Bernard slumped on his beast. “My body is one enormous ache.”
Falconer heard Soap mutter agreement. “We will halt as soon as it is safe.”
Falconer awoke to a hand upon his shoulder. Wadi stood over him, waiting until Falconer was fully alert. The Arab then slid into his own bedroll and within three breaths was snoring quietly.
Falconer emerged from the tent to a breathless night. The storm had disappeared while he slept. He moved to the rear of the shallow cave, where a low fire burned. He poured himself a cup of tea and feasted upon the dried bread and salted meat left out for those standing watch. He drank almost an entire pot of tea before his thirst was slaked. He refilled the pot from a waterskin, cast in more tea leaves from a leather pouch, and set the pot on a stone by the fire to brew. Then he walked around the sleeping men and entered the night.
Their shelter was a spoon-shaped enclosure hollowed by storms beyond time. It stood at the cliff ’s far eastern edge and faced out to a flat expanse that went on forever. Numerous piles of cold ashes attested to other travelers who had used the cave for shelter. Falconer moved to a rock shaped like a miniature throne, where one of the earlier watch keepers had left a blanket. The rising moon transformed the desert into a black and silver sea. He studied the vista and finished his tea.
There was a certain flavor to desert nights, unlike anything Falconer had experienced elsewhere. The slumbering men had no effect upon Falconer’s isolation. The night blanketed him with an aloneness so complete he could space out his thoughts as he did his breath. He recalled his farewell from Matt and ached anew for the young lad. His mouth shaped the silent word son. Falconer recalled other days when his heart had yearned for such a gift and his world had been a vacuum for what he thought would never come. Now the lad was bonded to him by love and shared grief. And their shared quest. Falconer recalled the day in the woodlands between Salem and the coast. What a remarkable lad Matt was. What a blessing was all he could think to express what he felt.
He lifted his gaze and stared at the heavens. The stars were a wash of light, eternal signs of the Creator’s borderless sea. Falconer spoke aloud the first solitary prayer he had uttered since setting his beloved Ada into the ground. Just twelve words. But he knew God was fully aware of the condition of his soul, knew that he was a man of stumbling prayers in the best of times. Thank you for my son. Keep him safe. Hold him close. Amen.
When he lowered his gaze, it seemed to him that Ada had entered the night. He vividly sensed her presence. Not wracked by her final illness, but as she was before. As she was now.
Falconer also sensed a great change within himself and knew it was vital. Yet he did not wish to give it either thought or emotion, because he feared that Ada’s closeness might vanish. But her invisible presence generated a remarkable understanding, as though she spoke to him in heaven’s voice, silent and close and illuminating. Deep in his chest he felt his heart unfold, and knew that the moment held a greeting and departure both. Dear, sweet, beloved woman. The gift he had not thought would ever be his. Every day a treasure. If only there could have been more. If only…
And then it happened.
He did not see a vision. But the image was clear just the same. So vivid, in fact, that to Falconer’s mind the revelation would have been no stronger had it risen before him in physical form.
It seemed that something like Jacob’s ladder appeared before him. Just as it had to the son of Isaac in the desert of Haran, where he had laid his head upon a pillow of stone. Upon the ladder, angels descended to earth and rose to the heavens. Over and over in a smooth and constant stream.
Ada was with him still. Though his attention was focused as tight as a storm-drawn hawser, Falconer knew she was there because of his heart’s fullness. And through this loving presence Falconer saw the ladder, this bridge to heaven, in a new way. He watched with his mind’s eye as angels proceeded from God’s throne to the desert floor and back. A constant stream of heavenly presence and light. Falconer saw the ladder as his own life. He saw how God was with him in every stage. In the moments of divine exultation, when heaven was almost close enough to touch, and God’s glory filled his being. And He was there in the desert times. The times of basest despair. The dry bones of human existence, the days of empty wasteland and biting storms, the moments when his heart was a stone lodged in his chest. God was.
The image faded. Ada remained an instant longer, gracing him with a last sigh of eternal love.
Falconer’s eyes blinked and refocused. He realized he stared into the first faint tendrils of a new dawn.
