by Daniel Diehl
“You know how to get from the airport to St Mary’s Church?”
“You mean St Mary of Zion, don’t you?”
“Is that the full name? I just heard St Mary’s.”
“Oh, my God.” The boy grinned and pointed an accusing finger at Jason. “You’re going to try to see the Ark of the Covenant, aren’t you? Every idiot tourist who comes to Ethiopia tries to see it but I’ve never met an archaeologist who was that dumb. Come on, confess, you are, aren’t you?”
“If it’s there, I AM going to see it.”
Ras grinned and shook his head. “You’re completely out of your mind. They won’t let anybody see it. Nobody’s seen it in about a billion years. Even the junta couldn’t get in to see it when they seized control of the government back in ‘74. What on earth makes you think they’re going to let you see it? You think being a rich American makes you that special?”
More than a little insulted, Jason shot back “What makes you think I’m rich?”
“Because you can afford to fly halfway around the world on a wild goose chase that isn’t going to get you anywhere and then you still have enough money to leave again. Man, I don’t even know anybody who can afford to get out of Ethiopia.”
Jason nodded his understanding of the boy’s frustration, leaned back in his chair and studied this brash, very bright, homeless young man he had hired to lead him across the alien landscape of Ethiopia. “So how did you wind up on the streets hustling for change? You obviously have a lot on the ball.”
Ras picked up his coffee and stared into the tiny cup for a long time before he answered. “I was born in Djibouti – it’s a port city east of here, on the coast of the Red Sea. It’s also its own country and unless you’re rich it’s even worse than Ethiopia. But I was lucky, I got into the English school. I might have gotten into college and then I could have gotten out of this shit-hole, but a bunch of rebels raided our village and murdered my parents and my sister and…” The sentence seemed unfinished but he just stopped talking, shrugged his scrawny shoulders and fell silent.
Jason stared across the small table, his mouth open and his head shaking slowly in disbelief. It took him several minutes to respond to this odd tale. “‘A bunch of rebels’? You mean soldiers raided your village and murdered your whole family and you don’t even know who they were?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. You know, Somali pirates, al Qaeda, Maoist guerillas, assholes looking for a good time, who knows.”
“So what did you do?”
“I sure as hell wasn’t going to hang around and wait for my turn, so I jumped on the train and rode into La Gare station and I’ve been stuck here in Addis Ababa ever since. I hustle bucks as a tourist guide and do better than most of the poor shits in Ethiopia. About a fifth of the people in this hell-hole of a country live on less than a dollar a day, so I do pretty good by comparison.”
“Wait. You told me the train hasn’t run since 2010. When did you come here?”
“2009.”
“My God, you were just a child.”
“Mister, nobody’s a child after they see their whole family get butchered.”
Jason slowly led the conversation into less depressing areas, telling Ras about England and the US and listening to his stories about being a guide for the different types of foreigners who visited Ethiopia. For more than an hour they chatted amiably, two people from vastly different cultures taking the first tentative steps toward trying to understand each other. Jason had just ordered another beer for himself and another cup of rocket fuel coffee for Ras when he thought he heard one of the ancient cars that careened up and down Addis Ababa’s streets backfire. The next two cracks were followed by the unmistakable staccato chatter of machineguns. Jason recognized the sound from the night in early January when three cars full of triad thugs had chased him and Merlin away from Morgana’s fortress and across the Mongolian desert. Maybe the anti-scrying ointment wasn’t working. Maybe Morgana had found him and sent her goons to kill him before he could get to the Ark of the Covenant, find the Urim and Thummim and get them back to Merlin to close the dragon gate. Maybe, maybe, maybe a whole lot of things and none of them good. Before the second burst of gunfire had stopped echoing back from the side of the buildings, Jason had already dived under the small table, clutching the briefcase containing the Gnostic manuscript in case he was forced to make a break for it. It was at this point that Ras’ head appeared under the edge of the table, a curious scowl on his face.
