Текст книги "The Seventh Scroll"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

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The lintel was low and Nicholas had to duck his head to pass under it,

but on the far side he raised it again to look about him in amazement.

The roof of the cavern was so high that it was lost in the gloom. The

rock walls -were covered with murals, a celestial host of angels and

archangels who flickered and wavered in the light of the candles and oil

lamps. They were partially obscured by the long tapestry banners that

hung down the walls, grimy with incense soot, their fringes frayed and

tattered. On one of these St. Michael rode a prancing white horse, on

another the Virgin knelt at the foot of the cross, while above her the

pate body of Christ bled from the wound of the Roman spear in his side.

This was the outer nave of the church. In the far wall ". the doorway to

the middle chamber was guarded by a massive pair of wooden doors that

stood open. The three of them crossed the stone floor, picking their way

between the kneeling petitioners and pilgrims in their rags and tatters,

in their misery and their religious ecstasy. In the feeble light of the

lamps and the blue haze of incense smoke they seemed lost souls

languishing eternally in the outer darkness of purgatory.

The visitors reached the set of three stone steps that led up to the

inner doors, but their way was blocked at the threshold by two robed

deacons in tall, flat-topped hats.

One of these addressed Tessay sternly.

"They will not even let us enter the qiddist, the middle chamber,'

Tessay told them regretfully. "Beyond that lies the maqdas, the Holy of

Holies." A

They peered past the guards, and in the gloom of the qiddist could just

make out the door to the inner sanctum.

"Only the ordained priests are allowed to enter the maqdas, for it

contains the tabot and the entrance to the tomb of the saint."

Disappointed and frustrated, they made their way out of the cavern and

back along the terrace. They ate their dinner under a sky full of stars.

The air was still stiflingly hot, and clouds of mosquitoes hovered just

out of range of the repellents with which they had all smeared their

exposed skin.

"And so, English, I have got you where you wanted to be. Now, how are

you going to find this animal that you have come so far to hunt?" The

vodka was making Boris belligerent again.

"At first light I want you to send out your trackers to work the country

downstream from here," Nicholas told him. "Dik-dik are usually active in

the early morning, and again late in the afternoon."

"You are teaching your grandpapa to skin a cat," said Boris,  angling

the metaphor. He poured himself another vodka.

"Tell them to check for spoor." Nicholas deliberately laboured his

point. "I imagine that the tracks of the striped variety will look very

similar to those of the common dikdik. If they find indications, then

they must sit quietly along the edge of the thickest patches of bush and

watch for any movement of the animals. Dik-dik are very territorial.

They won't stray far from their own turf."

"Da! Da! I will tell them. But what will you do? Will you spend the day

in camp with the ladies, English?" He grinned slyly. "If you are lucky,

you may soon not need separate huts?" He guffawed at his own wit,.and

Tessay , looked distressed and stood up with the excuse that she was

going to the kitchen hut to supervise the chef.

Nicholas ignored the boorish pleasantry. "Royan and I will work the

river in bush along the banks of the Dandera river. It looked very

promising habitat for dik-dik. Warn your people to keep clear of the

river. I don't want the game disturbed."

They left camp the next morning in the glimmer of the dawn. Nicholas

carried the Rigby rifle and a light day pack, and led Royan along the

bank of the Dandera. They moved slowly, stopping every dozen paces to

look and listen. The thickets were alive with the sounds and movements

of the small mammals and birds.

"The Ethiopians do not have a hunting tradition, and I imagine the monks

never disturb the wildlife here in the gorge." He pointed to the tracks

of a small antelope in the moist earth of the bank. "Bushbuck," he told

her. "Menelik's bushbuck. Unique to this part of the world. A much

sought-after trophy."

"Do you really expect to find your great-grandfather's dik-dik?" she

asked. "You seemed so determined when you discussed it with Boris."

"Of course not," he grinned. "I think the old man made it up. It should

rather have been named Harper's chimera.

It probably was the skin of a striped mongoose that he used after all.

We Harpers didn't get on in the world by always sticking to the literal

truth."

They paused to watch a Tacazze suribird fluttering over a bunch of

yellow blossoms high above them  in the canopy of the river in forest.

The tiny bird's plumage sparkled like a tiara of emeralds.

"Still, it gives us a wonderful excuse to fossick about in the bushes."

He glanced back to make certain that they were well clear of the camp,

and then gestured for her to sit beside him on a fallen treetrunk. "So,

let's get it clear in our minds what we are looking for. You tell me."

