Marjorie Hart and the Tree of Life

by Amanda Vink

  A few others worked in the room, although it could be considered empty compared with other areas of the monastery. Pilgrims came for religious icons and experiences more often than for texts. Everyone here looked like religious scholars. They had the single-minded focus of the academic world, and no one even glanced up when Marjorie entered. She hoped everyone could stay out of each other’s way in such a large space.

  At the end of a long wooden table, a catalogue waited. The binding fell open at the middle, as though it had not been touched for some time. If I were to let it fall, it would probably open to the same spot, thought Marjorie.

  She glanced at it. So much information looked back at her, organized by a system the monks had worked under for thousands of years. The problem was, Marjorie didn’t know this system—though it was perfectly logical in and of itself. But how was she to find anything? Looking for a clue her father left was the proverbial needle in a haystack. The first book, that’s what her father had written to her. Think.

  The monastery was known for the Codex Sinaiticus. Dating from the fourth century, it was the oldest almost completely preserved manuscript of the Holy Bible. Maybe the next clue was in this manuscript? She seemed to recall her father writing something about it.

  From her bag, Marjorie pulled her father’s notebook. She carefully flipped through its sections, somewhat familiar to her now after so many times fingering through it. No, she thought, it’s not the Codex. She found the passage her father wrote, confirming her suspicion that she would need to look elsewhere. She shook her head in disappointment. The manuscript made its way from the monastery to Russia in the mid-nineteenth century. No longer there, it was impossible that her father could’ve left her something in it. I have to think about this as my father would.

  She sat down at the catalogue, imaging how a historian would perform a search.

  The first book. It would make sense to have the clue in a book that was sure to remain untouched. At a Christian monastery, what first book would remain untouched? Perhaps the oldest bible here. Marjorie leaned forward, pulling the catalogue closer to her for inspection. She thumbed through it, locating the long list of Christian bibles.

  The light began to turn golden and darkness crept over the holy place. From the open windows, tiny dots of light began to emerge. These were likely oil lamps. Soon Marjorie would need one in order to keep reading. For the first time in hours, she looked around to the other readers. The library had emptied considerably since she’d arrived. Now only a few dedicated scholars remained.

  Marjorie leaned back, away from the stack of books she had poured herself over throughout the afternoon. First book? Try three hundred and seventieth book.

  She pulled another book toward her and opened it. Inside was a drawing of a woman with dark skin and bright eyes. It wasn’t a real woman, Marjorie realized, but the mythological representation of one. She read underneath, the words forming on her tongue: “Lilith is Adam’s first wife—made to match him and not subservient to him. Known as a seducer of men and a devourer of children … Lovely.”

  Marjorie closed the book with a resounding thud and pushed it away. I can’t stand the trope of independent women as evil. Who knows? Maybe she had her own stakes at play and no one has understood them.

  She twisted her neck, releasing some tension that had grown there, then rolled her shoulders, which creaked as the joints rolled past one another. Finally, she stood, stretching out her lower back as well.

  No closer to finding her father’s clue, Marjorie realized this could take weeks—years, even. That would be if she was lucky, if she could ever figure out what it meant. But now, it was time to stop for the evening. Her eyes felt tired from peering at small scribbles of text all afternoon. Her head ached, still trying to piece together this mystery.

  She put her belongings away and gathered the books to be returned to their shelves. Her fingers felt grimy from handling these old primary documents all day. Her eye rested on the catalogue again, and an idea came to her. The first book.

  She took up the catalogue and shifted its weigh between her hands. This book had passed through thousands of hands over the years. Surely it can’t be so easy!

  She let the book fall open where it wanted—the crease it had been opened to for who knew how long. There was nothing out of ordinary about it, just a list of items the library contained and where someone could find them.

  Marjorie flipped through the pages from one cover to another, checking for anything tucked into the pages themselves. But there was nothing extra. She then felt along the spine—and touched something buried in the space around the binding. She shifted it around with her fingertips. Suddenly, an electric shock rocked her, and she almost dropped the whole thing.

