The Seventh Scroll

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 i

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 gri

"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 pa

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 ski

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 mado