He pushed himself from the rock and walked further into the desert, so that his sobs, not of grief but of joy, would remain unheard.
Chapter 26
They resumed their journey the hour following sunrise. The air held the nighttime stillness, with not a breath of wind. It seemed to Falconer that he had scarcely settled into the saddle before the previous day’s discomforts returned. Clearly Bernard Lemi and Soap felt the same, for each sway of their beasts brought winces. But neither man complained.
By midmorning, Falconer had the measure of his men, or so he hoped. Soap was a game foot soldier, loyal as they came. Nebo had decided to trust Falconer, which meant the African would obey him. And that was enough for Wadi. The three more seasoned men clearly questioned Bernard Lemi’s mettle, and wondered silently why Falconer had allowed the banker to come along. Falconer questioned it as well, though not overmuch. He had a warrior’s trust in his gut. And his gut told him there was more to Bernard than met the eye.
They knew they were arriving at their destination long before the city came into view. A tall yellow cloud of smoke, soot, and desert dust hung over the east, like a bilious mountain suspended upon nothing save heat. Then came the smells, a distinctly desert mix of charcoal and animals and meat and cumin and men. The camels snorted and the mules brayed. Wadi had to draw hard on his reins to keep his beast from galloping forward, drawn by the scent of water.
Falconer motioned to Soap. “Give Nebo a handful of gold.”
Soap squinted against more than the glare, but did not speak. He reined in his camel, swinging it so that he drew alongside the African. He opened his money belt and passed over a cluster of glinting sovereigns. The clinking music drew Wadi’s head around. Both former slaves stared at the money, then at Falconer. A British seaman was promised a guinea a year, and not always paid. Nebo held more than both men together could hope to earn in a lifetime.
Falconer said to them both, “You two are to speak for us and pay for everything as you see fit.”
Nebo studied him a moment longer, then slipped the handful into his cloth belt and tied it shut. “It will be as you say.”
Wadi, however, was slower to return his attention to the road. He lifted the hand from which his quirt dangled. He touched the tips of his fingers to his heart, his lips, and his forehead—the desert salutation of respect.
The desert gave way grudgingly. The road swept southward and entered a valley with gently sloping hills. There was water here, for the hillsides were planted with date palms and ancient olive groves. Sheep and goats cropped the meager grass beneath the trees. The farmhouses were all the same, low and square and flat-roofed. Children watched from doorways, silently observing the constant flow of traffic upon the ancient road. Falconer noted that their group attracted no more attention than any of the other travelers.
They passed through one small hamlet, then more farms, then a larger village. They finally paused when the ancient walls came into view. Falconer pushed back his burnoose to look at the space where the old gates must have once stood, with the road framed by two mounds of rubble as high as the surrounding hills. The mounds had been flattened and brick guard stations built atop them. But the flagpoles were empty, and Falconer saw only one bored sentry loitering inside the shaded doorway.
Falconer pulled their group over to the side of the road and instructed Bernard and Soap to stow away their Arab robes as he
was doing. Tunis was used to foreigners of all kinds.
The road’s traffic condensed inside the city walls. The five men allowed themselves to be slowed and pushed more closely together. Falconer tried to stay alert to danger, but he could not keep himself from gaping. They passed a side road given over to weavers. The road was roofed with drying racks and strung with a rainbow collection of dyed yarn. The road curved north and broadened into a teeming market. The stalls were jammed cheek by jowl. At one, three lads as young as Matt pounded designs into copper plates. At the next, a small girl pulled upon a string looped to a turnstile, while an older man chiseled a block of wood into a table leg. The girl’s attention remained fastened upon the road, while her hands continued in constant motion. A woman approached them with two chickens dangling from each hand. Her face was tattooed in the intricate tribal fashion, and her voice was as shrill as a chattering bird.
Wadi slowed his camel further and nudged Falconer with his quirt. The one-eyed Arab made a tiny gesture with his chin. Falconer followed the man’s focus and saw a pair of Europeans seated at an outdoor tavern. “We stop there,” Falconer said.