"We are looking for the remains of a funerary temple, or the ruins of

the necropolis where the workers lived while they were excavating

Pharaoh Mamose's tomb."

"Any sort of masonry or stonework," he agreed, especially Ily some sort

of column or monument."

Taita's stone testament," se noc "It's engraved or chiselled with

hieroglyphics. Probably badly weathered, fallen over, covered with

vegetation – I don't know. Anything at all. We are fishing blind in dark

waters."

"Well, why are we still sitting here? Let's start fishing." In the

middle of the morning Nicholas found the tracks of a dik-dik along the

river bank. They took up a position against the hole of one of the big

trees and sat quietly for a while in the shadows of the forest, until at

last they were rewarded by a glimpse of one of the tiny creatures. It

passed close to where they sat, wriggling its trunklike proboscis,

stepping daintily on its fill hooves, nipping a leaf from a low-hanging

branch, and munching it busily. However, its coat was a uniform drab

grey, unrelieved by stripes of any kind.

When it disappeared into the undergrowth, Nicholas stood up. "No luck.

Common variety," he whispered. "Let's get on."

A little after noon they reached the spot where the river issued from

between the pink flesh-coloured cliffs of the chasm. They explored these

as far as they were able before their way was blocked by the cliffs. The

rock fell straight into the flood, and there was no foothold at the

water's edge that would allow them to penetrate further.

They retreated downstream, and crossed to the far bank over a primitive

suspension bridge of lianas and hairy flax rope that Nicholas guessed

had been built by the monks from the monastery. Once again they tried to

push on into the chasm. Nicholas even attempted to wade around of pink

rock that barred the way, around the first bus but the current was too

strong and threatened to sweep him off his feet. He was forced to

abandon the attempt.

"If we can't get through there, then it's highly unlikely that Taita and

his workmen would have done so."

They went back as far as the hanging bridge and found a shady place

close to the water to eat the lunch that Tessay had packed for them. The

heat in the middle of the day was stupefying. Royan wet her cotton

neckerchief in the river and dabbed at her face as she lay beside him.

Nicholas lay on his back and studied every inch of the pink cliffs

through his binoculars. He was looking for any cleft or opening in their

smooth polished surfaces.

He spoke without lowering the binoculars. "Reading River God, it looks

as if Taita actually enlisted help to switch the bodies of Tanus, Great

Lion of Egypt, and the Pharaoh himself." He lowered the glasses and

looked at Royan. "I find that puzzling, for it would have been an

outrageous thing to do in terms of his period and belief Is that a fair

translation of the scrolls? Did Taita truly switch the bodies?"

She laughed and rolled over to face him. "Your old chum Wilbur has an

overheated imagination. The only basis for that whole bit of

story-telling is a single line in the scrolls. "To me he was more a king

than ever Pharaoh  been."' She rolled on to her back again. "That is a

good example of my objection to the book. He mixes fact and fantasy into

an inextricable stew. As far as I know and believe, Tanus rests in his

own tomb and the Pharaoh in his., "Pity!" Nicholas sighed and stuffed

the book back in his pack. "It was a romantic little touch that I

enjoyed." He glanced at his wrist-watch and stood up. "Come on, I want

to do a recon down the other spur of the valley. I spotted some

interesting ground up there whilst we were on the approach march

yesterday."

It was late afternoon when they arrived back at the camp, and Tessay

hurried out of her kitchen hut to greet them.

"I have been waiting for you to return. We have had an interesting

invitation from Jali Hora, the abbot. He has invited us to a banquet in

the monastery to celebrate Kateral the eve of Timkat. The servants have

set up your, shower, and the water is hot. There is just time for you to

change before we go down to the monastery."

The abbot sent a party of young acolytes to escort them to the

banqueting hall. These IMC_ , young men arrived in the short African

twilight, carrying torches to light the way.

Royan recognized one of these as Tamre, the epileptic boy. When she

singled him out for her warmest smile, he came forward shyly and offered

her a bouquet of wild flowers that he had picked from beside the river.

She was unprepared for this courtesy, and without thinking she thanked

him in Arabic.

"Shukran."

"Taffa"," the boy replied immediately, using the correct gender of the

response, and in an accent that told her instantly that he was fluent in

her language.

"How do you speak Arabic so well?" she asked, intrigued.

The boy hung his head with embarrassment and mumbled, "My mother is from

Massawa, on the Red Sea. It is the language of my childhood., When they

set off for the monastery, the boy monk followed Royan like a puppy.

