The thought had not occurred to Tony that the woman’s obfuscation might serve the higher purpose of protecting his daughter’s well-being. “You’re right, of course. I apologise. Forgive me for being—what was it?”
“Snarky.”
Accepting his apology, Mrs. Peelstick directed her guest’s attention towards the society’s extensive collection of Middle Eastern literature and maps and explained the origin of the society’s name and a little of its history. “Zetetic means ‘seeker,’ don’t you know.”
Tony Clarke listened politely as the redoubtable Mrs. Peelstick passed the time, giving very little away. “Interesting,” he replied when she finished. “And Cass has joined the society, you say?”
“We are having something of a surge in membership recently,” Mrs. Peelstick told him. There was a sound at the door—a key being inserted and a lock being clicked. She glanced across to the doorway and said, “Well, if I’m not mistaken, here is Brendan now.”
A moment later a tall thin man in a cream-coloured linen suit and wide-brimmed Panama hat entered the room. He paused on the threshold and then, seeing Mrs. Peelstick and her guest, crossed the room in quick strides. “You must be Anthony Clarke,” he said, holding out his hand. “How do you do? I am Brendan Hanno.”
“Glad to meet you,” said Tony, shaking hands with the fellow. “But how do you know my name? Have we met?”
“I met little Afifah and her brother in the street. She told me someone had come, and I guessed it might be you.” He waved Tony back to his chair. “And if there was any doubt, you are the very image of your daughter—rather, it is the other way, I suppose. In any case, I would know you anywhere.”
“Really? Mrs. Peelstick here is not so sure about me.”
The steel-rimmed glasses flashed. “No need to get—”
“I know. Snarky. Sorry.”
“Please, sit down. Would you like some more tea?” Brendan glanced at Mrs. Peelstick and caught a look from her that Tony could not decipher. “No. You’ve been through a lot today, no doubt. Something stronger is called for, I think. Perhaps we might indulge in a wee dram? The society stocks a particularly good single malt. If you would follow me to the courtyard?”
“You two go on,” said Mrs. Peelstick. “I will see to supper and leave you alone to talk. I warn you, Brendan, Mr. Clarke has a million questions and means to ask them all.”
“Now who is being snarky?” said Tony, offering a smug smile.
Brendan did not catch the exchange, or chose to ignore it. Indicating the doorway opposite, he said, “I am so glad you’re here. We have much to talk about.”
“My daughter, for one thing,” put in Tony, falling into step behind the tall man. He was led through the bookish reception room along a short corridor to a vestibule with French doors that opened onto a spacious courtyard decked with potted palms and a fountain.
“Please, make yourself at home,” said Brendan, who disappeared back inside to sort out the drinks.
A large umbrella shaded a table surrounded by cushioned chairs; stately rows of peach-coloured canna lilies grew in narrow beds along one wall, and grapevines climbed another wall to an overhead lattice, shading half the paved yard with cool green shadows. Tony immediately liked the secluded garden. He examined the fountain and found the surface of the water covered with yellow rose petals; the lightly trickling water sent a subtle fragrance into the air.
“Here we are!” announced Brendan, reappearing with a drinks tray a minute or so later. Tony followed him to the table. “We’ll soon put the world to rights.”
Placing the tray on the table, Brendan took up a crystal decanter and splashed a pale amber liquid into two small cut-crystal glasses, then dribbled in a drop or two of water from a pitcher. “Try this,” Brendan said, handing his guest a glass. “Slàinte!” He raised his glass.
“Cheers!” replied Tony. They both took a sip of the smooth sweet fire and Tony tasted a hint of smoke in the spirit.
“As I say, I am glad you are here,” said Brendan, settling his long frame into a chair. “Your timing is extraordinary—impeccable.”
