The Gates of Zion (2 page)

Not a half-bad job,
she thought,
if a girl likes taking pictures of
two-thousand-year-old jar handles
. It beat waitressing in Long Beach while all the prime photojournalism jobs were snapped up by GIs returning home from Europe and the Pacific. Even with a BA in photojournalism from UCLA, she was lucky to have a job; she knew that. Good old Uncle Howard had really come through on this one.

Her pay with the American School of Oriental Research was miniscule but steady. Nothing in her education, however, had equipped her for this.

“
Antikas! Antikas!”
the old Arab repeated, gesturing wildly toward the battered leather pouch he carried slung over his bony shoulder.

“All right! Just wait a minute!” Ellie motioned impatiently for them to sit, then muttered, “Stay right there. I’m going to strangle a sweet little old lady; then we’ll take a look at the treasures you’ve brought.” She turned and glanced toward the open door into the hall.

“Miriam!” she shouted. “Come in here—immediately!”

Ellie turned back to look at her two unusual visitors. Rigidly seated in straight-backed leather chairs, they stared wide-eyed at the walls of books and the displays of artifacts that filled the room.
They look
like artifacts themselves,
Ellie mused
, on display among the
potsherds and Bronze Age tools in Uncle Howard’s glass cases.

As the Bedouins investigated the room, Ellie looked them over.

Wonderful photographic studies they’d make.
Both were dressed in the traditional sandals and long robes and were crowned with the keffiyeh, the head covering of nomadic tribes in Palestine. One looked to be about eighteen or nineteen years old. His scruffy beard framed a thin face, with a nose hanging between his eyes like a large beak. The older had a curly gray beard and high cheekbones; he reminded Ellie of a roosting buzzard blinking in the sun.

“Miriam!” she shouted again, and Uncle Howard’s old housekeeper finally appeared in the doorway. “I think I’m going to need you—”

she gestured vaguely in the direction of the two shepherds, still sitting erect, still waiting, watching.

When Ellie turned back to them, they apparently had changed tactics for their sale. The older of the two sprang to his feet and whacked his young companion sharply across the head. Ellie, at five feet, five inches, towered over the old man. The younger, tall and stoop-shouldered, rose to his feet a bit more slowly.

“
Salaam.
” Both men spoke in unison and bowed majestically to Ellie.

“
Salaam,
” Ellie returned. The three of them stood for an awkward moment until Ellie broke the silence. “Please sit down. The professor is not here, but he will return in the next few days… .”

The two continued to stand, smiling at her.

“
Antikas,”
the elder began again.

“Miriam,” Ellie pleaded, looking toward the door where the old woman stood.

But before Miriam could translate, the old Arab dashed between Ellie and the door. He pushed the battered leather pouch toward Ellie. “
Antikas!
” he insisted. Then he raised his palm toward her solemnly, like an Indian chief.

“All right,” Ellie groaned. “Let’s see what you’ve got. The silver chalice? The very nails from …”

Before she could finish, the wizened brown hand pulled from the pouch an object that resembled a miniature mummy. It was about ten inches long and several inches thick, and seemed to be wrapped in shreds of linen. Her sarcasm diminished, replaced by cautious curiosity.

The old man offered another toothless smile and reverently held the object out to her.
“Antikas,”
he repeated quietly and sincerely. “You see, real
antikas.
”

Ashamed of her flippancy, Ellie stared at the object before she put out her hands out tentatively, looking at the old man to see if he meant for her to take it.

He nodded at her and smiled again. “Yes, you look. Truly.” He put it carefully into her hands and backed away.

Even Ellie’s untrained eye could see that she held a scroll. It was surprisingly heavy. Tan in color, the edges seemed to be crumbling; indeed, it had the appearance of something very old. In the field of archaeology, however, the term
old
was quite relative. She had been around her uncle long enough to know that something a mere two hundred years old was of little value.

“Very old,” the man encouraged.

Ellie looked up at him. There was no way for her to tell if what she held had existed for a hundred years or a thousand. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know enough about it. The professor is gone and won’t be back for several days.”

“Open,” insisted the old Arab, snatching it away from her. As he grabbed it, fragments from the edge broke off and fell to the floor.

