John Hawks - The Dark River

It was evening when they reached the ancient city of Axum. The rain had stopped falling, but a light mist lingered in the air. Petros looked tense and worried. He kept glancing at Maya and Lumbroso. “Everyone get ready. The priests have been told that we’re coming.”

“What’s going to happen?” Lumbroso asked.

“I’ll do the talking at first. Maya should carry her sword to show she is a Tekelakai , but they might kill her if she takes it from the scabbard. Remember, these priests will die to protect the Ark. You can’t force your way into the sanctuary.”

The church compound in the center of the city mingled garish modern architecture with the gray stone outer walls of the Church of Saint Mary of Zion. Petros drove the Land Rover into a central courtyard and everyone got out. They stood in the mist waiting for something to happen as storm clouds passed overhead.

“There…” Petros whispered. “The Ark is there.” Maya looked to the left and saw a cube-shaped concrete building with an Ethiopian cross on the roof. Steel shutters and iron bars covered the narrow windows, and the door was covered with a red plastic tarp.

Suddenly, Ethiopian priests began to come out of the various buildings. They wore different-colored cloaks over their white robes and a wide variety of head coverings. Most of the priests were old and very skinny. But there were also three younger men carrying assault rifles who stood guard around the Land Rover like the three points of a triangle.

After about a dozen priests had appeared, a side door opened on the Mary of Zion church, and an old man came out wearing spotless white robes and a skullcap. Clutching a dula with a carved handle, he took one slow step and then another. His sandals made a faint shuffling sound on the flagstone pathway.

“This is the Tebaki ,” Petros explained. “The Ark’s guardian. He is the only person allowed into the sanctuary.”

When the guardian was about twenty feet from the Land Rover, he stopped and motioned with his hand. Petros approached the old man, bowed three times, and then launched into a passionate oration in Amharic. Occasionally, he gestured at Maya as if he were reciting a long list of her virtues. Petros’s speech lasted about ten minutes. When it was over, his face was covered with sweat. The priests waited for the guardian to say something. The old man’s head trembled as if he were considering the matter; then he spoke for a short time in Amharic.

Petros hurried back to Maya. “This is good,” he whispered. “Very promising. An old monk on Lake Tana has been saying that a powerful Tekelakai is coming to Ethiopia.”

“A woman or a man?” Maya asked.

“A man-perhaps-but there is some disagreement. The guardian will consider your request. He wants you to say something.”

“Tell me what to do, Petros.”

“Explain why you should be allowed into the sanctuary.”

What am I supposed to say? Maya wondered. I’m probably going to insult their traditions and get shot . Keeping her hands away from the sword, she took a few steps forward. As she bowed to the guardian, she remembered the phrase Petros had used back at the airport.

“ Egziabher Kale ,” she said in Amharic. If God wills it . Then she bowed again and returned to her place next to the Land Rover.

Petros’s shoulders relaxed as if a disaster had just been avoided. Simon Lumbroso was standing behind Maya, and she heard him chuckle. “ Brava ,” he said softly.

The guardian stood quietly for a moment, considering her words, and then he said something to Petros. Still clutching his walking staff, he turned and shuffled back to the main church followed by the other priests. Only the three young men with the assault rifles remained.

“What just happened?” Maya asked.

“They’re not going to kill us.”

“Well, that’s an accomplishment,” Lumbroso said.

“This is Ethiopia, so there must be a long conversation,” Petros said. “The guardian will make the decision, but he will hear everyone’s opinion on this matter.”

“What do we do now, Petros?”

“Let’s get some dinner and rest. We’ll come back late tonight and find out if you’re allowed inside.”

MAYA DIDN’T WANT to eat at a hotel where they might encounter tourists, so Petros drove to a bar and restaurant outside the city. After dinner, the place began to get crowded and two musicians stepped onto a small stage. One man carried a drum while his friend had a single-string instrument called a masinko that was played with a curved bow like a violin. They performed a few songs, but no one paid attention until a little boy led a blind woman into the room.

The woman had a massive body and long hair. She wore a white dress with a full skirt and several copper and silver necklaces. Sitting on a chair in the middle of the stage, she spread her legs slightly as if anchoring herself to the ground. Then she picked up a microphone and began to sing in a powerful voice that reached every part of the room.

“This is a praise singer. A very famous person here in the north,” Petros explained. “If you pay her, she’ll sing something nice about you.”

The drummer kept the beat going as he circulated through the crowd. He would accept money from a customer, learn a few things about him, and then return to the stage, where he whispered the information into the blind woman’s ear. Without missing a beat, she would sing about the honored man-lyrics that caused the man’s friends to laugh and pound the table with their hands.

After an hour of this entertainment, the band took a short break and the drummer approached Petros. “Perhaps we could sing for you and your friends.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“No, wait,” Maya said when the drummer began to walk away. As a Harlequin, she had lived a secret life under a series of false names. If she died, there would be no memorial to mark her passing. “My name is Maya,” she told the drummer, and handed him a wad of Ethiopian currency. “Perhaps your friend could make up a song for me.”

The drummer whispered in the blind woman’s ear and then returned to their table. “I am very sorry. Please excuse me. But she wants to speak to you.”

While people ordered more drinks and the bar girls wandered around looking for lonely men, Maya stepped onto the stage and sat on a folding chair. The drummer knelt beside the two women and translated as the singer pushed her thumb against Maya’s wrist like a doctor taking her pulse.

“Are you married?” the singer asked.

“No.”

“Where is your love?”

“I’m searching for him.”

“Is the journey difficult?”

“Yes. Very difficult.”

“I know this. I can feel this. You must cross the dark river.” The singer touched Maya’s ears, lips, and eyelids. “May the saints protect you from what you must hear and taste and see.”

The woman began singing without a microphone as Maya returned to the table. Surprised, the masinko player hurried back to the stage. The song for Maya was different from the praises that had been given earlier in the evening. The words came sad and slow and deep. The bar girls stopped laughing; the drinkers put down their beers. Even the waiters paused in the middle of the room, money still clutched in their hands.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, the song was over, and everything was the same as before. Petros’s eyes glistened with tears, but he turned away so that Maya couldn’t see him. He threw some money on the table and spoke in a harsh voice. “Come on. It’s time to get out of here.” Maya didn’t ask him for a translation. For once in her life, she had been given her own song. That was enough.