Tony could not see how this could possibly be, since before the day began he could in no way have guessed where he was going or whether he would arrive anywhere at all. As for Friday, his erstwhile guide, it was anyone’s guess what had happened to him. But as there was absolutely nothing Tony could do about it, he decided to withhold judgement and see what happened next. “Happy to oblige,” he replied, sipping his malt. “Now, about my daughter—”
“Cassandra is a bright spark,” Brendan said. “I can tell you that when last seen—oh, seven days ago, I think—she was in good health and high spirits, and eager to get on to the quest. She did have some concerns about contacting you to let you know that she was safe and happy, but now that you are here, I hope you will consider yourself reassured regarding her welfare.”
Tony considered this for a moment. “I certainly don’t mean to be, in Mrs. Peelstick’s term, snarky—if I seem that way, let’s chalk it up to parental concern and exhaustion brought about by utter . . . disorientation and a massive paradigm shift. But how can I be certain that you don’t have Cass stashed in your basement or locked in an attic somewhere?”
Brendan smiled. “Like father, like daughter. You two are cut from the same sceptical cloth, no mistake.” He shook his head at the wonder of it. “Let me reassure you by whatever means at my disposal that Cassandra is not locked away in any attic, basement, or dungeon. Put yourself in our shoes for a moment. If we had malign intentions towards her, would it not have been far easier to merely feign ignorance of her existence? A simple ‘Never heard of her, sorry, mate,’ and you’d have been on your way none the wiser. Nor, I venture, would we have gone to the trouble of leading you here in the first place.”
“Leading me here? I don’t think you understand how . . .” He paused as he saw Brendan’s glance sharpen. “Oh! The kids on the street handing out the cards. That was you?”
“We prefer to keep a low profile whenever possible.”
“You have succeeded,” Tony granted. These people might be crackpots of the highest order, he could not yet tell, but he sensed a growing bond of trust. In any case there was no point in antagonising them; that would get him nowhere. He decided to play along. “Still, I have to ask.”
“Of course. Tangible proof will come in due course, believe me. But right now, I ask that you accept my assurance that we have only the best interests of all our society members at heart.”
“Yes, your Mrs. Peelstick said something similar. Am I to understand that my daughter has become a member of the Zetetic Society—a seeker?”
“Oh, indeed. Cassandra has joined the society and has under-taken what I hope will be the first of many profitable quests on our behalf. We expect great things from her.”
Tony puzzled over this. “There is that word quest again. What sort of quest are we talking about, exactly?”
“The usual sort,” Brendan replied cheerfully. “A search for treasure of one kind or another.”
“But you cannot say more because I am not a member of your society,” concluded Tony.
“Succinctly put.”
“We will return to that later.” Tony took another sip of single malt and savoured the smoky-sweet taste as it slid like liquid gold down his throat. “You said you were anxious to talk to me—and I gather it was not about Cassie, so . . . ?” He raised his eyebrows expectantly as he took another drink. “This is very good, by the way.”
“It is a forty-two-year-old Speyside.” Brendan picked up the decanter and added another slug to both glasses. He returned the container and carefully replaced the crystal stopper. “Now then, Dr. Clarke,” he said, his tone taking on a note of gravity, “what can you tell me about the expansion of the universe?”
CHAPTER 17
In Which Final Respects Are Paid
It was clear to Benedict that the return to Egypt was harder on his mother than she l
et on. The physical journey was taxing enough—she had not made a ley jump in many years and the portal crossing from Black Mixen Tump had been rough—but the emotional impact exacted a brutal toll all its own. Returning to a place so freighted with unhappy associations and yet so bound up with the family’s fortunes would have tested the sternest soul, and it surely tested Xian-Li. Nor was Benedict untouched by the same turmoil his mother experienced. Upon seeing the long double row of ram-headed sphinxes stretching off into the ochre desert and the white arid hills rimming the vast horizon, Benedict heard his mother gasp; his throat seized and his hands grew clammy.
Xian-Li stopped on the path and clutched Benedict’s arm.
“Are you well, Mother?” he said. “We do not have to continue. We can go back.”
