Marjorie Hart and the Tree of Life

by Amanda Vink

  In response, the audience grew quiet. The silence was unexpected—its tension filling the room with an unnatural emotion and dissonance.

  Then she began to sing.

  Her voice filled the room, an experience quite unexpected from such a delicate creature. The noise reached every crevice, every corner of space, and lingered there. The audience sponged it up. No one dared say anything or try to speak over it. Waiters stopped serving while she sang, and no one complained or looked over their shoulder for their missing drink. No one asked for a bill. The effect was of a lightning bolt striking sand.

  The glassy song was a traditional one accompanied only by a man playing an instrument Marjorie didn’t know the name of. It looked like a triangle-shaped harp, small enough to rest on the man’s lap. The voice and the gentle twang of the stringed instrument went dancing around and around the melody. When the song finally finished, the audience broke into applause and cries of emotion.

  The sudden level of noise jarred Marjorie. In one swift motion, she finished off her cocktail and placed the empty glass back on the counter.

  “C’est une belle voix.”

  Marjorie turned. A woman had joined her at the bar. Marjorie guessed her older by ten years or so, and everything about her seemed round. Her ebony hair was short, in fashion, which accentuated this roundness. Her nose was slightly bulbous, and her mouth looked too wide for her face. When she smiled, though, Marjorie could see that all this roundness was to be used to her advantage. Her smile drew Marjorie in.

  “She does have a nice voice,” Marjorie agreed in French.

  The woman shifted in her seat. The lean of her body against the chair and the counter created a triangle shape that reminded Marjorie of Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. She tapped the counter, and the bartender quickly came to attention. This time, she spoke in English with a heavy Turkish accent. “The drink is free for her,” she said. The final word flipped up at the end, almost making it sound like a question. Marjorie listened, enjoying her accent.

  The woman leveled Marjorie in her gaze. She raised her own glass, full of golden liquid, and gestured toward the singer. “She will be big, but she has a problem. She lets a man run her business. You let a man run your business, you know where the profits go.”

  Marjorie smiled. She immediately liked this woman, and she liked her tone. “You know this from experience?” she asked.

  The woman laughed. “Truly. El shatra tighzil birigl homaar.” Then, she translated: “A clever woman can spin yarn even if all she has is a donkey’s leg.”

  The bartender returned, placing another champagne cocktail on the bar in front of Marjorie. Marjorie picked it up and admired the bubbles brimming to the surface. She studied the woman over her drink. “Are you the owner of this place?”

  The woman smiled. With a voice as smooth as caramel, she answered, “I may as well be.” She tapped her fingers on the bar. “My name is Nadine al-Eissa. If you need something, you let me know.”

  Marjorie nodded her head once. She had so many questions.

  As if reading her mind, Nadine continued. “I know all the comings and goings in Cairo. I make it my business to know, Miss Hart.”

  Surprised, Marjorie swallowed her drink too quickly.

  Nadine, noticing, smiled like a cat that had eaten all the cream. Her look then turned serious. “I’m not the only person who knows who you are, daughter of the great professor. I’m also not the only one who knows what you’re after.”

  At this, Marjorie couldn’t help but bristle. “The only reason I’m here is to find out what happened to my father.”

  “Is that so?” Nadine asked. “In that case, I have a tip—look out for Seif.”

  Marjorie started to ask who Seif was, but Nadine al-Eissa picked herself up off the chair with great formality and sauntered away. Marjorie watched her round body disappear into the crowd.

  “Another for you?” asked the bartender. He pointed to the champagne cocktail, which Marjorie hadn’t even realized she’d finished.

  “No, thank you,” she said, starting to gather her belongings then. What did you get yourself into, Father?

  Chapter Ten

  Overhead, the sun peeked out above a line of clouds, like a quiet man peering over his fence to judge what the day would bring. This wall of clouds was gray, but at the top there was a stroke of red. An omen? A boon? Marjorie couldn’t tell.

