“Thank you,” said Cass. “Good-bye.”
“God be with you.”
Cass stepped away quickly and started off down the narrow, meandering street, aware that the woman was watching her until she was out of sight. A few dozen paces later she saw a small red-andwhite sign hanging into the street from its place over a wrought iron gate. The sign read Le couvent des soeurs de Sainte Tekla, and had a cross in the shape of a capital T with crossed palm fronds beneath it. In small letters at the bottom were the words Troisième section. Another sign in Arabic featured the same crossed palms and capital T. Slowing her pace as she neared the gate, Cass heard children laughing, the sound drifting up over the convent walls. Although she had no intention of asking for a bed in a convent, Cass paused to look through the gate.
She saw a plain, paved stone courtyard surrounding a neat, white church with small stained-glass windows and wide, brown, nailstudded doors. In one corner of the courtyard a handful of young girls were playing some sort of game with an older woman dressed in a voluminous blue gown topped with a long white headscarf— one of the sisters, Cass decided. Two other nuns were sweeping the already clean-swept courtyard with branches of natural green broom bound together around short handles. The scene looked so homely and happy that Cass lingered longer than she intended.
“Puis-je vous aider?”
The voice and face suddenly appearing at the gate startled Cass. She took a step back. “Sorry! No—I was just passing.”
The face was that of a young woman about her own age with large dark eyes and dark hair beneath a tight-fitting white scarf; she was dressed in the habit of the nuns. “Parlez-vous l’anglais?” she asked, her voice rising gently.
“Oui,” confirmed Cass. “Mon français . . . is . . . um—est très petit.”
The nun offered a blithe smile. “Then we speak English together,” she declared in a workmanlike, if heavily French-tinted accent. “Would you like to come in, mon amie?”
The invitation was so kindly and innocently offered that, as the iron gate swung open, Cass found herself stepping into the courtyard. To one side of the church grew a palm tree; a fig tree with broad green leaves shaded a simple wooden bench upon which another nun sat shelling peas into a big brass bowl.
“Welcome to Saint Tekla’s,” said the nun, closing the gate once more. “I am Sister Theoduline.”
“I am glad to meet you, Sister,” replied Cassandra. “Please, call me Cass.” She glanced around the neat yard. “What kind of church is this—if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Non,” replied the sister. “We are not only a church. As you see, we are also a couvent—an order of nuns and some lay sisters. We belong to a Syriac order. Very old. One of the oldest. Would you care to take some refreshment with me?”
“Thank you, no,” declined Cass. “I had some tea at the Zetetic Society.” Then, feeling the need to explain, she added, “Actually, I am just passing through. I won’t be staying.”
“No?” wondered the nun. “That is a pity. Damascus has many wonderful places to visit—including Saint Tekla’s. Come, I will show you.”
Cass spent a pleasant half hour examining the church with its garish icons and, in the buildings behind it, the orderly little school and dormitory.
“We operate an orphanage for girls,” Sister Theoduline explained. “So many children lost their parents in the revolt, and to disease. We have twenty-seven girls with us, and thirty-three more at Ma’aloula, our parent couvent.”
“I see,” replied Cass. “They seem happy here. I am sure you are doing a very good work.”
“Pray God this is so,” agreed the nun. “But caring for orphans is a secondary service, you might say. We were originally charged with aiding and providing hospitality to pilgrims on their way to and from the holy sites here in Damascus and beyond.” She sighed. “We get so few pilgrims these days—times being what they are. If you have nowhere else to go, you are most welcome to stay here with us during your sojourn in Damascus.” She offered a hopeful smile. “It would support our mission simply to have you here.”
Cass thanked her, but said, “I don’t expect to be in Syria very long.”
“Oh, I thought you said you had been visiting the Zetetic Society, n’est-ce pas?”
“I did, yes, but—” She paused, then changed tack. “Excuse me, why do you ask?”
“We have, from time to time, extended hospitality to the society members. They are very fascinating people. If you are with them, you must be fascinating too, I think.”