  “I can think of more popular books,” a voice said. A slight Irish accent gave it a musical quality.

  Startled, Marjorie jumped. She turned and saw a young man standing a few feet from her. Stupid, she thought, so caught up that you let your guard down! He was only a few hairs taller than her, and he had a mischievous grin and red hair. The man dressed in a worn button-down shirt, the ends of which were tucked into his pants in bunches, rather than carefully creased. Marjorie pegged him as an academic, definitely, but she got the impression he had seen more than just the inside of a university. She raised an eyebrow at his grin.

  “Oh, really?” she asked. “And what would you suggest?”

  His eyebrows raised. “You’re American! I’m sure this library is a little slow on American bestsellers.”

  “I’ve found what I’m looking for, thanks,” Marjorie said.

  She slipped the catalogue carefully into her bag along with the rest of her things. She didn’t want this man to notice she was taking off with it, however. She was pretty sure books like this one were not meant to leave. When she pushed the book in, her hand brushed against the handle of Uncle Charlie’s gun. Good. She could reach it if necessary.

  She tried to sidestep him, but he only moved in closer. Their arms brushed against one another, and another jolt of lightning passed through Marjorie. It culminated in a rising panic. Just who was this man, anyway?

  “You’ll find more than one person is looking for that book,” he said.

  Marjorie leveled him with a withering glare, which seemed to have an effect. He flinched as if she had struck him and moved a pace back. No way are you taking it from me.

  At the same moment, she noticed a few more people in the library. Near the entrance stood a man. He wore a fedora with a large dark brown band. It was propped up on the back of his head, exposing his large forehead. These made his eyes look large, and they traveled over Marjorie. Suddenly she saw the scar along his left cheek. She gasped. The man from the train in New York! How did he get here? More importantly, who was he and why was he following her?

  Two ornate doors from the basilica opened on the far end, and another man entered. Marjorie noted he was similarly dressed as the man by the door, wearing a trench coat too thick for the heat. He removed his hat and used it to fan himself. The two of them were obviously a pair, which meant the two main exits were closed to her.

  The red-haired man leaned in again, speaking low. “I’m afraid these men aren’t the kind who like to wait.”

  Marjorie surveyed the situation. If she cooperated, they might let her live. Still, she was never good at giving in. It took her one moment to decide, and then she sprang into action.

  She kicked, catching the red-haired man in the shin. He wasn’t expecting it, and he doubled over in pain. It gave Marjorie just enough time to run.

  She bolted down a long row of books, heading away from the three men. Please let this lead to an exit. Without daylight, the library became shrouded in shadows, so Marjorie wouldn’t know if there was an exit until she was right up on it. She had a little bit of a head start, but that wouldn’t last long. She stole a glance behind her. The red-haired man was close, and the other two weren’t far off.

  She was in luck.
When she connected with the wall, a door gave way, and she tumbled out into the cool night air. The moon hung high in the night sky and cast a glow strong enough for her to see by. She exited the library into the empty courtyard, using the edge of the building to make a straight line toward its entrance. After stumbling down a flight of steps, she turned a corner and ran into a monk carrying a glass lantern. She quickly shuffled around him, calling over her shoulder, “Sorry!”

  The sound of a gunshot rang out in the dark, and a bullet ricocheted off the wall near her head. She cried out while the monk threw himself behind the corner of the building to hide. As he did so, the red-haired man tripped over the monk’s legs, and the two went crashing to the ground. Marjorie looked around. In the distance, the suited man who had fired was reloading his weapon.

  As startled as she was, however, she didn’t dare stop. The red-haired man was right on her toes, and he gained on her with every second that passed. The acidic smell of sweat—her own—hit Marjorie’s senses. She felt her breath coming heavy, the fire of excursion burning her lungs. Dust and sand made its way into her mouth, making it even more difficult to breathe.

