Текст книги "The Seventh Scroll"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 42 страниц)

as the bodyguards of the chieftains fired their weapons in the air.

Some of them were armed with automatic rifles, and the clatter of AK-47

fire blended with the thunder of ancient black powder muzzle-loaders.

Clouds of blue gunsmoke blew over the congregation, and bullets

ricocheted from the cliff and sang away over the gorge. Women shrieked

and utulated, an eerie, blood-chilling sound. The men's faces were

alight with the fires of religious fervour.

They fell to their knees and lifted their hands high in adoration,

chanting and crying out to God for blessing.

The women held their infants aloft, and tears of religious frenzy

streaked their dark cheeks.

From the gateway of the underground church emerged a procession of

priests and monks. First came the debteras in long white robes, and then

the acolytes who were to be baptized at the riverside. Royan recognized

Tamre, his long gangling frame standing a head above the boys around

him.

She waved over the crowd and he saw her and grinned shyly before he

followed the debteras on to the pathway to the river.

By this time night was falling. The depths of the cauldron were obscured

by shadows, and hanging over it the sky was a purple canopy pricked by

the first bright stars.

At the head of the pathway burned a brass brazier. As each of the

priests passed it he thrust his unlit torch into the flames and, as soon

as it flared, he held it aloft.

Like a stream of molten lava the torchlit procession began to uncoil

down the cliff face, the priests chanting dolefully and the drums

booming and echoing from the cliffs across the river.

Following the baptism candidates through the stone gateway came the

ordained priests in their tawdry robes, bearing the processional crosses

of silver and glittering brass, and the banners of embroidered silk,

with their depictions of the saints in the agony of martyrdom and the

ecstasy of adoration. They clanged their bells and blew their fifes, and

sweated and chanted until their eyes rolled white in dark faces.

Behind them, home by two priests in the most sumptuous robes and tall,

jewel-encrusted head-dresses, came the tabot. The Ark of the Tabernacle

was covered with a crimson cloth that hung to the ground, for it was too

holy to be desecrated by the gaze of the profane.

The worshippers threw themselves down upon the ground in fresh paroxysms

of adoration. Even the chiefs prostrated themselves upon the soiled

pavement of the terrace, and some of them wept with the fervour of their

belief.

Last in the procession came Jali Hora, wearing not the crown with the

blue stone, but another even more splendid creation, the Epiphany crown,

a mass of gleaming metal and flashing faux jewels which seemed too heavy

for his ancient scrawny neck to support. Two debteras held his elbows

and guided his uncertain footsteps on to the stairway that led down to

the Nile.

As the procession descended, so those worshippers nearest to the head of

the stairs rose to their feet, lit their torches at the brazier and

followed the abbot down. There was a general movement along the terrace

to join the flow, and as it began to empty, Nicholas lifted Royan down

from her perch on the balustrade.

"We must get into the church while "there are still enough people around

to cover us," he whispered. Leading her by the hand, with his other hand

hanging on to the strap of his camera bag, he joined the movement down

the terrace. He allowed them to be carried forward, but all the time he

was edging across the stream of humanity towards the entrance to the

church. He saw Boris and Tessay in the crush ahead of him, but they had

not seen him, and he crouched lower so as to screen himself from them.

As he and Royan reached the gateway to the outer the eased them out of

the throng of chamber of the church, humanity and drew her gently

through the low entrance into the dim, deserted interior. With a quick

glance he made certain that they were alone, and that the guards were no

longer at their stations beside the inner gates.

Then he moved quickly along the side wall, to where one of the

soot'grimed tapestries hung from the ceiling to the stone floor. He

lifted the folds of heavy woven wool and drew Royan behind them, letting

them fall back into place, concealing them both.

They were only just in time, for hardly had they flattened their backs

against the wall and let the tapestry settle when they heard footsteps

approaching from the qiddist. Nicholas peeked around the corner of the

tapestry and saw four white-robed priests cross the outer chamber and

swing the main doors closed as they left the church.

There was a weighty thud from outside as they dropped the locking beam

into place, and then a profound silence pervaded the cavern.

"I didn't reckon on that," Nicholas whispered. "They have locked us in

for the night."

"At least it means that we won't be disturbed," Royan replied briskly.

"We can get to work right away."

