Marjorie Hart and the Tree of Life

by Amanda Vink

  Marjorie watched as he lifted his leg and kicked the ball. It went hurtling toward Marjorie and her assailant. The man, who was not looking at the boys, didn’t expect it. The surprise gave Marjorie just the time she needed to wiggle away from the knife. She stepped on the man’s foot.

  “Run!” she called to the boys. But she needn’t have bothered—they had already scattered, apparently familiar with the rules of a chase. The young boy who had kicked the ball smiled and pointed to one eye and then the other before scampering down a side street. Marjorie wasn’t sure what the hand gesture meant, but she wasn’t about to stop to ask. She took off running.

  The streets were a maze here, and anyone could easily become lost. Marjorie took the first left, hoping that she was heading in the right direction. It shouldn’t be too hard to lose him in these winding streets.

  Only he was fast, and he hadn’t been deterred long. His footsteps padded on the earth right behind her.

  Marjorie tried to pick up her pace, but it was clear that wasn’t fast enough. Her breathing came in hot spurts, and her skirt bunched at her legs, hampering her more. She made another turn, down an even smaller alleyway. But it was clearly the wrong turn. All of a sudden, she found herself up against a wall. There was nowhere to run. She reached for her bag, and she felt the cool steel of Uncle Charlie’s pistol. It fit in her hand easily, and she yanked it out. She quickly took off the manual safety and aimed, making sure to stand tall and balanced to account for any kickback from a shot.

  The man barreled around the corner. He too had pulled a gun. He stopped directly when he saw the situation, and he aimed. They both stalled, a game of chicken.

  The seconds felt long, a lifetime between one and the next. Who would make the decision? Marjorie’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  Something—a large cast-iron pan?—suddenly came down on top of the man’s head, and he plummeted to the ground. It was so shocking that Marjorie pulled the trigger, and a shot fired into the dirt.

  “Janey Mack!”

  Behind the unconscious man, the red-haired man put up his hands and stepped away from her. He was unarmed—well, except for the heavy pan. Marjorie instinctively raised her firearm again. But she knew she couldn’t shoot him. No matter who he was, he had just saved her life.

  “I’m tryin’ to help you,” he was saying. That Irish accent rolled off his tongue.

  “Why should I trust you?” she asked. Her voice sounded breathless, like it was somewhere very far off.

  Very slowly, the man dropped his hands. He rested the heavy pan against his thigh. Suddenly, he smiled. It was alarming—and a very nice smile, Marjorie admitted. “I’m Frank Ryan.”

  Marjorie stared at him, waiting.

  His smile faltered. “Your father,” he continued. The way he said it was charming, his accent pulling at the first half of the word. “I worked for your father.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Blue Pyramid Café would be easy to miss if it weren’t for the tables and chairs spilling out into the street. It was located in a mostly residential neighborhood, although the area seemed busy enough—nearby, a woman sat on the steps outside an apartment with a wooden box in front of her. On top of it sprawled a deck of cards. Another woman appeared soon after from a small series of steps and joined her.

  It was still early to eat dinner by Egyptian standards, so the café was mostly empty. They had to wait another hour for Professor Hafez anyway, so they sat down at a table near the back of the restaurant and got as comfortable as they could. Inside, it was cozy and dimly lit by the warm glow of a few electric lights overhead and candles at the center of each table. The walls were painted a dark blue, further dampening the ambience. The pleasant smells of coriander, chili, and cumin swirled throughout, making Marjorie’s mouth water.

  She ordered tea while Frank ordered coffee and a sweet cake called basbousa. Made with semolina, it smelled faintly of citrus and sugar. It was presented in a diamond shape with pistachios sliced and arranged on top.

