Val had dreaded her pronouncements, and now he played those precious reminiscences round and round in his head as if they were whispers from angels.
I was an imbecile. As he had done hundreds of times before, he picked up a blank piece of paper to write a letter to Alita. The pen stopped in midair.
What would he say? Forego your dazzling London life, leave your suitors, and marry me?
Renounce Sherwood and marry me. Return your trousseau. You won’t need it here.
He threw his pen across the room.
The Devil take it, why did he torture himself like this? What did he have to offer Alita Stanton? How could he possibly hold on to any woman’s love, much less Alita’s?
She is beyond my reach now. Val let his hand fall.
No, this is where I belong, and Alita Stanton does not belong here.
It was that simple. She had told him so herself. Marriage to Alita was out of the question.
Marriage to Alita.
For just a moment his mood lightened. His lips formed a slow, sweet smile as he leaned back in his chair.
You’re a damned fool, Ravensdale. He didn’t need a soothsayer to tell him that. Miss Alita Stanton, ravishing, vibrant Alita, the wife of a storyteller and a washed up soldier. She was possessed of every desirable quality, beauty, parentage, wealth, intelligence.
And the ability to captivate a man for the rest of his life.
Val returned to his translations. He needed something more demanding to occupy his mind. When the brain was engaged, somehow the heart didn’t hurt so badly.
I don’t know what the future holds. He didn’t have the slightest idea. He simply knew what he needed to be doing at this moment.
That was as far as he could envision for now.
49
Occupation
The small hand poured the water, peering between green leaves to ensure the soil was properly fed. As she poured, a droplet of water landed on the blanket, the child almost losing her balance from dismay. Alita caught the glass of water and gently secured it.
Julianne covered her mouth in alarm, causing the old lady to laugh. Tears formed in the old woman’s eyes, but they were tears of joy. “You girls brung so much joy into my life. I don’t have hardly anyone else. No family, only a few friends left, and I don’t own nothin’.”
“Now you own this plant.” Julianne straightened the pink bow on the potted plant and asked shyly, “Did I get you wet, Mrs. Mulroney?”
“No, dear. Ah’ve never been better, Miss Julianne.”
“Can I tell her?” Julianne glanced up at her sister, her eyes wide with wonder. “Can I tell her the secret?”
Alita nodded.
“Mrs. Mulroney, may I tell you a secret? A very, very big secret that you can’t tell anyone?”
“Yes, dear! I adore secrets.”
“If you put your hand just above the leaves”—Julianne placed her lips very close to the old woman’s ear and whispered—“you can feel the plant talk to you.”
“You don’ say, Miss Julianne?” Mrs. Mulroney appeared quite entranced with this information. She turned to stare at the beautiful begonia, bursting in pink, with a matching pink ribbon. Mrs. Mulroney addressed the plant. “I’m pleased to make yer acquaintance, Elmira.”
“Mrs. Mulroney! What’s the matter? Why are you crying?”
“It warms my heart that you girls thought of me, a dying old woman, when you saw this pretty plant.” She sniffed.
“This pretty talking plant,” Julianne corrected. “Do you like the flower, Mrs. Mulroney?”
“I love the flower, Julianne.” Mrs. Mulroney’s smile quivered. “I’ll think of you and Miss Alita ever’ time I look at it, and I’ll never feel lonely again.”
“Julianne…?” Alita nudged her sister.
Julianne beamed. “We brought you another present, too.”
“Besides th’ beautiful pink flower?” Mrs. Mulroney appeared shocked. “It’s too much for the likes of me. I don’ deserve you two.”
“You deserve far more than we could ever give you,” Alita said sincerely. She bent down and kissed the old woman’s cheek, and their eyes met.
“Well, then, I’m sure I’m not one to argue with quality,” Mrs. Mulroney smiled shyly, looking like a schoolgirl despite wrinkles and white hair.
