The Seventh Scroll

positions along the side walls of the chamber, while the congregation

craned expectantly to peer into its dim interior.

At last Jali Hora, the ancient abbot, appeared at the head of the steps.

He wore a full-length robe of crimson satin, with a gold

thread-embroidered stole around his shoulders. On his head was a massive

crown. Though it glittered like gold, Nicholas knew that it was gilt

brass, and the multi'coloured stones with- which it was set were just as

certainly glass and paste.

JahbHora raised his crook, which was surmounted by an ornate silver

cross, and a weighty silence fell upon the company.

"Now he will say the grace," Tessay told them, and bowedh'er head.

JahHora's grace was fervent and lengthy, his reedy falsetto punctuated

by devout responses from the monks.

When at last he came to the end, two splendidly robed debteras helped

Jali Hora down the stairs and seated him on his carved jimmera stool at

the head of the circle of senior deacons and priests.

The religious mood of the monks changed to one of festive bonhomie as a

procession of acolytes entered from the terrace, each of them bearing

upon his head a flat woven reed basket the size of a wagon wheel. They

placed one of these in the centre of each circle of guests.

Then at a signal from JahHora, acting in unison they whipped the lid off

each basket. A jovial cheer went up from the monks, for each basket

contained a shallow brass bowl that was filled from rim to rim with

round sheets of the flat grey unleavened iniera bread.

Two acolytes staggered in from the terrace, barely able to carry between

them a steaming brass pot filled with gallons of wat, a spicy stew of

fat mutton. Over each of the bowls of injera bread they tipped the great

pot and slopped gouts of the ru

with hot grease.

The assembly fell on the food voraciously. They tore off wads of injera

and scooped up the mess of wat with it, and then stuffed the parcel into

their open mouths, which remained open as they chewed. They washed it

down with long swallows from the flasks, before wrapping themselves

another parcel of ru

elbow and their chins were smeared thickly, as they chewed and drank and

shouted with laughter.

The serving acolytes dumped thick cakes of another type of injera beside

each guest. These were stiffer and less yeasty in taste, friable and

crumbling, unlike the latex rubber consistency of the thin grey sheets

of the first kind.

Nicholas and Royan tried to show their appreciation of the food without

coating themselves with layers of it as the oth _rs were doing. Despite

its appearance the wat was  really rather tasty, and the dry yellow

injera helped to cut the grease.

The communal brass bowls were emptied in remarkably short order. Only

the churned up mess of bread and grease remained when the acolytes came

tottering in under the weight of another set of pots, this time filled

to overflowing with curried chicken wat. This was splashed into the

bowls on top of the remains of the mutton, and again the monks had at

it.

While they gobbled up the chicken, the tej flasks were replenished and

the monks became more raucous.

"I don't think I can take much more of this," Royan told Nicholas

queasily.

"Close your eyes and think of England," he advised her.

"You are the star of the evening. They aren't going to let you escape."

As soon as the chicken was eaten, the servers were back with fresh pots,

this time brimming with fiery beef wat. They dumped this on the remnants

of both the mutton and the chicken.

The monk in the circle opposite Royan emptied his flask, and when an

acolyte tried to refill it, he waved the lad away with a shout of,

"Katikala!'

The -cry was taken up by the other monks. "Katikala!

Katikalar The acolytes hurried out and returned with dozens of bottles

of the gin-clear liquor and brass bowls the size of tea cups.

"This is the stuff to be careful of," Tessay told them.

Surreptitiously both Nicholas and Royan were able to dribble the

contents of their bowls into the mat of reeds on which they were

sitting, but the monks guzzled theirs down greedily.

"Boris is getting his share," Nicholas remarked to Royan. The Russian

was red-faced and sweating, gri

bowlful.

Enlivened by the katikala the monks started playing a game. One of them

would wrap a packet of beef wat with a sheet of injera, and then, as it

dripped fat from his poised right hand, he would turn to the monk

beside. The victim would open his mouth until his jaws were at full

stretch, and the packet would be stuffed into it by his considerate

neighbour. The morsel was, of course, as large as a human gape could

possibly accommodate, and in order to engulf it the victim had to risk

death by asphyxiation.

The rules of the game seemed to be that he was not allowed to use his

hands to get it into his own mouth, neither should he dribble down the

front of his robe, nor splutter gravy over those seated near to him. His

contortions, together with his gulping and choking and gasping for air,

were the source of uncontrollable hilarity. When at last he succeeded in

getting it down, a brass bowl of katikala was held to his lips as a

reward. He was expected to send the contents in the same direction as

the parcel of injera.

Jali Hora, by now warmed with tej and kadkala, lurched to his feet. In

his right hand he held aloft a streaming parcel of injera. As he began

an unsteady progress across the chamber, with his shiny crown awry, they

did not at first realize his intentions. The entire company'watched him

with interest.

Then suddenly Royan stiffened and whispered with horror, "No! Please,

no. Save me, Nicky. Don't let this happen to me."

"This is the price you pay for being the leading lady," he told her.

Jali Hora was making his rather erratic way towards where she sat. The

gravy from the morsel he carried for her was trickling down his forearm

and dripping from his elbow.

The band standing along the side wall struck up a lively air. As the

abbot came to a halt in front of Royan, rocking on his suspension like

an ancien " carriage, they fiddled and fifed and the drummers broke out

in a frenzy.

The abbot presented his gift, and with one last despairing glance at

Nicholas Royan faced the inevitable. She closed her eyes and opened her

mouth.

To roars of encouragement and the urgings of LIFE and drum, she

struggled and chewed. Her face turned rosy and her eyes watered. At one

point Nicholas thought she would admit defeat and spit it out on to the

reed-covered have to floor. But slowly and courageously, a bit at a

time, she forced it down and then fell back exhausted.

Her audience, clapping and hooting loved every moment of it. The abbot

sank stiffly to his knees in front of her and embraced her, almost

losing his crown in the ess. Then without relinquishing his embrace proc

he made himself a place beside her.

"It looks as though you have made another conquest," Nicholas told her

dryly. "I think he will be on your lap at moment, if you don't duck and

run." any Royan reacted swiftly. She reached across and grabbed a bottle