Me for one, Dracup thought. But he still felt an intangible excitement as he scanned the website’s summary.
‘The Lalibela churches, however, silence the most cynical pedants. These towering edifices were hewn out of the solid, red volcanic rock on which they stand. In consequence, they seem to be of superhuman creation – in scale, in workmanship and in concept. Close examination is required to appreciate the full extent of the achievement because, like all mysteries, much effort has been made to cloak their nature. Some lie almost completely hidden in deep trenches, while others stand in open quarried caves. A complex and bewildering labyrinth of tunnels and narrow passageways with offset crypts, grottoes and galleries connects them all – a cool, lichen-enshrouded, subterranean world, shaded and damp, silent but for the faint echoes of distant footfalls as priests and deacons go about their timeless business.’
Dracup clicked on the ‘photographs’ link. The first jpg, captioned ‘Bet Giorgis’, was a church lying in a deep trench and fashioned in the shape of a cross. Theodore had buried the half-sceptre from the Ark deep in the earth. Lalibela in miniature in a Scottish garden. It felt like the right connection; his gut feeling told him the missing section was hidden in Lalibela. If he could find it and translate the cuneiform… The incomplete stanzas ran through his mind:
‘From whence you came –
Between the rivers –’
But which rivers? His mobile vibrated briefly in his trouser pocket and he started in alarm, fishing for the instrument with shaking hands. He read the text message. “Simon. I’m so sorry. Don’t try to find me. S.” Dracup selected the call register icon. Number withheld. He threw the phone down and pushed his chair back. He strode to the window and beat his fists on the stained glass. So she hadn’t been kidnapped. The policeman was right; he’d been taken for a fool. Moran’s cold teacup sat on the sill. Dracup picked it up and flung it at the wall, where it exploded into fine fragments that flew skittering across the floor. Was anyone on his side? He looked for something else to destroy and, finding nothing, turned his anger against the sofa, punching and kicking the thick cushions until exhaustion quietened his whirling limbs.
Some time later he picked up the phone. He dialled a number and waited a few rings. A cultured voice at the other end answered curtly, “Sturrock.”
“Hello Charles. Simon here. Listen. I need a favour.”
Chapter 14
Ruth had visited the Cave of Treasures many times but still felt a sense of childish wonder as they entered its vaults. She stole a glance at Natasha and smiled, knowing how the girl would react. There was an atmosphere in this place, something intangible, almost sacred. But that was unsurprising, given its history. Ruth shivered. She could feel the presence of her ancestors, those faithful carriers of the ancient torch whose feet had trodden this same path. Countless generations protecting, overseeing, watching, waiting.
“Mind your step,” Jassim warned. “It’s a little uneven.”
“Where are the paintings?” Natasha craned her neck, struggling to pick out any shape from the rock walls, some contour that suggested premeditated design.
“You’ll see. Just follow and be careful,” Ruth told her.
The roof began to stretch away as they rounded a sharp corner, moving into a wider, danker space. Something flicked down from the heights and fluttered around their heads. Natasha let out a cry of surprise and ducked.
Ruth pulled her close and tucked the girl’s head into her bosom, shielding her. “It’s all right – just bats. They’ll go away in a moment.”
Jassim led them on, using his fly swat to swipe at the diving creatures. “No harm; they’re just curious – like you.”
Natasha gave another exclamation and wiped her mouth. “My fingers – they’re all salty.”
“It’s where you touched the rock – the walls are composed of much salt,” Jassim said. “After the flood the rivers moved. They left behind these tunnels we are walking through.”
Ruth’s gaze traversed the sheer walls to their right where the first of the tombs was visible, cut from the rock like a toothless mouth. Soon, as their eyes became accustomed to the reduced light, others became visible above and below. Every opening was delimited by a frieze of worked stone, each scored by the mason’s artful markings; they were pictures of another age, repositories of ancient lives lived in obedience to their fathers. Ruth watched Natasha. The girl was silent, taking it all in.
“Are there dead people in there?” she asked in a whisper.