T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

As the monk turned to go, Nabil fell in beside Wynn and said softly, “Father Benyamin is a very famous teacher. He has been named head of this monastery, the youngest ever. Did he say anything?”

“Not a single word to me.” Wynn pointed with his chin to where the monk continued his soft conversation with Sybel.

“He spoke with your sister? About what?”

Before Wynn could respond, however, the entourage came to a halt as one of the hermit doors creaked open. A man of impossible years hobbled out, blinking in the light. And smiling. He waved one claw in the air, calling to them with the rusty sound of a crow taking flight. One of the younger monks rushed forward and helped him down the stairs. The man scarcely saw him. He used the young man as a crutch, but kept his eyes focused upon the group. Even the monastery’s new abbot appeared poleaxed by the hermit’s sudden appearance.

The man was scarcely higher than a gnome, shriveled and dried as desiccated fruit. He stopped before Wynn and spoke words that set all the monks to chattering. Nabil stammered, “The father is inviting you to visit his cell.”

Wynn would have paid good money to do nothing of the sort. “Is this normal?”

“Please, sir, he is doing you great honor. The men in these cells, they are legends.” The monks behind Nabil chirruped a musical mystery. “I beg you, do as he asks.”

Impatiently the old man plucked at Wynn’s shirt. His touch was feather-light, soft as death. Even so, Wynn found himself drawn forward. He glanced behind him, a swift cast that swept up several images-Sybel weeping now as Father Benyamin leaned over and spoke in delicate tones, the other monks watching with the wonder of men seeing the sun set at noon, Nabil following a few paces behind him.

“Father Marak is known throughout all Egypt,” Nabil continued. “Seven years ago he fell very ill. He was then the abbot of Bishoy, another monastery not far from here. For days he lay as one dead. He was given the final sacrament. Then he recovered. No one could explain it. Father Marak resigned as abbot, saying he would spend whatever days he had left praying here for a fallen world.”

The desert cell was beyond austere. And small. There was scarcely room for Wynn to stand up straight. The ceiling sloped downward and formed a tight little alcove around a single window, ten inches to a side. Wynn could reach out and touch all four crumbling stone walls, but did not, for fear of making the space smaller still. A tallow cross was burned into the ceiling. A wooden cross hung upon the eastern wall. A bed of leather straps was tucked under the window overhang. Two blankets. A wooden bookstand stood at shoulder height, pointed so that the reader could look out the square window and inspect a forsaken world. An icon hung on the eastern wall, so old the face was no longer visible. Wynn could not even say if he stared at the picture of a man or woman. It did not matter. After his years in this cell, the old monk no doubt saw it in his dreams.

The monk shuffled in closer beside him. His odor was like that of dry earth, strong but parched. Wynn looked over his head to where Nabil stood in the doorway. “Should I offer him money?”

“Oh no, it would be a great insult. If you wish, there is an offering urn by the front gate.”

“Fine. Can we go back. .” He was halted by the monk suddenly touching his arm and speaking. The monk’s voice sounded like the reluctant opening of a rusty gate.

Nabil’s eyes widened further still.

When Nabil did not translate, the old man turned, inspected Nabil’s face, and cackled. He offered Wynn a claw of benediction, then ushered him out.

Wynn stepped back into the desert heat, heard the cell door close behind him with a permanent thunk, and listened to the monk cackling from within. “What did he say?”

Nabil’s eyes rested upon the closed cell door. “That you will do great deeds,” he replied numbly. “If only you can come to remember your own name.”

Thursday

By the time the conference ended and the gathering dispersed, the afternoon was crowned in amber heat. Wynn stood by the car, partially sheltered by the surrounding palms, and watched as a gardener passed along a nearby row of young plants. He splashed a cupful upon each in turn, carrying the water in an urn on his back. Sparrows followed in panicked droves, drinking before the earth could suck the surface dry and filling the air with the thunder of tiny wings. Almost all the diplomats had already departed, leaving the place increasingly empty and isolated. Still there was no sign of Kay Trilling, Sybel, or Nabil.

Wynn felt tormented by an emptiness so vast he could not take it in, much less name it. Even the rising wind carried messages, if only Wynn had the wisdom to understand. Even the dove’s murmur, and the flickering script of tree shadow upon sand. All mysteries there to be unlocked, if only he were a better man.

All the borders that had safely defined his carefully constructed world had been stripped away. Instead of standing on his veranda, watching another slow, sultry Florida afternoon spread gold on the western bay, he was trapped in a place of angry wind and fathomless desert reaches. Wynn was impatient to return to safety, even if it meant an air-conditioned hotel cage and the grinding din of a third-world city. Anywhere else was better than facing the yellow-tinted mirrors of sand and heat.

“There you are.” Kay Trilling walked over. Sybel followed a few steps behind, shadowed by Nabil. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but the two women seemed to share one expression, gaunt and tight and robbed of any satisfaction. “We’re ready.”

For once Kay appeared too weary to spear him with hostility. Wynn watched as Nabil reluctantly disengaged himself from Sybel’s side, and he knew Nabil had still been trying to find out what the monk had told her.

Wynn said to his sister, “You know what I hate most about this place? How they’ve managed to make a single day seem a hundred years long.”

They drove down the long central lane, past the monks bent over in timeless labor, through the gates, and out into the desert. Wynn leaned forward and asked Nabil, “I still don’t understand how those monks knew enough to talk to us like that. Did somebody ask you about us earlier?”

“The monks do not ask such questions of anyone save the supplicant.”

“They must have heard about the conference,” Wynn said, struggling to make the day’s experiences fit into the comforting box of his world. “And just assumed who we were.”

“Mr. Bryant.” Nabil’s voice held a hint of quiet humor. “The monk who spoke with you has not been out of his cell for years.”

“At least, that’s what the monks told you.”

“Why would they lie?”

“There has to be some explanation.”

“Of course, Mr. Bryant.” Nabil smiled at the sun-drenched road. Neither Sybel nor Kay Trilling gave any indication that they even heard the exchange. “Of course.”

A half hour into the return journey, the winds picked up. Dust and pellets attacked the car, acrid and hissing. The dust tainted Wynn’s nose and mouth and eyes, even with all the windows tightly closed. Nabil slowed and pressed on through the swirling clouds, driving now by feel.

The dunes unfurled like great spinning flags, which slammed into the car. The wind buffeted and shook, then departed. All became calm once more, the sky utterly empty.

Then over the sound of the motor Wynn heard the growl. A desert beast was rising from its lair, hungry and mordant. Nabil gunned the motor. The car took the next pothole like a ski jump.

When the senator complained, Nabil replied, “Either we reach the main highway before it hits, or we pull over and sit out the storm.”