Snow began to fall before they reached Saint Catherine. Watching large, fluffy, white flakes float down from the clouds in Egypt wasn’t a concept Leila had ever considered but then again, they were at a mile elevation as they neared the ancient town.
For a while, the flakes simply melted on top of the stony path before them. It wasn’t until they neared the city that it began to stick, leaving enough Leila could probably roll some decent snowballs.
But the sight of snow only made sadness and regret writhe in her stomach. If they had known it would snow, they wouldn’t have felt the need to search for water. It should have occurred to her. The gray clouds should have been a clue.
Without any urging from Leila, her camel followed behind Abdullah. Not a single word had been spoken since they’d left El-Misbah. Amina’s body was draped in front of Abdullah, wrapped in the moth-eaten blankets from the house. A large, red stain had soaked through one side of the frizzy gray material.
Slowly, signs of civilization began to appear between the mountains. Stone walls lined the narrow valley they traveled through, built long ago by Bedouin settlers. Rows of fruit and nut trees lined the hillsides as snow built up around their trunks, coating the bark in a layer of white.
The orchards soon turned into clusters of simple stone houses, built into the rocks above the valley floor. Finally, they had reached the outskirts of Saint Catherine Town.
They came to a paved road that glistened from the fresh snowfall. With a cloud of mist trailing behind, a giant bus roared over the asphalt, carrying tourists from their sunny beach vacations in Sharm El-Sheikh to the historical monastery.
The two weary travelers kept a short distance from the road. Getting themselves sprayed by exhaust fumes and mud was probably the last thing either of them were in the mood for, Although, Leila could think of worse.
Farther down the road, signs for hotels and restaurants popped up on the shoulders. Leila couldn’t help but shake her head as they passed a gas station. She’d long lost count how many days she’d been in the desert. A week, maybe two. Already, even the most simple things felt alien to her.
Serrated peaks towered above them, covering the city in their shadows. A mountain of red granite rose above the others, its tip hidden within the low, gray clouds. At its foot, the city of Saint Catherine sprawled across the snow-covered valley.
Mount Sinai.
With her goal in sight, Leila took in the imposing rock formation. The monastery was just on the other side.
When they came to a crossroad, Abdullah brought his camel to a stop. Fatma paused beside him without prompting and snorted.
Leila glanced around. The street they stood on wound toward Mount Sinai. A large boulder sat at the nearby corner, engraved in Arabic and English to indicate the correct road for a visit to the monastery. The other road snaked up a hill, past hotels and houses, returning north toward the desert. To her right, it led into Saint Catherine Town.
Abdullah slid down from his camel, his feet landing with a crunch in the snow. Following his cue, Leila dismounted. He stepped toward her and removed the black scarf from his lower face. While the anger had vanished from his gaze, he still wore a grimace as if he was cleaning out a toilet. He stopped and held out his hand.
“The bag,” he demanded, his breath crystallizing into a white puff as he spoke.
With a sigh, Leila slowly lifted the straps of Amina’s bag from her shoulders and held it out. She wished she knew the right words to say. Something that wouldn’t turn the man into a hissing cobra.
He took the bag and shrugged it over his shoulder.
“Go.” He turned halfway. “Find your friends. You’re their plight now.”
Leila swallowed. She had to at least try. Maybe since they were parting, he wouldn’t get nasty. “I’m sorry for every—”
“I said go,” he snapped. “Back to Cairo. Better yet, leave the country. If I don’t kill you here, someone else will.”
She crossed her arms and frowned. The cobra was back. “I won’t be safe anywhere.”
“That,” he said with a curl of his upper lip, “is not my problem.” He turned away, tugging on the rope for Fatma to follow. Fatma swished her tail, her splayed hooves soundless on top of the freshly fallen snow. They took a left, and started up the hill.
They vanished around the corner and Leila stood alone on the shoulder of the road. Snow fell softly around her. The sky faded into a darker shade of gray and golden lights began to twinkle across the white valley.
What was she waiting for? She had to find shelter. Hoping it was still open, she started down the road toward the monastery. Her shoulders felt as though they were made of lead. It had been her goal for so many days, but without Amina, it all seemed so pointless.
Her other option was to find the police station. They would surely help her get a hold of Xander. Maybe he was already here, looking for her.
She frowned. If she went to the police, they’d start questioning her, maybe even separate her from Xander. After all this, that was the last thing she wanted.
To her relief, the monastery still had tourists lining up outside of the thick, ancient stone walls. She trudged across the dirt parking lot, past buses and rental cars covered in the translucent droplets of melted snowflakes.
Using a car window for a mirror, she combed through her hair with her fingers and twisted it into a braid. Thankful for the scarf to hide the greasiness, she pulled it down over her head and wrapped the ends loosely around her neck. That was as good as it was going to get.
She parked herself at the end of the line for the security checkpoint and glanced over the crowd, made up of people in western clothing as well as jellabiyas and head scarves. Normally, Leila would join in the excited buzz. The place was fifteen-hundred years old, after all.
As the line of tourists and pilgrims inched forward, Leila peered over their heads to see how much farther until security. Not that it would be a problem. Her bag was nearly empty, anyway. At least it should be. She might still have a few drops of melted snow in her water bottle. She lifted the flap and looked inside. Her stomach dropped.
The journal. There it was, still rolled up inside a bottle, nestled in a collection of small glass jars. She must have given Abdullah the wrong bag. Her head shot up and she scanned the parking lot. How could she have gotten them mixed up? But it was too late. She had no idea where to find him.
The line shifted forward. She took a few steps, chewing on her bottom lip. Here was her chance to finish the translation. Even if Abdullah said he didn’t want it, it wouldn’t hurt anybody to know what was on there. What if he changed his mind later and wanted it done after all? She’d have saved him the trouble.
