These were dressed in white robes bordered with broad red stripes, priests’ robes, except the men seemed young for priests. They carried bows and hunting knives. They made a great show of binding their knives in their sheaths so that they might travel with us. In the middle of the day they left us, and later we found ourselves in the company of two like them, but not the same.
Then I decided that someone must have been watching and following us well before we became aware of it. The road to Debra Damo was patrolled for fifty miles. No one challenged our right to use that road or showed any interest in our destination. But we were guarded ever more constantly as we came closer to the hermitage.
At the bottom of the amba was a small settlement, and two matronly women guided us to the cluster of huts that were kept ready for pilgrims. They spoke to us with frank and friendly interest.
“They will not let you in, you know. It is a solemnly kept man’s community; they do not even keep nanny goats.”
“The boy will act as our messenger,” Turunesh said calmly.
“Is he to be dedicated? If you are of the house of Nebir, you may sequester him here with the children of the queen of queens,” one of them offered helpfully.
The other gave Telemakos a sharp look and said to her companion, “His house is of no account. You can see why they would bring him here.”
They both stopped still in their tracks and gazed at Telemakos.
“I see, I see,” said the first.
Telemakos scowled but held his tongue. He rubbed at his wrist where I had bound him, though it could not possibly bother him anymore.
It made me think of Priamos rubbing at his own wrist in the exact same way, rubbing away the ghost of a chain. Priamos had been even younger than Telemakos when he came to Debra Damo. I tried to see him Telemakos’s age, serious and innocent, and could not imagine that heavy brow on a child’s face. Indeed, I could not remember anything of his look other than his worried scowl. It frustrated me.
We were given a stone-built pilgrim’s cottage to stay in and had supper brought to us twice. I do not know if that was a real mistake or evidence of more vigilance. No less than three young girls came by to see that we had enough water, and the old man who kept the pilgrims’ cells was desperate for court gossip. He brought us a goat so that Telemakos could have milk. Then he sat outside the door of the hut until long after dark, chewing some kind of bitter-smelling leaf and plying Turunesh with endless questions about the New Palace.
“Have they replaced the lions in the lion pit?”
“Not yet.”
“Ai, all of a year now has the palace at Aksum been without lions! What will become of the kingship?”
Telemakos appeared in the doorway like a wraith, his hair a halo of silver in the light of the waxing moon.
“Who said lions?” he asked.
“Go to sleep,” said Turunesh.
“I cannot sleep while everyone is talking about lions.”
“You will have tomorrow’s great adventure all to yourself,” Turunesh said. “Go to sleep.”
In the morning we had another long uphill trek to reach the ascent to the monastery. But when at last we came there, we knew that Telemakos could not make the climb to the entrance by himself. The snake of leather rope that led to the portal hung nearly a hundred feet down the side of the cliff.
I had not come this far to be thwarted by a rope. I handed my bow to Turunesh and set out to take Telemakos up the amba myself.
At the foot of the cliff there were sentries, who helped visitors to fix themselves in the leather harness, and who gave them guidance as they climbed the cliff side. They, too, had the look of priests, and yet seemed to have a hard edge of strength to them, like soldiers or guardsmen.
I set my mouth in the harshest expression of severity and disdain, and stared into all their faces as though I were a king. I said nothing aloud, but indicated that I wanted to go aloft with Telemakos.
They gazed at Telemakos with a deeply interested and intense scrutiny. I was annoyed that holy men were not better able to disguise their fascination.
“The boy?” the eldest of them asked.
“He is here to act as messenger for me,” I said.
When they heard my voice, they knew I was a woman.
“You cannot stay here,” the spokesman said. “You cannot touch these things; you cannot look at this place.”
At once I felt my arrogance to be mean and discourteous. I knelt, and bowed my head. “Forgive me. I thought to spare the child the ascent.”
They seemed unable to tear their gaze from Telemakos. They tried to answer me politely, but I could tell that their attention was greatly diverted.
“One of us will bear him for you,” said the man. “What would you have him do here?”
For one moment of panic it occurred to me that I did not know for certain whether Caleb was here. It had all been implied and hinted at, but nothing had been spoken.
“The child is my messenger,” I repeated. “I seek the lord of your land. I am daughter to Artos the high king of Britain, and my father is dead.”
“The one you seek is here,” said the sentry. “I do not know if he will see you, but the boy may take him your message.”
I knelt by Telemakos and held him by the shoulders.
“Hey. Hey, Telemakos Meder. What are you going to say to the great person when you meet him?”
“I shall make a full reverence, on my face on the ground, and say, Your Highness, Goewin the princess of Britain is here to see you, Goewin the daughter of Artos the dragon.”
“And apologize for having to ask him to come down to me. But you see they will not let me come to him.”
“All shall be well,” Telemakos said, with an echo of his mother’s calm. He smiled, but he was serious. His front teeth were finally through, and it made him look older. “Caleb will remember me.”
“You are a bold hero.”