A Christmas Message Read online

  “Of course you can,” Benedict agreed. “You can destroy anything that has a physical being. But you can’t create anything. You gave that up, of choice, remember?”

  “I remember everything! It is you who has forgotten!”

  “Not entirely—not everything,” Benedict answered, as if the fact surprised him.

  “I can destroy you!” the Watcher said in reply, and Vespasia heard relish in his tone now as if, in some disgusting way, he could taste flesh in his mouth.

  “No you can’t.” Benedict did not seem afraid.

  “I can make you destroy yourself!” the Watcher hissed back.

  “Only if I let you,” Benedict answered. “And I never have.”

  The Watcher’s voice was confident, high in his throat. “This is different, oh so very different! You have no idea yet, no idea at all. I can hurt you in ways you cannot even imagine. You are a fool! A dreamer. A child who has learned nothing yet. But you will find out.”

  Narraway took Vespasia by the hand and held it almost too tightly, but she did not pull away.

  “Maybe,” Benedict agreed. “But I can learn.”

  “You don’t even know why you are going to Jerusalem!” The Watcher gave a bark of unnatural laughter, and yet it was an infinitely human sound, with all human anger and pain in it.

  “I know it’s a good reason, and that’s all that matters,” Benedict answered.

  “You fool!”

  “Perhaps, but my foolishness will be only temporary.” There was a kind of smooth certainty in Benedict now, as if the matter were already decided.

  Vespasia gripped Narraway’s hand that was still holding her arm. She felt his fingers tighten even more.

  “I can’t touch you, but I can kill others, others you care about.” The Watcher all but snarled the words. “That’s your weakness: guilt and shared pain. I killed the man in the Jaffa hotel room. He saw me, he knew I was coming, but there was still nothing he could do to stop me. All his wisdom was no use to him then. And all your innocence will be no use to you.”

  “But you didn’t get the picture, did you!” It was not a question. Benedict’s tone, the wording, oozed satisfaction. “We’re nearly in Jerusalem already, and you have none of them.”

  There was a sound of a blow, flesh striking flesh, and a cry of surprise and pain from Benedict.

  Narraway let go of Vespasia and charged forward, bursting through the compartment door. She followed on his heels, and saw, in the moonlight coming through the window, the black figure of the Watcher with his hands around Benedict’s throat. He was taller by several inches, and seemed to be much stronger.

  Narraway struck a blow with all his weight behind it, catching the Watcher on the neck with the side of his fist.

  The Watcher lost his balance and fell sideways. Narraway hit him again, and he doubled up and struck the armrest with a sickening crunch.

  Benedict appeared stunned. He clambered to his feet, seeming a little dizzy. For an instant, he looked at Narraway with amazement, then he turned to the Watcher and shook his head.

  “This is all so stupid,” he said sadly. “He will hurt so many people.” He shuddered. “So very many! But in the end he will never win.” He frowned and closed his eyes.

  “Come on,” Narraway urged. “We have to leave here. He may come around quite soon, and he will be even more dangerous.” He took Benedict’s arm. “Come on!” he ordered more sharply.

  Benedict opened his eyes and, even in the moonlight, Vespasia could see a new fear in his face. He appeared not to have heard Narraway. “At least I don’t think he will win. I always believed he would not.”

  Narraway ignored him.

  “Why?” Vespasia asked. “Why are you less sure that he won’t win?” She could see that it troubled him, robbed him of the confidence he had possessed before. “Benedict?”

  “I thought he couldn’t win,” Benedict answered her. “But perhaps if he hurts enough people then he will. Do you think?”

  “No, I don’t.” She said it with a certainty she wished she felt.

  “Of course you’re right.” He shot her a smile she could see even in the shadows, the whiteness of his teeth caught in the light for an instant.

  On the floor, the Watcher stirred.

  Benedict charged out of the door and into the passageway, with Vespasia behind him and Narraway behind her. They did not stop until they were out of the carriage, and standing on the hard-baked dust and stones of the desert floor.

