A Christmas Message Read online

  “You keep saying that. Is this a literal journey or a metaphorical one?” Narraway persisted.

  He was putting into words what Vespasia was beginning to think.

  Then a crash of thunder startled her, and she looked out of the window at the darkened sky. There were no more dust flurries or flying sand. It was now all wet, and in the momentary clearing of the glass, she could see little rivulets of water running across the ground.

  “Who is it that wants these papers?” Narraway asked, easing his grip on Benedict’s arm. “Who are they? Is it political? Is there going to be some kind of uprising?”

  “One day,” Benedict replied with a frown. “Not yet. Where on earth have you been that you didn’t know this?” He peered at Narraway. “Who taught you? Or failed to. Why are people always looking for uprisings?” You want to cure the soul with a sword, and nowadays it’s a musket. Have you never read the legend of sowing the dragon’s teeth?”

  “Yes, of course I have.” Narraway was puzzled and impatient. “I imagine there was never more fertile soil for growing warriors than here. And I don’t want any part of it. I merely wish to take my wife on a journey to Jerusalem, for Christmas.”

  Benedict shook his head slowly, as if he was very tired and even more confused. “That’s all most people want. It isn’t an option.”

  Before Narraway could ask any further questions the door to the corridor swung inward, the lock successfully forced. Two men threw it open. One was swarthy and wearing a pale turban; the other was smaller with a white face and a striped robe that covered half of his sandaled feet. They looked at Benedict, all but ignoring Narraway and Vespasia.

  “You have something that belongs to us,” the turbaned one said barely loudly enough to be heard. “If you give it back without making a fuss, we will leave you in peace.”

  “What I have belongs to everyone.” Benedict looked back with a flash of anxiety stirring his placid features. “And what you have belongs to everyone,” he went on. “You don’t remember trying to steal it before, do you? No, of course you don’t. You go on doing the same thing over and over, and it never works. Does it not occur to you that that is foolish?”

  One of the men put his dark, powerful hand on Benedict’s sleeve. The other man reached for the curved knife in his belt, looking at Narraway for the first time.

  Vespasia knew with horror what he was going to do as surely as if he had done it already. In her mind’s eye she saw blood, and Narraway buckle and slip to the floor. It was unbearable. She had just found him, just learned to love him with a depth she had never allowed herself to feel before.

  She gave a loud cry and staggered backward in the direction of the picnic basket they had brought with them.

  Narraway shot her a glance, but he could not move to help her. The man drew his knife. “The paper,” he said gently, the phrase whispered between his teeth.

  Vespasia was almost on top of the picnic basket. No one was looking at her. She was an elderly Englishwoman who had fainted at the threat to her husband. Not worth bothering with, at least not yet. Kill, or at least disable the men first!

  The blade was shining in the glow of the compartment lamps. It looked almost as if it had blood on it already.

  Vespasia straightened up with the bottle in her hand.

  Narraway was looking at the knife blade. How quick would it be? Slashed sideways, or thrust upward?

  There was no time to think, or to weigh what she was doing. She swung the bottle, heavy, hard, perfectly balanced, and struck the man as hard as she could on the side of his head, below the line of his turban. She felt the crunch as his cheekbone smashed and the next instant blood burst through his skin.

  He pitched forward, the knife in his hand just missing Narraway as he went down.

  The other man let go of Benedict and lunged at Narraway but he was too late. Narraway bent forward and picked up the fallen knife. He sliced at the man’s leg and cut deep. The man let out a strangled cry of shock and fury. But he was bleeding too freely to continue the fight. He grasped at his robes, seeking to tie them tighter, anything to stanch the flow.

  His companion lay senseless on the floor.

  Narraway climbed to his feet. “Get out,” he said quietly. “And don’t come back. Benedict! Lift that man off the floor and drag him outside into the passage. Then shut the door and get that large suitcase down off the rack, and jam it as hard as you can to wedge the door shut. The lock seems to be of little use.”