“Christ, kid, get down before they kill both of us.” Jason’s voice was a harsh, panic-filled rasp. “I think she found me. I got to get out of here.”
“She? You got women problems?”
As another three or four rounds echoed down the street, Jason looked around from his vantage point beneath the table. From his near-ground level point-of-view all he could see was legs; legs sitting at other tables, legs waking casually up and down the street, legs everywhere, but none of them seemed to be running for cover. Feeling distinctly like an idiot, Jason crawled out from under the table, brushed the dust off of his jeans and sat back down but refused to relinquish his death grip on the briefcase.
“Seriously, Jason, is there some woman that wants you dead?”
“It’s really complicated. You couldn’t possibly understand, but that’s not the point. What the hell was that?” Twisting his head around like an owl, Jason was amazed that no one seemed to be the least upset by the furious exchange of gunfire.
“It happens all the time.”
“What happens all the time?” Jason all but shouted, his voice rising almost to falsetto. “Who was shooting at us?”
“They weren’t shooting at us. Like I said; maybe al Qaeda, maybe the Muslim Brotherhood, maybe Somali rebels, maybe Sudanese rebels. Who knows? It happens all the time. Don’t take it personally. Drink your beer.” Then, after a pause, a huge, toothy grin spread across Ras’ ebony face “But I really do want you to tell me all about this woman who hates you so much you think she has guys out hunting for you with guns.”
Chapter Ten
“Son-of-a-bitch.”
Jason stormed back and forth across the cramped room that served as the Axum airport’s luggage claim office. The baggage master didn’t speak a word of English and Jason was talking way too fast for Ras to keep up with his outraged tirade, but neither of these facts slowed Jason’s rant by the slightest degree.
“How in the hell can you lose a duffle bag on a plane that’s no bigger than a damn school bus? The fucking plane only had twenty-four seats, for Christ’s sake. The cargo compartment can’t be any bigger than a fucking bathtub.”
“Boss, boss. Jason. Calm down, you’re going to hurt yourself. It’s just some clothes. Look, I’m sure the airline will replace everything for you if they can’t find your stuff in a day or so.” Ras was following Jason back and forth across the small office, grabbing at his employer’s arm each time he orbited the floor.
Finally Jason ceased his useless pacing, threw his hands in the air and took a deep breath to steady himself before trying to explain the inexplicable to his guide. “It isn’t the clothes, Ras. It’s my shaving kit. There was something in there I really, really need.”
“If its medication or something we can get you to the hospital and I’m sure they can take care of it. We have some really good doctors in Ethiopia. Seriously.”
Jason had no way of explaining that in his shaving kit was a small porcelain jar containing less than an ounce of the anti-scrying cream the Panchen Lama had given to Merlin. A tiny dab of the colorless, odorless ointment placed in the center of the forehead every day was the only thing that kept Morgana from locating him and, by extension, Beverley and Merlin. There was no guarantee that she was still looking for them, and Merlin seemed certain that she believed they were dead, but without the ointment there was simply no way to guarantee that she would not find him sooner or later. He had applied a tiny amount immediately after his shower the evening before; if he
remembered not to wash his forehead, how long would that single dab of cream last before he sweated it away to nothing in the blazing heat of the African sun? There was no sense losing precious time arguing with a baggage handler who had no control over what the porters at Bole airport did with his duffle bag, so there was only one reasonable thing to do. Carry on and hope his luggage turned up.
“Ras, ask the guy to keep after the people at Bole and then get his phone number so we can check back with him. We can call him tonight – or every day for as long as it takes – and see if it turns up. Then we’ll get the hell out of here. Can you do that for me, please?”
After a perfunctory “You, bet, boss,” Ras relayed the question, jotted down the phone number and followed Jason out of the stifling baggage claim office into the equally stifling morning air.