Her eyes closed, Xian-Li shook her head. “No. I want to see the end of this.” She opened her eyes and looked at her son, the sadness visible in every line of her face. “There must be an end.”
Benedict nodded and, adjusting the strap of the leather bag on his shoulder, he led them on without pausing again until they gained the heights and could at last look down upon the broad green strip of fertile valley on either side of the great blue river that coursed its way through the illimitable Egyptian barrens. There on the broad banks, Niwet-Amun, the City of Amun, gleamed white in the dazzling light of the sun blazing in a cloudless sky.
“Not far now,” said Benedict with some relief. What he did not say was that at least the city was still there. After what had happened during his previous visit, when Habiru masons attacked and threatened to tear down the temple, Benedict had feared they would find the place a crumbling ruin and their friend Anen a casualty of conflict.
Yet there it was, its pylons rising sedately, red banners fluttering from poles outside the entrance, its walls intact, its columns erect. No columns of smoke rising from heaps of burning rubble, no wasteland of scorched palm and tamarind trees, no desolated fields lying fallow—in fact, none of the things Benedict secretly imagined, and secretly dreaded, to find. The temple and its surrounding city appeared drowsily serene through the placid shimmering haze of humid river air. Calm lay heavy and deep over the Land of Isis’ Children.
“Is all well?” asked Xian-Li, her hands cupped round her eyes to shade them. “It seems peaceable enough.”
“I think it is well. I wonder what we shall find at the temple?”
They moved on, descending the tight serpentine trail down through the rock-bound hills to the verdant valley, arriving at the outskirts of Niwet-Amun where fields of sesame gave way to smaller patches of turnips, beans, and melons, and the vegetable gardens gave way to mud-and-thatch dwellings. A single road ran along the riverbank and into the centre of the city whose heart was the temple. By the time they reached the large square before the temple entrance, they had attracted an entourage of curious children, dogs, and a few idle white-haired elders. Benedict offered the greeting his father had taught him, but received only stares or silent nods in return.
The doors of the temple stood open and people passed in and out of the temple precinct; those going in carried bundles or baskets containing their offerings—cabbages, figs, leeks, and other vegetables. One or two bore cages with doves or small songbirds; those coming out of the temple wore a double stripe of holy oil on their foreheads.
The travellers passed through the gate under the surprised gaze of temple guards with long ebony rods, and were well into the compound when one of the soldiers sprang into action. He shouted something at them and ran to apprehend the strangers, placing himself in front of them to bar the way.
Smiling, composed, Xian-Li turned to the man and offered a few words of greeting that shocked the guard even more. He called to his fellows, and soon Benedict and his mother were surrounded.
“Peace be upon you, lady. May your shadow never diminish,” called a voice from the quickly gathering crowd.
Benedict turned to see a tall, bearded man in a red headcloth pushing through the knot around them. Though his hair and beard were grey and he was a little thicker through the middle now, Benedict recognised him at once. “Tutmose!” he cried. “Tutmose, it is me—” He patted his chest and spoke his own name slowly. “Ben-e-dict.”
Xian-Li glanced at her son. “You know him?”
“He is the commander of the guard. Or he was when we were here before.”
“Peace of heaven upon thee,” offered Xian-Li, answering in Kemet, the language of the Nile Valley. “And peace upon thy house.”
Benedict stared at his mother, who saw his astonished expression. “I once lived here, Beni,” she said.
The commander spoke a word of exclamation, then took her hand and, bowing at the waist, touched the back of her hand to his forehead. “Be welcome here, my friends.” To Benedict, he said, “It gladdens my heart to see you once again.”
Following his mother’s translation, Benedict suggested, “Ask him if Anen is still here.”
Xian-Li said, “Tutmose, my son would like to know if Anen is still in residence at the temple.”
The bearded commander’s smile widened to a grin. “Where else should the high priest be found but at his temple?” Tutmose gave a command to the other guards, who reluctantly began dispersing. “Come, I will take you to meet him. I know he will be pleased to see you.”
