The Quest

Before anyone changed their minds, Purcell took Vivian’s arm and they continued unescorted up the mountain.

Vivian said, “I think we’re all right.”

“I think I could have done this on my own.”

“Me too.”

He didn’t reply and they continued on in silence.

Finally, she said, apropos of something she was thinking, “Go to hell.”

“Already here.”

She asked him, “Are you married? Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“I can’t imagine why not.”

“Can we save this for the Hilton bar?”

“I don’t ever want to see you again after this.”

“Sorry you feel that way.”

“And we don’t need you to look for the black monastery.”

He didn’t reply and they continued on toward the top of the mountain.

Purcell thought about Father Armano, the black monastery, and the so-called Holy Grail. There was no Holy Grail, but sometimes his editors or other war correspondents described a story as the Holy Grail of stories-the story that would win a Pulitzer, or a National Journalism Award, or at least the admiration of their colleagues and a few drinks in a good bar.

He glanced at Vivian, and thought of Henry Mercado. Could he let them go without him? What if they died? What if they didn’t and they found something? He wished he had something better to do with his life.

Chapter 9

Purcell and Vivian sat side by side on a cot inside the medical aid tent. Vivian’s face was covered with white ointment and she wore a reasonably clean gray shamma, as did Purcell.

The army doctor sat in a camp chair and smoked a cigarette. Purcell also smoked one of the doctor’s cigarettes, while Vivian finished the bowl of cooked wheat that Dr. Mato had brought.

Vivian said in Italian, “Thank you, Doctor. You have been very kind.”

The big Ethiopian smiled. “It was nothing. You are both fine. Continue to rehydrate.” He added, “You may keep the ointment.”

Vivian translated for Purcell, then she asked the doctor, “Any word on our colleague?”

Doctor Mato replied, “As I said, we have sent ten armed men and a mule. I’m sure your colleague will be joining you shortly.”

Vivian nodded, and again translated for Purcell.

The doctor stood. “I have many sick and wounded. Excuse me.” He left.

Purcell said, “I’m sure Henry is enjoying the mule ride.”

She nodded absently, then said, “I hope they reach him in time.”

He didn’t reply.

She continued, “I worry about the Gallas.”

“The Gallas,” said Purcell, “attack the weak and the dying. Not ten armed soldiers.”

She looked at him, forced a smile, and said, “You do know how to con a worried lady.”

He smiled in return, though he found himself for some reason annoyed at her worry about Mercado, justified as it might be. He stood and looked around the aid tent. His and Vivian’s personal possessions were in neat piles at the foot of their cots, but their clothes and boots were gone, and he didn’t see any native sandals for either of them. He said, “I’m going to take a look around.”

She stood. “I’ll go with you.”

“Be here when they bring Henry in.”

She hesitated, then nodded, and said, “Find a toothbrush.”

As he began walking, he could see soldiers lounging under jerry-rigged tarps, eating, talking, and smoking, which was what soldiers did when they weren’t killing other soldiers. In any case, they didn’t seem that interested in the white guy walking around barefoot in a gray shamma-though a few did point to him. If Vivian had been with him, the soldiers may have shown more interest.

He passed a long open-sided tent marked with a white medical cross, and inside the tent he could see men lying close together on the dirt floor, mostly naked and bandaged. An overpowering stench came from the tent, and he could hear the moaning and crying of men in pain. Human misery. War, pestilence, famine, and civil strife. Ethiopia had it all.

In the distance, on a low hill, he noticed a big pavilion-style tent that flew the revolutionary red-starred flag of the new Ethiopia. That must be the headquarters, and when-or if-Henry arrived, they’d all go over there and see if General Getachu was in a good enough mood to offer them a helicopter ride to Addis-after they interviewed the victorious general, of course. There wasn’t much frontline reporting in this war, and based on the events of the last forty-eight hours, he could see why.

Near the hill, he saw a windsock, indicating a helipad, though there was no helicopter there. He pictured himself in Getachu’s helicopter, with Mercado and Vivian, high above the heat and stench of this place. The helicopter was the magic carpet of modern war, and if they left here by noon tomorrow, they could be in the Hilton bar tomorrow night, answering questions from their colleagues about their excursion into the interior of this benighted country. The etiquette was to modestly downplay the big dangerous adventure, but make it interesting enough to keep everyone’s attention, and keep the drinks flowing. He thought about how to mention finding the dying priest without giving away the whole story.