“I don’t know about that,” replied Cass diffidently. “I’m not really with them—that is, I’m not a member of the society.”
“Oh,” remarked Theoduline. “Forgive my presumption.” Her smile returned instantly. “But you are still very welcome to stay with us if you wish—however long your visit.”
“Thank you,” said Cass. Considering that she had nowhere else to go and no money anyway, she surprised herself by saying, “I think I would like that.”
This pleased the young nun, who offered to show her to a room at once—a small, clean, cell-like apartment with a bed and table, a chair, and a bright Persian rug on the floor beside the bed. On one wall was a plain wooden cross, and on the other a painting of a young woman in a flowing robe, a halo around her head. Cass took one look at the painting and felt her stomach tighten. The young woman in the painting was making her way between two towering walls of stone— unmistakably a canyon.
It was such a vivid depiction of what Cass herself had experienced that she felt an instant connection to the woman; she stepped closer to inspect it in more detail.
Sister Theoduline, who had been instructing her about soap and clean towels, noticed her interest and moved to her side. “That is Saint Tekla,” she explained. “Do you know the story?”
Cass confessed that she did not.
“It is quite interesting,” the sister said, and went on to tell the legend of the Syrian saint who, as a young woman, became a Christian and was baptised by Saint Paul. One day she was being pursued— perhaps by a ruthless suitor because of her exceptional beauty, or perhaps owing to her refusal to abandon her faith and bow to the emperor—the reason was not entirely clear. But having fled into the wild hills, she found her way blocked by a steep impasse of stone. “Tekla offered up a prayer, and miraculously a way opened through the stone—a sentier. You know this word?”
Cass shook her head.
“It is like a path—a small road—a crevasse.”
“I see,” murmured Cass, transfixed by the picture. “A path through the rocks.”
“Oui,” agreed the nun. “Tekla fled into the rocks and disappeared. Her pursuers were never able to find her. Later she returned to establish one of the first churches in Syria. And it is still there,” concluded Theoduline. “It is at Ma’aloula.”
“The same place as the orphanage?”
“The same, yes. It is our mother church.”
“A fine story,” replied Cass, her mind racing freely along trajectories of extreme improbability. Later, after a nap and a ramble through the city, then a simple supper of soup, bread, olives, and hummus, followed by a sung evensong by the nuns and their young charges, Cass retired to her room and ended her eventful day sitting on the edge of her bed and meditating on the painting of the beautiful young Christian fleeing through the canyon of stone. She went to sleep thinking she knew very well the makings of Tekla’s miracle. The neophyte saint had stumbled upon her own Secret Canyon and, like Cass herself, had travelled a Sacred Road to become a World Walker.
CHAPTER 20
In Which a Good Doctor Is Hard to Find
London in the year 1818 took some getting used to but, thankfully, the layout of the main thoroughfares had not been altered since the Romans first laid them down over the footpaths made by the Celts along the wide rolling river known to the locals at the time as Afon Tamesas, but now known as the Thames River. Wilhelmina did not know the original name of the rive
r, but not many did. As the coach rumbled over the engineering marvel that was the London Bridge, Mina shook her head at the multitude of water conveyances on show below. Boats of every size and description filled the grey water: ferry boats, both oar-driven and coal-powered; steamboats pulling barges loaded with cargo; sailboats, from ocean-going schooners with crews of a hundred to single-manned ketches; ironclad warships bristling with guns; sleek pleasure boats with striped canopies; tug boats, tenders, and taxis plying the waters looking for employment . . . so many boats that Mina imagined she could have hopscotched across the water from the Embankment to South Bank one boat deck at a time.
Nor were the city streets less crowded. As with the water, every manner of land vehicle ever invented seemed to want to cross the bridge at the same time. Horse-drawn coaches and carriages accounted for most of the traffic, but there were also carts aplenty; Wilhelmina counted no fewer than forty-nine handcarts, seventeen donkey carts, nine mule carts, eight goat carts, five horse carts, and a dozen or so pulled by dogs. Foot traffic filled in every available gap, and Mina thought it a wonder pedestrians were not continually falling beneath moving wheels of one sort or another.
