break and the drummer approached Petros. “Perhaps we could sing for you and your friends.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “No, wait,” Maya said when the drummer began to walk away. As a Harlequin, she had lived a secret life under a series of false names. If she died, there would be no memorial to mark her passing. “My name is Maya,” she told the drummer, and handed him a wad of Ethiopian currency. “Perhaps your friend could make up a song for me.”

  The drummer whispered in the blind woman’s ear and then returned to their table. “I am very sorry. Please excuse me. But she wants to speak to you.”

  While people ordered more drinks and the bar girls wandered around looking for lonely men, Maya stepped onto the stage and sat on a folding chair. The drummer knelt beside the two women and translated as the singer pushed her thumb against Maya’s wrist like a doctor taking her pulse.

  “Are you married?” the singer asked.

  “No.”

  “Where is your love?”

  “I’m searching for him.”

  “Is the journey difficult?”