A Christmas Message Page 4

  She had no doubt whatsoever that he was the Watcher.

  He made an odd little noise in his throat that could have been laughter, then he turned and walked forward, away from her. When he reached the compartment at the far end of the carriage, he stopped at the door and put his hand on the latch. He turned it and swung the door open and vanished.

  Another compartment door opened, and then instantly closed again with a slam. Ten feet ahead a young man stood, owl-faced, staring at her as if with complete incomprehension.

  Vespasia was delighted to see him, to see anyone aside from the Watcher.

  The young man smiled almost absentmindedly, with a sweet, utterly innocent expression. He took a couple of steps toward her as she also began walking toward her compartment, and as the light from the corridor windows crossed his face, Vespasia could see that he was not so very young. In fact, although his face bore no lines, no visible mark of time, he was certainly past youth. His features were blunt and quite strong, and completely vacant except for a certain benign hope.

  They reached Vespasia’s door at the same time. The young man opened it for her, and then, to her surprise, followed her, closing it when they were both inside.

  Narraway rose to his feet. He looked at Vespasia, then at the young man, waiting for an explanation.

  Vespasia was still shivering, not with cold but with relief for having escaped what she was certain could have become a violent confrontation.

  A second later she felt she was being ridiculous. The city of Jaffa and the body of Balthazar were behind them. She had merely met a black-robed man in the corridor, a man with empty eyes. He had probably just been taken by surprise.

  She made herself smile at Narraway.

  “I lost my balance a little in the passageway,” she said simply. “This gentleman was kind enough to make sure I got back here safely.” She watched the stranger. For the first time she realized he was wearing a Western suit in a sort of pale sand color, so neutral it was hard to describe.

  “Benedict,” he introduced himself. “The good word.” He smiled slightly. “A little hard to live up to, but I am full of hope.” He did not say if it was his first or last name.

  “Victor Narraway. How do you do?” Narraway replied. “My wife you have just met.” He looked at Vespasia questioningly, searching to know if she had hidden the paper, and if she was telling the truth about what happened in the corridor.

  She would tell him when Benedict excused himself and went back to his own compartment.

  Except that he did not. He sat down in the seat next to the door and made himself comfortable. Clearly he intended to stay, uninvited. Vespasia had the darting idea he was a little simple. That look of slight vacancy in his eyes was not a trick of the light, it was really there.

  She sat down again in her seat and Narraway sat also.

  “I saw someone in the corridor that I think was the same man we saw in the hotel in Jaffa,” she said, hoping he would understand her meaning. “The man who—”

  “I see,” he cut off the rest of her sentence. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “He went away.” Benedict looked up with a smile. “But not far. He is going to Jerusalem also.”

  “That’s where the train is going,” Narraway said a little tartly.

  Vespasia saw a moment’s puzzlement in Benedict’s face, then the bland sweetness returned.

  “He is always going there,” he observed. “But when he finally arrives, I daresay it will be the end.”

  Vespasia had no idea what he meant, if indeed he meant anything at all.

  Narraway looked across at him, frowning.

  Benedict’s smile increased. “Jerusalem is always the end, isn’t it?” he said innocently.

  “It’s the end of this track,” Narraway agreed. “At least I think so. But no doubt in the future there’ll be tracks all over: to Jericho, Damascus, maybe even farther, into Turkey and Egypt and Persia.”

  “Of course.” Benedict nodded. “The whole world will be covered by railway tracks one day. But the last destination will always be Jerusalem.” He was talking complete nonsense as if it were self-evident wisdom.

  Vespasia looked across at Narraway to warn him not to argue. Benedict was a nuisance, and she would far rather he got up and left, but he did not look in the least likely to do that. In fact it seemed likely that he would remain for the rest of the six-hour journey.

  If the Watcher should return, would they be glad of Benedict’s presence, or guilty for the danger in which it would place him? The man appeared too naïve to be aware of anything amiss, even if it hung in the air like a coming storm.

  Narraway seemed to have reached the same conclusion. He settled back in his seat without responding, except a slow, careful smile at Vespasia.

  “I think on this train we all believe we are going to Jerusalem,” she said mildly.

  “Because it says so on the front?” he asked.

  “That would be a good reason.” She tried to sound less impatient than she felt.

  “I suppose so,” Benedict conceded. “But very simple, don’t you think? Not everything goes where it says it will, or no one could ever get lost. And we do get lost, you know.”

  “You just said a few moments ago that everything goes to Jerusalem,” Narraway pointed out.

  “Oh, yes,” Benedict agreed. “But it isn’t always where they thought they were going, is it? And why. What will you find when you get there?” He leaned forward a little. “What are you looking for?”

  “A bakery,” Narraway answered, amusement in his eyes now.

  But he had not answered the real question, the one that was now growing stronger in Vespasia’s mind. Were they going with a reason of their own, one they knew and understood?

  Benedict nodded. “Of course. But you surprise me.” He blinked. “I didn’t expect you to know that.”

  Vespasia saw a sudden alarm in Narraway’s dark face. Had he been foolish to speak the literal and seemingly meaningless truth to this rather irritating man?

