Solomon's Throne (18 page)

“If they only knew!” Isabel laughed.

“Indeed… Well, we shall continue to pray for God to be with us.” He patted his pocket where his telescope case encased the letter, and felt the small chisel.

Father Gustavo welcomed the couple, and enthusiastically accepted the generous donation Sinhor Xavier made to the small outpost. He listened to their plan with obvious relief, as he and the other two priests who lived at the outpost had many duties to attend to keep their basic needs met, as well as to provide for the spiritual needs of their few regular parishioners. Additionally, tomorrow was his day to visit the local village. Their missionary work was slow and discouraging, and his departure each week put an added burden on the small household.

Isabel went into the small, spare chapel and knelt to pray. She actually did pray, seeking God’s wisdom and protection for her husband, and asking Him to bless these tired and cast down monks. Meanwhile, Joao did his best to appear the waiting husband, wandering around idly, killing time until his devout bride should be ready to leave. In truth, he knew where he wanted to go, and casually made his way towards the second building.

The back wall of the living quarters was actually the face of a rock. The outpost had been built up against this rock as a way to both fortify the structure in case of wind, rain, or native attack, and also to capture the coolness of the rock by night. Because the rear room tended towards damp, the library had been moved from there quite early on, and now it housed the general living area, with a fireplace, rough hewn table and chairs for meals, and oil lamps for reading. There were small windows on the south side, opposite the open fireplace, which provided the only natural light.

No one was in the small building, and Joao had seen Father Gustavo hurrying back to the fields to help with the ever present weeding. He scanned the rock wall. Over the decades rough shelves had been fashioned and hung, as well as iron hooks. Some had obviously also been removed or had broken off. But the wall didn’t have any carvings or other obvious features in which to hide his X. He looked at the fireplace, but it was made out of locally fired brick, and they did not have the look of longevity. He went back to the wall, and got down on his knees on the dirt floor. He crawled from the corner by the fireplace all along the rock, to the opposite corner.

In the far corner there was a small outcrop. A small, rough wooden cross was perched on it. Underneath, the otherwise smooth rock was creased and folded, like the rock had been liquid at one point in time, and it angled backwards. It was his only option. He quickly carved his X, scattering the chips of rock across the floor, and putting the larger pieces in his pocket. Directly underneath he used the chisel to dig a hole as close to the rock as he could. He discovered that the rock continued angling back under the surface of the soil, and he dug as far back as he could with his chisel and his hands.

When the hole was large enough, he took out the metal tube holding his precious letter. He spared a quick prayer for the man who would find it, then took out a square of leather in which he wrapped the tube completely. He placed all this in the hole, and covered it up, carefully tamping down the dirt and smoothing it to look like the rest of the room’s floor. He stood and stretched his back and knees.

Looking down, he realized he was filthy. His hands and nails were reddish brown, and the knees of his breeches had dirt ground into them. Glancing around, he saw no pitcher of water, so he quickly went outside. Beside the building he found a small rough well, and pulled up a bucket of fresh water. He laved his hands and cleaned his fingernails as best he could. Looking at his knees he decided there wasn’t much he could do about them except use his handkerchief to brush away as much as the dirt as possible. His breeches were dark brown, and the soil was red, so when the surface dust was removed the stains could not be readily noticed. He suspected Isabel would never allow them to be worn again.

Hurrying around to the chapel, he found his wife sitting anxiously. She had heard the door and lowered her head to her hands in prayer, but when she saw it was her husband she jumped up and ran to him.

“Oh my goodness, I was getting so
impaciente!
I thought that perhaps Father Gustavo had returned. Oh my…” She sat back down.

“I am sorry I was so delayed. There was not a very convenient place to leave my mark, but I think that I have hidden it successfully. It is in God’s hands now.” He helped her up and kissed her. “Come! Now we have the journey of a lifetime to prepare for!”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Inhambane, Mozambique

Present Day

T
he Quinns had flown from
Cape Town to Johannesburg on a small commuter flight. Apparently not many people traveled to Mozambique, as they had to wait two days for the next flight out. They spent that time holed up in the Intercontinental Hotel at the airport, watching bad television, paying the equivalent of twenty dollars each to watch bad movies on pay-per-view, and eating from room service.

By the time they got on their puddle jumper to Maputo, they were both ecstatic to be out of the hotel and moving once again. The flight was short, and they had no problem with the visa process and immigration. They had scanned, copied and printed off two copies each of their passport photos, and had everything ready to go at the visa counter. It cost more than posted, and the Australian man behind them said, “TIA… This is Africa. That’s how it goes here!” They laughed, paid, and went in search of a car hire.