“Look,
antikas.
” He laid it down on the broad surface of the desk and unrolled it without ceremony. “There. Very old.”

The inside of the scroll was covered with columns of neatly ruled writing in what appeared to be Hebrew. Pieces of the scroll were stitched together; Ellie guessed the material was leather. She examined it carefully, trying to remember what Moshe Sachar, Uncle Howard’s colleague, had told her about the Hebrew scrolls that were stored in genizahs after they were worn out. This might be just such a scroll, its value insignificant. But still, there was something about the shape of these letters. They were different than anything she remembered Moshe showing her before.

“Yes, very nice.” She nodded to the old Arab.

He turned to his young companion and beamed triumphantly. “Two hundred English pound,” he announced. “Cash.”

“Listen,” Ellie tried to explain, “I can’t. I mean, I don’t know anything about this sort of thing. My uncle, the professor …”

“Two hundred English pound,” he said again.

“Where did this come from? Where did you find it?”

“Cash,” he replied, holding out his upturned palm.

Ellie looked first at the gnarled hand outstretched before her, then at the eyes, filled with greed. “What we have here is a communication breakdown, my good man. You are looking at the Betty Boop of the archaeology world. No, no. A thousand times no.” She blew her nose and motioned impatiently to Miriam, still standing in the doorway.

“Explain this to him, Miriam.” There was no talking to a man whose entire English vocabulary consisted of
antikas,
very old
, and
cash
.

Miriam pried herself away from the doorway as the old Arab rattled off a stream of words, jabbing at the air with one hand while he held the other still outstretched for money. When Miriam rattled back at him in response
,
Ellie noticed an instant change in his demeanor.

“Bah!” He spat, lowering his palm. He glared at Ellie as if she were an interloper in the world of high finance, then began to gather up the scroll like an angry executive stuffing disappointing quarterly statements into his briefcase.

“Miriam,” Ellie shouted, “don’t let him do that!” She hurried toward the desk. “Don’t do that!” she told the man.

“Bah!” The old Arab spat again, not even looking at the upstart.

Miriam began talking rapidly, mowing down his obstinance with a barrage of Arabic until, midsentence, he pulled the scroll out of the leather pouch once again, sniffed indignantly, and gazed steadily at Ellie as Miriam finished speaking.

“Hmm,” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm.” Then his toothless smile reappeared. He smacked his young companion on the shoulder, and the two of them once again took their seats.

“There,” said Miriam to Ellie. “You see, one simply must know how to talk to these desert peasants.”

“What did you tell him?” Ellie asked, awed.

“I tell him that you are the most utmost authority on ancient scrolls and that you will not pay him until you can see them all.”

“Authority!” repeated Ellie miserably. “All? You mean there are more of these things?”

“He did not tell you?”

“Why, no.”

Miriam gave the ancient shepherd a good tongue-lashing, which he followed with a tirade of his own while Ellie groped her way to Uncle Howard’s massive leather chair behind his desk and sank into it.

“Well,” Miriam explained, “this lying dog says he tells you there are more. He says he tells you how his son finds them in jars in a cave when he goes to find a lost goat.”

“He might have.” Ellie shrugged. “I couldn’t understand a word.”

Miriam’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head. “Ha!” she barked at the shepherd. “Speak the King’s English, please.”

The old man eyed the young shepherd beside him, who had been gazing intently at a case of ancient tools. Then the old man slapped him on the arm. “King’s English, please.” He snorted, then mumbled a few Arabic curses.

The young man cleared his throat nervously
,
rubbed a dirty hand across his lips as if to loosen up a frozen tongue
,
then began. “My pardon, ma’am.” He nodded to Ellie. A trace of British accent in a deep and pleasant voice tempted Ellie to look over her shoulder for the ventriloquist who might be throwing such educated tones into the mouth of this sack of bones and dirt.

“My father is quite an ignorant man,” he explained. “He told me he must handle this enterprise himself, and I must learn.” A smile cracked his lips as he glanced out of the corner of his eye at his brooding father. “He means no harm.”

“Obviously, since you speak so well, you must also understand that I am not the authority the housekeeper makes me out to be.”

