of the historic meeting, the team was in Kenya—living and working and training—at a remote farm-station near the Tanzanian border. On a clear day, to the south they could see the mighty cone of Kilimanjaro peeking above the horizon.
Far from the Western world.
Far from their enemies.
The farm—very deliberately—had wide flat treeless pastures stretching for two miles in every direction from the central farmhouse.
There would be no unexpected visitors to this place.
The team raised few eyebrows among the locals.
To the Kenyans, Victoria Station was just another working farm, populated by a few foreigners, all working for the old man, Epper, and his lovely wife, Doris. Grey-haired, patient and kind, she had come from Canada to join her husband on this mission and provide a much-needed grandmotherly figure on the farm.
Of course, the locals soon became aware of a baby girl on the property—every now and then, Doris or a worker from the farm would come into town to buy baby food, formula milk, diapers and sometimes toys.
But the Kenyans simply assumed that the olive-skinned girl was the daughter of the young blonde woman at the farm, who in turnwas presumably the wife of one of the men.
The locals, however, never noticed that every single night, there were always two members of the team patrolling the perimeter of the property.
Lily grew up quickly.
Indeed, she transformed rapidly from a happy gurgling baby into an inquisitive toddler who on taking her first steps became an absolute security nightmare.
It was not uncommon to see seven crack commandos frantically upturning chairs, couches or hay bales trying to find a giggling little girl who could disappear seemingly almost at will.
Then she began to talk and to read.
Inevitably, she was the product of many influences.
When she saw Saladin kneeling towards Mecca, she asked him what he was doing. It was he who taught her about Islam—only growing tongue-tied once when, as a four-year-old, she asked him why some Islamic women wore head-covering burqas.
‘If they do not wear the burqa, some men will not . . . er . . . respect them,’ Saladin said, clearing his throat.
‘Zoe doesn’t wear a burqa,’ Lily said.
Several members of the team were eating nearby at the time: Zoe, Epper and West. Smiling, Zoe looked expectantly at Saladin, waiting for his answer.
‘Well, no, she doesn’t, because she is not a Muslim.’
‘But you can see her head, right?’ Lily asked.
‘Yes . . .’
‘Which means, according to Islam, you mustn’t respect her.’
Saladin blushed bright pink. ‘Well, no . . . I do respect Miss Zoe. Very much.’
‘Then why do Muslim women wear these burqa things?’
Saladin was helpless.
It was Zoe who saved him. ‘Not all men are as gentlemanly as Aziz, Lily. They can’t control their urges as well as he can.’
‘Urges?’ Lily asked, zeroing in on the new word.
Zoe said, ‘And
that
is a topic we will address when you’re a little older.’
All this time, a sheet of paper hung in the kitchen, attached by a magnet to the refrigerator—on it were seven boxes, filled with a strange kind of writing, reproductions of the seven main verses in the Callimachus Text.
It looked like this:
It was positioned so that Lily saw it every day when she went to get her morning juice. When she asked what it said, Doris Epper answered: ‘We don’t know. We’re hoping that one day you’ll be able to tell us.’
When she hit five years of age, Max Epper took charge of her schooling, teaching her maths, science, ancient history and languages—with an emphasis on Latin, Greek and cuneiform.
It turned out she had a singular aptitude for languages, learning them quickly and fluidly—with almost unnatural ease.
By age 7, she had mastered Latin and Greek.
By 8, she was deciphering Egyptian hieroglyphics.
By 9, she had outstripped Epper in his knowledge of cuneiform— translating all three of the ancient
Far from the Western world.
Far from their enemies.
The farm—very deliberately—had wide flat treeless pastures stretching for two miles in every direction from the central farmhouse.
There would be no unexpected visitors to this place.
The team raised few eyebrows among the locals.
To the Kenyans, Victoria Station was just another working farm, populated by a few foreigners, all working for the old man, Epper, and his lovely wife, Doris. Grey-haired, patient and kind, she had come from Canada to join her husband on this mission and provide a much-needed grandmotherly figure on the farm.
Of course, the locals soon became aware of a baby girl on the property—every now and then, Doris or a worker from the farm would come into town to buy baby food, formula milk, diapers and sometimes toys.
But the Kenyans simply assumed that the olive-skinned girl was the daughter of the young blonde woman at the farm, who in turnwas presumably the wife of one of the men.
The locals, however, never noticed that every single night, there were always two members of the team patrolling the perimeter of the property.
Lily grew up quickly.
Indeed, she transformed rapidly from a happy gurgling baby into an inquisitive toddler who on taking her first steps became an absolute security nightmare.
It was not uncommon to see seven crack commandos frantically upturning chairs, couches or hay bales trying to find a giggling little girl who could disappear seemingly almost at will.
Then she began to talk and to read.
Inevitably, she was the product of many influences.
When she saw Saladin kneeling towards Mecca, she asked him what he was doing. It was he who taught her about Islam—only growing tongue-tied once when, as a four-year-old, she asked him why some Islamic women wore head-covering burqas.
‘If they do not wear the burqa, some men will not . . . er . . . respect them,’ Saladin said, clearing his throat.
‘Zoe doesn’t wear a burqa,’ Lily said.
Several members of the team were eating nearby at the time: Zoe, Epper and West. Smiling, Zoe looked expectantly at Saladin, waiting for his answer.
‘Well, no, she doesn’t, because she is not a Muslim.’
‘But you can see her head, right?’ Lily asked.
‘Yes . . .’
‘Which means, according to Islam, you mustn’t respect her.’
Saladin blushed bright pink. ‘Well, no . . . I do respect Miss Zoe. Very much.’
‘Then why do Muslim women wear these burqa things?’
Saladin was helpless.
It was Zoe who saved him. ‘Not all men are as gentlemanly as Aziz, Lily. They can’t control their urges as well as he can.’
‘Urges?’ Lily asked, zeroing in on the new word.
Zoe said, ‘And
that
is a topic we will address when you’re a little older.’
All this time, a sheet of paper hung in the kitchen, attached by a magnet to the refrigerator—on it were seven boxes, filled with a strange kind of writing, reproductions of the seven main verses in the Callimachus Text.
It looked like this:
It was positioned so that Lily saw it every day when she went to get her morning juice. When she asked what it said, Doris Epper answered: ‘We don’t know. We’re hoping that one day you’ll be able to tell us.’
When she hit five years of age, Max Epper took charge of her schooling, teaching her maths, science, ancient history and languages—with an emphasis on Latin, Greek and cuneiform.
It turned out she had a singular aptitude for languages, learning them quickly and fluidly—with almost unnatural ease.
By age 7, she had mastered Latin and Greek.
By 8, she was deciphering Egyptian hieroglyphics.
By 9, she had outstripped Epper in his knowledge of cuneiform— translating all three of the ancient
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