  “You don’t think I know where I’m going?” Narraway asked. There was no edge of rudeness to his voice, just mild inquiry.

  Benedict smiled back with extraordinary sweetness. “I don’t think you have any idea at all,” he replied.

  Vespasia wanted to laugh, and yet there was nothing in the least funny in his words. She must be far more distressed by Balthazar’s death than she had realized. But of course she was! She had liked the man very much. There was a wisdom and a gentleness in him she could not forget. And she also felt guilty. He had known he was in danger, and she had known it too, and they had done nothing to help him.

  And she was also afraid. She had traveled throughout Europe most her life, but this land was very different from any she knew. In the deepest and most beautiful sense, she was not alone. She loved Narraway more profoundly than she had loved anyone before. They were friends as well as lovers, companions, allies in all quests and battles, as well as the most exquisite pleasures and understandings that had never before been so deep.

  All of life was sweeter, and more desperately precious—and brief—than at any time in the past. There were too few days to treasure, too few to make mistakes or take the future for granted. Pleasure and pain were both so much more intense.

  “Do you know where you are going?” she said to Benedict. It was a challenge, and he recognized it.

  “Oh, yes,” he said with certainty. “I do now. But I shall forget, in a while. And then, of course, I may get lost. I hope not.”

  Again the answer sounded so straightforward, and was anything but.

  “But I shall end in Jerusalem,” he added, seeing her confusion. “We all will. Including the man in the corridor. But he will not like it.”

  “Will we?” she said.

  He was silent for so long that she had decided he did not intend to reply. Then his face brightened as if he had made a decision. “Why are you going? Really? Why Jerus
alem? Why now?” He spoke as if the answer was of importance to him.

  “Because it’s Christmas,” Narraway replied. There was still that flash of humor in his eyes.

  “Do you believe in Christmas?” Benedict asked perfectly seriously.

  Narraway drew in his breath to give an easy answer, and realized that Vespasia was looking at him too.

  Was he doing this for her? Or for himself? Since Balthazar’s murder, it was to keep their promise to him. But before that? Was it a gift, because it was a charming and imaginative thing to do? Or was he going there for himself as well?

  She had attended church on and off all her life. Certainly she did not disbelieve in a religion. But that is not the same as believing. It was more a matter of taking a precaution in case it was true. Real believing demands change, loyalty, cost. Sooner or later it would also require sacrifice of some sort, perhaps profound.

  Benedict was watching Narraway, waiting. He did not expect to be slighted, made fun of, even gently. He expected a dignified and honest answer. Whether he received one or not was not a test of his sincerity, but a test of Narraway’s.

  Narraway frowned. “I’m not sure,” he said at last. “Perhaps I’m going to find out.”

  “Do you want to find out?” Benedict asked, his eyes wide and curious. “Knowledge is precious, but it’s dangerous too. There is a great illusion of freedom in not knowing. There’s the illusion of innocence.”

  “No, there isn’t,” Narraway said immediately. “Not if it’s a choice, and you could have known, if you had wanted to. That’s not innocence. It isn’t even honesty, it’s self-deceit and, at the worst, cowardice.”

  “Ah!” Benedict’s face lit up with satisfaction, even joy. “The bittersweet fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil. You would eat, wouldn’t you? You would always eat, sooner or later!” He turned to Vespasia. “And you? Do you believe in Christmas?”

  She had a moment of certainty that Benedict was not as innocent as he appeared to be. She would stop gently backing away.

  “Whose idea of Christmas?” she challenged him. “Yours? Mine? The Church’s? Popular tradition? Angels singing in the sky? Wise men bearing gifts, and a star of unique glory that lights the way to salvation—once only?”

  Benedict was enjoying himself now, smiling widely. He had beautiful teeth. “A new star in the sky? I like that, yes! Yes, one by which to navigate the journey of the soul. I like that very much. Is that the Christmas you believe in?”

  As she thought about it, the warmth blossomed inside her and opened into a certainty. “I believe it is. But when the clouds came we lost sight of it. How on earth do sailors navigate in bad weather?”

  “Carefully,” Narraway said, only half joking. “Very carefully.”

  She looked at him, wondering now if he dealt only lightly with a subject so intensely serious because he did not want to risk possibly disagreeing with her, even causing a certain disillusion in her; or because perhaps he was not sure if he believed himself. Was he a moralist, but maybe also an agnostic, and this, of all times, was not the occasion on which to shake her faith?

  What did she believe, and possibly more importantly, why? Was it with thought, or only with need? She looked at him again, at his eyes, and she knew just that he would not willingly hurt her.

  Benedict was nodding. “Yes, yes indeed. Very carefully,” he said. “There is great danger, enemies who are clear, and who know you, at times better than you know yourself. Yes…carefully.”

  He had barely finished speaking when there was a loud clang from somewhere ahead of them. The train jolted, slid for a few yards along the rails, jolted again more violently, and then stopped altogether.

  Vespasia looked out of the window beside her and saw desert: endless rock and sand, bleached of almost all color. Here and there was the odd twisted, weather-beaten tree. The desert seemed to stretch unbroken to the horizon, without feature, as if there would never be anything else.