  The train was still motionless. The huge arch of the sky stretched to infinity, burning with stars. The other passengers were quiet, huddled together in groups, the night consuming their voices until they seemed to be silent, making no more sound than the wind moving the particles of sand from one surface to another.

  “Where’s Benedict?” Vespasia said softly when she had turned her attention from the stars. She looked around, but he had disappeared into the shadows. “I can’t see him.”

  “The Watcher is behind us,” Narraway replied. “Benedict will be all right, at least for the time being. And at least now he knows the danger he’s in.”

  “But does he believe it?” she asked, starting to move forward. “And even if he does, we need to find him. He has the second part of the picture.”

  “I know. And more to the point, I think he has a far better idea than we do as to what it means. I think he will find us, even if we don’t find him.”

  “Do you?” She doubted it. She was seriously concerned that Benedict was too innocent of human nature to have more than a vague idea of the behavior of those without scruples, the greedy and the violent whose own needs always come first. Or even of those who are too deeply frightened to take up weapons against people they know are stronger than they are.

  They moved among the groups of people close by, some standing, some taking the chance to sit. Several times they stopped to ask if anyone had seen Benedict. He was easy to describe. His clothes alone made him stand out. Some people were happy to point one way or another, others shook their heads and looked blank.

  Vespasia and Narraway moved from one group to the next, always staying close together, repeating their inquiries.

  “Of course he could be moving too,” Vespasia pointed out. “Even just ahead of us. Perhaps we should go back to the train.” She did not like the idea of returning to the compartment, but the Watcher would not have remained there. And even so, once the train started to move again, it was possibly less than an hour to Jerusalem.

  “We had better go back,” he agreed. “No doubt Benedict will be making his way back too.” He looked around. They were on the very outskirts of the crowd. Many people had their heads lifted hopefully. The night was definitely growing colder.

  A belch of steam shot up from the engine, and several of the passengers cheered.

  It was short-lived. People ahead of them stopped. The darkness seemed more dense, the silence heavier after the flare of hope.

  Other people kept trudging forward, determined to believe. Or perhaps they only wished to shelter in the carriages to protect them from the chill wind, which was getting stronger.

  Vespasia searched the crowds for the pale, trouser-clad figure of Benedict. Twice she thought she saw him, but it turned out to be someone else.

  Then in the shadow of a rocky outcrop some distance from the train she saw the dark figure of the Watcher. She knew beyond doubt that it was he by the curious lope of his stride, as if he had no weight, and yet he could not easily get his footing on the sand.

  And ahead of him she saw Benedict. This time she knew it was him. He had his back to the Watcher and his attention seemed to be on something in the distance.

  The Watcher was closing the gap between them, his shoulders hunched, his head bent forward.

  Narraway acted before she did.

  “Benedict!” he shouted at the top of his voice. It echoed from one rock face to another until it seemed to come from all directions, even though the inclines were w
ide and shallow.

  Benedict turned. He saw the Watcher and raised his arms.

  The Watcher stopped.

  Narraway started forward, moving quickly from Vespasia to catch up with him.

  Benedict was carrying a stick. He had been using it to lean on as he walked, but from the way he swung it now, it seemed heavy. Was he actually prepared to fight? The Watcher was still motionless. Then he began to turn very slowly, as if searching for something in the distance.

  An icy dread ran through Vespasia as she realized what it was. He had seen Narraway, and he was looking for her. She was the weak spot, the place where he was vulnerable. That was what he meant when he had told Benedict that he would hurt others. If you care at all for anyone, anything, there were always hostages to fortune.

  She could not hide. The escarpments were shallow on the windward side, too bare to shelter anyone, too steep for her to climb easily, even if she were not hampered by skirts. Their sharper faces were on the opposite side, too far away to offer any cover.

  If she ran toward Narraway she would cross closer to the Watcher and be an easy target. If she ran back, the Watcher was still closer to her than Benedict was. The Watcher would reach her first. For a long, terrible moment she was paralyzed by indecision.