Once more they descended the stairway down the cliff and came out on to

the torchlit terrace. The narrow cloisters were packed with humanity,

and as they made their way through the press, with the honour guard of

acolytes clearing a way for them, black faces called Amharic greetings

and black hands reached out to touch them.

They stooped through the low entrance to the outer nave of the

cathedral. The chamber was lit with oil lamps an torches, so that the

murals of saints and angels danced in the uncertain light. The stone

floor was covered with a carpet of freshly cut reeds and rushes, their

sweet herbal perfume leavening the heavy, smoky air. It seemed that the

entire brotherhood of monks were seated cross-legged on this spongy

carpet. They greeted the entrance of the little party of ferengi with

cries of welcome and shouts of benediction. Beside each seated figure

stood a flask of tej, the honey mead of the country. It was clear from

the happy, sweaty faces that the flasks had already done good service.

The visitors were led forward to a spot that had been left clear for

them directly in front of the wooden doors to the qkUst, the middle

chamber. Their escort urged them to sit and make themselves comfortable

in this space. As soon as they were settled, another party of acolytes

came in from the terrace bearing flasks of tej, and knelt to place a

separate pottery flask in front of each of them.

Tessay leaned across to whisper, "Better you let me sample this tej

before you try it. The strength and colour and taste vary in every place

that it is served, and some of it is ferocious." She raised her flask

and drank directly from the elongated neck. When she lowered the flask

she smiled, "This is a good brew. If you are careful, you will be all

right with it., The monks seated around them were urging them to drink,

and Nicholas raised his flask. The monks clapped and laughed as he

tasted the liquor. It was light and pleasant, with a strong bouquet of

wild honey. "Not bad!" he gave his opinion, but Tessay warned him,

"Later they will almost certainly offer you katikala. Be very careful of

that! It is distilled from fermented grain and it will take your head

off at the shoulders."

The monks were concentrating their hospitality on Royan now. The fac t

that she was a Coptic Christian, a true believer, had impressed them. It

was obvious also that her beauty had not gone entirely unremarked by

this company of holy and celibate men.

Nicholas leaned close to her, and whispered, "You will have to fake it

for their benefit. Hold it up to your lips and pretend to swallow, or

they will not leave you in peace."

As she lifted the&ask the monks hooted with delight and saluted her with

their own upraised flasks. She lowered the flask again, and whispered to

Nicholas.

"It's delicious. It tastes of honey."

"You broke your vow of abstinence!" he chided her laughing. "Did you?"

"Just a drop," she admitted, "and anyway I never made any vows."

The acolytes knelt in turn in front of each guest, offering them a bowl

of hot water in which to wash their right hands in preparation for the

feast.

Suddenly there was the sound of music and drums, and a band of musicians

filed through the open doors of the qiddist. They took up their

positions along the side walls of the chamber, while the congregation

craned expectantly to peer into its dim interior.

At last Jali Hora, the ancient abbot, appeared at the head of the steps.

He wore a full-length robe of crimson satin, with a gold

thread-embroidered stole around his shoulders. On his head was a massive

crown. Though it glittered like gold, Nicholas knew that it was gilt

brass, and the multi'coloured stones with– which it was set were just as

certainly glass and paste.

JahbHora raised his crook, which was surmounted by an ornate silver

cross, and a weighty silence fell upon the company.

"Now he will say the grace," Tessay told them, and bowedh'er head.

JahHora's grace was fervent and lengthy, his reedy falsetto punctuated

by devout responses from the monks.

When at last he came to the end, two splendidly robed debteras helped

Jali Hora down the stairs and seated him on his carved jimmera stool at

the head of the circle of senior deacons and priests.

The religious mood of the monks changed to one of festive bonhomie as a

procession of acolytes entered from the terrace, each of them bearing

upon his head a flat woven reed basket the size of a wagon wheel. They

placed one of these in the centre of each circle of guests.

Then at a signal from JahHora, acting in unison they whipped the lid off

each basket. A jovial cheer went up from the monks, for each basket

contained a shallow brass bowl that was filled from rim to rim with

round sheets of the flat grey unleavened iniera bread.

Two acolytes staggered in from the terrace, barely able to carry between

them a steaming brass pot filled with gallons of wat, a spicy stew of

fat mutton. Over each of the bowls of injera bread they tipped the great

pot and slopped gouts of the runny red-brown wat, the surface glistening

with hot grease.

