Abasi Gamal had never been able to look inside the sanctuary of the shrine. He had never examined what they had and the questions in his notebooks remained unanswered.
“Tadiyass,” a voice called the Amharic formal greeting quietly in the darkness. It was the Guardian of the Ark.
“Tadiyass,” Natasha said in return, and as her eyes adjusted to the dim light she could see the outline of a man sitting on a chair at the back of the shrine. He guarded a doorway over which hung another curtain. In front of him was a thin railing and cushions for kneeling penitents. Natasha walked forward, affecting a modest pose as would become a woman in supplication to her God. She knelt before the altar and as she did so she pulled her knife from the ankle sheath and hid it behind the long folds of her shawl.
Natasha began to whisper a prayer under her breath, not to the Christian God but to her ancestors and the warrior gods of Egypt. The monk leaned forward as if trying to catch her words and she fleetingly wondered what it must be like shut in here for so long, with no hope of respite. Was it worth the reward in the afterlife?
She needed to get the man to come closer so she forced a cough, and then again, wheezing with the in-breath. The monk rose, perhaps to bring her water and she slumped onto the rail, feigning the need for his help. As soon as he was within reach she grabbed his hand, gripped a pressure point and twisted his arm, rising into the hold so that he couldn’t escape. With the other hand, she pulled the knife and held it to his throat.
“Be silent,” she whispered in his ear. “Show me the Ark. Now.”
It didn’t matter that he probably didn’t understand her words for there was only one thing in here worth fighting for. She pushed the knife slightly into his neck, drawing a little blood that trickled down onto his robes and he said something in Amharic, gibbering in his attempts to pacify her. She held him tightly as she stepped over the railing and walked him slowly towards the inner shrine.
Suddenly he pushed against her, flinging his head back to try and catch her face with his heavy skull as he escaped from her hold. Natasha sensed his move, this idiot priest with no real fighting skills, and his attempt was all the excuse she needed. Blood lust rose within her, the overwhelming instinct to kill. As he turned, she bent her knees and used the weight of her body to drive the knife into his side. His heavy robes blocked the blow and he swung at her with his fists, shouting for help as he struggled. His cry sounded a warning over the quiet day. Dogs erupted into barking outside and she heard shouts, but she knew Isac would keep them at bay and she didn’t even turn her head to the door.
The man came at her again and she waited until the last second, calculating her move. Then she slashed at the only part of his body that wasn’t covered by his robes, his neck. The knife connected with flesh and he clutched at his throat, his cries cut off by the gurgling of blood from the gaping wound. He fell to his knees. Natasha stepped behind him and pulled his head back, then used the knife to slit the man’s throat through the wound she had already opened, blood pumping out, darkening his faded robe to deep purple.
“To die protecting what you believe is the seat of God on earth is a great honor,” she whispered as his eyes glazed over. He would be with his God soon. She was panting as she wiped her hands on the monk’s robe. The exertion hadn’t been great and yet she was finding it harder than usual because of the pregnancy. She was glad that Isac wasn’t there to watch because he would know there was something up. El-Beherys didn’t make mistakes, her father had always said, they only made choices. She wiped the knife on the monk’s robes and slid it back into its sheath. Now for the holy of holies, the inner sanctuary.
Natasha walked to the back of the shrine and pushed
“Tadiyass,” a voice called the Amharic formal greeting quietly in the darkness. It was the Guardian of the Ark.
“Tadiyass,” Natasha said in return, and as her eyes adjusted to the dim light she could see the outline of a man sitting on a chair at the back of the shrine. He guarded a doorway over which hung another curtain. In front of him was a thin railing and cushions for kneeling penitents. Natasha walked forward, affecting a modest pose as would become a woman in supplication to her God. She knelt before the altar and as she did so she pulled her knife from the ankle sheath and hid it behind the long folds of her shawl.
Natasha began to whisper a prayer under her breath, not to the Christian God but to her ancestors and the warrior gods of Egypt. The monk leaned forward as if trying to catch her words and she fleetingly wondered what it must be like shut in here for so long, with no hope of respite. Was it worth the reward in the afterlife?
She needed to get the man to come closer so she forced a cough, and then again, wheezing with the in-breath. The monk rose, perhaps to bring her water and she slumped onto the rail, feigning the need for his help. As soon as he was within reach she grabbed his hand, gripped a pressure point and twisted his arm, rising into the hold so that he couldn’t escape. With the other hand, she pulled the knife and held it to his throat.
“Be silent,” she whispered in his ear. “Show me the Ark. Now.”
It didn’t matter that he probably didn’t understand her words for there was only one thing in here worth fighting for. She pushed the knife slightly into his neck, drawing a little blood that trickled down onto his robes and he said something in Amharic, gibbering in his attempts to pacify her. She held him tightly as she stepped over the railing and walked him slowly towards the inner shrine.
Suddenly he pushed against her, flinging his head back to try and catch her face with his heavy skull as he escaped from her hold. Natasha sensed his move, this idiot priest with no real fighting skills, and his attempt was all the excuse she needed. Blood lust rose within her, the overwhelming instinct to kill. As he turned, she bent her knees and used the weight of her body to drive the knife into his side. His heavy robes blocked the blow and he swung at her with his fists, shouting for help as he struggled. His cry sounded a warning over the quiet day. Dogs erupted into barking outside and she heard shouts, but she knew Isac would keep them at bay and she didn’t even turn her head to the door.
The man came at her again and she waited until the last second, calculating her move. Then she slashed at the only part of his body that wasn’t covered by his robes, his neck. The knife connected with flesh and he clutched at his throat, his cries cut off by the gurgling of blood from the gaping wound. He fell to his knees. Natasha stepped behind him and pulled his head back, then used the knife to slit the man’s throat through the wound she had already opened, blood pumping out, darkening his faded robe to deep purple.
“To die protecting what you believe is the seat of God on earth is a great honor,” she whispered as his eyes glazed over. He would be with his God soon. She was panting as she wiped her hands on the monk’s robe. The exertion hadn’t been great and yet she was finding it harder than usual because of the pregnancy. She was glad that Isac wasn’t there to watch because he would know there was something up. El-Beherys didn’t make mistakes, her father had always said, they only made choices. She wiped the knife on the monk’s robes and slid it back into its sheath. Now for the holy of holies, the inner sanctuary.
Natasha walked to the back of the shrine and pushed
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