Soap had seen them as well. “Is it safe?”
“Nothing is safe inside this city,” Falconer replied, his voice low. “So long as we remain, we stand upon the knife’s edge. Remember that, all of you.”
When their direction was clear, the innkeeper emerged from the tent’s shade and barked a command. Instantly a pair of lads shot forward to take hold of their reins. The innkeeper greeted them with the traditional salaam as they descended from their animals. He personally seated them, vanished, and swiftly returned with a copper basin and towel, which he offered first to Falconer. The towel was almost as filthy as the innkeeper’s robe. Falconer dipped his hands into the basin in the ceremonial fashion, then swept his fingers through his hair and retied the leather thong. He could feel a dozen sets of eyes upon him.
Anywhere else, the tavern’s shape would have seemed most curious. Here, it was so common as to be unremarkable. The rear area was desert brick and Falconer knew it would be separated into kitchen, storeroom, and a single great room for guests during storms. Today’s weather was clear, however, so the guests sat at tables beneath a rectangular awning. The tentlike cover reached to the road’s edge, such that camels and customers passed within inches of the closest table. From old habit, Falconer selected a table far back, lost to shadows and where he could sit with his back to a solid wall. The two other westerners occupied a table at the restaurant’s far side and pretended to ignore the newcomers.
The five took tea and bread and hummus and olives and skewers of meat which Falconer hoped was lamb. The innkeeper came and went, setting down more small dishes and asking elaborate questions to which Nebo responded in tight monosyllables. Wadi ate standing. When he was full, the Arab moved to the awning’s outer edge. He studied the brilliant day in utter stillness for a time, then vanished.
Nebo glanced at Falconer and gave a tiny shrug. If he had no idea where his mate had gone, he clearly was not concerned.
Soap sniffed the air. “I still smell a storm. Right over the horizon, it is.” As though able to smell beyond the city and the dust.
Falconer felt an idea begin to take form. “Perhaps. But all we will see here is wind.”
Nebo slipped the burnoose down around his neck. His head was a misshapen bullet, smooth and hard and pocked with old scars. His eyes watched Falconer unblinkingly as he said, “You trust me with your gold.”
“That and much more.”
The African grunted his acknowledgment and waited while the innkeeper set down a plate of chopped mint and coriander in olive oil. “To know of such wealth puts your life in my hands.” He straightened in his chair and said formally, “I thank you for this gift of trust, Falconer.”
“I thank you for your good right arm, Nebo.”
“It is good to have allies in dark places.” He returned his attention to the meal. “Does this God of yours teach trust?”
“Among many other things. Trust is easier when you seek to value eternity.”
“You are a hunter, yes? A man of many battles. I think you hunted a very long time to find this God of yours.”
Falconer smiled for the first time since landfall. “It took me years to understand that my God was hunting for me.”
Nebo ate in the Arab fashion, using only the first three fingers of his right hand. He took a bit of bread, scooped up grilled meat and coriander, and ate in silence. It was the desert manner, to show respect through such pauses. There was no rush to speech, no question immediately piled upon the next. Several bites later, he continued, “This power of yours.”
“My faith.”
“I wish to know what this word means.”
Bernard demanded, “Is now truly the time for such talk?”
Soap dipped his bread into the hummus. For a small man of advancing years, he showed a remarkable ability to store food away. “The hour before a storm and the hour before battle. The two longest hours on earth. Makes a man know just how alone he can be. Good time to be asking such questions and answering them, methinks.”
Nebo examined the sailor. “You share this power?”
“I have been a believer for almost twenty years. And I tell you the truth. The day of my turning is the day my life changed.”
Nebo mulled this over, then asked the banker, “And you?”
Bernard stared at the scarred tabletop and was long in answering. “I seek as well.”
“It is good to know question, and to have trust in man who knows answers.” Nebo looked at Falconer. “Speak to me of this.”
Falconer chose his words carefully. “You feel a hunger, one all the food in the world cannot fill. It is so?”
“Yes.” To everyone’s surprise, it was not the African who murmured the word. It was Bernard. “Oh yes.”