The assembly fell on the food voraciously. They tore off wads of injera

and scooped up the mess of wat with it, and then stuffed the parcel into

their open mouths, which remained open as they chewed. They washed it

down with long swallows from the flasks, before wrapping themselves

another parcel of running wat. Soon every one of them was greasy to the

elbow and their chins were smeared thickly, as they chewed and drank and

shouted with laughter.

The serving acolytes dumped thick cakes of another type of injera beside

each guest. These were stiffer and less yeasty in taste, friable and

crumbling, unlike the latex rubber consistency of the thin grey sheets

of the first kind.

Nicholas and Royan tried to show their appreciation of the food without

coating themselves with layers of it as the oth _rs were doing. Despite

its appearance the wat was  really rather tasty, and the dry yellow

injera helped to cut the grease.

The communal brass bowls were emptied in remarkably short order. Only

the churned up mess of bread and grease remained when the acolytes came

tottering in under the weight of another set of pots, this time filled

to overflowing with curried chicken wat. This was splashed into the

bowls on top of the remains of the mutton, and again the monks had at

it.

While they gobbled up the chicken, the tej flasks were replenished and

the monks became more raucous.

"I don't think I can take much more of this," Royan told Nicholas

queasily.

"Close your eyes and think of England," he advised her.

"You are the star of the evening. They aren't going to let you escape."

As soon as the chicken was eaten, the servers were back with fresh pots,

this time brimming with fiery beef wat. They dumped this on the remnants

of both the mutton and the chicken.

The monk in the circle opposite Royan emptied his flask, and when an

acolyte tried to refill it, he waved the lad away with a shout of,

"Katikala!'

The -cry was taken up by the other monks. "Katikala!

Katikalar The acolytes hurried out and returned with dozens of bottles

of the gin-clear liquor and brass bowls the size of tea cups.

"This is the stuff to be careful of," Tessay told them.

Surreptitiously both Nicholas and Royan were able to dribble the

contents of their bowls into the mat of reeds on which they were

sitting, but the monks guzzled theirs down greedily.

"Boris is getting his share," Nicholas remarked to Royan. The Russian

was red-faced and sweating, grinnin 9 like an idiot as he downed another

bowlful.

Enlivened by the katikala the monks started playing a game. One of them

would wrap a packet of beef wat with a sheet of injera, and then, as it

dripped fat from his poised right hand, he would turn to the monk

beside. The victim would open his mouth until his jaws were at full

stretch, and the packet would be stuffed into it by his considerate

neighbour. The morsel was, of course, as large as a human gape could

possibly accommodate, and in order to engulf it the victim had to risk

death by asphyxiation.

The rules of the game seemed to be that he was not allowed to use his

hands to get it into his own mouth, neither should he dribble down the

front of his robe, nor splutter gravy over those seated near to him. His

contortions, together with his gulping and choking and gasping for air,

were the source of uncontrollable hilarity. When at last he succeeded in

getting it down, a brass bowl of katikala was held to his lips as a

reward. He was expected to send the contents in the same direction as

the parcel of injera.

Jali Hora, by now warmed with tej and kadkala, lurched to his feet. In

his right hand he held aloft a streaming parcel of injera. As he began

an unsteady progress across the chamber, with his shiny crown awry, they

did not at first realize his intentions. The entire company'watched him

with interest.

Then suddenly Royan stiffened and whispered with horror, "No! Please,

no. Save me, Nicky. Don't let this happen to me."

"This is the price you pay for being the leading lady," he told her.

Jali Hora was making his rather erratic way towards where she sat. The

gravy from the morsel he carried for her was trickling down his forearm

and dripping from his elbow.

The band standing along the side wall struck up a lively air. As the

abbot came to a halt in front of Royan, rocking on his suspension like

an ancien " carriage, they fiddled and fifed and the drummers broke out

in a frenzy.

The abbot presented his gift, and with one last despairing glance at

Nicholas Royan faced the inevitable. She closed her eyes and opened her

mouth.

To roars of encouragement and the urgings of LIFE and drum, she

struggled and chewed. Her face turned rosy and her eyes watered. At one

point Nicholas thought she would admit defeat and spit it out on to the

reed-covered have to floor. But slowly and courageously, a bit at a

time, she forced it down and then fell back exhausted.

Her audience, clapping and hooting loved every moment of it. The abbot

sank stiffly to his knees in front of her and embraced her, almost

losing his crown in the ess. Then without relinquishing his embrace proc

he made himself a place beside her.