  Very few cars remained in the lot, but up ahead she saw Muhammad lighting a cigar. The ember glowed red, and his match lit his face. She began waving her arms frantically. She tried to call out, but she couldn’t find enough air to raise her voice. Finally, she got it out, “Start the engine!”

  Muhammad only looked at her, that toothless smile orange against the flame. When she reached the car, he still had not moved. She exhaled his name, begging him to get in the car. That’s when she noticed he had a gun in his hand, locked on her.

  Time slowed down. Marjorie’s heart beat wildly. She gasped, in shock and exhaustion. She hadn’t expected this. Then, another shot rang out.

  Marjorie looked down, expecting to see her blouse covered in hot, red blood. But there was nothing. She felt her stomach, and she was relieved to find that she was still alive. Muhammad, however, lay slumped against his car. The shot had come from far off.

  Marjorie gasped as a hand wrapped around her arm. Relieved, she could’ve cried. “Brother Alban!” she said.

  Brother Alban had appeared from the darkness of an evergreen tree. She could see his face just enough to recognize him.

  Another shot fired, striking close to their feet. The suited man from the library was shooting at them.

  “Quick!” Brother Alban said. “Get in!” He gestured to Muhammad’s car.

  She climbed into the passenger side while he got in the driver’s seat. The keys dangled from the ignition, and Brother Alban turned them. The engine roared to life, and the car squealed as it went into drive.

  They just missed hitting the red-haired man, who had to throw himself out of harm’s way. He landed in the dirt, a puff of sand shooting up into the air. Overwhelmed by relief, Marjorie yipped in delight as the car sped away amid the darkness of night.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Do you know how to drive?”

  “What?” Marjorie asked.

  She blinked. She had been looking out the window into the darkness, trying to calm her still racing heart. The full moon created ample light in the desert, but it was beginning to become cloudy. On one side of the road, she saw the retreating mountains. Earlier in the morning, Marjorie had seen houses of reddish stone baking in the sunlight. Next to them, green trees had provided much-needed shade. Now it looked completely different. The mountains seemed to be closing in, and Marjorie could no longer see anything but dots of light indicating the places people gathered to escape the dark.

  On the other side of the road, the dark waters of the gulf lapped at the shoreline. She watched as the clouds covered the silver orb, and all faded into black. Brother Alban knew where they were going, and that was a good thing. If it were just Marjorie, she would be lost in a heartbeat. But according to what Brother Alban had told her when they were far enough out of danger to breathe, they were heading north for Suez, and then west to Cairo.

  Brother Alban repeated his question.

  “Yes, of course,” Marjorie said.

  Brother Alban veered quickly then and pulled over to the side of the road. With a click, he put the engine in its neutral setting. “Good,” he said. “You’re driving.”

  He opened the door quickly and got out, but not before grabbing a pack of cigarettes Muhammad had left on the dashboard.

  Marjorie hesitated. Could she really trust Brother Alban? But then again, he had just saved her life, hadn’t he? She took her bag containing the catalogue inside. It was too dark to examine it here, but she wasn’t about to let it out of her sight. Her eyes attempted to adjust, and she could just barely make out Brother Alban’s form moving in the dark.

  She got out, shivering. Without the sun, the heat quickly dissipated and a chill crept in. Marjorie’s change of clothes, along with her sweater, was still in her room at the monastery.

  Headlights lit Brother Alban from behind as he moved around the vehicle. Marjorie swallowed a shriek. Have the attackers followed us?

  Moments later, a tour bus passed, kicking up dust and sand, and forcing Marjorie to turn away to protect her eyes. Her nerves calmed as she watched the vehicle move farther and farther from them. Marjorie noticed that there weren’t any headlights coming for miles behind them.

  Brother Alban stopped at the front of the car. If he sensed her mood at all, he didn’t show it. Instead, he looked up at the stars, which were growing brighter now that there was less moonlight. He dug in his robes, putting Marjorie on edge, but she relaxed again when she saw him pull out a match. He lit the cigarette carefully and, shaking out the match, he went back to studying the sky.

