Jenny White - The Abyssinian Proof

He slid his fingers over the walls of the shaft until they encountered some broken brickwork, hooked his fingers into the gaps, then hoisted himself up. He swung his legs up, wedging them against the opposite wall. Back braced against one side, feet against the other, he worked his way up the shaft crabwise. He was sweating profusely and his fingers started to slip. He tried not to think about falling.

Elif’s hands touched his shoulders. “Almost there. Here’s the ledge. Can you follow my hand?”

Kamil pulled himself onto the ledge. He lay there for a moment, waiting for the spasms in his muscles to lessen. The skin on his back was shredded and throbbed with pain. He sat up.

“Watch your head,” Elif warned. “It’s high enough to walk, but only if you crouch.”

In the cramped space, he felt Elif’s hand brush against his naked leg and then the Proof of God. He heard her small cry of surprise, followed by soft laughter.

“What’s so funny, Elif Hanoum?” Avi’s voice came from the darkness ahead.

“You’ll see later, Avi. Why don’t you show us the way out?”

Ismail Hodja couldn’t hide his excitement when Kamil placed the flat, featureless lead container on the table before him. Kamil moved stiffly, hindered by the bandages on his back and arms. He had decided it would be a waste of time to chase after Amida when they knew he was meeting the Frankish dealer tonight in Galata. Amida was only sugar water to attract the bee. Besides, Kamil had to find out what it was that so many people were hell-bent on stealing.

Beside him, Elif was draped in one of Karanfil’s charshaf cloaks. Kamil had been reluctant to bring her along to Ismail Hodja’s office, but she insisted she had earned the right to be present when the container was opened. Karanfil had bathed Avi, who was almost unrecognizable under a coating of dirt and brick dust, then bandaged his hands and put him to bed.

Elif let the veil fall to her shoulders. Kamil noticed her hair was still dark with moisture from bathing. They sat expectantly on the divan, watching Ismail Hodja as he ran his fingers carefully over the container, examining it from all sides.

“This is the only damage.” He pointed to a dent on the top. “That’s remarkable, considering how old it is.”

“That mark was left by the tip of a knife aiming for my heart,” Kamil explained. “I had the box in my jacket pocket. It saved my life.”

“Did it now?” Ismail Hodja smiled benignly at Kamil. “Well, then, we already have proof of its miraculous powers.”

Kamil let himself believe, just this once, in the miracle of coincidence.

“You said it had an outer casing, a silver reliquary. That must have protected it. Did you find that too?” he asked Kamil.

“We’re still looking for it. Malik said it was important to prove the validity of the document.”

“Any proof of its credibility would be useful. But no matter. I’ll be able to tell something about it from the paper and ink and other signs, but above all from what’s written on it.”

Jemal refreshed their tea and then stood by the door, his powerful arms crossed, watching his master.

“Jemal, are all the windows closed? If this is as ancient as they say it is, the slightest breath of air might prove harmful. Indeed, we’re taking a risk by opening it at all. You said Malik had taken the papers out to examine them?”

“He wanted to copy them in case the originals didn’t survive.”

“It’s a terrible dilemma.” Ismail Hodja’s hands hovered over the box.

Jemal finished checking the windows. “All shut.”

Where Yakup was companionable, Kamil thought, Jemal was taci-turn, yet there was a bond between Ismail Hodja and his servant. Jemal sometimes seemed to know what Ismail Hodja meant even before he spoke, and Kamil had noticed how protective he was of the old sheikh.

Ismail Hodja took out a thin blade and inserted it into a nearly invisible seam at the side of the container, twisting slightly. Then he gently prodded and pulled until the lid slid lengthwise along a track. When the container was open, he sat for a long moment and simply stared at the contents.

Kamil sensed that everyone in the room was holding their breath.

Finally, Ismail Hodja shook himself and seemed to return from a distant place.

“You have no idea how much it means to me to be allowed to see this.”

He took a piece of writing paper and slid it slowly and carefully into the side of the container underneath the document, then lifted it and placed it on the table.

Kamil and Elif cautiously approached. On the paper was a short stack of irregular brown parchment pages covered in writing, their edges black as if they were slowly combusting.

Ismail Hodja examined the papers, careful not to touch them. “There appear to be twelve pages. Would you be willing to leave them with me? I can read them and then tell you what they contain.”

No one spoke.

“If you like I can try to translate them now, but it won’t be exact, you understand.”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Kamil said politely. “We’re all curious.” He was also worried about leaving the Proof of God unguarded. He wanted no harm to come to Ismail Hodja.

“Very well. Give me a few moments.”

They moved back to their seats and waited, watching the scholar’s bearded face hovering above the ancient text. He got up several times to consult a book, then sat again and continued to read, using a clean piece of paper to lift each page slowly and carefully so he could read the one beneath.

Kamil took his string of beads out of his pocket and ran them through his fingers.

Elif sat back with her eyes closed. Kamil wondered if she was asleep.

When Ismail Hodja finally looked up, it was with a puzzled frown. “I don’t understand this at all. I can read it, but…” He shook his head in consternation. “Is it possible?”

Elif sat up. “What is it?”

“In the name of the merciful and compassionate God,” Ismail Hodja read, “their reckoning comes ever closer to men, yet they turn aside heedlessly.” He lifted his head and said, “That is the opening verse of the al-Anbiya Sura, The Chapter of the Prophets.”

“It’s a copy of the Quran?” Kamil asked.

“No. If the text is to be believed, it was written six hundred years before the Quran was revealed to the Prophet Muhammad, blessings upon his name. Listen.” He continued to read. “To every renewed message from their Lord, they listen to it as in jest. They say, let him bring us a Sign like the ones that were sent to the Prophets of old.”

Ismail Hodja stopped and read quietly for a while, consulted a book, then nodded and began to read the text out loud again. “Before thee, the Apostles we sent were but men, to whom we granted inspiration. We have revealed for you a Book in which is a Message for you. This is the Message of those with me and those before me. He has ordained you the religion that He commanded to Noah, Abraham, and Moses, and revealed also to the servant of God, Jesus of Nazareth, whose testament lies revealed before you.”

“What?” Kamil rose and went over to stand beside Ismail Hodja. They both stared down at the text.

“It’s written by Jesus?” Elif asked, astounded.

“Apparently. It’s in an untutored hand, but it’s clearly legible. I’m certain that’s what it says.” He continued reading. “We have sent down to you a Book in which is a reminder for you. He it is who created the night and the day and the sun and the moon, each floating in the sky. We will place just balances upon the resurrection day, and no soul shall be wronged. Though it be the weight of a grain of mustard seed, we will bring it.”