Miriam turned to leave. “I’ll bring tea,” she announced in an injured tone.

“Thank you, Miriam,” Ellie called after her. “And, Miriam—”

The old woman paused.

“Thank you.”

The young shepherd’s eyes followed the old woman. “She did well.

My father would be gone to the antique dealers in Bethlehem if he knew.”

“Tell me how you came by this.” Ellie leaned her aching head back on the leather chair.

“My youngest brother, Mohamed the Wolf, found a cave filled with jars and some scrolls such as this. Many were in pieces, and there were many broken jars and fragments. He had lost a goat, you see, and tossed a stone into a cave to see if it had wandered in. He heard the sound of breaking pottery and fetched me. We found this and six others whole.”

“Where is this cave?”

“There are many caves in the desert.” He smiled evasively. “This is one of the many by the Dead Sea. I know where it lies, but this is not the time to say.”

“I see.” Ellie understood his meaning. Until he was paid, he would say nothing. The old man would have done well to take lessons from his son. “You know I cannot promise you anything until the professor sees this.”

“Then perhaps we should go to Bethlehem to the dealers,” he replied with a sigh.

“No. Let me keep it until you bring the others.”

“Alas, no. I fear that we will be gone many days to the desert. Two weeks until we return to Jerusalem. We leave in the morning.” He began to stand.

“No, wait.” Ellie motioned him to sit down. “I am the photographer for the archaeological team. If I weren’t ill, I would be with the professor now.”

“May Allah grant you health, blessed be his name.” The shepherd bowed his head.

“Well, he hasn’t, and I’m here,” she said under her breath. “So, would you let me keep the scroll overnight? I can photograph it and show it to the professor when he returns. If he likes what he sees, then perhaps you can let your father complete the transaction?”

The young man cleared his throat thoughtfully. “Excuse me, please,”

he said to Ellie, then addressed his father, who was staring suspiciously at her. For a period of several minutes they argued back and forth in Arabic, debating the wisdom of leaving such a valuable item in the hands of this red-haired, unveiled, infidel woman who could not even speak the language of the country she now resided in.

In the end, Ellie pulled a five-pound note out of her pocket, and the discussion swung decidedly in her favor. “Tell him this will be a deposit. Good faith, you know,” Ellie said as the old man eyed the bill. “He can have the scroll back in the morning, but I want the money back too.”

“No, a thousand times,” replied the young shepherd, shaking his head firmly. “He keeps the money, and we take the scroll in the morning.”

“But you promise to return two weeks from today with the rest of the scrolls?” asked Ellie. “And the five pounds is off the purchase price if the professor decides to take them.” Her eyes narrowed shrewdly as she tried out her bargaining ability.

The young man repeated the offer to his father, who immediately was lost in thought. After a moment of coy consideration—
more show
than substance,
Ellie thought, amused—he snatched the bill from her hand, rejoicing in a torrent of happy Arabic. Just as Miriam entered with the tray of steaming tea, he embraced his son energetically and strode out of the study and through the front door, triumphantly waving the five-pound note.

Scroll rental. Something new in Palestine.

“Tomorrow morning, then.” The young Arab bowed and took his leave.

“Yes, if I’m still breathing,” moaned Ellie, laying her head on the desk.

“May our gracious Lord will it so,” said Miriam matter-of-factly as she set the tray on the desk. “Will you have tea in bed?” she inquired.

Ellie raised her head and peered at the old woman. “No, Miriam.

Tea in the photo lab.”

***

As Ellie prepared the scroll for photographing, moving about the lab to gather the materials, she mused over her earlier confrontation with Miriam.

The eighty-year-old housekeeper fancied herself in charge, determined to make a respectable young woman out of the professor’s flighty, unconventional niece. Eccentric, dominant, yet solicitous of Ellie’s welfare, Miriam had taken upon herself the responsibility of the red-haired photographer.

“I told them you were not well,” Miriam had said when she woke Ellie to meet the Bedouin shepherds, “but it is very important they speak with you. Utmost urgency. For if they go, they may not come again for some time. Drink your tea and I will help you get dressed.”