In Which a Snarky Attitude Is Discouraged
You speak English.” Tony Clarke regarded the elderly woman in the doorway.
“After a fashion,” she replied, her soft Scottish accent a pleasant purr. She had straight white hair and keen dark eyes behind round, steel-rimmed glasses. “Those of us brought up beyond the wall have a facility with languages.”
“The wall?”
“Hadrian’s Wall, dear man,” she said. “But did you come to discuss ancient history, or was there something else you were wanting?”
“Oh yes. Sorry—I was just so surprised to find someone I could talk to that I seem to have forgotten my manners.” He sighed as relief washed over him. “You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”
“Never mind,” the woman said. “Please, do come in. You’ll catch sunstroke out there without a hat.”
As Tony moved towards the door, the Scottish woman fished a handful of coins from a pocket and offered them to Tony’s young guide, who stood quietly by. “Thank you, Afifah. Here you are.”
The young girl accepted the coins and thanked her patron.
“That will be all today. Run along home now, you two. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The children darted away and the woman smiled to see them go. “We employ them to watch for travellers,” she explained, turning to Tony. “Are you coming in, then?”
“Yes, thank you.” Tony stepped into what appeared to be a modest bookshop with shelves lining three walls. There was a grouping of soft chairs with a reading light and a small round brass table. “I really don’t mean to bother you—”
“And yet here you are all the same.”
Tony did not catch the devious twinkle in the old lady’s eye and stumbled over himself apologising.
“Don’t mind me, dearie,” replied the old woman lightly. “I was just having a bit of fun. Of course, you are here because you were brought here by our little reception committee. Welcome to the Zetetic Society. I am Mrs. Peelstick. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Glad to meet you,” replied Tony, extending his hand. “I’m Tony—Tony Clarke.”
“Are you?” said Mrs. Peelstick, eyeing him intently. “Are you, indeed? Younger than I would have guessed—but then everyone is these days.” She smiled, but her eyes remained keenly sharp behind her glasses. “I expect you are here about Cassandra.”
“Yes!” He gazed at her in astonishment. “How could you possibly know that?” Before she could answer, he said, “Is she all right?”
“Which question to answer first?” Mrs. Peelstick chuckled. “Your lassie was the very picture of perfect health the last time I saw her. And I know who you are because Cassandra told us that you would be looking for her. We expected we might see you any old time. She was in good spirits and fine form—a darling girl.”
“Thank God!” He sighed and felt the weight of anxiety lift away, leaving him feeling lighter than air. He swayed on his feet.
“Oh dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Peelstick, moving quickly to his side. “You’d better sit down.” She steered him to one of the comfy chairs. “Just you park yourself there and I’ll go fetch that cup of tea.” He collapsed into the chair as she scuttled off. “Won’t be a moment.”
“Thank you, I—” But she had already dashed from the room. He sank back and closed his eyes, relaxing into the knowledge that his beloved daughter was safe and well. He heard the clank of a kettle and the clink of glass and a mildly tuneful humming.
His eyes were still closed when Mrs. Peelstick returned bearing a tray with a pot, glasses, and a plate of sweet Syrian pastries. “Here we are,” she announced, placing the tray on the little brass table. The glasses, Tony noticed, contained fresh green leaves onto which his host poured hot black tea. “We serve it with mint in this part of the world,” she told him. “I think you’ll find it very refreshing. Please, help yourself to sugar.”
“Is this how Cassie found you? Serving mint tea and cookies?”
“Sesame and pistachio biscuits—delicious, have some.” She stirred the leaves around in the glass and then handed it to her guest. “Yes, I think Cassandra and I did share a glass of tea that first day she was with us. It is something of a ritual with us.”
“She stayed here with you?”
“She stayed at the convent nearby. It seemed to suit her better.”
“But she’s not here now?”
“Not at the moment, no.” Mrs. Peelstick spooned sugar into her tea and regarded her guest with benign interest. “She is on a mission, I suppose you would say, for the society.”
“I don’t understand. Why would she leave? Where did she go?”
“You’re not a traveller, are you, Mr. Clarke?” She regarded Tony’s expression. “No, I can see you’re not—at least, not before today. Isn’t that right?” Tony just stared, unable to think what to say. “In that case, why don’t you just sit back and enjoy your tea? Rest a moment.”