Excitedly, Julianne pulled a large basket from the other side of the bed, containing apples, pears, cherries, cheese, dried meat, and even a box of chocolates. Mrs. Mulroney eyed the chocolates with longing, having eyes for nothing else in the basket. Her hand clasped over her mouth, and she looked as if it would be a sin for her to take it. “Ah’ve never had a box of chocolates in m’life! That’s only fer the rich!”
“Now it’s for you,” Alita said as she opened the box for Mrs. Mulroney’s selection. “Take one, Mrs. Mulroney, or you’ll hurt our feelings.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that!” she exclaimed, shaking her head vehemently. After some deliberation, she selected a candy. As the chocolate melted in the woman’s mouth, she looked as if she were in perfect bliss.
“Shall I make you a cup of tea?” Alita asked.
Mrs. Mulroney shook her head, closing her eyes momentarily. “No, dear. I want to taste the chocolate in my mouth and nothin’ else,” she said simply.
Alita smiled to herself. Her mother had been right. Keeping busy with service had a healing power of its own.
50
Late for Work
Val groaned as he looked at the clock. Eight o’clock. He had overslept. When had he finally fallen asleep? 2:00 a.m.? 3:00?
You’re an uncivilized heathen, Ravensdale.
He surveyed the books strewn over his desk and the half bottle of whiskey prominently displayed.
It is no accident of fate that you are a bachelor.
And likely to stay one.
“Ouch!” Val uttered as he threw himself out of his too-small bed, kinking a muscle in his back in the process.
“Damn bed is made for a midget,” he mumbled.
But it beats the hard ground. Gliding across the wooden floor barefoot, he savored the fact he wasn’t wearing heavy boots—not to mention trudging through sand in the desert heat, each step one step closer to departing this world.
Enjoying the feel of the smooth wood beneath his feet, he wondered if he would ever be able to forego his leather sandals, hand-crafted for him personally, and return to traditional British shoes.
Splashing his face with cold water left in his basin from yesterday, he picked up his razor, examining the beginnings of a beard in the mirror hung over his basin. Beaded renditions of ancient Egyptians in the hieroglyphic art form encircled the mirror, staring at him disapprovingly as he shaved.
I have to agree with your assessment.
Val glanced at the half-empty bottle of whisky and his notebook on the small wooden desk. Six months ago the bottle would have been empty. And he wouldn’t have had a notebook filled with scribblings in the morning. He supposed that was some improvement.
Val’s stomach growled as the smell of fresh bread wafted up through his third-story half-open window. Hurriedly he dressed and sliced a sausage, spreading it on stale bread with a generous portion of mustard. His eyes searched the fruit bowl for something to wash it down with.
Empty except for a few shriveling orange peels.
I need a woman. And since the one he wanted was out of the question, he might need to hire a servant. In which case a man was a better choice: someone to keep him organized, clean the place, keep the larder filled, and run the occasional errand.
And to kick his ass when he needed it—which was most of the time.
Val slammed the door behind him. He would purchase a cup of hot tea on the way, possibly with a fresh pomegranate or Valencia orange.
He would be working that evening, playing host to an acquaintance of Sir Evelyn’s. In the meantime, there was information he needed at the Cairo library before beginning his infiltration of the city. Sir Evelyn wa
s particularly interested in the diets of the poor: if they had enough food, if their diet was better than it had been under King Ishmael. It most certainly was, but how much better? Were the poor pleased with the improvements or were they still dissatisfied? Sir Evelyn was especially interested in children’s diets. Above all, regardless of the reality, the Consul General wanted to know what the perception of reality was.
Reaching the Cairo Library, Val found the books he needed on local crops and cuisines and headed for the sacred-writings section in the far confines of the library. Since the section was comprised largely of books written in the original ancient languages it was the quietest place in Cairo.
Not too many minutes later, Val was sitting in his usual seat reading when he observed an elderly English gentleman, whom he recognized immediately, having a heated argument with a muscular, middle-aged Egyptian.
“Disrespect of Quran is haraam and greater sin. It is most holy book.”
