piercing brown eyes set in a clever, mournful face.
She spoke loudly, enunciating clearly.
“Thank you, sir. I am most grateful for your assistance.”
“At your service,” he said, speaking more softly than she, inclining his head. “Where are you going?”
Men were approaching now, half a dozen or more of them, drawn not by Yael but by her rescuer, crowding around to pay respects to him, raising his hand to their foreheads, kissing his hem.
“St. Mark’s Anglican Church,” Yael said loudly. “I am a Christian.”
“You are lost. Come.”
Leading the horse by the reins, he dismissed the men and set off on foot. Yael looked around her. The street was empty again, as if the incident had never occurred nor been witnessed by anyone at all. The bell had fallen silent; she didn’t know when. The man and his horse were already fifty yards away. Yael clamped the new flatness of her bag under her arm and hurried to catch him up.
• • •
The church was a white building, recognizable by its spire, the wooden cross mounted in the alcove of the porch. There was a little graveyard around it, some bleached stones, but no wall or fence. It stood in sandy waste ground, adorned only by rocks and boulders, looking as exposed as she felt herself.
The man led the horse to the shade of a tree and walked back toward Yael, gestured at the open doors, at the threshold, where Reverend Griffinshawe stood, watching.
“Your church,” he said.
Yael was prevented by some instinct from extending her hand to be shaken. The walk was longer than she’d imagined and she was tired, her legs trembling with the effort of keeping pace. It would be all she could do to get herself inside the doors, sink to a pew, in the blessed shade.
“Thank you. You have been very kind.”
“Our children are not bad children,” he said. “They hunger for many things.”
“May I ask your name?”
“I am the Sheikh Hamada.”
“Miss Heron,” the Reverend called, over the stony ground. “Is the fellow bothering you?”
Sheikh Hamada didn’t hear.
“It is our duty,” he said, “to receive guests. Your servant should not have allowed you to go alone.”
• • •
Gripping the back of the pew in front, Yael pulled herself to her feet as the congregation, a thinner gathering than the Reverend Griffinshawe had suggested, rose for “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” She opened the hymn book and began to sing.
Marching as to war .
She could hear her own voice, a little out of key, slightly out of time with the rest, as she had always felt herself to be with other people and not only in choral matters.
With the cross of Jesus . . . Going on before .
Hearing the familiar words, Yael felt the pull of England. The high, tremulous voices, the faith expressed in them, however imperfectly, dignified their country more than the Union Jack pennants in the harbor, the British consul’s residence in its grand and formal square. It was faith in a Christian God and England’s capacity for charity that made the nation great, not their talent for trade, their subjugation of other lands, whatever Blundell might believe. Curious how, thousands of miles away from him, it was easier to think thoughts different from her brother’s.
The hymn finished and the Reverend announced a period of private prayer. Yael eased herself onto her knees, to a plain hassock on the stone floor. Closing her eyes, resting her forehead on her hands, she asked God for guidance on what help she might offer in the time she was here.
As the vicar embarked on a reading from Corinthians, she pulled herself back onto the seat. Light poured through the panes of crimson and blue and gold glass set into the round high window over the entrance of St. Mark’s and threw a rainbow along the aisle, between the rows of carved pews. The altar, spread with a white cloth, was dressed with a trinity of tall, lighted candles, a vase of flowers so bright and vivid they too might
She spoke loudly, enunciating clearly.
“Thank you, sir. I am most grateful for your assistance.”
“At your service,” he said, speaking more softly than she, inclining his head. “Where are you going?”
Men were approaching now, half a dozen or more of them, drawn not by Yael but by her rescuer, crowding around to pay respects to him, raising his hand to their foreheads, kissing his hem.
“St. Mark’s Anglican Church,” Yael said loudly. “I am a Christian.”
“You are lost. Come.”
Leading the horse by the reins, he dismissed the men and set off on foot. Yael looked around her. The street was empty again, as if the incident had never occurred nor been witnessed by anyone at all. The bell had fallen silent; she didn’t know when. The man and his horse were already fifty yards away. Yael clamped the new flatness of her bag under her arm and hurried to catch him up.
• • •
The church was a white building, recognizable by its spire, the wooden cross mounted in the alcove of the porch. There was a little graveyard around it, some bleached stones, but no wall or fence. It stood in sandy waste ground, adorned only by rocks and boulders, looking as exposed as she felt herself.
The man led the horse to the shade of a tree and walked back toward Yael, gestured at the open doors, at the threshold, where Reverend Griffinshawe stood, watching.
“Your church,” he said.
Yael was prevented by some instinct from extending her hand to be shaken. The walk was longer than she’d imagined and she was tired, her legs trembling with the effort of keeping pace. It would be all she could do to get herself inside the doors, sink to a pew, in the blessed shade.
“Thank you. You have been very kind.”
“Our children are not bad children,” he said. “They hunger for many things.”
“May I ask your name?”
“I am the Sheikh Hamada.”
“Miss Heron,” the Reverend called, over the stony ground. “Is the fellow bothering you?”
Sheikh Hamada didn’t hear.
“It is our duty,” he said, “to receive guests. Your servant should not have allowed you to go alone.”
• • •
Gripping the back of the pew in front, Yael pulled herself to her feet as the congregation, a thinner gathering than the Reverend Griffinshawe had suggested, rose for “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” She opened the hymn book and began to sing.
Marching as to war .
She could hear her own voice, a little out of key, slightly out of time with the rest, as she had always felt herself to be with other people and not only in choral matters.
With the cross of Jesus . . . Going on before .
Hearing the familiar words, Yael felt the pull of England. The high, tremulous voices, the faith expressed in them, however imperfectly, dignified their country more than the Union Jack pennants in the harbor, the British consul’s residence in its grand and formal square. It was faith in a Christian God and England’s capacity for charity that made the nation great, not their talent for trade, their subjugation of other lands, whatever Blundell might believe. Curious how, thousands of miles away from him, it was easier to think thoughts different from her brother’s.
The hymn finished and the Reverend announced a period of private prayer. Yael eased herself onto her knees, to a plain hassock on the stone floor. Closing her eyes, resting her forehead on her hands, she asked God for guidance on what help she might offer in the time she was here.
As the vicar embarked on a reading from Corinthians, she pulled herself back onto the seat. Light poured through the panes of crimson and blue and gold glass set into the round high window over the entrance of St. Mark’s and threw a rainbow along the aisle, between the rows of carved pews. The altar, spread with a white cloth, was dressed with a trinity of tall, lighted candles, a vase of flowers so bright and vivid they too might
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