Edward Whittemore - Nile Shadows

I've seen one of those before, thought Joe. In pictures anyway. The Assyrians used them back at the beginning of the Iron Age when they were a-thundering out of the north, taking their turn as the much a-feared barbarians of the day.

Which last war were you referring to? he shouted.

How's that? yelled Bletchley.

I said, which last war? Whose? The one you said was utterly senseless when we look back on it?

Oh, well anybody's. What difference does it make? Don't all last wars look pretty much the same when you look back at them? Murder and mutilation and wreckage, and all for what?

For what? thought Joe. What? It's a regular Whatley, that's what.

Bletchley glanced at him sideways.

Are you all right? he yelled.

Not particularly, shouted Joe, but listen. What are you really afraid of, Bletchley? Can you tell me that?

What do you mean? In what context?

Personal context. Deep down, right there where you are in this world. What are you really afraid of?

The Germans winning the war, yelled Bletchley. I'd do anything to keep that from happening.

And that's surely reasonable, thought Joe, surely sound and sane and then some. The man doesn't want to let the Mongols in. Of course that anything of his is a warning to me in regard to Stern, but who would argue with keeping out these mechanized barbarians who go by the name of Nazis?

Bletchley? he shouted. Have you ever wondered why the Germans make so much out of defending the Eastern Front against the barbarians? National destiny, holy assignment, racial mission and so forth? Why is it the Mongols of this world always tell us they're defending us against the Mongols?

Human nature, yelled Bletchley. Men always justify wars by claiming they're fighting the barbarians. What they don't bother to add is that the reason wars are continuous in history is because the barbarians are inside us. Have you ever been in a crowd when it's transforming itself into a mob? There's a Genghis Khan on every side of you. Give any one of them a horde of men on horseback and you'd see the thirteenth century in flames again.

And that's the truth, thought Joe. And Bletchley is just plain sound today, his thinking as clear as a bell.

***

Soon they were passing other strange relics cast off in the wastes.

An abandoned battery of Napoleonic muzzle loaders loomed up beside them, facing south toward the heart of the Dark Continent, stubby three-pounders mired in the sand, the debris of another civilizing adventure in Africa. But apparently the muzzle loaders had been no match in their day for Lord Nelson's swift barkentines, one of which had brilliantly outmaneuvered Napoleon's cannons and was now resting comfortably on its side behind them, clearly commanding a superior field of fire.

A barkentine way out here in the desert, thought Joe. Extraordinary when you think of it, even though the winds of the Mediterranean have always been known for their treachery. But what can match man's, and I wonder what the local bedouin make of the sight? Probably they think Europeans are a little daft.

A single arch from an ancient Roman aqueduct came into view, a magnificent arch fully one hundred feet high and leading east or west as the case might be, barren desert stretching off in both directions. While not far away the solid surface of a well-engineered Roman road emerged from a sand dune and traveled at least ten feet before being swallowed up in another sand dune. There were also whole fleets of glittering sunspots on the sand, although they didn't seem to be going anywhere either.

Lord Nelson also had one eye, thought Joe.

But by far the most awesome spectacle Joe saw was an enormous siege machine bristling with fire buckets and catapults and battering rams, covered with animal skins in receding tiers so that it had roughly the shape of a pyramid, an eagle's nest at the top, a superb lookout for a mad tyrant to look down upon the nonexistent city he was about to destroy in the desert. Or a superb lookout for looking down upon all nonexistent cities in the world for a thousand years, why not. The thousand-year Third Reich in the wastes of nowhere. . in all its stunning glory.

Leaders are a wondrous invention, thought Joe. What would we ever do without them? How would we ever get the slaughter done?

Bletchley shifted gears. As they rattled along Joe's thoughts kept returning to the primitive siege machine they had passed, that huge deathly apparition all by itself in the desert, waiting to lay siege. The image of it haunted him and he couldn't get it out of his mind. Was it because there had been a suggestion the machine was made of human skulls? A pyramid of skulls? The Nazis' final solution to life, as Liffy had said? Or was it simply because of all the monuments reared by man in those desolate sun-blasted wastes, it was the only one that didn't look abandoned and out of place?

Joe shivered.

It's ghastly, he thought. Ghastly.

The air snapped. Bletchley was shifting gears.

How are you feeling? It's not much farther.

Good, I couldn't go much farther. It's exhausting out here, frightening too.

Bletchley slowed.

Because it's all bleached bones and illusions, thought Joe.

They stopped. The engine died.

Call of nature, said Bletchley quietly. I'll only be a moment.

***

They started off again. Joe drifted around in his seat, occasionally humming one of Liffy's tunes.

Was the Monastery ever actually a monastery? he shouted at some point.

You mean before we took it over? yelled Bletchley. Well St Anthony is known to have spent time in this part of the desert, but since St Anthony had visions, I don't think anyone could say with any certainty where he was abusing his flesh all the time. It might be that one of his caves is down in the bowels of the Monastery somewhere, but who knows? St Anthony's chains were of the invisible kind.

The water got to him, thought Joe. Bad water or no water or even a change of water can bring on an advanced case of hallucinations out here. Or visions, as saints raving in the wilderness used to call them.

Joe drifted off. A moment later his head snapped back. The track was climbing, Bletchley shifting gears.

What's that up ahead?

We're there, yelled Bletchley. That's the gate to the back entrance. Most of the Monastery is up above, you can't really see it very well from down here.

They drew up in a small paved courtyard where other military vehicles, were parked. High walls of rough masonry reared above them, narrow slits cut into them. The walls overhead receded away from the courtyard, so that it was impossible to guess how far up they went.

Not all that far, whispered Bletchley, it's not really that big a place. It just looks big because it was built around the top of a small mountain, a hill really.

Round hill?

Yes.

Probably shaped like a head, thought Joe. Bowels and intestines and other internal organs in hiding down below, along with St Anthony's memories and Whatley's maps.

This way, whispered Bletchley.

Bletchley unlocked a wooden door and they passed through a short tunnel into another courtyard, this one larger and unpaved, with cloisters running along its sides. Men with long staves in their hands appeared languidly from amongst the shadows under the colonnades, strolling up to take a look at Joe and then retiring out of sight somewhere, while still others went on milling around the courtyard rather like pilgrims who had arrived unexpectedly at some way station on their journey, ahead of schedule, and were unsure what to do next. The pilgrims seemed to be wearing every conceivable kind of costume, both uniforms and civilian clothes, some dressed as lawyers and businessmen and bankers and professors, others as commandos or balloonists or even bedouin. But all of them without exception, the moment they caught sight of Bletchley, turned away and withdrew slightly, showing only their backs.