  Marjorie studied the red-haired man while she stirred milk and sugar into her tea. His most notable feature was his red hair, of course. He had a practiced ease, but underneath Marjorie sensed something else. This was communicated to her through little things—the way he studied the people in the restaurant, and the way he knew how to pronounce the names of different dishes as though he had taken great care to learn. It was obvious he had traveled extensively—his Irish accent, upon further listening, seemed morphed and molded by different areas of the world. His t’s and d’s seemed crisp, like Queen’s English, while some inflections sounded to Marjorie oddly similar to her own. He presented himself as rough around the edges, dressed in a wrinkled button down, the sleeves rolled up, his hair in a good need of a brush. He wore boots instead of shoes, and they were thick with sand.

  Yet Marjorie noticed other things as well that spoke to a studied seriousness. Everything he did seemed careful and methodical. He cut the dessert into precise pieces. He placed a napkin over his lap without seeming to think about it. She noticed around his neck hung a silver pendant, a Celtic knot with a tree in the middle, meticulously cleaned and polished. When he caught her looking, he glanced away but then scratched behind his neck and pulled the necklace into his shirt.

  She kept thinking: Can I trust you?

  “This is good,” he said. “Do you want some at all?” He gestured to the cake.

  Marjorie rested her spoon on the saucer. “Tell me what you know about my father,” she said. “How did you meet him?”

  He wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin and laid it on the table. “I was a graduate student at Trinity College when I met him—history and ancient mythologies. I was working on my dissertation at the time, on traditional Celtic beliefs. Your father offered me a job on his research team. He promised adventure. It sounded a lot more romantic than going back to Belfast.”

  “It seems he delivered on that promise.”

  Frank smiled. He took a gulp of black coffee and leaned in. To Marjorie, he smelled like sugar and sandalwood, likely from shaving soap. “Indeed he did. Your father knew something was here—” he poked at the table for emphasis— “and he found it in the accounts from the Persian campaign of 528. Egypt was a satrapy then. That’s a—”

  “A province of the Persian Empire,” Marjorie finished, a little irritated at his didactic tone.

  His eyes lit up, delighted and a bit surprised. “Right.”

  Marjorie closed her eyes, summoning images of her father’s research over the years. The information he compiled stretched along the Achaemenid Empire, which spanned several centuries—for the most part peaceful centuries, although all history was littered with little moments of ebb and flow.

  Frank continued. “The first Persian Empire was one of the largest in history. It stretched from the Indus Valley to the Balkans. Your father was convinced Darius the Great left something here in Egypt, something vital. He was getting close—and then he disappeared.”

  He stopped. His hand, resting on the napkin, had turned into a fist, knuckles white. He took a breath. “He was like a father to me now. I was at Saint Catherine’s the morning after he went missing. He wired me to come, but by the time I got there, he was gone. Back in Cairo, the authorities asked me to identify his body.”

  Silence fell over them. Marjorie couldn’t help but imagine the scene, even though it pained her to do it. She pictured Father’s body laid out on a metal slab with a crisp, white sheet over it. Who had done it to him? What had he found that got him into so much trouble? She shivered.

  “After that, the team disbanded,” Frank said. “For a year, I’ve been trying to follow the clues and piece together what happened. But it seems whatever your father knew, he took it with him.”

  He leaned back in his chair, which groaned under his weight, then picked up the empty mug of coffee and put it back down again. “Look. There’s no reason for you to trust me, but I can’t just stop looking. I owe it to your fath
er to find the Tree of Life.” Marjorie rolled her eyes, and Frank interjected, “Wait, you don’t believe in it, do you?” The way he said it reminded her of Samuel, standing in the hallway back at Gracewood. Just before he was attacked.

  “Not for a second,” she answered. “But my father was wrapped up in this. It seems like my best option for finding out what happened to him is using his research. Maybe we can help one another.”

  “Just what I was thinking,” Frank said. He leaned forward then, dropping his voice. “At the library, now—”

  Marjorie quickly cut him off, asking the question that had been on her mind since he explained who he really was, “How did you know to go to the library in the first place?” She waited for him to tell her about Nadine. What was her role in this?

  “A tip I got,” Frank said nonchalantly.