  Benedict stared at him.

  “Now,” Narraway ordered.

  The bleeding man staggered out, still trying to bind his wound. At last Benedict bent over and rather awkwardly dragged the man with the broken cheekbone into the corridor. He appeared to be senseless still but definitely breathing.

  When Benedict had finished, he closed the door and pulled down the suitcase as Narraway had directed.

  All the while Narraway stood with the long, curved knife in his hand, ready to strike if anyone should threaten to attack again. Finally he put it on the seat beside him and turned to look at Vespasia.

  Neither of them spoke. They were safe, at least for the moment. If they had ever questioned the importance of the strange pieces of paper with their seemingly meaningless smudges and lines, they could not do so now.

  If Vespasia had ever doubted that she loved Narraway, and that he also loved her, she could not have married him. But there are depths of believing, of understanding, and of feeling. This was a new level of clarity for her, a new realization of how deeply she felt. It was too precious to bear parting with, ever. Whatever the price in her own pain, it was worth it.

  She turned to Benedict. He must be terribly shaken. It was he the men had come for, and had been willing to kill to have the paper, just as they had killed Balthazar. Quickly, silently, and brutally.

  Had he known that? Or was this his moment of discovering it?

  He looked a little ruffled, and there was surprise in his bland face.

  “Who has the third paper?” Vespasia asked him.

  “I don’t know,” he insisted, but there was a slight furrow between his brows. “I seem to think I knew once, but I can’t recall it now.” He smiled. His answers were enigmatic, as if it was something he had been told, but did not understand. “But it doesn’t matter. He knows, and he will find us when he needs to. It will all be well.”

  “They meant to kill you!” Narraway said sharply, his frustration fraying the edges of his temper. “And they came very close.”

  Benedict shrugged slightly, just a gesture. “But they didn’t succeed. Even the bottle of wine is still whole.” He looked at Vespasia with a sudden, sweet smile. “That is very good. I would not have thought to bring it.”

  She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, and without warning her eyes filled with tears. “I brought it to drink,” she said tartly. “Not to hit someone over the head with it!”

  “It could be good for both, my dear,” Narraway said huskily. “We have two glasses, I believe. You and I can share one, and Benedict can have the other. We should use the respite to fortify ourselves. It is still some distance to Jerusalem. Be sure to keep the bottle…and the glasses.”

  Vespasia had a vision of what a lethal weapon a broken, long-stemmed glass could be, even more so than a knife, used to its greatest advantage. And if she had doubted it before, she was certain now that the threat was real. Their own safety did not even enter her mind.

  She found the glasses and unpacked them. Then she took out a corkscrew. If necessary, it could be another weapon, although it had no cutting edge. She gave Narraway the bottle and corkscrew while she opened a packet with bread and cheese and fruit. She shared them equally between herself, Narraway, and Benedict.

  Benedict accepted them without hesitation. He thanked her, but did not mention that she and Narraway had also saved his life. It was odd, as if he did not truly realize what had happened, or the risk they had taken.

  They ate quietly, while o
utside, the storm having passed, the last light faded and the winter night closed in. Sunset burned in the west like the embers of a dying fire: a dull, sulfurous red fading into gray, and then black. The only light was that from the carriage windows shining out into the sand and rock, soon blurred as the slanting rain began again. They were islanded, as if nothing existed beyond the train and its passengers. They were all nationalities and faiths, many different races, gentlemen and laborers, soldiers, bankers, shop clerks, and farmers. Vespasia had seen them on the platform in the station at Jaffa, overheard conversations in English and French, and of course a multitude of languages she did not understand. They had only one thing in common: they were going to Jerusalem for Christmas. Or perhaps the reason for some was irrelevant: they could have gone at any time.

  Benedict did not speak either, but sat motionless except for his apparent enjoyment of the bread and cheese and a crisp apple full of juice. He partook of it with a solemn joy, only occasionally glancing at one or the other of them and giving again that grave smile.