  The mountain drew in thousands of Christians, Muslims, and Jews each year. The faithful climbed to the very top to look upon the desert. Legend said this was the spot where Moses spent forty days and forty nights testing his strength and will. Located on a peninsula that jutted out into the Red Sea, this triangle of land was cradled by the Suez Gulf and the Gulf of Aqaba.

  Whether this Mount Sinai, Jabal Mūsā, was the actual mountain where God gave to Moses the Ten Commandments was contested. At its foot, however, sat one of the world’s oldest working Greek Orthodox monasteries. Also on its grounds was the world’s oldest continually operating library. Officially, the monastery was called Sacred Monastery of the God-Trodden Mount Sinai, but most used its simpler moniker, Saint Catherine’s.

  By the time the car reached the monastery, the sun had risen completely and begun to burn off the clouds. It left behind a fierce blue sky and the growing desert heat.

  Muhammad dropped Marjorie outside where cars were permitted, then leaned against the vehicle and glanced at the monastery’s outer walls before opening the morning newspaper he’d carried all the way from Cairo. Watching him, Marjorie smiled. It struck her funny, that’s all, the idea of someone reading a newspaper while standing on one of the holiest spots in the Abrahamic religious world. Perhaps his religion is politics.

  A cobbled road running atop the sand brought her to the entrance of the monastery. The entire building was surrounded by a large stone wall the color of the desert, which reminded Marjorie of a fortress. She made her way up a line of stairs, worn down by the elements and the steps of thousands of travelers over many years. Looking up as she climbed, she saw a Catholic cross made of swirling metal topping the basilica. Next to the church was another building, a mosque, where there was a crescent moon, the traditional symbol of Islam.

  The monastery entryway led into the outer courtyard, where Marjorie met Archbishop Bartholomew. He was a short man, dressed in black robes and wearing a gray scarf that fell across his forehead. He had a matching gray beard, trimmed neatly in a long fashion, and his long hair was pinned in a straight line down his back. He greeted her, reaching out a hand and taking hers. His hands were warm and weathered.

  “Miss Hart. We received your letter last week and have been looking forward to your arrival. I was very sorry to hear of your father’s death,” he said in immaculate English. “He was a good friend to the monastery, and he will be sorely missed.”

  “Thank you.” Marjorie looked away, swallowing a lump in her throat.

  “Here, come this way,” he ushered.

  Marjorie followed the archbishop through an archway in the wall into the inner part of the monastery. He pointed upward, and Marjorie followed his finger with her eyes to a thorn bush. Suspended over the arched walkway, its tendrils of green grew down like long braids that swayed back and forth.

  “This is of the burning bush,” he explained. “Understand it is not the specimen itself, but its ancestor held the very presence of God.”

  Marjorie tried to imagine the bush enveloped in flames. It was hard to do: the plant in front of her was lush and green, perfectly acclimated to its environment within the shade of the monastery walls.

  “Come, I have more to show you,” he said. His voice was soft, as though he was used to spending most of the day in silence.

  They headed to the side of monastery then, where a stone archway opened to a large garden full of evergreens that reached to the heavens. Here there was also a culinary garden, which Marjorie guessed provided most of the vegetables and fruit the residents ate throughout the year. At its cent
er sat a stone well, a bucket balancing on its edge.

  Marjorie continued to examine the beautiful things growing around her. Little figs hung ripe in the sun, ready to be picked. The very ripe ones had juice just beginning to flow from the bottom of the fruit. The archbishop picked one, reverently, and offered it to Marjorie.

  She took it in her hand, the fruit soft and pliable. It smelled sweet and earthy. She bit it in half, the little seeds and flesh rough against her tongue. The flavor burst in her mouth, intense and lovely. She’d never tasted one so sweet.

  Marjorie looked down then. The ground—sand—was so packed together that it felt like stone. How far they must’ve dug for a well, Marjorie could only guess.

  As if divining her thoughts, the archbishop said, “Even a desert can be bountiful, if one knows where to look. Thank God for these miracles.”