  Marjorie’s eyes narrowed.

  He ignored her and continued, “Did you find anything at the library now?”

  The key around Marjorie’s neck felt heavy. She considered quickly. “No,” she replied. “There wasn’t anything.”

  A beat passed between them. At first, Marjorie didn’t think he believed her, but then he said, “So now we’ve got nothing to go on?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly. There’s that Persian artifact they found, which—”

  It was at that moment Marjorie spotted Professor Hafez standing at the front of the restaurant. He looked around at the people inside, the number of which had increased steadily over the last hour, noted Marjorie. Eventually, he spotted her, but then he started when he noticed Frank sitting there too. She waved, and he visibly relaxed, then began making his way to them.

  “And what about himself?” asked Frank, nodding to the professor.

  “Professor Hafez,” Marjorie said, loud enough so it was addressed to him.

  Both Professor Hafez and Frank regarded one another, but Marjorie said, “I’d like you to meet my colleague, Mr. Frank Ryan.”

  “Professor,” Frank said, and reached out a hand. The professor took it warily. Frank, also ill at ease, played that he was relaxed, but Marjorie could tell by the position of his torso that he was ready to strike if need be. She wanted to tell him to calm down. Instead, she turned to the professor.

  Professor Hafez sat down and rested his briefcase in his lap like an unruly child. A waitress came by, and he ordered a strong coffee. His hands were shaking, Marjorie noticed when he removed his fez, the red cap worn by many members of the academic world. His hair stuck to his head, matted by sweat.

  “It’s wonderful to see you again,” Marjorie began.

  “I can’t stay,” the professor said. His words were clipped, hurried, and difficult to follow. Her heart rate increased in frustration, and she had to remember to breathe. So many strange meetings lately—not to mention the fact that two people had tried to kill her within just as many days. What is going on? she wondered. Marjorie strained her ears, leaning over the table so she might hear better.

  The professor continued, “They could be watching even now.”

  “Who?” asked Marjorie.

  The professor untied the string holding his briefcase together and pulled out a pile from within. He dropped it unceremoniously on the table. “Your father asked me for this information too,” he said, “and look where that got him. In truth, I’m happy to be rid of it.”

  Then he stood abruptly, almost knocking over his chair. For a man worried about being seen, he certainly drew a lot of attention to himself. “Please don’t contact me again.” Then he turned, practically barreling into the poor waitress, who was coming to the table with his drink. He vanished before Marjorie even had a chance to thank him.

  “What’d he leave then?” Frank asked, eying the papers and reaching for them. Marjorie instinctively wanted to draw them to her but forced herself to relax, knowing she wouldn’t get anywhere unless she played the game with this man. It was tricky—and she had to show him just enough. Instead, she spread the papers out. They weren’t just about the ox, but they touched on multiple things surrounding the myth. From a quick glance, Marjorie could see notes about the Egyptian city of Memphis and a battle in the southern area of the country. She pulled out one of the papers. It was a drawing of two trees.

  “What’s this?” she asked, although the question was to herself.

  Frank leaned over to take a look. “Some people think there’s more than one tree,” he explained. “In the bible, it says that there was a Tree of Life and a Tree of Knowledge. The Tree of Knowledge is the famous one, the one Adam and Eve eat from. The Tree of Life was a source of spiritual nourishment. Your father thought it was a bunch of hooey. He only ever found practical information about one tree—the Tree of Life.”

  “Practical information?” Marjorie deadpanned, raising an eye.

  Frank ignored her hostility. “You sure you didn’t find anything at the monastery?”

  Marjorie squirmed in her seat. Knowing she was not convincing, she realized she had to give him something. “This was given to me.” She took out her father’s drawing, unfolding it carefully and laying it flat on the table.

  “Oi,” Frank said, “I’ve seen this.” He reached for it, pulling it closer to the candle at the center of the table so he could get a clear view. “Your father drew this,” he said. “He copied it while we were in Persia.”

  “Persia?”