  They finished eating and drank the last of the wine, recorking and saving the bottle. Even eaten in silence and awareness of the other people coming and going along the corridor, it was a strangely companionable meal. Vespasia met Narraway’s eyes after and saw a warmth in them as if he too had newly appreciated the sweetness of life and its infinite possibilities.

  They had just finished when the train gave a jolt forward. It hesitated a moment, then with a rush of clatter and general noise, it started to move more smoothly and to regain its earlier speed.

  Outside the clouds cleared and there were patches of brilliant, almost dazzling stars.

  “Do you know where we are?” Vespasia asked.

  “More than halfway to Jerusalem,” Narraway replied. “This journey is six hours. We were nearly four hours along the way when we stopped, three quarters of an hour ago. If there are no more delays, we will be less than an hour late.”

  “I think there will be more,” Benedict said quite calmly. “It is always farther than you think.”

  “Jerusalem?” Narraway asked. “Or anywhere?”

  “Jerusalem especially,” Benedict said. “And then when it comes, whatever the time, it was not long enough.”

  “You’ve done this journey often?” Narraway was surprised.

  “No,” Benedict shook his head. “Never. Nor have you. I know that. But once will be enough. Even if you do it next year too, and every year after that.”

  Vespasia was about to ask him what he meant, what part they had in all that was happening. Was it symbolic of a greater whole, something that occurred many times, or only once? Were they at the heart of the journey, or only incidental to it? Then she looked at his bland, almost expressionless face and decided it would be pointless. His answer was likely to have no meaning for her. The man was gentle-natured, but his mind was detached from immediate reality. His thoughts seemed to be in some other realm.

  She looked across at Narraway. He appeared to be asleep, but she knew he was not. He was watching the corridor on the other side of the windows and the single, broken-latched door that was their only barrier against the men who had already killed Balthazar and attempted to kill them.

  Why were she and Narraway doing this? Was it really just because Balthazar had asked them to, and they were distressed at his death sufficiently to feel they must honor his request? Would they, had they known it was likely to be so dangerous?

  Wasn’t that a foolish question, when the poor man was murdered in such a way? The implication was obvious, wasn’t it?

  And Benedict had shown no surprise at all that he should be attacked. Nor, for that matter, had he conveyed any feeling of guilt for their involvement now, or gratitude that they rescued him. It was almost as if he had expected it.

  Had he? Did he know what was going to happen next?

  She turned a little in her seat to look at him, studying his face in a way she normally would not have regarded any stranger. It would be an inconceivable breach of manners. It was! But the whole situation was utterly divorced from ordinary life.

  If he was aware of her scrutiny, he showed no signs of it. He sat quite still. If his eyes had not been open she would have thought him asleep. He was totally calm, his gaze apparently focused on the empty seat opposite him, as if he would memorize every thread of the fabric. The same slight smile, benign, absentminded, curved his lips. His unblemished hands rested in his lap, tidily folded, and at ease. Did he understand nothing? Or everything?

  The questions that formed in her mind were absurd. Will we reach Jerusalem? Will there be other forced stops? Who else is on the train, and what do they want? Even: Is this real, or am I having a particularly vivid nightmare? Am I really asleep and still in Jaffa? Or even in London?

  They were on this journey because they had been asked to take the paper to the House of Bread on the Via Dolorosa in Jerusalem, by a man they had liked, respected, and who had been horribly killed before he could complete the errand himself. Of course it was dangerous. He had essentially told her so, and the manner of his death sealed the knowledge with certainty. That would be true even if Vespasia had not seen the face of the Watcher in the corridor of the train, which looked and sounded exactly like any other train with its polished wood and scratchy seats never at quite the right angle to sit in comfortably. She could have been on her way to Lewisham or Liverpool.

  What could the paper be that, completed, it would mean so much?