Stealthily they emerged from their hiding-place, and moved across the

outer chamber to the doorway of the qiddist. Here Nicholas paused and

cautioned her with a hand on her arm. "From here on we are in forbidden

territory. Better let me go ahead and scout the lie of the land."

She shook her head firmly. "You are not leaving me here. I am coming

with you all the way." He knew better than to argue.

"Come on, then." He led her up the steps and into the middle chamber.

It was smaller and lower than the room they had left.

The wall hangings were richer and in a better state of repair. The floor

was bare, except for a pyramid-shaped framework of hand-hewn native

timber upon which stood rows of brass lamps, each with the wick floating

in a puddle of melted oil. The meagre light they provided was all that

there was, and it left the ceiling and the recesses of the chamber in

shadow.

As they crossed the floor towards the gates that closed off the maqdas,

Nicholas took two electric torches from his camera bag and handed one to

her. "New batteries," he told her, "but don't waste them. We may be here

all night."

They stopped in front of the doors to the Holy Of Holies. Quickly

Nicholas examined them. There were A, engravings of St.. Frumentius on

each panel, his head enclosed in a nimbus of celestial radiance and his

right hand lifted in the act of benediction.

"Primitive lock," he murmured, "must be hundreds of years old. You could

throw your hat through the gap between the hasp and the tongue." He

slipped his hand into the bag and brought out a Leatherman tool.

"Clever little job, this is. With it you do anything from digging the

stones out of a horse's hoof, to opening the lock on a chastity belt."

He knelt in front of the massive iron lock and unfolded one of the

multiple blades of the tool. She watched anxiously as he worked, and

then gave a little start as with satisfying clunk the tongue of the lock

slid back.

a Mis-spent youth?" she asked. "Burglary amongst your many talents?"

"You don't really want to know." He stood up and put his shoulder to one

leaf of the door. It gave with a groan of unlubricated hinges, and he

pushed it open only just wide enough for them to squeeze through, then

immediately shut it behind them.

They stood side by side on the threshold of the maqdas and gazed about

them in silent awe.

The Holy of Holies was a small chamber, much smaller than either of them

had expected. Nicholas could have crossed it in a dozen strides. The

vaulted roof was so low that by standing on tiptoe he could have touched

it with his outstretched fingertips.

or upwards the walls were lined with From the flo shelves upon which

stood the gifts and offerings of the faithful, icons of the Trinity and

the Virgin rendered in Byzantine style, framed in ornate silver. There

were ranks of statuettes of saints and emperors, medallions and wreaths

made of polished metal, pots and bowls and jewelled boxes, candelabra

with many branches, on each of which the votive candles burned providing

an uncertain wavering light. It was an extraordinary collection of junk

and treasures, of objects of virtue and garish bric-A-brac, offered as

articles of faith by the emperors and chieftains of Ethiopia over the

centuries.

In the centre of the floor stood the altar of cedarwood, the panels

carved with visionary, scenes of revelation and creation, of the

temptation and the fall from Eden, and of the Last judgement. The altar

cloth was crocheted raw silk, and the cross and the chalice were in

massive worked silver. The abbot's crown gleamed in the candlelight,

with the blue ceramic seal of Taita in the centre of its brow.

Royan crossed the floor and knelt in front of the altar.

She bowed her head in prayer. Nicholas waited respectfully at the

threshold until she rose to her feet again, and then he went to join

her.

"The tabot stoneV He pointed beyond the altar, and they went forward

side by side. At the back of the maqdas stood an object covered with a

heavy damask cloth encrusted with embroidered thread of silver and gold.

From the outline beneath the covering they could see that it was of

elegant and pleasing proportions, as tall as a man, but slender with a

pedestal topping.

They both circled it, studying the cloaked shape avidly, but reluctant

to touch it or to uncover it, fearful that their expectations might

prove unwarranted, and that their ..hopes would be dashed like the

turbulent river waters plunging into the cauldron of the Nile. Nicholas

broke the tension that gripped them by turning away from the tabot stone

to the barred gate in the back wall of the sanctuary.

"The tomb of St. Frumentius!" he said, and went to the grille. She came

to his side, and together they peered through the square openings in the

woodwork that was black with age. The interior was in darkness. Nicholas

prodded his torch through one of the openings and pressed the switch.

The tomb lit up in a rainbow of colour so bright in the beam of the

torch that their eyes took a few moments to adjust and then Royan gasped

aloud.