  She decided to join him, and sat down next to him on top of the front end of the car. Together, they admired the stars. The sky looked different than back home, Marjorie realized. She saw a few similar constellations—only they sat at a slightly different position in the sky. In addition, the number of stars above was staggering. Back home, electric lights polluted the sky with brightness. Buffalo had been the first city in the United States to have widespread lighting thanks to its proximity to Niagara Falls. By contrast, there wasn’t any city light where she now stood. Because of that, a blanket of stars covered the sky. It was a beautiful sight—one that Marjorie would not forget.

  “How did you end up at Saint Catherine’s?” Marjorie asked.

  “My father was a foreign diplomat stationed in Egypt. That’s when he met my mother. Things were not easy for her, although I didn’t realize it at the time.” The brother took a drag of his cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke. The wind carried it away. “I was a young man before I realized the burden of my cultural heritage. During the revolution, I joined the Egyptian people to fight against British imperialism.”

  Marjorie recalled her history—after the Great War broke out and the Ottomans joined with Germany and Austria-Hungary, Britain declared Egypt a protectorate of the British Empire. After the war, Egyptian nationalists demanded independence from Britain. Met with resistance, the Egyptian people united against occupation.

  “In the countryside, things became very violent,” Brother Alban continued. “Eight hundred Egyptians were killed during that time, and many more were injured. Ultimately, it led to Egypt’s independence—for that I’m grateful—but it was a high cost on my soul.”

  He took another drag of the cigarette. What surprised Marjorie was his willingness to discuss his past. She couldn’t imagine living through a revolution—she couldn’t imagine having to.

  “Afterwards,” he continued, “I devoted myself to God. I’ve come to Saint Catherine’s to read and research, but one day I will leave and teach others.”

  They sat in silence. His words circled Marjorie’s head as she imagined what he had lived through and how he had planned to use the rest of his life.

  “What about Muhammad?” she asked. She thought of the poor man—who was clearly an enemy and quite possibly dead.

/>   “I will pray for him,” Brother Alban said.

  Marjorie sighed. She turned to him. Now was the time to get into it. “What do you know already?”

  He gave her a sidelong glance. “Very little.” His British accent made the consonants short and crisp. “Just that your father hid something in the monastery. He didn’t tell me what. When those scholars—” here he laughed at the term, a short guttural utterance— “my God, arrived shortly after you, it was clear there was danger.”

  “Did you know any of them?” she asked.

  “The Irishman,” Brother Alban said. “He works for a lady in Cairo.”

  Nadine?

  “How well did you know my father?” she asked.

  Now Brother Alban turned to her, smiling. “Not well. I was in the

  library that day. Someone followed him; he knew. He asked me to give you this.”

  From the same pocket he had drawn the match, he withdrew something else: a slip of paper, folded in half. She opened it, but it was too dark to make out any of its contents. Brother Alban gestured for her to wait, then he hopped off the front of the car. He climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, then turned on the headlights. The white light, so unnatural in this setting, washed over them.

  “Thank you,” she said as she opened the paper.

  There before her was a drawing of an ox. It was unlike the meticulous work she knew her father capable of. The ink of the lines was smudged, as though this drawing had been copied in haste, folded before it had a chance to fully dry.

  “Have you looked at this?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Does it mean anything to you?”

  He shrugged, no.

  She knew it was probably unwise, but she found herself taking from out of her bag the book. She rested it on her lap, feeling along its spine. There was definitely something there. Next, she retrieved the small knife from her boot and got to work. She ran the sharp edge along the leather, where the back cover met the spine. It took a fair amount of force to get the tip of the knife inside. She then flicked her wrist, cutting a straight line into it. The outside cover fell in two pieces, and the insides of the book showed themselves. There, inside, sat a small key. Old and made of a soft metal, likely gold, the key had the imprint of an ox on its handle. It looked like the kind of key better suited to keeping someone’s diary closed rather than hiding anything of great importance.