The Seventh Scroll - Smith Wilbur - Страница 36
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Rosalind, no other woman had had this effect on him.
"A nice cold plunge won't do you any harm, my lad." He threw his jeans
over a bush, and dived into the pool.
sat at the campfire after the evening meal, olas looked up suddenly and
cocked his
"Am I hearing things?" he wondered.
"No," Tessay laughed. "That is singing you hear. The priests from the
monastery are coming to welcome us."
They saw the torches then, winding up the hillside in procession,
flickering through the trees as they approached the camp. The muleteers
and the servants crowded forward, singing and clapping rhythmically to
greet the deputation from the monastery.
The deep male voices soared and then dropped away, almost to a whisper,
then rose again in descant, haunting and beautiful, the sound of Africa
in the night. It drove icy thrills down Nicholas's spine, so that he
shivered involuntarily.
Then they saw the white robes of the priests, flitting like moths in the
torchlight as they wound along the trail The camp servants fell on their
knees as the first of the holy men entered the perimeter of the camp.
They were young acolytes, bare-headed and barefooted. They were followed
by the monks, wearing long robes and tall turbans.
Their ranks wheeled aside and opened up, an honour guard for the phalanx
of deacons and fully ordained priests in their gaudy embroidered robes
and vestments.
Each of them carried a heavy Coptic cross, set on a tall staff and
intricately chased and worked innative silver.
They in turn opened into two ranks, still chanting, and allowed the
canopied palanquin to be carried forward by four hefty young acolytes
and placed in the centre of the camp. The crimson and yellow silk
curtains shimmered in the light of the camp lanterns and the torches of
the procession.
"We must go forward to welcome the abbot," Boris told Nicholas in a
stage whisper. "His name is Jali Hora." As they stepped up to the
litter, the curtains were drawn dramatically aside and a tall figure
stepped down to earth.
Both Tessay and Royan sank to their knees respectfully, and clasped
their hands at the breast. However, Nicholas and Boris remained on their
feet, and Nicholas inspected the abbot with interest.
jali Hora was skeletally thin. Beneath the skirts of his robe his legs
were like sticks of cured tobacco, tar'black and twisted, with
desiccated sinew and stringy muscle. His robe was green and gold, worked
with gold thread that glittered in the firelight. On his head he wore a
tall hat with a flat top embroidered with a pattern of crosses and
stars.
The abbot's face -was dead sooty black, the skin wrinkled and riven with
the deep etchings of age. There were few teeth behind his puckered lips,
and even those were yellowed and askew. His beard was startling silver
white, breaking like storm surf on the old bones of his jaw.
One eye was opaque blue and blinded with tropical ophthalmia, but the
other eye glistened like that of a hunting leopard.
He began to speak in a high, quavering voice. "A blessing," Boris warned
Nicholas, and they both bowed their heads respectfully. The assembled
priests came in with the chanted response each time the old man paused.
When at last he had finished giving his blessing jali Hora made the sign
of the cross in four directions, rotating slowly towards each point of
the compass, while two altar boys swung their silver censers vigorously,
deluging the night with pungent clouds of incense smoke.
After the blessing the two women came forward to kneel before the abbot.
He stooped over them and struck them lightly on each cheek with his
silver cross, chanting a falsetto blessing over them.
"They say the old man is over a hundred years old," Boris whispered to
Nicholas.
Two white-robed debteras brought forward a stool of African ebony, so
beautifully carved that Nicholas eyed it acquisitively. He guessed that
it was probably centuries old, and would have made a handsome addition
to the museum collection. The two debteras took Jah Hora's elbows and
gently seated him on the stool. Then the rest of the company sank to the
earth in a congregation around him, their black faces lifted towards him
attentively.
Tessay sat at his feet, and when her husband spoke she translated
quietly for him into Amharic. "It is a great pleasure and an honour for
me to greet you again, Holy Father."
The old man nodded, and Boris went on, "I have brought an English
nobleman of royal blood to, visit the monastery of St. Frumentius."
"I say, steady on, old boy!, Nicholas protested, but all the
congregation studied him with expectant interest.
"What do I do now?" he asked Boris out of the corner of his mouth.
"What do You think he came all this way for?" Boris grinned maliciously.
"He wants a gift. Money,'
"Maria Theresa dollars?" he enquired, referring to the centuries-old
traditional currency of Ethiopia, "Not necessarily. Times have changed.
jali Hora will be happy to take Yankee green-backs."
"How much?"
"You are a nobleman of royal blood. You will be hunting in his valley.
Five hundred dollars at least."
Nicholas winced and went to fetch his bag from one of the mule panniers.
When he came back he bowed to the abbot and placed the sheaf of currency
in his outstretched, pink-palmed claw. The abbot smiled, exposing the
yellow stumps of his teeth, and spoke briefly.
Tessay translated for him, "He says, "Welcome to the monastery of St.
Frumentius and the season of Timkat." He wishes you good hunting on the
banks of the Abbay river."
Immediately the solemn mood of the devout company changed. They broke
out in smiles and laughter, and the abbot looked expectantly at Boris.
"The holy abbot says it has been a thirsty journey," Tessay translated.
"The old devil loves his brandy," Boris explained, and shouted to the
camp butler. With some ceremony a bottle of brandy was brought and
placed on the camp table in front of the abbot, shoulder to shoulder
with the bottle of vodka in front of Boris. They toasted each other, and
the abbot tossed back a dram that made his good eye weep with tears, and
his voice husky as he directed a question at Royan.
"He asks you, Woizero Royan, where do you come from, daughter, that you
follow the true path of Christ the Saviour of man?"
"I am an Egyptian, of the old religion," Royan replied.
The abbot and all his priests nodded and beamed with approval.
"We are all brothers and sisters in Christ, the Egyptians and the
Ethiopians," the abbot told her. "Even the word Coptic derives from the
Greek for Egyptian. For over sixteen hundred years the Abuna, the
bishop, of Ethiopia was always appointed by the Patriarch in Cairo. Only
the Emperor Haile Selassie changed that in 1959, but we still follow the
true road to Christ. You are welcome, my daughter."
His debtera poured another dram of brandy and the old man swallowed it
at a gulp. Even Boris looked impressed, "Where does the skinny old black
tortoise put it?" he wondered aloud. Tessay did not translate, but she
lowered her eyes and the hurt she felt for the insult to the holy man
showed on her madonna features.
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