"Oh, sweet heaven!" She began to tremble as if in high fever, and her

face went creamy pale as all the blood drained from it.

The coffin was set into a stone shelf in the rear wall of the cell-like

tomb. On the exterior was painted the likeness of the man within.

Although it was badly faded and most of the paint had flaked away, the

pale face and reddish beard of the dead man were still discernible.

This was not the only reason for Royan's amazement.

She was staring at the walls above and on either side of the shelf on

which the coffin lay. They were a riot of colour, every inch of them

covered with the most intricate and elaborate paintings that had

miraculously weathered the passage of the millennia.

Nicholas played his torch beam over them in awestruck silence, and Royan

clung to his arm as if to save herself from falling. She dug her sharp

nails into his flesh, but he was heedless of the pain.

There were scenes of great battles, fighting galleys locked in terrible

combat upon the blue eternal waters of the river. There were scenes of

the hunt, the pursuit of the river horse and of great elephants with

long tusks of gleaming ivory. There were battle scenes of regiments

plumed and armoured, raging in their fury and blood lust.

Squadrons of chariots wheeled and charged each other across these narrow

walls, half obscured by the dust of their own mad career.

The foreground of each mural was dominated by the same tall heroic

figure. In one scene he drew the bow to full stretch, in another he

swung high the blade of bronze.

His enemies quailed before him, he trod them underfoot or gathered

together their severed heads like a bouquet of flowers.

Nicholas played the beam over all this splendid array of art, and

brought it to a stop upon the central panel that covered the entire main

wall above the shelf on which the rotting coffin lay. Here the same

godlike figure rode the footplate of his chariot. In one hand he held

the bow and in the other a bundle of javelins. His head was bare of any

helmet, and his hair flowed out behind him in the wind of his passage, a

thick golden braid like the tail of a lion. His features were noble and

proud, his gaze direct and indomitable.

Below him was a legen  in classical Egyptian hieroglyphics. In a

sepulchral whisper Royan translated them aloud:

Great Lion of Egypt.

Best of One Hundred Thousand Holder of the Gold of Valour Pharaoh's Sole

Companion Warrior of all the Gods May you live for ever!

Her hand shook upon his arm, and her voice choked and died away, stifled

with emotion. She gave a little sob, and then shook herself as she

brought herself back under control.

"I know this artist," she said softly. "I have spent five years studying

his work. I would know it anywhere." She drew a breath. "I know with

utter certainty that nearly four thousand years ago Taita the slave

decorated these walls and designed this tomb."

She pointed to the name of the dead man carved into the stone above the

shelf on which his coffin lay.

"This is not the tomb of a Christian saint. Centuries ago some old

priest must have stumbled upon it and, in his ignorance, usurped it for

his own religion." She drew another shaky breath. "Look there! That is

the seal of Tanus, Lord Harreb, the commander of all the armies of

Egypt, lover of Queen Lostris and the natural father of Prince Memnon,

who became the Pharaoh Tamose."

They were both silent then, lost in the wonder of their discovery.

Nicholas broke the silence at last.

"It's all true, then. The secrets of the seventh scroll are all here for

us, if we can find the key to them."

"Yes," she said softly. "The key. Taita's stone testament." She turned

back towards the tabot stone and approached it slowly, almost fearfully.

"I can't bring myself to look, Nicky. I am terrified that it's not what

we hope it is. You do itV

He went directly to the column, and with a magician's flourish jerked

away the damask cloth that covered it. They stared at the pillar of pink

mottled granite that he had revealed. It was about six feet high and a

foot square at the base, tapering up to half that width at the flat

pedestal of the summit. The granite had been polished, and then

engraved.

Royan stepped forward and touched the cold stone, running her fingers

lingeringly over the hieroglyphic'script in the way a blind man reads

Braille.

"Taita's letter to us," she whispered, picking out the symbol of the

hawk with a broken wing from the mass of close-chiselled script, tracing

the outline with a long, slim forefinger that trembled softly. "Written

almost four thousand years ago, waiting all these ages for us to read

and understand it. See how he has signed it." Slowly she circled the

granite pillar, studying each of the four sides in turn, smiling and

nodding, frowning and shaking her head, then smiling again as if it were

a love letter.

"Read it to me," Nicholas invited. "It's too complicated for me – I

understand the characters, but I cannot follow the sense or the meaning.

Explain it to me."