While Jason was mulling over the advantages of renting a car over taking a bus into town, the shuttle pulled up to the curb, convincing him it was easier and less hassle to take the scenic route than it would be to fight traffic all the way into Axum. Any lingering doubt as to the best way into the city center was removed when the shuttle bus’ door opened and a blast of cool air washed over the faces of those waiting to climb aboard. In addition to the convenience of riding rather than driving, it was unlikely that he would ever be back in Ethiopia again, and the archaeologist in him really wanted a chance to see at least a few of the remnants of a civilization that rivaled ancient Egypt for both its antiquity and splendor.
On its circuitous way toward the city center the bus passed dozens of granite obelisks – some brought here as gifts from Egyptian pharaohs and some carved by the ancient rulers of the lost kingdoms of Sheba and Axumia. They circled close by the ruins of both the palace and baths of the fabled Queen of Sheba, whose torrid love affair with King Solomon may have been the catalyst that brought the Ark of the Covenant – and in a curious way, Jason himself – to Ethiopia. After nearly a half hour ride that included stops at the major hotels, where passengers alternately got on and off, the shuttle dropped off its remaining incoming passengers at Axum’s central bus terminal on the eastern edge of the city.
“Ok, guide, it’s your call.” Jason opened his hands in capitulation, turning their next move over to Ras. “What’s the best way to get from here to St Mary’s of Zion?”
Ras looked up and down the city’s main east-west thoroughfare and cocked his head to one side for a moment before extending his arm to the left, pointing westward.
“St Mary’s is just off this street and a little bit to the north.” Ras flailed his hand in a vaguely northern direction. “But it’s all the way at the other end of the city.”
Craning his head in one direction and then the other, Jason stroked his chin and observed “This place doesn’t look nearly as big as Addis Ababa. What does ‘all the way at the other end’ mean?”
“I’m not sure, exactly. Maybe two miles or so.” Sounding hopeful, Ras grinned, nodded his head and added. “Come on, boss. It’s a straight shot down this street and it’s not too hot today.”
“I’m starting to think ‘not too hot’ in Ethiopia is like saying it’s a cool day in hell.” Clapping the boy on the shoulder, Jason returned the grin and started off down the dusty sidewalk. “Come on, partner, somewhere down this street the Ark of the Covenant is waiting.”
They had gone scarcely a third of the way to their destination when they saw a line of policemen coming toward them, filling the street, redirecting the city’s sparse traffic away from the main thoroughfare and onto smaller side streets. As the police moved eastward, the steady to and fro of pedestrians on both sides of the street began collecting at the curb, some stepping into the dusty gutter at the road’s edge to get a better view. It was only a matter of minutes until Jason and Ras saw the cause of the commotion; some distance behind the police was a massive procession making its way slowly down the street.
The participants all seemed to be men and they were all dressed in voluminous, multicolored robes, giving the impression of some over-the-top toga party that had gone completely out of control – the only difference was the fact that nearly all of the men wore hats in a profusion of styles, designs and colors. While some of them carried elaborately worked religious icons and others carried crosses and crosiers, most striking were those who carried massive silken umbrellas embroidered with crosses and religious symbols and edged with ornate gold fringe. Here and there, scattered along the parade route, groups of men carried palanquins bearing objects that were covered with ornately embroidered cloths. While Jason had never seen anything even vaguely like it, two things were perfectly clear; first, this was a pageant of great solemnity and, second, all of the participants were members of religious orders. For nearly ten minutes Jason and Ras, like the hundreds of other people lining the street, stared in silent awe at the breathtaking spectacle.
Finally, Jason leaned down and whispered “Do we know what this is all about?”
Ras shook his head and answered “No idea. It isn’t Timk’et - that’s the really big festival - because that was last month, in January. But these things go on all the time in Axum; it’s the holiest city in Ethiopia and the center of Coptic Christianity for the whole world. For us Copts, Axum is like Rome is to Catholics or Mecca is for the Moslems. I don’t know what this procession is all about, but I think it must be pretty important.”
