After most of a day and several changes in mode of transportation to try and avoid further detection, Ina found herself piled into the back of a grimy truck that had almost definitely been used recently to move livestock. At least, that was the tale the extreme cornucopia of odors told. The beaten-up old diesel bounced along a remote packed-dirt road, passing by rows of low-lying scrub bushes, small farm villages of tin-roof shacks, and occasional pairs of ibex or wild donkeys.

“Bete Giyorgis,” said Peter as he gnawed on the same strip of jerky he had removed from his little pouch an hour before, “Means 'Saint George'. So what we are going to see is the chapel of St. George.”

“Like the dragon slayer St. George?” Wilder said.

“No such things as dragons,&rd...

Please subscribe to keep reading.