by Scott Hunter
“So what brings you to Addis, Prof?” Dan Carey grinned. His main feature was a wide, roguish smile, enhanced by a long vertical scar that ran from one side of his mouth to the corner of his right eye. It gave him a rakish, dashing look. He was a wiry, tough-looking man in his mid to late thirties.
“It’s a long story,” Dracup replied. Where could he begin? Better to stick to a simple explanation. “I’m interested in Lalibela and its religious background. I want to spend a few days gathering information, taking photographs.”
Carey nodded. “Research project, is it? Charles seemed pretty excited.”
“Of a kind,” Dracup agreed. He felt uneasy at his economy of truth; there was something about Carey that invited openness.
“Well, I’ve been to Lali a couple of times and I can tell you this much – you won’t get a lot out of the priests and holy men. Their lips are sealed, especially to Westerners. Start asking too many questions and they clam up like old maids with their dentures stuck together.”
Dracup forced a laugh. “I’ll be persuasive.”
“You’ll need to be.”
“And you’re okay with tomorrow morning?” Dracup fought to mask his agitation. Tomorrow wasn’t soon enough. Now wasn’t soon enough.
Carey shook his head. “It’s not a problem. I’ve been wanting a weekend off for a while – the school’s been busy. I need to get out of town, rough it a bit.” He laughed. “It’s in my nature. I’m a bit of a nomad. I’ll pick you up first thing and we’ll head off.”
“How long will it take?”
Carey shrugged. “Couple of days – the roads are pretty bad. We’ll stop off at Dessie and maybe Weldiya – that’ll be an experience for you.” There was a glint in the Kiwi’s eye. He knocked back his drink and stood up. “Right now you’ll have to excuse me, Prof – I have to get to a meeting. Someone’s got to cover for me while I’m away.”
“Of course. See you in the morning, then.” Dracup watched Carey walk away, reassured that he’d found an ally. He drained his drink and headed back to his room to re-examine Theodore’s tablet. He traced the inscriptions with his thumbnail. Ω section 1921, TD,GRC. Left in situ. Theodore had been successful; he had seen Omega with his own eyes. But would Lalibela give up its secrets so easily to his grandson?
“You wait,” Carey grinned. “Thirty minutes and the word’ll be out. We’ll have company all right.”
Dracup frowned and shuffled closer to the fire. The drive had been a careering, pothole-avoiding rally all the way from Addis. Much of the driving had been off-road, an inconvenience that Carey seemed to find enjoyable. Dracup shifted his weight. His backside was a painful pad of bruising. They were parked several hundred metres from the road – apparently in the middle of nowhere. “There’s nothing around here,” he replied. “Company from where?”
Carey looked over Dracup’s shoulder and laughed. “How about there?”
Dracup turned to follow Carey’s pointing finger and saw to his amazement a line of young Ethiopians approaching the campfire. They were singing, a low rhythmic melody, and smiling. They showed no fear of the two men.
“Told you,” Carey said. “They know when strangers are about.”
The group of newcomers settled themselves by the fire, chattering among themselves. They grinned at Dracup and his Kiwi companion, pointing to the tents and the jeep. One of the youngest, a girl of about fifteen or sixteen, produced some substance from her bag and threw it on the fire. A sweet smell wafted over the gathering. Dracup recognised it. “Eucalyptus.” He smiled and touched his nose. The girl grinned and said something to her companion, a boy of about the same age. They laughed and began singing again, clapping and slapping their thighs in time to the music. The moon shone brilliantly in a clear sky, illuminating the youthful faces of the visitors as they celebrated the simple joy of being alive.
It was a mesmerising moment, and as Dracup drifted off to sleep later that evening he carried the scene with him into his dreams. In the campfire circle of his imagination Natasha was beside him, her voice joining the others in song. The song was heartbreakingly beautiful; he could hardly bear to listen. The fire burned slowly down and the voices hushed into reverential silence. They stepped forward, bending to look into what appeared to be a deep trench filled with colours – a bowl of reflected light.
