The Seventh Scroll

A little after noon they reached the spot where the river issued from

between the pink flesh-coloured cliffs of the chasm. They explored these

as far as they were able before their way was blocked by the cliffs. The

rock fell straight into the flood, and there was no foothold at the

water's edge that would allow them to penetrate further.

They retreated downstream, and crossed to the far bank over a primitive

suspension bridge of lianas and hairy flax rope that Nicholas guessed

had been built by the monks from the monastery. Once again they tried to

push on into the chasm. Nicholas even attempted to wade around of pink

rock that barred the way, around the first bus but the current was too

strong and threatened to sweep him off his feet. He was forced to

abandon the attempt.

"If we can't get through there, then it's highly unlikely that Taita and

his workmen would have done so."

They went back as far as the hanging bridge and found a shady place

close to the water to eat the lunch that Tessay had packed for them. The

heat in the middle of the day was stupefying. Royan wet her cotton

neckerchief in the river and dabbed at her face as she lay beside him.

Nicholas lay on his back and studied every inch of the pink cliffs

through his binoculars. He was looking for any cleft or opening in their

smooth polished surfaces.

He spoke without lowering the binoculars. "Reading River God, it looks

as if Taita actually enlisted help to switch the bodies of Tanus, Great

Lion of Egypt, and the Pharaoh himself." He lowered the glasses and

looked at Royan. "I find that puzzling, for it would have been an

outrageous thing to do in terms of his period and belief Is that a fair

translation of the scrolls? Did Taita truly switch the bodies?"

She laughed and rolled over to face him. "Your old chum Wilbur has an

overheated imagination. The only basis for that whole bit of

story-telling is a single line in the scrolls. "To me he was more a king

than ever Pharaoh  been."' She rolled on to her back again. "That is a

good example of my objection to the book. He mixes fact and fantasy into

an inextricable stew. As far as I know and believe, Tanus rests in his

own tomb and the Pharaoh in his., "Pity!" Nicholas sighed and stuffed

the book back in his pack. "It was a romantic little touch that I

enjoyed." He glanced at his wrist-watch and stood up. "Come on, I want

to do a recon down the other spur of the valley. I spotted some

interesting ground up there whilst we were on the approach march

yesterday."

It was late afternoon when they arrived back at the camp, and Tessay

hurried out of her kitchen hut to greet them.

"I have been waiting for you to return. We have had an interesting

invitation from Jali Hora, the abbot. He has invited us to a banquet in

the monastery to celebrate Kateral the eve of Timkat. The servants have

set up your, shower, and the water is hot. There is just time for you to

change before we go down to the monastery."

The abbot sent a party of young acolytes to escort them to the

banqueting hall. These IMC_ , young men arrived in the short African

twilight, carrying torches to light the way.

Royan recognized one of these as Tamre, the epileptic boy. When she

singled him out for her warmest smile, he came forward shyly and offered

her a bouquet of wild flowers that he had picked from beside the river.

She was unprepared for this courtesy, and without thinking she thanked

him in Arabic.

"Shukran."

"Taffa"," the boy replied immediately, using the correct gender of the

response, and in an accent that told her instantly that he was fluent in

her language.

"How do you speak Arabic so well?" she asked, intrigued.

The boy hung his head with embarrassment and mumbled, "My mother is from

Massawa, on the Red Sea. It is the language of my childhood., When they

set off for the monastery, the boy monk followed Royan like a puppy.

Once more they descended the stairway down the cliff and came out on to

the torchlit terrace. The narrow cloisters were packed with humanity,

and as they made their way through the press, with the honour guard of

acolytes clearing a way for them, black faces called Amharic greetings

and black hands reached out to touch them.

They stooped through the low entrance to the outer nave of the

cathedral. The chamber was lit with oil lamps an torches, so that the

murals of saints and angels danced in the uncertain light. The stone

floor was covered with a carpet of freshly cut reeds and rushes, their

sweet herbal perfume leavening the heavy, smoky air. It seemed that the

entire brotherhood of monks were seated cross-legged on this spongy

carpet. They greeted the entrance of the little party of ferengi with

cries of welcome and shouts of benediction. Beside each seated figure

stood a flask of tej, the honey mead of the country. It was clear from

the happy, sweaty faces that the flasks had already done good service.

The visitors were led forward to a spot that had been left clear for

them directly in front of the wooden doors to the qkUst, the middle

chamber. Their escort urged them to sit and make themselves comfortable

in this space. As soon as they were settled, another party of acolytes

came in from the terrace bearing flasks of tej, and knelt to place a

separate pottery flask in front of each of them.

Tessay leaned across to whisper, "Better you let me sample this tej

before you try it. The strength and colour and taste vary in every place

that it is served, and some of it is ferocious." She raised her flask

and drank directly from the elongated neck. When she lowered the flask

she smiled, "This is a good brew. If you are careful, you will be all

right with it., The monks seated around them were urging them to drink,

and Nicholas raised his flask. The monks clapped and laughed as he

tasted the liquor. It was light and pleasant, with a strong bouquet of

wild honey. "Not bad!" he gave his opinion, but Tessay warned him,

"Later they will almost certainly offer you katikala. Be very careful of

that! It is distilled from fermented grain and it will take your head

off at the shoulders."

The monks were concentrating their hospitality on Royan now. The fac t

that she was a Coptic Christian, a true believer, had impressed them. It

was obvious also that her beauty had not gone entirely unremarked by

this company of holy and celibate men.

Nicholas leaned close to her, and whispered, "You will have to fake it

for their benefit. Hold it up to your lips and pretend to swallow, or

they will not leave you in peace."

As she lifted the&ask the monks hooted with delight and saluted her with

their own upraised flasks. She lowered the flask again, and whispered to

Nicholas.

"It's delicious. It tastes of honey."

"You broke your vow of abstinence!" he chided her laughing. "Did you?"

"Just a drop," she admitted, "and anyway I never made any vows."

The acolytes knelt in turn in front of each guest, offering them a bowl

of hot water in which to wash their right hands in preparation for the

feast.

Suddenly there was the sound of music and drums, and a band of musicians

filed through the open doors of the qiddist. They took up their