When the coach finally reached its destination, Wilhelmina disembarked and was pleased to find that she recognised some of the more familiar city landmarks such as Blackfriar’s Bridge and the Tower of London; navigating her way around would not pose undue difficulty—providing she knew where to find Thomas Young. The only scrap of information she possessed was that he was a member of the Royal Society. Find the society, she reckoned, and with any luck that would lead to the good doctor.
Thanks to her judicious purchases at M&S, she blended in well enough with the other pedestrians as she walked along the road she knew as Victoria Street, heading towards Whitehall. As she came in sight of the Palace of Westminster, she saw a line of street vendors selling everything from tortoise shell combs to sugared almonds; they were standing by their handcarts pestering passersby with their sales pitches. The nearest one was selling ribbons; he, like many of the others, had bushy sideburns and a droopy moustache and was plying his wares with gusto.
“Good day to you, sir,” Wilhelmina said nicely. “A bit of the red, please.” She pointed to a glistening spool of crimson satin.
“Right away, miss.” He fetched the spool and produced a pair of scissors from his apron pocket. “How much would ’ee like?”
“Oh, about—so much.” She held out her hands a few inches apart. “How much would that be?”
“Well, this red is very dear, it is. Comes all the way from China, don’t you know.” He held the shears, ready to snip.
“How much?”
“Thruppence, miss. A’right?”
Mina nodded. She fished around in her sack of coins for three pennies—grateful once more for Cosimo’s thoughtfulness in providing some ready cash. The ribbon man snipped and rolled the ribbon carefully. “That’un won’t run in the rain, miss.”
“Thank you.” She paid the man and pocketed the ribbon. “I was wondering if perhaps you could tell me how to find the Royal Society?”
“Eh? Royal Society, is it?”
“Please.” She batted her eyelashes. “If you could point me in the right direction, I would be much obliged.”
“Much obliged, is it?” Removing his cap, he looked her up and down. “Well, if I was wantin’ to find the Royal Society, I would just trot along the way you’re going like, and when I got a little way past Whitehall Palace, I’d start asking folk around there the way to Somerset House. It ent far.”
“Somerset House,” echoed Wilhelmina.
“That’s where they keep it, my darlin’.”
“My thanks, sir. You have been a gentleman.”
The compliment made the fellow smile; he raised his hat to her, which brought a hoot from his near neighbour. “Hoo! Lookit Sweet William there!”
Wilhelmina blew the fellow a kiss and resumed her walk and, following the ribbon seller’s advice, was soon standing outside the pale stone façade of the sprawling edifice of Somerset House—an impressive, imposing pile built right on the Thames so that visitors could arrive and depart by boat. The size of the place and the overpowering grandeur took her aback somewhat, and she spent a moment planning her assault. Then, with a plan firmly in mind, she made her way to the nearest of several doors off the street, pushed through, and found herself in a large garden. An arched entrance stood across the courtyard, which she crossed before entering the main building. She was immediately met by a man in the black livery of a servant, who demanded to know her business.
“I am looking for Dr. Thomas Young,” she replied simply.
The doorman regarded her sceptically. “Women are not permitted entry,” he intoned dryly.
“I do not wish to join the society,” Mina said crisply. “I merely wish to speak to Dr. Young. I have it on good authority that he is a member of the society.”
“Indeed, madam,” confirmed the servant. “Dr. Young is the current president of the Royal Society.” He tilted his head so that he looked down his nose. “It is my opinion that he would not wish to be disturbed.”
“I thank you most kindly for your opinion, to be sure,” countered Mina sweetly. “But I believe that the good doctor himself will be the best judge of whether he wishes to see someone who brings him valuable scientific information.” She had made up that last bit, but thought she could back up the claim in any case. “Now, if you will be so kind as to tell me where I might find him, we will put your ill-considered theory to the test.” She gave the man a superior smile. “Shall we?”