“What makes you say that?”
So as not to appear obvious, Ras held one raised hand close to his chest but pointed toward the center of the rows of holy men with his index finger. “See the guy with the big hat?”
Jason scanned the rainbow-like profusion of colorful clerical garb clogging the street as the men swayed gently from west to east, until he spotted an elderly, bearded man shaded by several umbrellas held aloft by three other men in elaborate robes. On his head was a tiered crown that reminded Jason of pictures he had seen of the papal crown; over the man’s shoulders was a cape so richly embroidered it would have been worthy of a renaissance pope. “Got him.”
“Well, that’s the bishop and he only joins the parades for really special occasions.”
“Does all this mean anything to us?”
Ras looked up at Jason and grinned. “Assuming they didn’t all come down here to escort you up to the church to see the Ark of the Covenant, probably not.” After a sarcastic ‘Thanks’ and a joking grimace from Jason, Ras continued. “Actually, considering that they came from the opposite end of town, I’ll bet they all came down from St Mary’s.”
“And?”
“And that means that there’s almost nobody up there, so we won’t have to fight our way through hordes of tourists and pilgrims and the dozens of clergymen and monks who are usually hanging around the place to make sure the bad guys don’t stop in to snatch the Ark.”
“Do you mean there’s nobody guarding the Ark?”
Ras let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. “Dream on.”
Moving around behind the crowd of onlookers, Ras motioned for Jason to follow him and they resumed their trek up Axum’s main thoroughfare.
They had nearly reached the western edge of Axum when Ras changed course, leading them up the right-hand branch of a ‘Y’ junction off the main road. A few hundred yards further on, they came to a huge open space. Covering at least ten acres, most of the area consisted of nothing more than a dry, dusty courtyard dotted with ancient trees. Off to the right was the city’s archaeological museum and to the left was an enclosed compound surrounded by high stone walls that appeared to be at least ten feet thick. At the front corners of the enclosure stood low, rectangular towers with domed roofs. The only point of access to the compound was through a single arched opening with a pair of heavy wooden doors that now stood open.
Cautiously, Jason and Ras walked up to the doors and peered inside, thoroughly prepared to be challenged by guards, or police, or ninja monks, or who-knows-what. After several minutes of waiting expectantly, only to realize that no one – neither frien
d nor foe - was coming to meet them, they looked at each other, offered perfunctory shrugs and walked inside. The ancient compound contained two main buildings, the largest of which looked like a medieval castle; its granite walls topped by crenelated battlements and pierced by tall, arched windows divided into tiny, delicate diamond shaped panes. In the distance was a smaller, two story building situated on top of a small hill. Also built of granite, the lower floor of the structure was much larger than the upper one and was surrounded by battlements, giving the building the distinct look of a tiered wedding cake decorated to look like a castle. Surrounding the building was a small, exquisitely tended garden – a cool, green oasis in the middle of dry, dusty Ethiopia. The garden was, in turn, surrounded by an eight-foot-tall, old fashioned wrought iron fence incongruously painted a startling bright blue, apparently to match the blue of the building’s narrow, floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows.
In front of the larger of the two buildings stood a big wooden sign with a legend reading, ‘St Mary’s of Zion Ethiopian Orthodox Church’ in English, French, Italian and several languages which Jason assumed to be variations of Ethiopian. As they shifted their gazes between the sign and the massive old church beyond, a group of people came around the corner of the church, headed straight toward them. Leading the group was a man in clerical robes who was walking backward, pointing first in one direction and then in another, while keeping up a constant stream of chatter.
“Do you think those are just tourists?”
“They sure look like tourists to me, boss.”
Grabbing Ras by the arm Jason led the way across the compound, headed toward the rear of the clutch of visitors. “This will make us about as invisible as we can hope to get. I just need you to translate what the tour guide is saying in case he says something I can use. Got it?”
