Elizabeth Peters - A River in the Sky

David made an abortive movement, as if to turn. Ramses caught his arm. “Keep walking. It’s all right. He’s not wearing a uniform.”

The man’s sheepskin cap and loose garment were those of a local, and he moved with the assurance of someone who was used to the terrain, using a stout staff to steady his steps on the slope. As he came closer Ramses saw a dark, weather-beaten face marked by heavy gray brows and framed by a grizzled beard. Hoping his own pathetic beard would pass muster, Ramses was about to voice a greeting when the man spoke first.

“You are the ones they are looking for.”

It was at that critical moment that David buckled at the knees and collapsed.

Ramses’s only weapons were his hands and feet. The bag he carried was too light to inflict an injury. He gathered himself together; the other man, reading his intention, jumped back and raised his staff.

“No! I am a friend, I come to warn you. See!” He pushed his sleeve up. “I am a Son of Abraham.”

THE SUN WAS LOW in the west when they reached the ruined castle and passed through a narrow gate flanked by massive towers.

“They will not find you here,” their newfound ally said. “There are many places to hide. Stay until someone comes for you.”

Ramses had had no choice but to trust him. He had set a pace that left both of them too out of breath for conversation or questions. David had to be supported most of the way and actually carried the last difficult fifty feet; he was barely conscious when they lowered him to the ground.

“It is the fever,” their guide said, putting a calloused hand on David’s forehead. “It will pass in time…Or not. He is young and strong, it is likely he will live.”

“Wait,” Ramses said. “How did you know who we were? Why are you helping us? What is your name?”

“It is better you do not know my name. The word went out, we were told to watch for you. I will pass the word now to the others. There are Turks”-he spat neatly on the ground-“along the road all the way to Jerusalem. I must return, there are those in the villages who would sell you if they could. Take this.”

He handed Ramses the bag he carried, and then he was gone.

The bag contained a goatskin of water, a single piece of bread, and a bunch of grapes-possibly the remains of the man’s midday meal. Ramses made David as comfortable as he could, and got him to drink a little water. The shadows inside the high walls were deepening, and he wanted to explore the place before dark.

It was still a formidable fortress. There were two enclosing walls, with narrow gates flanked by towers; inside the inner wall was a larger tower or keep, the last place of defense. The ground was littered with stones of various sizes, from pebbles to fragmented building blocks, and with animal spoor. There was no sign of human habitation; Ramses wondered if the place was considered haunted or demon-ridden. There were certainly ample hiding places; the rooms in the lower floors of the keep were still intact.

He went back to David, who was deep in troubled sleep and burning with fever. It was impossible to know what variety of fever. There were too many sources of infection, from the water to insect bites. One thing was sure: they wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

He rummaged in his bag and located the box of medical supplies, lighting one of their few remaining matches to inspect the contents. The only thing he found that might be helpful was a bottle of aspirin. Wasn’t that supposed to lower fevers? He wished he had paid more attention to his mother’s lectures. He decided it couldn’t do any harm, and managed to get David to swallow one, with a sip of water. It was pitch-dark by then and he decided it would be too dangerous to move David farther into the fortress. Working by feel, he took out the galabeeyahs and spread them around and under David. It was the only covering he could provide; they had left their European clothing with Majida.

Lying on his back staring up at a sky brilliant with stars, he knew he wouldn’t be able to get the sleep he needed. Owls hooted mournfully. The cooling temperature produced weird creaks and snapping sounds. Small nocturnal animals began to prowl. At least they were small, to judge by the patter of their feet. He tried to remember whether there were still wolves in the region.

Every now and then he dozed off, to be jarred awake by a movement or muttered word from David. The fever hadn’t broken. That meant, if he remembered correctly, that it wasn’t malaria. Which left only a dozen unknown possibilities. He felt so damned helpless. If David wasn’t better by morning, he would have to go for help, that’s all there was to it. Better to risk recapture than have his best friend die for lack of care. His anonymous guide had spoken of villages. He had observed several of them along the way.

Exhaustion, physical and emotional, finally sent him into deeper slumber. He was jarred out of it by a sound that was different from the ones he had grown used to-the crunch of stone under the foot of a heavier creature than a rat or a fox. The air was moist with dew; it smelled of dawn. He lay perfectly still, listening and hoping. Soldiers would not have moved so quietly. His guide had promised someone would come…

Another footstep and then another. Ramses decided to risk it.

“The Sons of Abraham,” he said softly, and repeated the words in Arabic.

He heard a sharp intake of breath and then a long exhalation, like a sigh of relief. Ramses got slowly to his feet. He could see a little now, make out a darker form in the darkness. The voice that answered him was that of a man, still young to judge by its pitch and very nervous, to judge by its unsteadiness.

“Friend, yes. I bring food.”

Ramses came out of the shadow of the buttress. “Water?” he asked. “My friend is-”

“Sick, yes. I bring medicine.”

In the first flush of light Ramses made out the fellow’s features. He was young, his beard hardly more developed than that of Ramses, his dark eyes wide.

“You speak good English,” Ramses said, taking the woven basket he was offered.

“A little.” The boy bent over David, who lay still, breathing heavily. “It is the fever, yes. The healer says to put this in water and let him drink.”

He took a bundle of dried plants from the basket. Ramses rubbed a pinch between thumb and forefinger and smelled, then tasted it. It was an herb of some sort, strongly scented. The taste was sharp but not unpleasantly so.

“He not go on today,” the boy said. “Write. I take it.”

“What?” Ramses asked. “I don’t understand. Write?”

As the light strengthened, the boy’s uneasiness increased. He threw up his hands in an unmistakable gesture of frustration. “Write a message, to those who await you. Tell them to come for you. I will see that it reaches them.”

He had spoken Hebrew.

WE WERE RUDELY AWAKENED next morning by persistent knocking. Leaving Emerson cursing and flailing about, I hastily assumed dressing gown and slippers and went to the door. The room was gray with predawn light; it was still very early. It was obvious to me that something of a serious nature had occurred. A variety of hideous images flooded my mind, many of them having to do with my son. I flung the door open.

The manager stood on the threshold. He was in a state of great agitation and barely coherent. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Emerson, but there are persons who insist on speaking with your husband. Something of a serious nature has occurred!”

“Damnation!” shouted Emerson from the bed. “What sort of hotel is this, when a man cannot-”

“Do stop shouting, Emerson. Something of a serious nature has occurred. I will ascertain its precise nature, but I suggest you rise at once.”