The Dark River

IT BEGAN TO rain as they drove across the mountains into northern Ethiopia. The road passed through a bleak landscape, bare of any vegetation except for some terraced farm plots and a few eucalyptus trees planted as a windbreak. The houses, schools, and police stations were all built with chunks of yellow sandstone. Stones were piled on the sheet-metal roofs, and stone walls ran up the hillside in a useless effort to stop erosion.

Maya kept the sword on her lap and stared out the window. In this area, the only points of interest were other human beings. In one village all the men wore blue rain boots. In another village, a three-year-old girl stood by a drainage ditch holding an egg between her thumb and forefinger. It was Friday and the farmers were heading toward the open-air market. Umbrellas bobbed up and down like an army of different-colored mushrooms marching up the hill.

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?”