A River in the Sky

It was Nefret, of course, her faithful shadow Daoud behind her.

“I took the liberty,” said Nefret, “of making arrangements for us to leave tomorrow. Selim is selecting the horses now.”

“That was very thoughtful of you, my dear,” I said. “What about our baggage?”

“All taken care of,” said Nefret. “I have already packed a small valise and my medical supplies. You can ride in the carriage with the luggage, Aunt Amelia, if you prefer. Or stay here.”

“Thank you,” I replied.

Her frozen expression melted. “I didn’t mean-”

“Never mind, Nefret.”

“It’s just that I-”

“Quite,” I said. “Has Mr. Plato turned up?”

“I don’t know. Shall I go and see?”

“If you will, please. I must change for dinner. We will meet you in the dining salon.”

Nefret took her departure looking subdued but not repentant. She closed the door very softly.

“You were rather hard on her, weren’t you?” Emerson asked.

“She is taking too much on herself, Emerson. I approve of independent young women, but in recent days she has made decisions without consulting me, and some of them may have unpleasant consequences. For instance, her mentioning to Frau von Eine that we were leaving Jerusalem. If the woman is a German spy and if we are the ones she is after-”

“Too many ifs, Peabody, even for you. Why should she give a curse about us?”

“If the War office has discovered her true mission, Emerson, German Imperial Intelligence may have discovered ours.”

I could see that this eminently logical deduction shook Emerson, but he was in no mood to admit it. “More ifs,” he grumbled. “I still think you were unkind to Nefret.”

“I understand her worry, but not this sudden urgency.” I slipped into my evening frock of black-beaded silk georgette and turned so that Emerson could deal with the buttons. I was becoming very tired of the frock, and of black in general. Too many people-Moslem ladies, Christian pilgrims, and Orthodox Jews-seemed to favor that dismal shade.

“Well, curse it, Peabody, I am worried too. We ought to have heard something from the boys by now.”

“We ought to have heard something from someone,” I agreed, running a brush over my hair and twisting it into a neat coil. “Emerson, are you sure you were not told how to reach the Jerusalem representative of MO2? After all their fuss and bother, they have left us dangling. And you laughed at me the other day when I gave you the signal.”

Emerson tried not to grin but failed. “My dear, someone was teasing you. Whoever heard of one hardened spy making that absurd gesture to another of the same?”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

After the boy had gone, with Ramses’s note tucked carefully into his belt pouch, Ramses decided he could chance making a small fire. The herb, whatever it might be, would be easier to take and probably more effective if it was brewed, like tea. He had eaten a small quantity himself; so far, no ill effects. Anyhow, why should the village healer take the trouble of poisoning them when all he had to do was call in the Turks?

Ramses was able to collect enough dry twigs and branches to get a fire going. Waiting for the water to boil, he thought over the latest encounter with the Sons of Abraham. He had assumed the name referred only to Arabs, the descendants of Ishmael, but apparently the membership included both Jews and Moslems. The boy spoke a little Arabic, but he was more at home in what must be his native tongue. Ramses’s Hebrew had been good enough to understand him and to ask questions. However, he hadn’t got much useful information. The boy had been in a hurry to get away, explaining that his absence would be noted if he wasn’t in his usual place on time. No, he would not carry the message himself; it would be passed on, from one hand to another, until it reached its destination. When, he could not say. With luck, today. If not, tomorrow. Ramses had written his father’s name in all three languages. “I don’t know where they are staying,” he explained. “The last messenger will have to inquire at the major hotels-”

The boy had cut him short. “We have our own ways. Now write the same again.”

Complying, Ramses thought to himself that someone in the group had a good head on his shoulders. Two messengers stood a greater chance of getting through than one.

The water was boiling. He stirred in the rest of the dried herb. Waiting for it to cool, he wiped David’s hot face with a wet towel. David stirred slightly; his forehead wrinkled, and then his eyes opened. They focused on Ramses’s face and then moved slowly from side to side.

“Where-” he croaked.

“Someplace safe. How do you feel?”

David tried to moisten his dry lips. “Thirsty.”

Ramses lifted his head and helped him drink. “Better,” David said, lips cracking in a smile.

He did seem better, his temperature a few degrees lower, but Ramses didn’t dare hope too much. Some fevers behaved this way, lower in the morning, climbing as the day went on.

“I’ve got some medicine for you,” he said, testing the water with a forefinger. “Drink it down like a good boy.”