Chapter 3
There can be tremendous beauty in a powerful storm, and a drab, predictable ugliness in serenity. Look at the woman who survives an immense force of nature, how she draws strength from it, absorbing the raw elemental power of our female deity and converting it to her own use.
—Amy Angkor Billings
After ordering the pilot into the passenger compartment, Lori locked herself inside the cockpit and tried to get some sleep. It was not easy. For more than an hour, she just sat on the deep-cushion of the pilot’s seat, with it tilted back as far as possible. Too many thoughts whirled through her mind. Countless troubles, dangerous possibilities. Across the expanse of desert, she saw the cloud cover opening up more, and a silver-sprinkling of stars against the deep indigo of the sky.
It occurred to her that the women in the back might take the four she-apostles and run off with them, might even go out in the night looking for Dixie Lou Jackson and the others. But she discounted the possibility. She had landed at least ten kilometers from Dixie Lou’s camp, and anyone on foot could get lost out there. At the minimum, she had until dawn to get a few hours of rest.
Through the windshield, she watched flashes of lightning illuminating desert escarpments for brief moments before flickering out like wicks, and saw the sliver of moon slipping below the horizon. She heard the wind picking up around the helicopter and the solid pelting of tiny, granular pieces of silica against the outside of the aircraft, as the break in the weather proved short-lived.
The fresh memory of automatic weapons fire returned, and of the tiny she-apostle Candace seeming to shift time around her . . . and avoiding certain death. Lori had so many questions about the she-apostles, and no answers.
She dozed off, and when she awoke the storm had subsided. Lori opened a small side window to allow fresh air into the cockpit, and then drifted off to sleep again. Several times, she awoke, and then slipped back into slumber.
In a dream, Lori saw flickering lights approaching on the desert, and soon realized they were lanterns, carried by people in dark robes. A woman called out from their midst, but in a language Lori didn’t understand, a tongue that rolled and flowed, like water streaming across the sands.
Lori counted six robed shapes, each with a lantern. As they drew close she saw dark skin and mysterious, glinting eyes beneath overhanging hoods. All appeared to be women. They continued to approach. In their unknown tribal language they spoke rapidly. Were they Arabs, or perhaps Berbers?
In the foreground, a toddler stood on the sand, looking at them.
With a start, Lori realized it was not a dream and she had been peering through the windshield of the helicopter. People really were standing out there, a group of women talking to one of the she-apostles, who stood by herself, with no attendant. Lori heard the women through the open side window, chattering rapidly in their language. She saw additional lanterns behind them, and the hulking shadows of camels.
Which child was it? In the low light of the lanterns, Lori saw red hair. Mary Magdalene. The toddler did not appear to be saying anything, and was just staring up at the hooded faces around her.
As Lori straightened in her seat, the women looked up at her and pointed. She also heard activity in the back of the helicopter, and voices back there.
Concerned for the safety of Mary Magdalene, Lori opened the cockpit emergency door, and was about to climb down onto the sand when she remembered the guns she had. After hesitating for a moment, she climbed down without the weapons.
“This is your child?” one of the women asked, in heavily accented English. She was quite large, the size of a big man. Her face was half in shadows, half in lantern light.
“I’m responsible for her,” Lori said, as she stepped onto the soft sand. Reaching down, she clasped one of the she-apostle’s hands, and felt a slight dizziness, which passed quickly.
“You are English?” the woman asked. She and her companions wore veils as well as hoods, but her veil was pulled to one side so that her face could be seen when the lights shifted. Lori heard the camels making noises in the background.
Lori nodded, thinking that they would not know the difference between the British and the Americans. After decades of terrorism, it was not always wise to admit that you were an American. “We had trouble in the storm and were forced to set down here.”
An odd sensation passed through the teenager, running from her hand holding little Mary up her arm. It made Lori feel a little light-headed, and something more that she could not quite identify.
“Your friends are setting up camp over there,” the woman said, pointing across the dark desert. “All of you seem to have experienced problems in the storm.”
Lori hesitated, then said, “They aren’t my friends.” This was not completely accurate since she did have at least one friend in their midst, Alex, and she cared about the welfare of the eight she-apostles in the group.
“They are your enemies?”
“Some of them are, very much so. It’s a very complicated story.”