Nebo glanced at the banker, then returned his burning gaze to Falconer, who said, “Knowing the glory of Jesus for one’s self is to satisfy this hunger forever.”
“How do I know this thing?”
The market and the road and the noise all faded into the distance. “I can tell you of His gift. When you feel you are ready, we can pray together, and you give Him your life. Everything.”
Nebo’s voice was soft, yet cut through the surrounding din. “More words I do not understand.”
Falconer pondered on how best to explain. Finally he said, “When you travel desert ways, you will sometimes search out rock buried in the sand.”
Nebo nodded. “It is so.”
“You jam your knife blade down in the sand until it touches the rock. Then you place your temple upon the knife handle.”
Nebo rocked his upper body back and forth. “It is as you say.”
“You do this because you have trained yourself to listen beyond the edge of hearing.”
Nebo’s words were soft drumbeats. “Sounds pass through the blade and into my brain. Sounds the ears do not hear. Suddenly the empty reaches are empty no longer.”
“When I pray,” Falconer said, “I search for the eternal voice that is beyond the reach of man.”
Nebo was still mulling those words when Wadi returned. The Arab remained in the daylight and gestured to Falconer with one finger. Come.
Falconer rose from the table. He said to the others, “Stay where you are.”
Chapter 27
Falconer followed Wadi down a series of teeming market lanes. Everywhere they went, his presence drew stares. Falconer was now dressed in what had once been his standard slavers’ garb. He wore a buccaneer’s black trousers, fitted loose enough to hide any manner of items in the deep pockets. Added to them were black smugglers’ boots, so called because the tops were rolled down, masking pouches in which money and knives and even a small pistol could be hidden away. Though Falconer’s sword belt held a long curved dagger and two pistols, he would hold to his vow and not take another man’s life—not even if it meant the loss of his own. H
is shirt was black also, and unlaced at the neck.
But his menace came neither from his clothing nor the arms he bore. He towered a full head and shoulders above most of those they passed. His hands were the size of mallets. His shoulders were twice the breadth of the Arab who led him onward. His features were hewn from stone and storm and rage and battle. The scar on his face was not his worst, only the most visible. No wonder the locals stared.
As they entered a broad plaza, Falconer reflected upon the shame he carried from all that had shaped him into the man he had been. Yet this character of his was also why Nebo spoke with him. Warrior to warrior. About the God stronger than even his loss.
Wadi drew Falconer’s attention back to the present by halting and stepping into a shadowed alcove. Falconer had seen such recesses before. Ancient tradition held that a wealthy local merchant would buy such a niche, but not for a market stall. Instead, a small fountain would be set in place and water offered free to all who passed. In this case, however, the fountain was dry and the mosaics in the rear wall, which once had spelled out words in Arabic, were chipped and frayed. A pair of beggars with outstretched hands whined once, then upon catching sight of Falconer, withdrew their hands and went silent.
Wadi was armed as a desert soldier, with a cutlass and brace of pistols slung from his cloth belt and a longer curved scimitar hung from his back. Its two-handed pommel was bound in snakeskin and rose menacingly above his right shoulder. He jerked his chin at what lay directly across the square.
When Falconer saw what had drawn Wadi’s attention, he felt a sudden clenching in his gut. The sensation was not so much fear as knowing that by stepping into the sunlight he was crossing a line from safety into battle. Falconer offered a prayer, terse and concise.
Then he stepped forward, into the light and danger.
Wadi followed a pace behind, in keeping with a bodyguard and servant. The corral had a symbolic boundary of crumbling stone. But there was no chance that any of its human captives would escape, for they were well fettered. The road’s dust so cloaked them it was hard for an untrained eye to name them as either male or female. But none of those who stood at the periphery were untrained. Falconer was not the only buyer dressed in western attire. Two uniformed officers, possibly German, discussed a slave held up by a beast of a guard who gripped the neck chain and kept the youth on his toes. A dandy in immaculate riding boots held a perfumed handkerchief to his nose as he discussed the array of human wares with an Arab in a multicolored robe.
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