  Was the meaning religious? This seemed unlikely. The whole world already had enough scripture to provide all the answers. It was righteous people understanding the message of hope and peace that the world lacked, or of mercy, tenderness, love, however you wished to define that. It was understanding that was short, not words. They were already drowning in an ocean of words.

  Benedict spoke of Jerusalem as if it were everyone’s goal, but was it? In any sense?

  Vespasia had attended church since childhood, if not always regularly. She loved the stained-glass windows, the smell of old stone, and certainly the sounds of the organ with its marvelous, full-throated music, and the bells ringing across the countryside. Mostly she loved the passion and strength of the words, the stories of the miracles of man and God.

  But was it a balm applied to the outside of her, or the water of life to the soul within? She knew perfectly well what morality she believed, and would live by, whatever the gain or the cost. It grew as experience molded it, or it changed, but it was never denied. If she betrayed it by deed, she repented bitterly.

  But was that anything to do with God, any God that was real, and not the creation of man in his own image, merciful or punishing, all-powerful, or limited by law or logic? Was he loving or merely governing, perhaps understanding nothing of human need or weakness?

  She had never asked Narraway what he believed, truly, passionately. Somehow it had always seemed too private a matter to intrude into, like stepping on flowers in bloom, or the new-raked earth of a grave. How could you know, in the silence of the night, what you believed yourself, let alone what anyone else did?

  And yet she profoundly wanted to know. Perhaps it would not be too much to say, rattling through the desert night toward Jerusalem and whatever it might mean, that she needed to know at last the beginning of an answer.

  Narraway leaned toward her. In this poor light of the shaky lamps, the lines of his face betrayed everything: anxiety, exhaustion, and an overwhelming tenderness she had never seen before.

  “Sleep a little,” he said so softly she lip-read his words rather than heard them. “I’ll watch. Don’t argue. I’ll take my turn. We should be in Jerusalem long before morning.”

  “Should be?” she murmured back. “Do you think anything in this journey is going to be as we expected?” She said it with a smile. They were on an adventure; why should it be as they had imagined?

  “Probably not,” he conceded. “But there’s no turning back. This train goes to Jerusalem, literally and m
etaphorically.”

  He meant it; there was a gravity in his eyes as if he had struggled with some of the same thoughts, and doubts, that she had. This was a journey of the mind, and of the heart, far more than she had foreseen. Urgent, frightening questions demanded answers. But this was not the moment to say so. Perhaps he already knew; if not he must come to the realization in his own time.

  She touched his hand very gently. “My dear, I decided on the journey some time ago. I have no regrets. All journeys go somewhere; perhaps a great deal of the value is in the traveling. I have never seen the desert at night before. The enormity may well be greater than anything else.”

  She could see in his expression, shadowed as it was, that he understood all her levels of meaning. She sat back and she closed her eyes.

  She had not expected to sleep, but it came unbidden, and almost immediately.

  She woke with a jolt so violent she was almost thrown out of her seat. It was still pitch-black outside and the train had stopped as abruptly as if it had struck something on the track.

  Narraway was already standing.

  Benedict looked a little puzzled, but not altogether surprised. The habitual smile on his lips was all but gone, as he too was staring through the glass at the corridor where several people were gathering. It appeared that they were all men, but as they were in loose robes that reached to the ankles, it was not easy to tell.

  “We seem to have hit something,” Narraway said quietly. “I don’t know what it can be. This track is used twice every day, once in each direction.”

  “It is because of us,” Benedict told him. “At least I believe it is. The Watcher is on this train.”

  Vespasia froze. He had used the same name for him that Balthazar had used, as if he knew as much as they did, although he had not been there.

  “Who is he?” Narraway demanded, taking hold of Benedict and forcing him around until they were face-to-face. “If we are to fight him effectively we need to know all we can. I’m not working in the dark anymore, playing word games. Who is he, and what is the paper you are carrying ? Why? And to whom?”