“Get out of my way, Arab.”
“Insult me, but not insult Quran.” Suddenly, the Egyptian drew a sword.
Val leapt from his seat and lodged himself between the Englishman and the Egyptian, drawing his own knife toward the Egyptian. The Egyptian was speaking loudly and waving his sword, even as his language changed to Arabic. Standing his ground, Val calmly conversed with him in Arabic, inquiring of the source of his agitation.
“Lord Falcon, it is most unfortunate that you have thrown a sacred text onto the table.” Keeping both eyes on the Egyptian, Val spoke with equal humility to the English gentleman. “You have blasphemed against God in this man’s eyes.”
The Egyptian lowered his sword at the tone of Val’s voice.
“Don’t be ridiculous! It’s just a bloody book!” sneered Lord Falcon, even as the Egyptian’s muscular arms flexed. “It isn’t the Bible.”
“No doubt you did not know, Lord Falcon, that God’s word is uniquely important in the religion of Islam. Religious art is forbidden, so all artistic expression is in God’s word. The formation of the letters themselves become an art form, the Word is that important.” Val’s eyes moved to the book on the table, his voice calm but authoritative. “Apologize to the Egyptian, please, sir, bow to him, and we’ll be safely on our way.”
After a long silence Val stonily commanded, “Now, please, sir.”
“I shall do no such thing. The whole thing is absurd.” Lord Falcon laughed. “I’ll take out my gun and shoot him first.”
The Egyptian raised his sword and moved forward. In one swift movement, Val surprised both parties by turning toward Lord Falcon and relieving the peer of his gun, throwing the weapon on a nearby table. As Lord Falcon began to move towards the table, Val pulled Lord Falcon’s right arm behind his back, easily turning Lord Falcon around like a top before he held the elderly English lord immobile with a knife to his neck.
“Have you gone mad? Who are you? I’ll have you court-martialed!” Lord Falcon screamed. Soon library patrons circled them, some holding weapons.
“Apologize to the gentleman, Lord Falcon.”
“W-what?! How do you know me?”
“The relevant point is we’re not having any bloodshed here today because you are too self-important and ignorant to respect someone else’s viewpoint.” Val spoke again through gritted teeth, not feeling it to be germane to the situation to tell his lordship they had met before.
Lord Falcon twisted his neck with difficulty to stare at Val in disbelief, sputtering saliva on Val’s hand as he twisted. “You want me to apologize because I didn’t pick up his bloody book the way he wanted me to?” He glanced at the Egyptian, shooting him a look of disdain. “He’s an uncivilized savage.”
“Pretend it is your Bible, sir. That should allow you to see it as he does.” Val suggested with steel in his voice, even as he kept his eye on the Egyptian and the circle surrounding them, most of whom seemed to be growing angrier instead of calmer.
Val wondered if this would be his last few minutes on the earth. Of all the places he might die, he didn’t expect it to be in a library.
“Why should I want to see it as he does?” Lord Falcon demanded.
“To recognize that your existence is not the only experience of life on earth.” Val cleared his throat. “And also to keep us both alive.”
“You can go to bloody hell,” Lord Falcon muttered.
“I may very well see you there. But I’ll be damned if it’s today.” Pinning Lord Falcon’s arms behind his back, Val held him at a gridlock, his knife blade now touching Falcon’s throat, a few drops of blood materializing.
Val knew he had to make this real to the skeptical. I can’t say as I mind.
“You’re hurting me, you bastard!”
Val noted a few smiles developing on the faces surrounding them, as well as a few weapons lowering. Speaking in soothing tones, he said softly, “If you will pardon my candor, sir, I might remark that you are something of an ass. You keep your mouth shut, or I’ll slit your neck myself, I swear it.”
“Unhand me, you f–fiend!” Lord Falcon stuttered, having some difficulty with his breath.