Dracup wanted to see and stepped forward but Natasha gripped his arm, shaking her head. We can’t, Daddy. It’s not for us. There was another, a tall figure by the light. Natasha shrank from it, clinging to his arm. The figure stepped forward, beckoning. She is mine. Dracup opened his mouth to protest but his tongue was impotent, glued to the roof of his mouth. Natasha let go of his arm and took a faltering step towards the light. No – NO.
Dracup woke with a start; he sat up, disoriented. It was freezing cold but sweat was running freely down his back. He crawled forward, opened the tent flap and went out into the night. The campfire had burned low, its embers glowing like fireflies, but there was no sign of the children, just a faint trace of perfumed bark in the air. He walked a few paces from the tent and relieved himself. The moon hung in the sky like a yellow orb, the distant mountains silhouetted against a backdrop of ochre. He raised his head to the stars, far-off pinpricks of blue, the dust lanes of Andromeda a distant smear of matter. For a long time he looked into the cosmos. And strangely, he found a prayer on his lips: Oh God, if you are there, please help me. I can’t do this on my own. Help me find her. Just help me find her.
Carey rose with alarming cheerfulness at first light. Dracup heard the Kiwi whistling, a tuneless parody of the children’s harmonies from the night before. The tent flap parted and a steaming mug of coffee presented itself. “G’day Prof – good sleep?”
Dracup groaned. His bones were ice. “I didn’t realise the nights would be so cold.”
Carey laughed. “Too right. We can get a few more blankets in Dessie this afternoon if you like – they’ve got a general store.”
Dracup eased his battered body into the chill dawn. A few scattered clouds drifted in the metallic blue of the new day. A faint drone from the north announced the presence of an aircraft, a speck in the huge canopy above. Like the flying machine, he felt very small in this huge country, diminished by its timelessness.
“Another coffee?” Carey offered the pot. “Warm you up for the journey.”
Dracup shivered and held out his mug.
They drove on in the ever-increasing heat of the day. Dracup looked up and winced at the brightness. Another aeroplane was heading in the same direction but parallel to the road, slowly pulling ahead. Dracup squinted at the small machine. He turned to Carey. “Seems to be a popular flight path.”
“Oh yeah,” Carey replied, shouting above the noise. “There’s a small airstrip at Lali – you can hire a two-seater in Addis. A lot of people do that – it’s a little quicker to get there.” He grinned. “I prefer this way, though. You feel part of the country.”
Dracup’s rear end had felt enough of the country by now, but he knew what the Kiwi meant. His thoughts strayed to the one subject he wanted to avoid: Sara. His anger, which had made it easy to exclude her from his thoughts, had slowly been replaced by the emptiness of loss. He thought of the last night in Aberdeen, remembered her expression of concern at the airport. How could he have been so wrong? Charles had theorised about her involvement in the diary episode, perhaps even Natasha’s abduction. He still couldn’t believe it. There were too many missing pieces to make a judgement. Perhaps Lalibela would change all that. The jeep clattered on, Carey spinning the wheel every so often to avoid a pothole. “How long to Weldiya?” he shouted in the Kiwi’s ear.
“A few hours. We’ll stop and rest up for the night, get something to eat – they do a good milkado there too.” Carey let go of the wheel with one hand and gave Dracup the thumbs up.
“Milk what?”
“Milkado.” Carey gave a wide grin. “Legacy from the I-ties – it’s similar to a latte. Milky coffee, b
ut a little stronger. Good stuff. Almost worth a visit on its own.”
The route became progressively hillier as they climbed higher into the mountains. The sheer beauty of it took Dracup’s breath away. “What’s our altitude?” he asked.
“About three thousand metres I reckon. Look at this.” Carey honked his horn as they eased past a group of cyclists. “Crazy bastards.” He waved as they overtook the leaders. “Not the easiest way to travel.” He grinned. “They do a lot of bike tours up this way.” Dracup looked back at the bikers’ slow, sweaty progress. The front cyclist waved then pointed. All the bikes stopped at his signal and dismounted. Dracup half turned in his seat but was nearly flung out of the vehicle when the jeep veered sharply to the side of the road. He heard Carey let out a yell of surprise as he saw the oncoming silhouette of an aeroplane. It tacked lower on its trajectory and headed straight for them.