This was their first snag, as they were unable to locate an official rental car firm. But after realizing what they were trying to do, and being happy to have a tourist who actually spoke Portuguese visit his country, their driver took them to a small mechanic shop. He accompanied them inside, and quickly arranged the hire of a somewhat ancient Toyota Prado at the equivalent of $150 a week.

“But you must return to Maputo, madam. My cousin will take a credit card number from you but he does not wish to try to charge for the whole car!”

Rei laughed and assured them that they would return the vehicle to the garage. Gideon raised an eyebrow at her, and she just shrugged. “We’ll have to leave eventually, right?”

Turning to the owner of the garage, she thanked him in Portuguese, and assured him that they would do their best to return the car in short order. He happily told her to keep it as long as she wanted, while carefully putting the scribbled copy of the Xavier International American Express Centurion card number in the bottom of his money box. He handed her the keys, and led them outside and around the building.

The Prado was long past the warranty period, dented and beaten up from the poor roads and driving conditions in the country. But it was shining clean inside and out, and was full of petrol.

“Is diesel,” the owner said haltingly in English to Gideon. Gideon nodded his understanding. He noted that the vehicle was four wheel drive, and had obviously been mechanically maintained, if not, otherwise, so loved. The seats were covered with native kikoi fabrics thrown over to cover splits and holes in the leather. The jump seats that should have been in the very rear were missing. There were tie downs in the cargo area, however, and the taxi driver and his mechanic cousin helped Gideon tie their luggage down.

“Is bump,” said the driver. He made a wavy motion with his hand. “Bump.”

Looking out over the road they had driven to get to the garage, Gideon nodded. “Is big bump,” he agreed.

The driver had recommended that they stay at the Hotel Avenida Maputo on Nyerere Street. It was a busy street and a large hotel, and the odds were reasonably good they could get an internet connection. The food and bar were well liked by locals able to afford them. They were only spending one night in Maputo, planning their drive to Inhambane and getting whatever supplies they felt they needed after getting some local information on the roads, availability of food and fuel, as well as water and other necessary facilities. Rei was already worried about the necessary facilities, and Gideon secretly thought her fears were probably well justified.

Their room had a lovely view of the Indian Ocean, and the bar was situated on the seventh floor and also had a wonderful view. They had a local beer, which was almost cold, and enjoyed bowls of fried bananas and ground nuts. Gideon asked the bartender about driving to Inhambane while Rei tried to locate an internet connection.

“Ah, very far.” He nodded his head as he waved up the coast. “Ahhhh,
wingi
kilometers. Many. Six hundred kilometers, I think.
Ndiyo.
” He nodded again.

“And how is the road? Is it a paved road?” Gideon asked, afraid of the answer.

“
Tarikishupavu.
Hard road. Yes.
Magumu
. Difficult.”

Gideon thanked him and returned to the table by the window. “Good news, bad news…”

“Of course,” Rei said.

“It’s about three hundred and seventy-five miles, and the road is paved. Theoretically. But he says it is a difficult road, so I am thinking that the paved road is not in very good shape. Normally—in the States—three hundred and seventy-five miles would take less than a day of driving. Five or six hours. But I have a feeling we’re talking a couple of days, at best. Or one very long day. I’m not sure it would be prudent to drive after dark, though, so let’s count on two days of tough going.”

“So probably there’s no Holiday Inn along the way, then.” She made a face.

“Uh, no. We’ll ask the manager or someone who might have a little more English where we can count on finding some kind of room. Somewhere reasonably safe.”

Rei raised her eyebrows.

“We’re white, we’re American, and we’ll be driving out in the middle of nowhere. And TIA, as the guy at the airport said. Keep your purse close!” He ate a handful of nuts.

“Gid! Are you serious?”

“Of course I am… But keep your camera handy, too. Just don’t hang it out the window.”

After a long conversation with the hotel manager that afternoon, which involved a fairly complicated social exchange that they were entirely unprepared for involving tea and discussion of relatives and a long history of the country, they determined that their best choice for a place to spend a night was in the port city of Xai-Xai. A little less than halfway, it was a newish city which had a few modern hotels in which they could safely spend the night, as well as plenty of petrol stations. Since they were using diesel, they would probably not really need fuel, but the manager impressed upon them the importance of getting it when they found it, as there were not always facilities, and what facilities there were did not always have fuel on hand. The port cities were most likely to have it, and Xai-Xai should be able to accommodate their needs.

They arranged for a bag of food for the morning, including chapatti, fruit, more of the chips and ground nuts, bottles of water, several glass bottles of Coke, and fresh coconut and sugar cane. Gideon realized that they were taking nothing for protection from malaria, and got directions to a clinic where they were able to get two weeks of doxycycline very cheaply. There was no medicine they could take would be effective immediately, but they agreed that something was better than nothing.