"It's pure Taita." She laughed, her awe and wonder at last giving way to

excitement. "He is being his usual obscure and capricious self." It was

as though she were talking of a beloved but infuriating old friend.

"It's all in verse and is probably some esoteric code of his own." She

picked out a line of hieroglyphics, and followed them with her finger as

she read aloud, "'The vulture rises on mighty pinions to greet the sun.

The jackal howls and turns upon his tail. The river flows towards the

earth. Beware, you violators of the sacred places, lest the wrath of all

the gods descend upon you!"'

"It's nonsense jargon. It does not make sense," he pretested.

"Oh, yes, it makes sense all right. Taita always makes sense, once you

follow the way his oblique mind is working." She turned to face him

squarely. "Don't look so glum, Nicky. You can't expect to read Taita

like an editorial in The Times. He has set us a riddle that may take

weeks and months of work to unravel."

"Well, one thing is certain. We can't stay here in the maqdas for weeks

and months while, we puzzle it out. Let's get to work."

"Photographs first." She became brisk and businesslike.

"Then we can lift impressions from the stone."

He set down the camera bag and knelt over it to open the flap. "I will

shoot two rolls of colour first, and then use the Polaroid. That will

give us something to work on until we can have the colour developed."

She stood out of his way as he circled the pillar on his knees, keeping

the angle correct so as not to distort the perspective. He took a series

of shots of each of the four sides, using different shutter speeds and

exposures.

"Don't use up all your film," she warned him. "We need some shots of the

walls of the tomb itself."

Obediently he went to the grille gates and studied the locking system.

"This is a bit more complicated than the outer gate. If I try to get in

here, I might do some damage.

I don't think it will be worth the risk of being discovered."

"All right," she agreed. "Work through the openings in the grille."

He filmed as best he was able, extending the camera through the openings

at the full stretch of his arms, and estimating his focus.

"That's the lot," he told her at last. "Now for the Polaroids."

"He changed cameras and repeated the entire process, but this time Royan

held a small tape measure against the pillar to give the scale.

As he exposed each plate he handed it to her to check the development.

Once or twice when the flash setting on the camera had either

overexposed or rendered the subject too dull, or for some other reason

she was not satisfied, she asked him to repeat the shot.

After almost two hours' work they had a complete set Of Polaroids, and

Nicholas packed his cameras away and brought out the roll of art paper.

Working together, they stretched it over one face of the pillar and

secured it in place with masking tape. Then he started at the top and

she at the bottom. Each with a black art crayon, they rubbed the precise

shape and form of the engravings on to the sheet of blank paper.

"I have learned how important this is when dealing with Taita. If you

are not able to work with the original, then you must have an exact

copy. Sometimes the most minute detail of the engraving may change the

entire sense and meaning of the script. He layers everything with hidden

depths. You have read in River God how he cons' ers himself to be the

riddler and punster par excellence id and the greatest exponent of the

game of bao that ever lived. Well, that much of the book is accurate.

Wherever he is now, he knows the game is on and he is revelling in every

move we make. I can just imagine him giggling and gether with glee."

rubbing his hands to

"Bit fanciful, dear girl." He settled back to work. "But I know what you

mean."

The task of transferring the outline of the designs on to the blank

sheets of art paper was painstaking and monotonous, and the hours passed

as they laboured on hands and knees or crouched over the granite pillar.

At last Nicholas stepped back and massaged his aching back.

"That does it, then. All finished."

a She stood up beside him. "What time is it?" she asked, and he checked

his wristwatch.

"Four in the morning. We had better tidy up in here.

Make certain we leave no sign of our visit."

"One last thing," Royan said, tearing a corner off one of the sheets of

art paper. With it she went to the altar where the abbot's crown lay.

Quickly she taped the scrap of paper over the blue ceramic seal in the

centre of the crown, and filled it with a rubbing of the design of the

hawk with a broken wing.

Just for luck," she explained to him, as she came back to help him fold

the long sheets of paper and pack them back in the bag. Then they

gathered up the shreds of discarded masking tape and the empty film

wrappers that he had strewn on the stone slabs.

Before they covered the granite stele with the damask cloth, Royan

caressed the stone panels of script as if to take leave of them for

ever. Then she nodded at Nicholas.