  With careful movements, he dropped the bucket into the well then turned the wheel, slowly bringing the bucket back up. Water sloshed around the rim as it neared the surface. To Marjorie, it smelled of wet wood and dirt. She watched as the archbishop carefully poured water over the fig trees, making sure to evenly distribute the liquid.

  “This business about your father troubles me,” he said. “He was here just before he died. The police came, but they did not dig deep.”

  “I hired a private investigator. He also did not look around very much,” Marjorie confided.

  “Interesting.” The archbishop carefully set the wooden bucket back in its place next to the well and stood back, smoothing his robes and stretching. He turned to her, his expression unhurried. “It is time for prayers.”

  Moments later, the bells started to ring from the tower. They could be seen swinging freely through the top of three arches. Someone below kept a steady rhythm. Marjorie wondered how he knew, and her face must’ve shown it. His eyes glittered at her; he seemed amused by the secret.

  “I know you said in your letter you only needed one night here, but know you are free to spend as much time as you like within our walls. You are our most welcome guest.”

  “Again, thank you, Father,” Marjorie said.

  The archbishop began walking back. But before he made it too far, he stopped. He did not turn to look at her, but his voice was serious and barely loud enough for her to hear. “You must be careful, Marjorie Hart. I fear some treachery.”

  Marjorie stood at the edge of the garden, and despite the hot sun she felt goose bumps rise on her skin. A surge of fear struck her heart and for a moment she couldn’t will her muscles forward. But she shook it off. She couldn’t let fear cloud her thoughts.

  She rejoined the archbishop, who walked steadily toward the tower and the chapel. He raised a hand in greeting to one of the other monks, saying, “Please show Miss Hart to her room.” The monk nodded and gestured for Marjorie to follow.

  Still feeling unsettled, Marjorie allowed herself to be led away to her room. The space was made available to her by the graciousness of the archbishop. Small and dark, it consisted of a simple bed on an iron frame, a wooden desk with a candle and matches lying next to it, and a cross hanging on the bare wall. A small window let in a little light and the image of the blue sky. A gust of wind came in from across the mountain, rattling against the building. Then, all sank into a state of calm.

  Marjorie sat down on the bed and closed her eyes. She placed her hands on her knees and let the weight of the room come into her. People came to Saint Catherine’s for many reasons—finding holiness was one major reason. The room had been built for tranquility, the perfect space for exploring one’s inner spirituality.

  In a place like this, she expected to feel something, the weight of the divine. At the very least, she should feel comforted. She should feel like she was not alone. Instead, she felt nothing—a quiet, an empty promise.

  She opened her eyes and stood, then placed her small traveling bag on the desk and opened it. She had not brought a lot—a change of clothes, a sweater, a few extra rolls of film. Everything else she carried in her rucksack, which she took with her everywhere—her camera, primary film, her father’s notebook, money, identification, and Uncle Charlie’s gun.

  A swirl of air brought with it the ringing of the tower bells, which indicated the end of prayers. This also told her it was time for lunch. Marjorie’s stomach growled—she had very quickly eaten an orange that morning before leaving, but had had nothing else since. She grabbed her rucksack and made her way down to the refectory. She had to ask a monk about its location, which she learned was east of the basilica.

  The arched, elongated room made by limestone blocks had one large dark wooden table in its center. Along the sides, stone benches welcomed diners and anyone needing rest. The eye immediately drew upward to a series of paintings and arches that separated the room into sections. These arches were adorned by coats of arms. Inscriptions in Latin, French, and German told tales of the pilgrims who had traveled great distances to Mount Sinai to see the place where God spoke. Some of these pilgrims dated back to the time of the Crusades. The eastern wall contained depictions of religious figures. Saint Anthony and Saint Paul broke bread gifted to them by angels. A fresco showed the second coming of Christ, reminding those within to prepare their souls for the time beyond this human life.

