A River in the Sky

“We entered through the tunnel under the city where the water flowed. We crept in silence, man behind man, obedient to my will.”

“Now what is he babbling about?” Emerson demanded.

“Hmmm. Let me think. Ah-I believe he is responding to your statement about the conquest of the Jebusite city. That means he is now Joab.”

“Who?” Emerson’s brow furrowed. “Oh, yes; the Israelite commander who led troops into the city by way of the old tunnels. Something of a comedown for the reverend, isn’t it-a mere commander?”

“The tunnels are there,” Mr. Plato said.

“Hmph,” said Emerson. “Well, my dear Peabody, have you indulged your romantic fantasies long enough? We still have a way to go.”

He had done his best to destroy my “romantic” mood. He was correct, however; we had yet to enter the city and locate our hotel.

“Yes, let us go on,” I said. “Is Daoud all right?”

Selim looked back at the second carriage, where Daoud was sitting surrounded by boxes and bales and baggage. He had insisted on occupying that position, “to keep the heathen from stealing our things.” I had explained to him that most of the local inhabitants were not heathens, but coreligionists of his. The argument made no impression on our friend; by his definition heathens were foreigners and foreigners were heathens.

“He waves to say all is well,” Selim reported. “He is hungry, I think.”

It was a safe assumption. Daoud was a very large man and required frequent meals.

Traffic was brisk, as people sought the city before the fall of night. Camel trains, shepherds and their flocks, the innumerable and omnipresent little donkeys kicked up clouds of dust. I did not doubt the pilgrims found them very picturesque. There were several other carriages like ours on the road, and other riders, including a few females uncomfortably encased in woolen habits riding sidesaddle. They looked absolutely miserable.

The road led us down a slope and back up toward the heights on which the ancient city had been built. From my reading I knew it was not a plateau but separate hills which had once been divided by a deep valley, now partially filled in by the accumulated debris of centuries. Other valleys bounded the city on two sides, the Kidron on the east and the Hinnon on the west. The descent on both sides was steep, and Emerson’s rude description had some justice to it; an untidy jumble of structures clung to the slopes as if they had slid over the edge and stuck partway down.

The Old City itself was girded by the magnificent wall built by Suleiman the Great in the twelfth century. We entered through the Jaffa Gate, one of seven, and found ourselves in a commercial district of comparatively recent date, with shops and banks and hotels. After we had passed several of the latter I began to suspect that the hostelry selected by Emerson and the confounded War Office would be neither new nor convenient.

Before long the modern streets were succeeded by the narrow winding lanes of a typical mideastern city. Fortunately our drivers knew the way; guidebook in hand, I attempted to follow our route but lost track within a few minutes. My attempts to locate sights of interest-the Ecce Homo Arch, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and so on-were frustrated by increasing darkness and the inadequacy of the map in the book. The Dome of the Rock was hidden by the houses and small shops that closed in the street, so even that landmark was no longer visible. I gave it up, and addressed Mr. Plato, who was peering interestedly out the window of the carriage.

“Do you know where we are?” I asked. “You have been here before, haven’t you? You must know the city well.”

“It has changed a great deal since my day” was the reply.

From anyone else I would have interpreted that as evasion. From Mr. Plato it sounded like a casual reference to a visit he had made in the first or second century B.C.

“What was it like in your day?” I asked.

The carriage turned a rather sharp corner, swayed, and stopped abruptly. The impediment appeared to be a camel, whose hindquarters were visible just ahead. Our driver rose, brandished his whip, and began shouting at the beast and its driver. The effect, as he must have known it would be, was negligible. The camel didn’t even look round. Its rider made gestures of an indeterminate but probably rude nature at our driver, who responded with another flow of invective. I poked him with my parasol.

“Be patient,” I said in Arabic. “Our future is in the hands of Allah.”

Realizing that I had understood his curses, the driver turned an embarrassed face toward me. “We are almost there, lady,” he stammered.

The camel proceeded calmly on its way. It did clear a path for us; donkeys and pedestrians were forced to one side, since a camel yields to no one. It was not long before we entered a newer section of the city. The streets were wider and straighter. I was conscious of mounting fatigue, for we had started early that morning, and I was considerably relieved when the carriage stopped before a modern structure.