He spread the cloth over the pillar and they adjusted the folds to hang

as they had found them. From the threshold of the brass-bound door they

surveyed the maqdas for the last time, then he opened the door a rack

"Let's go!" She squeezed through and he followed her out into the

qiddist of the church. It took him only a few minutes to slide the

tongue of the lock back into place.

"How will we get out through the main doors?" she asked.

"I don't think that will be necessary. The priests obviously have

another entrance from their quarters directly into the qiddist. You very

seldom see them using the main gates." He stood in the centre of the

floor, and looked around carefully. "It must be on this side if it leads

directly into the monks' living quarters-' he broke off with a grunt of

satisfaction. "Aha! You can see where all their feet have actually worn

a pathway over the centuries." He pointed out a smooth area of dished

and worn stone near the side wall. "And look at the marks of grubby

fingers on the tapestry over there." He crossed quickly to the hanging

and drew a fold aside. "I thought as much." There was a narrow doorway

concealed behind the hanging.

"Follow me."

They found themselves in a dark passageway through the living rock.

Nicholas flashed his torch down its length, ? A

but he masked the bulb with his hand to show only as ,much light as they

needed. "This way."

The passage turned at right-angles and ahead they could make out a dull

illumination. Nicholas switched off the torch and led her on.

Now there was the smell of stale food and humanity, and they passed the

doorless entrance to a monk's rock cell. Nicholas flashed his torch into

it. It was deserted and bare. A wooden cross hung on the wall with a

truckle bed below it. There were no other furnishings. They went on past

a dozen others which were almost identical.

At the next turning of the passage Nicholas paused.

He felt a tiny draught on his cheek, and the taste of fresh air on his

tongue. "This way he whispered.

They hurried on, until suddenly Royan grabbed his shoulder from behind

and forced him to stop.

"What-' he began, but she squeezed his shoulder to silence him. He heard

it then, the sound of a human voice, echoing eerily through the

labyrinth of passageways.

Then came a weird haunting cry, that of a soul in agony, wailing and

sobbing. They crept forward, trying to make their escape before they

were discovered, but the sounds grew stronger as they went on.

"Dead ahead," Nicholas warned her in a whisper. "We are going to have to

sneak past."

Now they saw soft yellow lamplight spilling from the doorway of one of

the cells into the passage. There came another heart-rending female cry

that echoed down the passage and froze them in their tracks.

"That's a woman's voice. What is happening?" Royan breathed,  ut he

shook his head for silence and led her on.

They had to pass the open door of the lit cell. Nicholas edged towards

it with his back flattened to the opposite wall. She followed him,

keeping close and clinging to his arm for comfort.

As they looked into the cell the woman cried out again, but this time

her voice blended with that of a man.

It was a duet without words, but racked with all the feral agony of a

passion too fierce to be borne in silence.

In their full view a couple lay naked upon the truckle bed. The woman

lay spread-eagled, holding the man's hips between her uplifted knees.

Her arms wound hard around his back, upon which each separate muscle

stood out proudly and gleamed with sweat. He thrust down into her

savagely, his buttocks bunching and pounding with the force of a great

black battering ram.

She rolled her head from side to side as another incoherent cry was torn

from her straining throat. It seemed too much for the man above her to

bear, and he reared back like a flaring cobra, his pelvis still locked

to hers, but his back arched like a war bow. Spasm after spasm gripped

him. The sinews in the back of his legs were stretched to snapping

point, and the muscles in his back fluttered and jumped like separate

living creatures.

The woman opened her eyes and looked directly at them as they stood

transfixed in the doorway, but she was blinded with the strength of her

passion. Her eyes were sightless, as she cried aloud to the man above

her.

Nicholas drew Royan away, and they slipped down the passageway and out

on to the deserted terrace. They stopped at the foot of the staircase,

and breathed the sweet cool night air that was perfumed by the waters of

the Nile.

"Tessay has gone to him,'Royan whispered softly.

"For tonight at least,'Nicholas agreed.

"No," Royan denied. "You saw her face, Nicky. She belongs to Mek Nimmur

now."

The dawn was flushing the serrated crests of the escarpment to the

colours; of port wine and roses when they reached camp and separated at

the door to Royan's hut.

"I am bushed," she told Nicholas. The excitement has been too much for

me. You won't see me again before noon."

"Good thinking! Sleep as long as you wish. I want you scintillating and

perceptive when we start going over the material which we gathered last

night."