“Life is like that, isn’t it?” the woman said, in her accented English. She held her lantern close to Lori’s face, looked into her eyes, and commented, “You carry truth in your face.”
“And you in yours,” Lori said, with a gentle smile. The woman appeared to be around thirty-five, with dark, sun-baked skin and glinting black eyes. Her face had a strength and hardness to it. Glancing around, Lori saw what she thought were the bulges of weapons beneath the robes of the group. She took a deep breath.
“I am a desert princess and these are my attendants,” the woman announced. She then said something to her companions in what Lori presumed to be Arabic, and they all laughed, which made Lori doubt if she really was a princess.
“Your life sounds very interesting,” Lori said.
She looked up at the portholes of the large helicopter, where dim lights were on inside and faces were pressed against the glass, peering out. She heard children crying. As Lori held little Mary’s hand a warm feeling ran through her and she felt comforted, that somehow the she-apostle was communicating with her.
“I’m sure your own story is much more interesting,” the Arab woman said, “but I will not ask you to talk about it if you don’t want to. We only wish to be of assistance to you in your time of need.”
“Thank you,” Lori said, “but I don’t know what you could possibly do. Our pilot is going to work on the engines when it is daylight, and as for my enemies, I’m afraid that is my problem.”
The woman narrowed her eyes. “There might be something I could do, if we are friends. I am called Malia Ali Khan.”
Lori considered not providing her own real name, but a small interior voice told her to take a chance—and she gave it to her, including her surname.
“Very nice to meet you.” Malia smiled broadly, revealing dark gaps in her teeth. She looked down. “And your young companion. What is your name, little one?”
When the child did not answer, Lori said, “Mary.”
“And you are not old enough to be her mother.”
“You’re right. She is not my child.”
“Jesus Christ’s mother was named Mary,” Malia said, a somewhat surprising comment. “I know something of your religion, because in Islam we respect your holy teachings.” She paused. “You are a Christian?”
“Not a very good one, I’m afraid.”
The robed woman leaned down to touch Mary’s face, then straightened and said to Lori, “Now that we are friends, I shall attack your enemies and kill them. We have many weapons, even machine guns.”
“They have more firepower than you do in those helicopters.” She nodded toward the aircraft. “Like this one. Besides, they have eight small children with them, and I don’t want them hurt.”
Malia nodded. “Very well, but I can still create a diversion for you, to give you time to get away. Would you like that?”
“Maybe. What do you have in mind?”
“We will offer them the hospitality of our village, and a very long meal. Perhaps in that time, you can get your repairs completed and leave.”
“Be very careful with the one called Dixie Lou Jackson. She is extremely dangerous.”
“But Allah is with us. And with you, too, as our special friend. There is only so much we can do in the form of a diversion, however. Perhaps only a few hours of keeping them busy, so you must hurry and get away from here.”
“Thank you. That will be a big help.”
Though she didn’t say so because she didn’t want to offend the woman, Lori wished she could fly as far away from here as she could get, with the four toddler she-apostles that she had in her care, Mary Magdalene, Veronica, Priscilla, and Sarah. It was dangerous to remain here, where Dixie Lou might find her. The other three aircraft had set down only a few kilometers away. But she couldn’t leave, not until the pilot fixed the engines, if that was even possible.
In addition, Lori had a peculiar feeling that she should remain, that she should not abandon the other eight she-apostles. The sensation confounded her, and she had difficulty imagining how to rescue them. She would have to sneak into Dixie Lou’s camp, find the children and get them out—basically by herself.
She did have a potential ally in Fujiko Harui, but she wasn’t certain she could rely on her yet. Especially not for something so critically important. Dixie Lou still had leverage on Fujiko, since she held her daughter Siana as captive, in punishment for the young woman’s participation in the attempted rescue of the she apostles. But that could go both ways, could cause Fujiko to seek vengeance against the Chairwoman.
“Please, let us pay you for your help,” Lori said. “You are going to a lot of trouble for us.”
“We do not accept payment from honored friends—such as yourself. No, there will be no charge.”
Malia means well, Lori thought, as the Arabs departed into the night with lanterns bobbing in the darkness, and boarded their camels. But she will have her hands full trying to deceive Dixie Lou.
Lori climbed back up to the cockpit, taking the silent, mysterious toddler with her.