  Narraway leaned forward and put his hand on hers, gently. He did not say anything. He would not insult her with reassurances that neither of them believed.

  She turned to look at Benedict. He was staring through the glass of the compartment door as the man in the dark robes walked by, looking neither right nor left.

  “Oh dear,” he said quietly. “This could become unpleasant. Still, I suppose we were never promised a journey without incident. After all, it is Christmas, and we are going to Jerusalem. We have been waiting a long time.”

  “Have we?” Narraway said a little tersely. “Perhaps you have. We decided to come only a couple of weeks ago.”

  Benedict looked at him curiously. “Really? As recently as that, you think? Still, what is time? Not quite the straight line we imagine. Not that I really know, of course. It seems endless to me.” He looked at the door handle. “Does this lock, do you suppose?”

  Narraway stood up and stepped over to the handle, examined it for a moment or two, felt the latch, and then turned it with a sharp snap.

  “Yes, it does,” he replied, returning to his seat.

  “Thank you,” Benedict said with satisfaction. “We do not wish to have that person in here. I have something I would like to show you. You may find it interesting.”

  Outside, the sky was getting heavy, dark gray clouds rolling in from the horizon.

  “Surely it is early to be getting dark,” Vespasia observed. “And night should come in from the east anyway, ahead of us.”

  “Yes, it’s too early for nightfall, and too quick,” Narraway agreed. “It’s a storm. They wouldn’t stop for a storm, would they? It looks as if it could be snow.” He turned to Benedict.

  “It snows here sometimes,” Benedict agreed. “But very little. And there’s little rain either.” He looked less calm than he had before. He was searching his inside pockets for something. After a moment or two he appeared to find it.

  There was a rumble of thunder in the distance. Lightning flared across the purple-gray of the clouds, and then seconds later there was more thunder.

  “Dramatic,” Vespasia said quietly. “I used to enjoy thunderstorms as a girl, except that the dogs were frightened.”

  Benedict pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. With his back to the compartment door, he opened it and spread it out on Vespasia’s lap. He said nothing.

  She looked at it, expecting a letter of some sort. Then she realized that it was not paper but parchment, not noticeably very different from the piece she had hidden inside her own bodice. It too was covered with script. One rough edge of it might match hers, as if they had been torn apart.

  Benedict was watching her closely. She would like to have kept her face expressionless, but she knew at least the widening of her eyes would have told him something. He might pretend to be simple, but he was certainly not unobservant.

  “Ah…” he said. “You do find it interesting.”

  “How did you come by it?” Narraway asked, his voice tight with a tension he could not conceal.

  Vespasia knew what was in Narraway’s mind even before she met his eyes. Had Benedict killed someone to get it? Once he was certain that one of them had Balthazar’s paper, would he kill them also and then take it? Was the Watcher his friend, or enemy? Rival or collaborator?

  She felt horribly vulnerable.

  Outside, the wind stirred up plumes of dust and sand. There was more thunder, and then the rain struck, beating against the windows and sliding down in sheets that temporarily blinded them.

  Two men passed in the corridor, pale-robed, one after the other.

  Benedict took the paper back, folded it very carefully along exactly the same creases, and put it somewhere inside his jacket.

  “Perhaps we should prepare for trouble,” he said with a frown. “Or at least a degree of inconvenience.”

  Vespasia looked at him. She could see no alarm in him, certainly not anything like fear. She turned to Narraway. He was watching the corridor and the people passing up and d
own it, clearly agitated. Some gesticulated with short, sharp movements, and the buzz of voices was loud, in languages she did not understand.

  “Oh dear,” Benedict said quietly. “It seems that there is some trouble on the track. Something blocking it. They will have to get men to clear it before we move on.”

  “How could that be?” Narraway asked. “There are no trees to fall, and the land is flat, so a landslide is impossible.” He inclined his head toward the people in the passageway. “Is that what they are saying?”

  “Yes,” Benedict replied. “Yes. It is something placed there. I think I should have foreseen that. I’m sorry.” The words were without emphasis. It was hard to believe he meant them.

  Narraway took his arm, holding him back from going to the door.

  “What is that paper you have?” he asked firmly. “What does it mean, and why should anybody want it badly enough to commit murder for it?”

  Benedict turned slowly to stare at Narraway, searching his face as if puzzled that he did not see what he expected.

  “You don’t know, do you? You really have no idea. I thought perhaps you were just being careful.”

  “No, I don’t know,” Narraway said tartly. “But I believe a man who had one like it in Jaffa was murdered in the search for it, and I am beginning to wonder if the same people are now engaged in a deliberate attempt to steal yours as well. What are they?”

  “Together they are two-thirds of everything,” Benedict replied in a tone of voice that suggested the answer should have been obvious. “But of course, without the last one, they mean nothing at all. With only one of them they have no meaning, no real purpose. But you don’t understand that, do you.” It was not a question; there was no expectation of an answer in his face, only realization, and resignation.

  “Then where is the third one?” Narraway asked, still keeping hold of Benedict’s arm.

  Benedict winced and tried to pull away. “I have seen it, once, a long time ago, but I’m not certain anymore. We must go to Jerusalem. I know that, just as you do.”