It was long before noon, however, when Nicholas was woken from a deep

sleep by the harsh and intrusive bellows of Boris as he stormed into the

hut.

"English, wake up! I must talk to you. Wake up, man, wake up."

Nicholas rolled over and thrust one arm out from under the mosquito net

as he groped for his wrist-watch.

"Damn you, Brusilov! What the hell do you want?"

"My wife! Have you seen my wife?"

"Now what has your wife got to do with me?"

"She has gone! I have not seen her since last night."

"The way you treat her, that comes as no stunning surprise. Now go away

and leave me to sleep."

"The whore has run off with that black bastard, Mek Nimmur. I know all

about them. Don't try and protect her, English. I know everything that

goes on around here. You are trying to cover for her – admit it!'

"Get out of here, Boris. Don't try an involve me in your sordid private

life." saw you and that shufta bastard talking in the skinning hut the

other night. Don't try to deny it, English.

You are in this thing with them."

Nicholas flung back the mosquito net and jumped out of his bed. "Kindly

moderate your language when you talk to me, you great oaf'

Boris backed off towards the door. "I know that she has run away with

him. I searched for them all last night at the river. They have gone,

and most of his men with them."

"Good for Tessay.– She is showing some taste in men for a change."

"You think I will let the whore get away with this? You are wrong, very

wrong. I am going to follow them and kill them both. I know which way

they are headed. You think I am a fool. I know all about Mek Nimmur. I

was head of intelligence-' He broke off as he realized what he had said.

"I will shoot him in the belly and let that whore Tessay watch him die."

"If you are going after Mek Nimmur,.then my bet is that you won't be

coming back."

"You don't know me, English. You beat me up one night when I had a

bottle of vodka in my belly, so you think I am easy, da? Well, Mek

Nimmur will see now how easy I am."

Boris dung out of the hut. Nicholas pulled on a shirt over his shorts

and followed him.

Back in his own hut, Boris had flung a few essential items into a light

pack. Now he was stuffing cartridges into the magazine of his 30/06

hunting rifle.

"Let them go, Boris," Nicholas advised him in a more reasonable tone of

voice "Mek is a tough lad – they don't come tougher – and he has a war

party of fifty men with him. You are old enough to know that you can

never hold on to a woman by force. Let her go!

"I do not want to hold on to her. I want to kill her.

The safari is over, English." He flung a pair of keys on a. leather tag

on the floor at Nicholas's feet. "There are the keys of the Land

Cruiser. You can make your own way back to Addis from here. I will leave

four of my best men to look after you, and hold your hand. Leave the big

truck for me to use. When you get to Addis, leave the keys of the Land

Cruiser with my tracker, Aly. I will know where to find him later. I

will send you the money I owe you for cancellation. Don't worry – I am a

man of principles."

"How could I ever doubt it?" Nicholas smiled. "Good bye, old chum. I

wish you luck. You'll need plenty of that if you are going up against

Mek Nimmur."

Boris was several hours behind his quarry, and as soon as he had left

the camp he broke into a jog trot that carried him down the pathway to

join the main track to the west, towards the Sudanese border. He ran

like a scout, with an easy swinging gait that ate up the ground.

"Looks as though he is still in good shape, even with the vodka."

Despite himself Nicholas was impressed as he watched him go. "But I

wonder how long he will be able to keep up that pace?"

He turned back to'his own quarters to get a little more sleep, but as he

passed her hut Royan popped her head out.

"What was all the shouting about? I thought that you and Boris were

having another little difference of opinion."

"Tessay has done a bunk. Boris has guessed that she has gone off with

Mek, and he is chasing after them."

"Oh,  icky! Can't we warn them?

"No chance of that, but unless Mek has gone soft he will be expecting

Boris to come after him. In fact, now that I come to think of it, he is

probably hoping for just that chance to even the score. No, Mek doesn't

need any more help from us. Go back to sleep!

"I can't possibly sleep now. I am so worked up. I have been looking at

the Polaroids that we took last night. Taita has given us an overflowing

cup. Come and have a look at this."

"Just one hour's sleep moreP He made a mock plea.

"Immediately, if not sooner."She laughed at him.

In her hut she had the Polaroids and the rubbings spread out on the camp

table, and she beckoned him to take the seat beside her.

"While you were snoring your head off, I made some progress." She laid

four Polaroids side by side, and placed her large magnifying glass over