  “Didn’t you know? This expedition has taken us back and forth between Egypt and Persia many times.”

  “I didn’t know,” Marjorie said, her tone wounded. She continued, trying to sound more chipper. “Looks like Professor Hafez has been busy. These papers are all about Darius the Great. What’s he got to do with it?”

  “Well, that was a theory of your father’s,” Frank explained. “He thought likely Darius had a key with him.”

  At mention of the key, Marjorie’s heart leapt into her throat. Is that what it is? Maybe I should tell him about it. She didn’t have time to decide.

  Frank looked down, trying to hide his face with a hand. “Um, Miss Hart,” he said, his voice hushed and urgent. She gazed up. At the front of the restaurant, a man looked within. Marjorie didn’t recognize him, but Frank seemed to. “It’s time we were leaving.”

  Marjorie scrambled to put the papers away, shoving them into her bag, right on top of the gun. She thought about it—too late—that she wouldn’t be able to get to it if she needed it.

  “Quickly now,” Frank whispered.

  The man scanned the room. His gaze was discerning, carefully studying each person in the small café. There was no way he wouldn’t recognize them. They were going to be caught.

  Frank made a quick movement then, leaning forward in his chair. All of a sudden, his lips were on hers. The kiss stopped her gasp completely. His lips were rough and warm, solid against hers. It was a passionate kiss, completely throwing Marjorie off balance. Stunned, she stared at Frank, unsure of what to do or say.

  His eyes flickered to the front of the restaurant, and he pulled away. “Good,” he said, catching his breath, “He didn’t see us. People turn away from that sort of thing, usually.” He looked down at her, smirking.

  “Oh,” Marjorie said. Only then did it dawn on her that he kissed her out of necessity. She swallowed and found some words. “Good thinking.”

  He pulled out his wallet and left a few coins on the table. “We’d better leg it. Let’s go the back way through the kitchen.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marjorie and Frank ran out the back of the Blue Pyramid Café and into the night air, which Marjorie thought smelled heavily of marinating meats. It was considerably cooler than before they had ventured inside. They hurried around corners through narrow side streets illuminated by the soft, muted glow of gas lanterns set into the sides of stone buildings. They didn’t stop moving until they were a good distance away and knew no one was following them.

  When they stopped, they found they were laughing out of sheer relief. Marjorie
leaned against the bricks on the side of a building, catching her breath.

  “Does trouble always find you this often?” asked Frank, once he too had managed to catch his breath.

  “It’s a family trait,” Marjorie said. Her cheeks hurt from smiling. “Come on, let’s find the main road and get a car.”

  It was a sound plan, but the main problem became that finding their way out of the back corners of the city wasn’t easy. However, overhead Marjorie could see the curved tower of the neighborhood mosque floating above the line of roofs. If I can keep the tower in my sights, we’ll eventually find our way out of here.

  They walked in silence for a moment. It was a comfortable silence—but Marjorie had questions that needed answers.

  “How did you know our man in there?” she asked, referring to the ruffian.

  Frank shrugged. “You’ll start to recognize faces too, if you stick around long enough. Why didn’t you tell me about that drawing in the first place?”

  She felt her ears turn hot, and she tried to brush it off. “I was going to tell you, but then Professor Hafez turned up early.”

  It was a lame excuse, and they both knew it.

  When Frank wasn’t looking, Marjorie reached up and put her hand on her chest, to make sure the key was still in its place on the chain around her neck, under her shirt. She breathed a sigh of relief when she felt its sharp edges against her palm. She had words bubbling up through her throat, but Frank cut them off.

  “Here’s the street,” he said.

  As she rounded the corner, Marjorie welcomed the familiar sight of the gray cobblestones. There was a fair amount of foot traffic here. The street connected with an even larger one, and from there they hailed a car.

  “Here’s herself,” Frank said when they pulled up in front of the Shepheard.

  They both got out, and the car drove away. “There goes your ride,” Marjorie said.