It wouldn’t take long for her to finish. She needed the proper resources, which the monastery certainly had. It could be finished by dinnertime. After she’d contacted police and found Xander, she’d track Abdullah down and give it back. Even if he left Saint Catherine before she could get a hold of him, she could possibly find him at the Bedouin camp again.
With the full text, and hopefully the location of the tomb, he could decide what to do with it. And he wouldn’t even have to include her in any plans.
Maybe he’d understand. It had been Amina’s final wish. He could at least respect that. Couldn’t he?
The line moved forward. A security guard pointed her to a table to check her belongings. After a wave of a metal detector wand and a peek in her bag, the guard gave her a curt nod, and moved on to the tourists behind her.
Leila walked past the gate and came to a halt. She suppressed a shiver. Despite the security, despite the fortified walls, she felt less safe than ever. Somehow, standing in a crowded place, she was more alone than she had been when wandering the desert.
Tourists brushed around her as she took up too much space in the narrow alley, debating which way to go. Who should she ask? There were no monks in sight. They would stand out from the tourists, wearing their long, black, Orthodox robes. The place wasn’t that big. It should be easy enough to find them.
Her feet moved with the crowd, over the uneven stone passageways that wound their way around the buildings, built with a mixture of stone and plaster walls.
The swarm slowed as tourists stopped at a half-circle wall, assembled around the trunk of the supposed burning bush, still leafy and thriving after some three-and-a-half-thousand years. The branches rose above the wall and cascaded over the alley, the ends evenly trimmed, inches out of reach of eager fingertips.
She maneuvered through the crowd holding their smartphones with outstretched arms. A selfie would have to do for a souvenir rather than trying to snip off a piece of the bush. Although she didn’t doubt the shrub was ancient, she wasn’t sure about the legitimacy of the claim. Saint Catherine was the traditional site of Mount Sinai and the burning bush, but she was more inclined to believe the other research showing that the true location was in Saudi Arabia.
The path continued around the outer walls of the basilica, the yellow plaster unadorned except for the gray stained glass windows near the top. A rectangular tower loomed above, its arches revealing a cluster of bells inside, topped with an onion-shaped dome and a cross. Next to it stood a plain, white-domed minaret, belonging to the understated mosque across the alley.
Finally, she found the front of the church and walked past the heavy wooden doors that stood open to welcome all visitors. Hushed voices echoed under the high ceiling of yellow and green tiles.
The lighting was much better than she had expected, streaming in through the stained glass, the vibrant colors appearing more cheerful than they had from the outside. The walls were all white, allowing her gaze to focus on the black and white tile designs on the floor.
White columns embellished with fleurons of dark stone led the way down the middle aisle toward the altar. The altar’s golden mosaics sparkled in the candlelight from the iron chandeliers and lamps that hung overhead.
She lowered herself onto a wooden pew, the seat creaking beneath her. The scent of stone and old wood filled the air, though a sweet hint of frankincense lingered. The atmosphere was thick, full of history.
A bearded man in a long, black robe rustled past, a cool draft following. He took no notice of her. As if frozen to the pew, she made no move to speak to him, either. This was ridiculous. After everything she’d been through, she couldn’t bring herself to talk to a monk?
She slid the parchments from beneath her garment and unrolled them slowly to keep them from crinkling too loudly. The problem was, the more she thought about it, the crazier her story seemed. What if the monks didn’t believe her? Or worse, accused her of stealing and took the documents to hand over to the police?
The crowd dwindled as closing time neared. She threw a glance over her shoulder at the doors, half-expecting Abdullah to barge in and demand the journal back. Why would he, though? He had shown no interest whatsoever in the documents. Instead, he had dismissed the whole idea as a fairy tale. He’d even tried to throw the journal away.
Those facts didn’t make her feel any better about the situation. She’d give it all back, as soon as possible. Then he could decide what to do with it.
Swallowing, the cut on her throat served a stinging reminder of Abdullah’s threats. Were they the wrathful words of a grieving man, or would he follow through if she provoked him? In any case, she wasn’t looking forward to finding out.
With a sigh, she refocused on her task. She shouldn’t wait until someone came along to kick her out. Once she called Xander, she probably wouldn’t have another chance. Not for a long time, anyway. She had to ask now, or forget the whole thing.
For Amina.
She clutched the papers in one hand and, heart pounding, walked toward the altar where the monk busied himself replacing candles.
Keeping a polite distance, she cleared her throat.
“Excuse me?” Though she spoke quietly, her raspy voice still reverberated against the walls.
From behind the lamp, the monk glanced at her, his black eyebrows knitted together as he held the bottom of a fresh candle steadily in the hot liquid wax of a stub. His expression showed mild curiosity, disguising any hint of aversion he might have to her disheveled appearance.
“I’m an archaeologist.” She took one step forward, holding out the pages. “I’ve been trying to translate this document, but I don’t have access to any material that would help. I was hoping that maybe someone from the library could assist me.”
Wordlessly, the monk stepped closer and gently took the papers between dirt-stained fingertips. The corners of his lips turned downward as his eyes darted back and forth. His free hand tugged at the end of his long, graying beard.
Her voice shaking with the worry he would turn her away, she continued, “I got quite a bit translated on my own, but my memory isn’t good enough for the whole thing.” She hoped that would be enough to indicate that she didn’t intend to stay long or intrude.
“I’m a gardener.” He held them back out to her with a shake of his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
Her shoulders drooped as she took the documents. Strike one.
“But.” The monk held up a finger. “I know someone who might.”