Perhaps unaccustomed to dealing with such stroppy, headstrong females as the one standing before him, the doorman quickly acquiesced, saying, “I regret to inform you that Dr. Young is not in residence, madam. But if I were of a mind to locate him, I would inquire at his medical practise, the offices of which are to be found in Harley Street.”
“There, now,” said Wilhelmina. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” She thanked the fellow for his help and was soon making her way to Harley Street, the traditional home of London’s medical establishment. She located Dr. Young’s offices by reading the large brass nameplates outside the doors and went inside, where she was politely informed that Dr. Young was away on one of his scientific expeditions.
“He is in Egypt this time of year,” the woman explained. “We do not expect him to return before the autumn.”
That was that. Wilhelmina was back on the street within two minutes and heading for the nearest café or restaurant where she could collect her thoughts. She found a tidy little eatery on a nearby cross street where she sat with a warm pork pie and pot of tea, contemplating her next move: a visit to Black Mixen Tump. That was the next place listed on the back of the note Cosimo had left for her at the pub in Sefton-on-Sea. She reasoned that if she went there she might find another note, or another clue of some kind. Though where Black Mixen Tump might be—or even what—she had no idea, but reckoned a visit to the British Library would give her access to whatever maps or geographical guides were to be found.
Nor was she disappointed. The Ordnance Survey, recently published, contained an exhaustive index that did indeed list the place. It gave precise coordinates to said feature in Oxfordshire, which Wilhelmina copied down, drawing a neat little map of the area for future reference. The day was advancing as she left the library, and the sun, having long since crossed the midday meridian, was now beginning to fade in the west as clouds drew in. To save time and shoe leather she hailed a hansom cab and told the driver to take her to the nearest overland coaching office.
As the cab jostled its way across cobbled streets, Wilhelmina marvelled again at the amount and variety of street life. Pre-Victorian London was veritably awash with a restless tide of surging humanity and a multitude of wheeled conveyances. In her time in Prague, she had grown used to a more mannered, less frenetic pace, and she much preferred it. Still, the sights, sounds, and smells—garbage and hors
e manure chief among them—occupied her until she reached her destination.
The office was in the stable yard of the George Street Inn across the river in Southwark, where a clerk in a short green jacket and long brown apron advised her that she could go to Oxford and take another coach from there to Banbury and then prevail upon the locals there to help her find the place. “There’s only a day coach to Oxford,” the clerk told her. “It leaves at crack o’dawn. You’re welcome to wait for it here, but if you’ve got a penny or two, you’ll find more comfortable accommodation at yonder inn.”
Mina purchased her ticket and, taking the clerk’s advice, crossed the stable yard and took a room at the inn. She endured a rather loud supper in noisy company and a rather sleepless night in a flea-infested bed, but was waiting, washed, and breakfasted when the coachman called for passengers to board. There were five, of which Wilhelmina was the only woman; she slept some and made polite conversation with her fellow passengers. The coach reached High Wycombe late in the afternoon, which necessitated another night at an inn, before undertaking the final push to Oxford early the next morning.
After a third night at a coaching inn—this one a cut above the others, in the centre of Oxford—she hired a private carriage to take her to Banbury, where, at the Fox and Geese public house, she was given directions to the tump and a bit of friendly advice from the landlord. “I wouldn’t go up there after dark if I was you, miss. It ain’t safe—leastwise not for respectable folk.”
“Whyever not?” wondered Wilhelmina.
“Strange happenings up there.” He frowned and, laying a finger beside his nose, added, “Say no more.”
Mina thanked him for his advice and took a light dinner and an early night. The next morning she attempted to hire a coach to take her to the tump, but when that failed, she set off on foot. Armed with her sketched map and a packed lunch provided by the innkeeper, and aided by a well-marked track and a fresh, bright day, she had no difficulty finding her way.