  Then at last Benedict moved, surprisingly swiftly, running toward the Watcher to come between him and Narraway and cut off his path to Vespasia. He clutched the stick as if he meant to use it.

  Narraway turned back to block the Watcher’s retreat.

  Benedict caught up with the Watcher and when he was still a few yards short of him he hurled the stick and it caught the Watcher with surprising accuracy, sending him sprawling on the ground. It was an attack from the one direction he had not expected.

  Narraway reached the stick and picked it up. From the awkward angle at which he held it, Vespasia realized it was truly extraordinarily heavy, like ironwood.

  Benedict reached them and stood still, looking down at the black-robed body crumpled on the ground.

  In the distance the train engine belched steam again and there was a loud clang, then another, then more steam. Slowly the engine started to move, to gather speed and travel away into the night.

  They stood stunned as it disappeared, leaving only the starlight on the empty track.

  For moments no one spoke. Vespasia felt a wave of utter desolation overtake her. She was so tired her whole body ached. With an effort she kept her head high. She must not let them down. Narraway believed so much of her!

  It was Narraway who broke the silence. He did not pretend.

  “I doubt anyone will miss us, at least not until the train gets into Jerusalem. And perhaps not even then. If they do, they’ll send someone back to search, I presume. Either way, we would be better off moving. It is still quite a long time till sunrise, and we will be very cold indeed if we stay still. There’s nothing here to burn for a fire, even if we had the means to light one.

  “If we follow the tracks we will not risk getting lost, and we will be as much on the level as possible.” He looked at Vespasia. “I’m sorry. This is not what I intended.” He said it wryly. His serious moments came in times of happiness, or the perception of beauty. When facing danger he did so with slight, very dry humor.

  She must not let him see how lost, how defeated she felt. He would blame himself.

  “Our biggest need will be water,” she replied. “But one hopes we can manage without it for a few hours. Long enough to find habitation, or possibly a stream or a pool of some sort.”

  Benedict looked puzzled. “This is a turn of events I did not foresee,” he admitted. “Still, victory must be possible.” He did not explain why he thought so, but looked at the track stretching west toward Jaffa, and then turned slowly and stared to the east, toward Jerusalem. “I suppose we had better begin. Sometimes I wonder why on earth the plan seems to keep changing. I don’t suppose you know, do you?” He looked automatically at Narraway.

  “Plan?” Narraway began to walk, keeping pace with Vespasia. “I hadn’t perceived that there was one.”

  “I think you are joking,” Benedict answered. “I’ve noticed that about you. When things are confusing or unpleasant, you make jokes.”

  “It’s an English thing,” Narraway replied, still watching the stones ahead of him rather than looking at Benedict. “It’s how we deal with our fears…or grief. Make bad jokes, or laugh at nothing at all.”

  “Very odd.” Benedict shook his head. “But I suppose I shall have to get used to it. In fact, on giving it consideration, I think I may come to find it comfortable, even admirable.”

  Narraway smiled, but he did not answer.

  For some time they concentrated on walking steadily beside the track. It was fairly level and mostly sand, shale, and small stones, not difficult terrain compared to the alternatives.

  For what seemed a long time no one spoke. They saved their strength for walking.

  Vespasia felt her mouth was dry, and knew the others would be aware of the same, but there was no help for it, so not to speak of it was better.

  The moon rose higher and shed a silver glow over the endless sea of desert, with its old riverbeds, and the shadows of the few stark trees, winter-blasted.

  After a good hour, Vespasia stopped for a moment and cast a look back over the way they had come. Five hundred yards away she saw, as he crested a rise, the black figure of a man, bareheaded, his long robes flaring outward with his movements.

  She did not need a second look to know who it was: the Watcher, somehow risen from the insensible heap on the earth that they had left only a short while ago. With sickening certainty she recognized the purpose in his gait, and the speed.

