Plumes of dust erupted from the wall and the floor was a sea of geysers. Jake’s head rang as if it had been smashed with a sledgehammer. His organs shook. His heartbeat was knocked out of synch. The guardhouse became illuminated as the fireball rose up past the doorway.
The explosion diminished: BANG! Bang! Bang.
It was replaced by a thrumming that seemed to emanate from Jake’s very eardrums. When he asked Berihun if he was hurt he couldn’t hear his own voice. He put his hands to his ears and inspected them, but there no blood. The driver’s face was streaked with dirt, contorted into a pastiche of shock; his mouth could have accommodated a fist. The monks were spread-eagled against the rock. There was mud in Jake’s mouth and he spat on the ground. But something had changed. They weren’t under fire anymore. The battle had ended.
Jake stole to the doorway and peered out. Two climbers lay at the foot of the cliff, limbs broken at horrible angles. It was not immediately obvious what had become of the man who had nearly made it to the top. But then Jake spotted his head, a few scorched lumps of clothing. Something fired in his memory. Florence! She had vanished during the bombardment. Jake’s hand went to her pistol, still tucked into his waistband.
He leaned into Berihun’s ear. “How can we get out of here?”
The Ethiopian crossed to the other side of the room and spoke to the monks, who huddled in conference. The teenagers pointed fretfully across the plateau.
The huts around were abandoned, the church empty. In the space of ten minutes the community had become a ghost town. The monks led them to the far side of the mountaintop and began picking their way down a path that offered a three-foot leeway between the cliff and a terminal drop. The rock face was honeycombed with caves and a stench like rotting fish arose.
“This is monk graves,” said Berihun.
Some caves had been blocked up, but others remained open. Inside one Jake saw a wooden coffin, in another a fibula, blackened fibres stretched across it. The first monk clambered into the sepulchral cavern.
“We’re going in there?” said Jake.
“Yes, quickly,” insisted the driver.
The stench of putrefaction inside was unbearable. There was something greasy about it, and Jake swallowed hard as vomit rose up his throat. Soon the fissure narrowed to a crack. He wriggled through to find himself in a hollowed out space. It was pitch black and he shivered. The air felt thick in his mouth; he could actually taste the decay.
When Berihun sparked a lighter Jake saw they weren’t alone. Monks were dotted about the cave like a parliament of owls, staring down at him. Three bodies bound in cotton sheets lay on the cave floor.
“If is danger, monks are coming here,” said Berihun. “Is secret place. You first white man coming here.”
“Amesegenallo,” Jake thanked them, touching his heart.
Heads nodded all around the cave.
“Minimaydelem,” they murmured back. “Ishee, ishee.”
“What now then?”
“We waiting,” said Berihun. “We waiting long time.”
Waiting, while killers combed the plateau. It was not an appealing thought. Jake sat on a rock and tried to meditate.
Ink. It was his mantra, learned years ago in a failed attempt to control his neuroses. Ink. He breathed in; he breathed out. That was better. From nowhere a measure of relaxation materialized. Ink. A thought bubbled up through the barrier. They would be searching the plateau. Ink, Ink. They would find it empty, they would know there was a hiding place. Ink, Ink, Ink. They would look in the caves, they would be systematic. Ink! Ink! Ink!
Jake’s eyes shot open. “I don’t think we’re safe here.”
Meditation had never bloody worked.