“I’m sorry, but that won’t do.” Tony put down his glass. “I have travelled—God knows how—across several different dimensions, or worlds, or whatever to find my daughter. I want some answers.”
“And we will answer all your questions, never fear.”
“We?”
“My colleague, Mr. Hanno—he is the current director of the society. I’m sure he will be most anxious to meet you, and he can best explain. He is on an errand but should return shortly. In the meantime, why don’t you simply relax a moment and enjoy your tea?”
Though she offered an old woman’s saintly smile, Tony sensed cold steel beneath the grandmotherly appearance. Less than satisfied, he retrieved his glass, blew on the hot brew, and sipped lightly—buying a little time to take a breath and regain his composure. “Very well,” he agreed in a more measured tone, “perhaps you might at least tell me about this Mr. Hanno, whoever he is.”
“Brendan Hanno is the elected head of the Zetetic Society and its Director of Operations.”
“And he lives here?”
“In Damascus? Yes. In this house? No.”
“You said he is Director of Operations—what sort of operations would those be?”
“Why, the various operations of the society.”
“And those would be?”
The white-haired old lady with the will of iron gave him a sly smile. “I am not at liberty to say just now. Perhaps when—”
“I know,” said Tony. “Perhaps when Brendan gets here, he will tell me.”
“That’s right, dear.” She raised the pot gingerly from the tray. “More tea?”
“A warm-up, please.” He offered his cup. “Then, by all means, tell me about the Zetetic Society—if that is allowed.”
“No need to be snarky, Mr. Clarke,” chided the woman. “I am only acting in the best interest of our members. After all, I only have your word that you are indeed Cassandra’s father. Why, you might be anyone at all. You might be someone who wishes her harm—a kook, a stalker, or the like. Why, you might be a pan-dimensional murderer! How would I know?”
The thought had not occurred to Tony that the woman’s obfuscation might serve the higher purpose of protecting his daughter’s well-being. “You’re right, of course. I apologise. Forgive me for being—what was it?”
“Snarky.”
Accepting his apology, Mrs. Peelstick directed her guest’s attention towards the society’s extensive collection of Middle Eastern literature and maps and explained the origin of the society’s name and a little of its history. “Zetetic means ‘seeker,’ don’t you know.”
Tony Clarke listened politely as the redoubtable Mrs. Peelstick passed the time, giving very little away. “Interesting,” he replied when she finished. “And Cass has joined the society, you say?”
“We are having something of a surge in membership recently,” Mrs. Peelstick told him. There was a sound at the door—a key being inserted and a lock being clicked. She glanced across to the doorway and said, “Well, if I’m not mistaken, here is Brendan now.”
A moment later a tall thin man in a cream-coloured linen suit and wide-brimmed Panama hat entered the room. He paused on the threshold and then, seeing Mrs. Peelstick and her guest, crossed the room in quick strides. “You must be Anthony Clarke,” he said, holding out his hand. “How do you do? I am Brendan Hanno.”
“Glad to meet you,” said Tony, shaking hands with the fellow. “But how do you know my name? Have we met?”
“I met little Afifah and her brother in the street. She told me someone had come, and I guessed it might be you.” He waved Tony back to his chair. “And if there was any doubt, you are the very image of your daughter—rather, it is the other way, I suppose. In any case, I would know you anywhere.”
“Really? Mrs. Peelstick here is not so sure about me.”
The steel-rimmed glasses flashed. “No need to get—”
“I know. Snarky. Sorry.”
“Please, sit down. Would you like some more tea?” Brendan glanced at Mrs. Peelstick and caught a look from her that Tony could not decipher. “No. You’ve been through a lot today, no doubt. Something stronger is called for, I think. Perhaps we might indulge in a wee dram? The society stocks a particularly good single malt. If you would follow me to the courtyard?”
“You two go on,” said Mrs. Peelstick. “I will see to supper and leave you alone to talk. I warn you, Brendan, Mr. Clarke has a million questions and means to ask them all.”
“Now who is being snarky?” said Tony, offering a smug smile.
Brendan did not catch the exchange, or chose to ignore it. Indicating the doorway opposite, he said, “I am so glad you’re here. We have much to talk about.”
“My daughter, for one thing,” put in Tony, falling into step behind the tall man. He was led through the bookish reception room along a short corridor to a vestibule with French doors that opened onto a spacious courtyard decked with potted palms and a fountain.