  “Victor!”

  He looked at her, hearing the sharpness in her voice, then he followed her gaze and saw, stiffening with alarm, exactly what she had.

  “Benedict! We must prepare to fight. We can’t outrun him. What weapons do we have?”

  Benedict was distressed. Clearly he had not expected the Watcher to come after them. Whether he had assumed he was dead or not was another matter. Benedict stood motionless, his face bleak, almost masklike.

  He seemed to make a great effort of thought, and of will.

  “Perhaps I should give you my paper, and then go toward him,” he said quietly. “He cannot go in two directions at once.”

  “I don’t agree,” Narraway said after only a moment’s hesitation. “No one person should have both pieces of paper. An all-or-nothing tactic is likely to end in nothing. This way we neither win nor lose. Losing matters very much, doesn’t it?” It was a genuine question. Neither he nor Vespasia had any idea of what real significance the papers had.

  Benedict looked around him in all directions, a touch of panic in him now. It was the first intense emotion Vespasia had seen in him, and it was alarming. Nothing before had actually frightened him.

  The Watcher was significantly closer.

  “Is there any point in keeping moving?” she asked. “He can outpace us, I’m afraid. But what weapons do we have, other than your knife, and Benedict’s staff?”

  “I must protect you.” Benedict seemed to have reached a decision. “He can wound me, but he can’t kill me. He can kill either of you, or even both.”

  Argument now was pointless, or asking for an explanation of such an absurd statement. So also would be any attempt at running away. They stood a little apart, Vespasia in the center between them. Narraway had his long, very slightly curved knife in his right hand, although getting close enough to the Watcher to use it might prove fatal. Benedict held the long staff in both hands.

  Vespasia had no weapon, but then anything less than a gun would have been no use anyway.

  What a ridiculous way to die! Marooned in the desert somewhere outside Jerusalem, and for the sake of a piece of paper whose meaning—if there was any at all—was too obscure for them to understand.

  The Watcher stopped about fifty yards from them. In the faint lig
ht they could not see his face, but they knew him from his unusual posture and the swift, odd way in which he moved.

  He seemed to be staring beyond them, as if they were too close for him to see clearly, even though the distance was still at least fifty yards.

  Very slowly Vespasia turned to see where his gaze was focused. Then she understood. Approaching them over the rough ground, but still soundlessly, were a dozen horsemen. They too wore long robes, which fluttered in the wind, but they also had head coverings of some sort. It was impossible to be certain, but the fabric of their clothes was more varied in shade. Their horses moved at a walk, but they did not stumble or hesitate. The gleam of the moonlight on steel showed the men were well armed.

  As Vespasia stared at them, they increased their speed very slightly. Another spur forward and it would be a charge.

  A horse snorted and there was a rattle of hooves on stone.

  Narraway swung around and Benedict stayed with his staff ready in case the Watcher should make a sudden lunge at them.

  One horseman held up his hand, halting the others, then he rode forward as Narraway faced him.

  The man was turbaned, dark-bearded.

  “Salaam,” he said politely.

  “Do you speak English?” Narraway asked him. “Or French perhaps?”

  “English,” the man replied with slight amusement. “And Arabic, and Hebrew, and Farsi. You seem to have encountered some unpleasantness. May we be of assistance?”

  Narraway had to make an instant decision. To be seen consulting with Benedict would make him appear weak. To consult with Vespasia would be unthinkable.

  “Our train from Jaffa broke down, and unfortunately when it was mended it went on without us,” he explained. “Now we are obliged to walk, and are about to be attacked by a robber.” He gestured toward where the Watcher was fast approaching.

  The horsemen beside him fanned out a little and drew their swords.

  Vespasia glanced around her, and saw that the Watcher was only thirty feet away, but he had stopped. Even if he thought himself invincible, he knew he could feel pain, could be rendered senseless, where he would be vulnerable to any attack, if only by whatever wild beasts or carrion animals might roam the desert.