“What the h... get down!” Carey jerked the jeep back onto the tarmac and slammed on the brakes. The plane skimmed overhead, engine screaming, banked steeply and swept back towards them. Carey gunned the engine, heading off the road towards the hillside where the steep incline offered some protection. The machine came lower and lower and then lower still, causing the cyclists to throw themselves flat on the tarmac as it passed a few metres over their heads.
Carey’s foot crashed down on the brakes a second time. “Out!” Dracup yelled and threw himself under the jeep. The earth erupted around them as a chattering line of bullets ripped along the driver’s side, clanging against the metal like a team of manic steel band drummers.
Carey appeared next to him. “Friends of yours?” he shouted.
Dracup curled himself tightly by the front wheel and listened for the throb of the aeroplane’s engine. Would it make another pass? The noise receded. He stuck his head into the open and checked the sky. The plane was a retreating smudge, becoming smaller with each passing second. Half a minute later it had disappeared altogether. Carey rolled out from under the vehicle and brushed himself down. “What was all that about?” He looked at Dracup suspiciously. “Something to do with your ‘research project’?”
Dracup wiped sweat from his forehead and nodded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to drag you into all this.”
Carey shrugged. “No worries.” He scanned the open skies. “Looks like they’ve gone for now.”
“They’ll be back.” Dracup sat heavily in the passenger seat and took a swig from his water bottle while Carey conducted an inspection of the vehicle.
“They missed the tyres – that’s a miracle.” Carey climbed back in. “And the petrol tank. You’re a lucky old jalopy.” He patted the dashboard affectionately.
Behind them the cyclists were picking themselves up and pointing to the two men in the jeep. Dracup sensed a confrontation looming. “Better be off before we have a steward’s enquiry.”
Carey glanced back. “No damage? Well, I guess you’re right – no need to hang about. Hold tight.” He let the clutch out. For a few kilometres they both nervously surveyed the empty sky.
“Well that’s a first for me. I’m normally treated pretty well by the locals.” Carey grinned and shook his head ruefully. “For a moment I thought we’d carked it good and proper back there.”
“They weren’t locals,” Dracup said. “Not by any stretch.” He would have to come clean. Perhaps it was just as well that Carey had all the facts. He took a deep breath and clapped the Kiwi on the shoulder. “Dan, I owe you an explanation.”
“So, what’s the plan, Prof?” Carey asked matter-of-factly. “You might find a reception committee at Lalibela – then what? If that plane’s anything to go by, someone doesn’t want you poking around.”
Dracup smiled grimly. As they had checked into Weldiya’s Lal hotel he had scrutinised every face – waiter, guest or otherwise – for signs of bad intent. It had taken a couple of hours and a few beers to put his worries to rest. Carey seemed unperturbed, as if he were used to being shot up on a standard ‘weekender’, as he liked to call their trip. Dracup wished he could adopt some of the Kiwi attitude himself – Carey had accepted his story with no more surprise than if Dracup had been recounting a successful fishing trip. Maybe it would rub off.
“I’ll tread carefully.”
“You’d better. The aim is to get hold of the missing piece of this sceptre, right? The Omega section?”
“Yes. But I’ve no intention of removing it – not that I’ll have the option anyway, judging from what you’ve told me about the custodians of Lalibela’s treasures. I just need to get some clear photos of the cuneiform inscriptions. That’s it – Charles can do the rest.” You’d better, Charles, Dracup thought. You’d better.
Carey was silent for a moment, digesting this information. He inclined his head in a swift gesture of assent. “You’re the boss. We’ll check into the New Jerusalem. The view is something else.”
Dracup raised his eyebrows. “The what?”
“The New Jerusalem. Best guesthouse in Lali. Trust me.” Again came the lopsided Kiwi grin. “The whole of Lalibela is structured on the belief that it represents a kind of New Jerusalem – the churches all fit into different aspects of that concept. They’re a pretty amazing sight.”
