The Quest

As she lifted the canteen to his lips and touched his face, he said in a surprisingly strong voice, “Get away from me.”

She spoke to him softly, but he shook his head and wouldn’t drink from the canteen. She tried again, but again he said, “Get away from me.”

Finally, she turned and moved back to the platform, and Purcell noticed that she was walking slowly, with her head down.

He glanced at Mercado, who was looking at him again, and they made eye contact in the bright moonlight.

Purcell turned and watched Vivian come up the steps. She threw the canteen on the floor, then lay down on the shirt and stared up at the sky.

Purcell knelt a few feet from her and said, “Sorry.”

She didn’t reply.

He put ten feet between them and lay on his back.

He heard her say, “Not your fault.”

No, he thought, it certainly was not. He said, “Get some sleep. We’re going to have a long day.”

“We’ll all be dead tomorrow. Then none of this matters.”

“We will be in Addis tomorrow.”

“I think not.” She asked him, “Will you make love to me again?”

“No… not here. In Addis.”

“If we get out of here, this won’t happen again.”

He asked, “Will you be with Henry?”

“Maybe… he’ll get over it.”

“Good. We’ll all get over it.”

“We will.” She said, “Good night.”

“Night.”

He looked up at the starry African sky. Beautiful, he thought. So very beautiful up there.

He closed his eyes, and as he was drifting into sleep he heard her sobbing silently. He wanted to comfort her, but he couldn’t, and he fell into a deep sleep, and dreamt of Vivian naked in the water, and of Mercado shouting her name.

Chapter 11

At dawn, Purcell watched as a squad of soldiers marched through the ground mist toward the three men hanging from the posts.

It was too early for a firing squad, he thought-the troops had not yet arrived to witness the execution.

Purcell let Vivian sleep and he came down from the platform.

The ten soldiers didn’t seem bothered by his appearance-they had no orders regarding him, and they didn’t know if he was the general’s guest or his next victim, so they ignored him.

Purcell saw that Mercado was half awake, watching the soldiers approach. Purcell asked him, “How are you doing?”

He looked at Purcell but did not reply.

Purcell held the canteen to Mercado’s lips, and he drank, but then spit the water at Purcell.

Purcell said to him, “You were delirious last night.”

“Get out of my sight.”

In fact, Purcell thought, Henry was having a recurring nightmare about Vivian that had come true.

The soldiers were now unshackling Gann, who was able to stand on his own, then they moved to Mercado, leaving the dead Ethiopian hanging for the troops to see at the morning muster.

Purcell went over to Gann, who was rubbing his raw wrists, and handed him the canteen. Gann finished the last few ounces, then asked, “How is Mercado?”

“Seems okay.”

“He had a bad night.”

Purcell reminded Gann, “Neither of you would be hanging here if he’d stayed awake on the mountain.”

“Don’t blame him. I should have stayed awake.”

Purcell didn’t reply, and Gann said, “He was shouting at God all night.”

Again, Purcell did not reply, but he’d heard Henry shouting at God, and also cursing him and Vivian, and Gann had heard that too, and probably surmised what and who Henry was angry at. But that was the least of their problems.

Gann asked, “Where is Miss Smith?”

“Sleeping.” He asked Gann, “What’s happening?”

“Don’t know, old boy. But it’s either something very good, or very bad.”

“I’ll settle for anything in between.”

“That doesn’t happen here.” He asked Purcell, “Why didn’t you make a run for it last night?”

“I fell asleep.”

Purcell noticed now in the dawn light that the post from which Gann had hung was splintered and pocked with holes that could only have been made by bullets.

Gann, too, noticed and said, “Well, the good news is that they do execute people by firing squad.” He nodded toward the dead Ethiopian. “Not like that poor bugger.”

Purcell didn’t want to get into that conversation, so he returned to Gann’s other subject and said, “If I did make a run for it, where would I go?”

Gann replied, “Well, first, I’d advise you to go alone. You don’t need a photographer.”

Purcell did not reply, but he didn’t want to leave Vivian here.

He continued, “About ten kilometers south and east of the Italian spa is a Falasha village. Ethiopian Jews. They’ll take you in and you’ll be safe there.”

“How do you know?”

“I know Ethiopia, old boy. That’s where I was going to head. They’re Royalists.”

Recalling what Mercado had said, Purcell pointed out, “The Royalists are being hunted down.”

“The Falashas are immune for the moment.”

“Why?”

“It’s rather complex. The Falashas trace their ancestry to the time of Solomon and Sheba, and they are revered by some as a link to the Solomonic past, as is the emperor.”

“And we know what happened to him.”

“Yes, but the Ethiopians are a superstitious lot, and they believe if you harm a Falasha you have angered God-the common God of Christians, Jews, and Muslims.”

“Works for the Falashas.”