“I won’t be privy to an uprising only because you have no regard for anyone’s life but your own. You will die at his hand and without my interference, I assure you—and possibly with my assistance.” Val’s voice was raw as he applied more pressure to Lord Falcon, which he hoped would direct Falcon’s attention to the pain, thereby curtailing his incessant meanderings.
“You’re an officer of the q–queen! You’re supposed to p–protect me!”
“Protect yourself by shutting your mouth. I surmised when I met you before that you are dull-witted and slow to comprehension, Lord Falcon, and now it is confirmed. Let me spell it out for you. I promise you I won’t kill him to protect you.”
More weapons were lowered. Slowly Val turned in the circle, pulling Lord Falcon with him, desiring to be facing the most explosive of the lot. Returning his eyes to the Egyptian, Val motioned to the book on the table with his eyes. He then spoke in Arabic, directing the Egyptian to kindly remove the book from those not appreciative of its holy contents, to return it to its place, and to visit the Consul General’s office if he wished to file a complaint.
The Egyptian gentleman appeared to be as shocked as anyone.
“You wouldn’t d–d–dare,” whispered the elderly gentleman. “I’ll have you court-martialed and hanged.”
“Do you really think so?” Val laughed. Lord Falcon might be a nincompoop, but he was always good for a laugh and there was never a dull moment. “How do you propose to do that once separated from your body, sir? Furthermore, I’d be gone by the time they found your body. Look around you. We’re the only two Englishmen in this section of the library. No doubt the door to this room has already been locked. The Egyptians have less than no love for the English, and anyone here would help me escape. Your body might never be discovered, in fact. Do you remember that large body of water running through Cairo? Oh, what is it, the longest river in the world?”
There was a general round of laughter and shared camaraderie. All but one or two of the weapons were returned to their sheaths. Lord Falcon’s eyes darted about him, the only part of him he could move, growing more frightened.
“You would…kill me?” Lord Falcon asked feebly, his bravado waning.
“Believe me, sir,” stated Val, his tone deadly. “I don’t wish to kill you. But I would do so without hesitation before I would allow you to cause another war in which thousands of young Britons would die because you cannot admit you were wrong.”
But the damage had already been mostly rectified, as Val hoped his display would accomplish. The Egyptian picked up the Quran and gingerly returned it to the shelf. He spat on the elderly gentleman, put his sword away, tilted his head in deference to Val, and walked majestically away.
“Let me go, you bastard!” exclaimed Lord Falcon, his animosity rekindled. Val had to give it to Falcon: he made up for in spirit what he lacked in intelligence.
“I will when you are no longer a danger to yourself or to the rest of us,” Val said, his tone harsh, his grip on the man severe. “Now, you listen to me, and maybe I’ll leave you alive. Remember that you have no claims on this country. You are merely an unwanted visitor. You may not value your own life, a sentiment which has considerable merit, but I’ll not have you taking down innocent people by sputtering your importance about.” Val held the knife closer to his neck, drawing another drop of blood.
Val released the gentleman, who stared at him in fury.
“You’ll pay for this!” Lord Falcon threatened.
“Go back to England and tell someone who cares,” Val muttered with a polite bow, returning his knife to its sheath and pocketing Lord Falcon’s pistol before leaving the room.
51
A Magical Spell
After Mrs. Mulroney was snoring softly, Alita and Julianne moved to their next regular patient, Isabelle, a girl little more than Alita’s age dying of diseases of prostitution.
Alita held Isabelle’s hand, so cold and clammy it was difficult to believe she had ever been warm.
Possibly she hadn’t. Alita propped Isabelle up against her pillow and assisted the young woman in drinking hot tea.
The warmth revived Isabelle. She glanced at the miniature rose bush now vibrant with red roses.
“Can you read to me, Miss Alita?” Isabelle pleaded, as if she feared rejection.
“What do you wish to hear, Miss Isabelle?” Julianne asked.
Isabelle glowed at the polite inquiry, insofar as it were possible given her sallow complexion. She was clearly unaccustomed to being treated respectfully.
The Destiny Code: The Soldier and the Mystic Page 38