  One of the monks brought a bowl of soup for Marjorie and set it on the table before her. Steam rose in curling ribbons from the light green broth. It smelled rich of herbs, especially rosemary—a bush that grew in the mountains. Marjorie took a spoonful, and she let it sit on her tongue until the heat dissipated.

  “May I?” asked the monk, nodding to the space on the bench directly next to her.

  “Please,” Marjorie said, wiping her mouth with a cloth napkin.

  “I am Brother Alban.” He stepped over the bench and settled in with his own bowl of soup. Marjorie guessed him in his mid-forties. He had a long, lean body, and his dark hair was cut close. She admired his olive-colored skin and kind smile, which he gave her now while offering her a basket of dark brown bread. She noticed his eyes were bright blue, striking against his coloring.

  Marjorie took a slice of the crusty bread. It must’ve been freshly baked, for it was still warm and the inside was soft and pliable.

  “This is the new refectory,” Brother Alban explained. His accent was an interesting mix with British undertones—so familiar to Marjorie after having spent a significant amount of time in England as a child. “Built in the eleventh century.”

  Marjorie coughed on the spoonful of soup. How old is the old refectory?

  Brother Alban smiled. Apparently he seemed to enjoy shocking others with his ancient knowledge. “You are here to study the library?” he asked.

  “That’s correct,” Marjorie said, dipping the bread into the soup and watching it soak up the broth.

  “What are you looking for?” Perhaps sensing her discomfort, he added, “Maybe I can help.”

  Marjorie stared at him, trying to gauge whether or not she could trust him. “I’m not actually sure,” she said. She wasn’t lying.

  “It’s large,” he said. “There has been talk of building a space for some time. There is a catalogue and a large collection of codices and manuscripts.” Brother Alban’s eyes lit up. “The Basilica of the Transfiguration holds many icons—some over a thousand years old. We have many surviving paintings and thousands of manuscripts.”

  How on Earth am I going to find anything here? She had no idea even where to start.

  Sensing her dismay, Brother Alban said, “I can show you, if you like.”

  Marjorie smiled at him, although she could not drop her feeling of hopelessness. “Thank you, Brother Alban. Where did the library get these treasures?”

  He shrugged. “Everywhere. Some were gifts from ancient kings and religious figures. Some were bestowed upon the monastery because this is a place these icons can be cared for. There is great pride for us in taking care of these things.”

  His voice was thick with passion. Marjorie reco
gnized the voice of a scholar, of someone who spent long years alone with their subject. Who knew how many secrets a person like that shared with their subject matter? Did she really want to know these secrets?

  However, the only way to find out what happened to her father was to follow his research. She didn’t have to believe it. It was only a means to an end. ​

  ***

  After lunch, the monks had their own duties. They dispersed quickly, although Brother Alban lingered at the end of the table. He watched her, waiting to see if she needed any help within the library.

  “If I need anything, I’ll come to you,” Marjorie said.

  He nodded, his gentle eyes dropping in acquiescence. “I will be available until four o’clock,” he said. “After that, there are vespers.” He bowed, and then slowly made his way toward the door.

  Marjorie cleared her plate and stood. There was a lot of work to do.

  The library sat in an area across from the archbishop’s rooms, close to the descendent of the burning bush. Two sets of doors led inside. The outer door was propped open, and different colored glass panels welcomed visitors. The inner doors were ornate and very old.

  The room inside was padded with a long red rug. A few chandeliers and other candles created a soft glow, which reflected off the many gold-leafed items within. These items sat upon gold cloth, which shimmered and reflected any light. Red and gold tapestries hanging on the wall depicted holy scenes, next to thousand-year old paintings.

  Marjorie continued through to the next room. It was large, and small windows opened to the desert air. The walls were painted white, but dark wooden bookshelves lined every available space. Manuscripts, books, and other treasures filled the room with smells of old paper and leather. There were thousands of texts, written in several languages. The vaults, reserved for only those with permission from the archbishop, contained even more works of great historical and religious value.