"It looks as though you have made another conquest," Nicholas told her

dryly. "I think he will be on your lap at moment, if you don't duck and

run." any Royan reacted swiftly. She reached across and grabbed a bottle

of kadkala, and a bowl which she filled to the brim.

"Drink it up, Pops!" she told him, and held the bowl to his lips. Jab

Hora accepted the challenge, but he had to release her to drink from her

hand.

Suddenly Royan started so violently that she spilled what was left in

the bowl down the old man's robe. The blood drained from her face and

she began to tremble as though in a high fever as she stared at Jab

Hora's crown, which had slipped forward over his eyes.

What is it?" Nicholas demanded quietly but urgently, and he reached

across to steady her with a hand on her arm. Nobody else in the chamber

had noticed her distress, but he was fully attuned to her moods by now.

Still staring ashen-faced at the crown, she dropped the bowl and reached

down and grasped his wrist. He was startled by her strength. Her grip

was painful,,and he saw that she had driven her nails into his flesh so

hard that she had broken the skin.

"Look at his crown! The jewel! The blue jewel!" she gasped.

He saw it then, amongst the gaudy shards of glass and pebbles of

semi-precious garnets and rock crystal. The size of a silver dollar, it

was a seal of blue ceramic, perfectly round, and baked to a hard,

impervious finish. In the centre of the disc was an etching of an

Egyptian war chariot, and above it the distinctive and unmistakable

outline of the hawk with the broken wing. Around the circumference was a

legend engraved in hieroglyphics. It took him only a few moments to read

it to himself:

I COMMAND TEN THOUSAND CHARIOTS.

I AM TAITA, MASTER OF THE ROYAL HORSE.

Royan desperately wanted to escape from the oppressive atmosphere of the

cavern. The parcel of wat that the abbot had forced upon her had mixed

heavily with the few mouthfuls of tej she had swallowed, and this

feeling in Turn was aggravated by the smell of the dirty food bowls

thick with congealing grease and the fumes of raw katikala.

if Already some of the monks were puking drunk, and the smell of vomit

added to the cloying miasma of incense smoke within the chamber.

However, she was still the centre of the abbot's attention. He sat

beside her stroking her bare arm and reciting garbled extracts from the

Amharic scriptures; Tessay had long ago given up translating for her.

Royan looked hopefully at Nicholas but he was withdrawn and silent,

seeming oblivious of his surroundings. She knew that he was thinking

about the ceramic seal in the abbot's  crown, for his eyes kept

returning thoughtfully to it.

She wanted to be alone with him to discuss this extraordinary discovery.

Her excitement outweighed the distress of her overloaded stomach. She

felt her cheeks flushed with it. Every time she looked up at the old

man's crown her heart fluttered, and she had to make an effort to stop

herself reaching up, seizing the shiny blue seal and ripping it from its

setting to examine it more closely.

She knew how unwise it was to draw attention to the scrap of ceramic,

but when she glanced across the circle she saw that Boris was far past

noticing anything other than the bowl of kadkala in his hand. In the end

it was who gave her the excuse for which she had been Boris seeking. He

tried to get to his feet, but his legs collapsed under him. He sagged

forward quite gracefully, and his face dropped into the bowl of

grease-sodden injera bread.

He lay there snoring noisily, and Tessay appealed to Nicholas.

"Alto Nicholas, what am I to do?"

Nicholas considered the unlovely spectacle of the rate hunter. There

were scraps of bread and beef stew prost sticking like confetti in his

cropped ginger hair.

"I rather suspect Prince Charming has had enough for one night the

murmured.

stood up, stooped over Boris and gripped one wrist.

He With a sudden jerk he lifted him into a sitting position, nd then

heaved him upright and over his shoulder in a a fireman's lift.

"Good night, all!" he told the assembled monks, very few of whom were in

any condition to respond. Then he carried Boris away, draped over his

shoulders with head and feet dangling. The two women had to hurry to

keep up with Nicholas as he strode down the terrace and then up the

stone stairway without a pause.

"I did not realize Alto Nicholas was so strong," Tessay panted, for the

stairs were steep and the pace was hard.

didn't either," Royan admitted. She experienced a ridiculous proprietary

pride in his feat, and smiled at herself in the darkness as they

approached the camp.

"Don't be silly," she admonished herself. "He isn't yours to boast

about." Nicholas threw his burden down on Boris's own bed in thatched

hut and stood back panting heavily, the sweat trickling down his cheeks.