“I know. I had a look on the web. The tradition is fascinating, the way it links back to King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba.”
Carey looked reflective. “Yeah – the original Ark of the Covenant is supposed to be in a church back up north at Axum – brought here by Solomon himself. Almost makes you believe there’s something in it all. Well let me tell you, Lali has a kind of feel about it – tranquillity. It’s a strange place all right. It’s kind of hard to explain – you’ve got to experience it yourself. All I can say is that if there are any secrets to be found, Lali’s the place to find ’em.” He took his hand off the gear shift and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I reckon you’re headed in the right direction, mate, I really do.”
Lalibela was smaller and busier than Dracup expected. They drove past a motley collection of ramshackle houses, peaked huts and tin-roofed buildings, Carey skilfully picking his way through the busy streets clogged with wood-carrying women, farmers, pilgrims and holy men.
“Market day,” Carey observed. “Most of this lot will have set off at dawn to get here. They’ll have walked miles.” He pointed to a group trudging the last few steps to their destination, some pulling makeshift carts behind them, others carrying bags of produce.
Carey swung the jeep around, beeping the horn. Dracup drummed his fingers on the dash. As the jeep pulled up in front of the hotel Dracup was already swinging himself out, one hand on his bag.
“No, let me, boss! Nothing a problem, okay?”
Dracup turned to see a boy of around eleven grinning up at him.
“No problem. Mister let me take the bag.”
Dracup patted his pockets and made an empty-handed gesture.
Carey dispensed a few words in the boy’s direction; he shrugged dismissively in response, throwing back a few choice words of his own. He turned his back on Carey and made as if to leave them in peace, but couldn’t resist a last-ditch attempt. Dracup smiled at his persistence.
“Come on, boss.” He fixed Dracup with a persuasive grin. “I can help you out, man.”
“A bo teu weun!” Carey aimed a kick. The boy yelped and ran off, shouting and waving his fist.
“I take it he’s not wishing you a nice day.” Dracup watched the boy until he disappeared from view.
“Give ’em an inch and they’ll take a hundred miles,” Carey warned. “Do anything if you cross their palm. Trouble is, once you say yes you never get rid of ’em.”
Dracup’s bedroom window overlooked Lalibela’s rooftops and beyond these the distant mountains. The view was spectacular, the contoured peaks undulating like waves across the Ethiopian plains. The sheer immensity of the landscape reminded him of India. His boyhood seemed closer in this climate, the connecting years of adulthood pressed into a dim, grey
background. Dracup retrieved his grandfather’s tablet from the suitcase and scanned the markings.
Loc. Remaining part staff, trad. Ethiop.
Ityopp’is – Cush – sn of Ham- fnded Axum.
Match. crest. Lal., Ω 1921, TD,GRC. Left in situ.
Formed basis of expo. 1922 C of Tr.
K. zig. - 7 by 7
1921. Left in situ. Dracup clung to the phrase. Eleven churches to choose from. Or maybe what he was looking for lay hidden elsewhere, perhaps not even here in Lalibela. He drew out a photograph from his pocket. Natasha’s face smiled back at him, small hands clasping her favourite teddy. He had spent a fruitless hour showing the image to the locals. Every approach had produced the same reaction. Dracup didn’t understand the language but simply read the faces. Pretty girl. Yes. Very pretty. Then a sad shake of the head, a sympathetic smile. No. Sorry. I haven’t seen her. He kissed the photograph and replaced it carefully in his breast pocket. Eleven churches. A lot of space to cover. Dracup set his mouth in a determined line. A one in eleven chance was as good as he was likely to get, and there was no time to lose. He needed answers and he needed them now.
Chapter 22
“Sara!” Natasha ran to her, leaving Ruth and Jassim behind. Sara hugged the child, dreading the next question. When it came she tried to smile confidently.
“Is Daddy here?”
She saw the warning look on Ruth’s face. “Not yet, Natasha.” She ignored the disappointed, questioning look and pressed on. “And how are you? What do you think of all this?” Sara lifted her arm and swept it in an expansive movement towards the worked stone roof.