“Not only is Anen here,” Xian-Li told her son, “he is now the high priest. I think some years have passed in this world since you were here.”
They were led to one of the larger buildings in the compound—a low square structure with red pillars and a large statue of a man in a kilt wearing a royal collar, armbands, and a crown surmounted by an orb and two gigantic feathers. The kilt was real, as were the collar and armbands, which were made of gold. As they approached the entrance to this building, two priests in white robes emerged leading a group of young boys with shaved heads. The boys gawked at the strangers, but the priests passed by without a glance. A third priest rushed out, scattering the group in his haste.
Upon seeing the strangers he gave out a glad cry, threw his arms wide, and rushed to meet them. He said something in Kemet, but it was not until he said his name that Benedict recognised him. Older, his shaved fuzz of hair white now, he was also fatter, with a plump, round face and belly and chubby legs—but it was Anen, the high priest himself.
What his mother said was true. For Benedict, only a year had passed since his tragic visit—it had taken that long to settle the affairs of their estate following his father’s death and for his mother to prepare herself to return—for the Egyptians, however, it seemed that many years had elapsed. His father, Benedict appreciated, would have been able to narrow that gap so that they might have arrived within a few days of his last visit. Sadly, Benedict lacked that ability, and because of his vow to give up ley travel when this last task was completed, he would now never possess such skill.
“They told me that the wife and son of my dear friend Arthur had come, and my heart leapt for joy within me,” Anen declared. “Xian-Li! Benedict! May the peace of this house soothe your soul, and may your sojourn in the land bear much fruit.”
Of this, Benedict only heard his name; the rest, his mother translated for him, then replied, “The peace of God bless your soul and may His wisdom comfort you—” That was all she got out before being engulfed in a glad embrace. Then it was Benedict’s turn, and before he knew it they were being ushered into the high priest’s residence.
“Anen, my friend, it is pure delight to see you again. The years have been good to you,” said Xian-Li when they were seated in the audience chamber. Like many of the rooms in Egyptian palaces, this one was open on one side, allowing the air to circulate through gauze-thin curtains hanging in strips of blue and white. A pool outside cooled the air somewhat, and date palms and fragrant sprays of jasmine shaded the high priest’s private courtyard. Temple servants in green kilts produced trays of dried figs, dates, and slices of melon and handed around tiny cups of water infused with anis
eed and honey. Benedict sipped his drink and assumed the role of spectator, watching as his mother and Anen chatted happily to one another—the anxiety and emotional turmoil of their return to Egypt forgotten, at least for the moment.
Eventually talk turned to the reason for their visit, and here his mother began translating for him, switching smoothly between languages—so easily that Benedict began to wonder just how many years his parents had spent in Egypt. However many, her mastery of Kemet was impressive, and with her running commentary he was able to follow the conversation.
“Arthur’s death was a great shock to me,” she told Anen. “I still cannot fully understand the loss—it grows ever greater with each passing day. I am in mourning and learning to live through my grief. But you see, it has only been a year in my world.”
Anen nodded sadly. “The death of my friend saddens me too—though for me it has been more than ten years.”
They spoke about the odd anomaly of time slippage between the worlds; Anen seemed to accept and understand the phenomenon. Judging from the way his mother related their conversation, Benedict wondered whether the high priest was also a traveller like his father.
“I must thank you for your care of Arthur following the accident,” Xian-Li said. “I know in my heart that no one could have done more.” She offered a sad smile. “I also thank you for taking such good care of Benedict and sending him back to me. As ever, we are obliged to you, Anen.”
The high priest made a sour face. “Obligation—this word has no meaning between friends. Had I the power of Osiris, I would restore your husband to you and resurrect Benedict’s father and redeem my friend from the bonds of death.” He shook his head. “Alas, the high priest has no such power. Our reunion must wait until the next life. Then we shall all be together once more. In the meantime,” he sighed, “we must learn to live through our grief—as you have said.”