"That's a pretty good recipe for a heart attack," he gasped.

Boris groaned, rolled over and vomited copiously over his pillows and

bedlinen.

"On that pleasant note I will bid you all goodnight and sweet dreams,'

Nicholas told Tessay, stepping out of the hut into the warm African

night.

He breathed in the smell of the forest and the river with relief, and

then turned to Royan as she gripped his arm.

"Did you see-' she burst out excitedly, but he laid his fingers on her

lips to silence her, and with a cautionary frown in the direction of

Boris's hut led her away to her own hut.

"Did you see it?" she demanded, unable to contain herself longer. "Could

you read it?"

"'I command ten thousand chariots,"' he recited.

"'I am Taita, master of the royal horse,"' she completed it for him. "He

was here. Oh, Nicky! He was here. Taita was here. That's the proof we

wanted. Now we know that we are not wasting our time."

She flopped down on her camp bed and hugged herself ecstatically. "Do

you think the abbot will let us examine the sealT

He shook his head, "My guess is no. The crown is one of the monastery

treasures. Even for you, his favourite lady, I don't think he would do

it. Anyway, it would not be wise to show any great interest in it. Jali

Hora obviously does not have any idea of its significance. Apart from

that, we don't want to alert Boris."

suppose you are right." She moved over on the bed to make room for him.

"Sit down."

He sat down beside her, and she asked, "Where do you suppose the seal

came from? Who found it? Where, and when?"

"Steady on, dear girl. That's four questions in one, and I don't have an

answer to any of them."

"Guess!" she invited him. "Speculate! Throw some ideas around!'

"Very well," he agreed. "The seal was manufactured in Hong Kong. There

is a little factory there that turns them out by the thousands. Jali

Hora bought it from a souvenir store in Luxor when he was on holiday in

Egypt last month."

She punched his arm, hard. "Be serious," she ordered.

 can do better," he invited her, rubbing

"Let's hear if yo his arm.

"Okay, here I go. Taita dropped the seal here in the gorge while he was

working on the construction of Pharaoh's tomb. Three thousand years

later an old monk, one of the very first to live here at the monastery,

picked it up. Of course, he could not read the hieroglyphics. He -took

it to the abbot, who declared it to be a relic of St. Frumentius, and

had it set in the crown."

"And they all lived happily ever after," Nicholas agreed.

"Not a bad shot."

ny holes?" she demanded, and he shook Can you find a head. "Then you

agree that this proves that Taita really his was here, and that it

proves our theories are correct?" -Proves" is too strong a word. Let's

just say that it points in that direction," he demurred.

She wriggled around on the bed to face him squarely.

"Oh, Nicky, I am so excited. I swear I will not be able to sleep a wink

tonight. I just can't wait for tomorrow, to get out there and start

searching again."

Her eyes were bright, and her cheeks flushed a warm rosy brown. Her lips

were parted, and he could see the pink tip of her tongue between them.

This time he could not stop himself. He leaned very slowly towards her,

treating her gently, giving her every opportunity to pull away if she

wished to avoid him. She did not move, but her shining expression turned

slowly to one of apprehension. She stared into his eyes, as if seeking

something, some reassurance.

When their lips were an inch apart, Nicholas stopped, and it was she who

made the last movement. She brought their mouths together.

At first it was soft, just a light mingling of their breath, and then it

became harsher, more urgent. For a long, heartstopping moment they

devoured each other, and her mouth tasted soft and sweet as ripe fruit.

Then suddenly she whimpered, and with a huge effort of will tore herself

out of his arms. They stared at each other, both of them shaken and

confused.

"No," she whispered. "Please, Nicky, not yet. I am not ready yet."

He picked up her hand and turned it between his palms. Then lightly he

kissed the tips of her fingers, savouring the smell and the taste of her

skin.

"I'll see you in the morning." He dropped her hand and stood up. "Early.

Be ready!the said, and stooped out through the doorway of the hut.

was dressing the next morning he heard her moving a round in her hut,

and when he whistled softly at her door she stepped out to meet him,

dressed and eager to start.

"Boris is not awake yet,'Tessay told them as she served their breakfast.

"Now that is a great surprise to me," Nicholas said, without looking up

from his plate. He and Royan were still slightly awkward in each other's

presence, remembering the circumstances in which they had parted the

previous evening. However, as Nicholas slung the rifle and the pack 0