“Please, make yourself at home,” said Brendan, who disappeared back inside to sort out the drinks.
A large umbrella shaded a table surrounded by cushioned chairs; stately rows of peach-coloured canna lilies grew in narrow beds along one wall, and grapevines climbed another wall to an overhead lattice, shading half the paved yard with cool green shadows. Tony immediately liked the secluded garden. He examined the fountain and found the surface of the water covered with yellow rose petals; the lightly trickling water sent a subtle fragrance into the air.
“Here we are!” announced Brendan, reappearing with a drinks tray a minute or so later. Tony followed him to the table. “We’ll soon put the world to rights.”
Placing the tray on the table, Brendan took up a crystal decanter and splashed a pale amber liquid into two small cut-crystal glasses, then dribbled in a drop or two of water from a pitcher. “Try this,” Brendan said, handing his guest a glass. “Slàinte!” He raised his glass.
“Cheers!” replied Tony. They both took a sip of the smooth sweet fire and Tony tasted a hint of smoke in the spirit.
“As I say, I am glad you are here,” said Brendan, settling his long frame into a chair. “Your timing is extraordinary—impeccable.”
Tony could not see how this could possibly be, since before the day began he could in no way have guessed where he was going or whether he would arrive anywhere at all. As for Friday, his erstwhile guide, it was anyone’s guess what had happened to him. But as there was absolutely nothing Tony could do about it, he decided to withhold judgement and see what happened next. “Happy to oblige,” he replied, sipping his malt. “Now, about my daughter—”
“Cassandra is a bright spark,” Brendan said. “I can tell you that when last seen—oh, seven days ago, I think—she was in good health and high spirits, and eager to get on to the quest. She did have some concerns about contacting you to let you know that she was safe and happy, but now that you are here, I hope you will consider yourself reassured regarding her welfare.”
Tony considered this for a moment. “I certainly don’t mean to be, in Mrs. Peelstick’s term, snarky—if I seem that way, let’s chalk it up to parental concern and exhaustion brought about by utter . . . disorientation and a massive paradigm shift. But how can I be certain that you don’t have Cass stashed in your basement or locked in an attic somewhere?”
Brendan smiled. “Like father, like daughter. You two are cut from the same sceptical cloth, no mistake.” He shook his head at the wonder of it. “Let me reassure you by whatever means at my disposal that Cassandra is not locked away in any attic, basement, or dungeon. Put yourself in our shoes for a moment. If we had malign intentions towards her, would it not have been far easier to merely feign ignorance of her existence? A simple ‘Never heard of her, sorry, mate,’ and you’d have been on your way none the wiser. Nor, I venture, would we have gone to the trouble of leading you here in the first place.”
“Leading me here? I don’t think you understand how . . .” He paused as he saw Brendan’s glance sharpen. “Oh! The kids on the street handing out the cards. That was you?”
“We prefer to keep a low profile whenever possible.”
“You have succeeded,” Tony granted. These people might be crackpots of the highest order, he could not yet tell, but he sensed a growing bond of trust. In any case there was no point in antagonising them; that would get him nowhere. He decided to play along. “Still, I have to ask.”
“Of course. Tangible proof will come in due course, believe me. But right now, I ask that you accept my assurance that we have only the best interests of all our society members at heart.”
“Yes, your Mrs. Peelstick said something similar. Am I to understand that my daughter has become a member of the Zetetic Society—a seeker?”
“Oh, indeed. Cassandra has joined the society and has under-taken what I hope will be the first of many profitable quests on our behalf. We expect great things from her.”
Tony puzzled over this. “There is that word quest again. What sort of quest are we talking about, exactly?”
“The usual sort,” Brendan replied cheerfully. “A search for treasure of one kind or another.”
“But you cannot say more because I am not a member of your society,” concluded Tony.
“Succinctly put.”
“We will return to that later.” Tony took another sip of single malt and savoured the smoky-sweet taste as it slid like liquid gold down his throat. “You said you were anxious to talk to me—and I gather it was not about Cassie, so . . . ?” He raised his eyebrows expectantly as he took another drink. “This is very good, by the way.”
“It is a forty-two-year-old Speyside.” Brendan picked up the decanter and added another slug to both glasses. He returned the container and carefully replaced the crystal stopper. “Now then, Dr. Clarke,” he said, his tone taking on a note of gravity, “what can you tell me about the expansion of the universe?”