"Is this it?"

Father Jerome looked down into the valley. It was an oasis that lay beneath the plateau of the surrounding desert. From his vantage point at the top of the trail he could see a shallow river winding through a wooded valley between tilled fields. In the distance, wisps of smoke promised habitation of some sort.

Martha nodded in reply. "It is. You sound disappointed."

The priest sighed. "No. It's just that I've come so far to be here. Somehow I was expecting more. But that would be my pride, telling me that this is more important than anything else in the world."

"The prophet did not want to draw attention to himself," Martha said. "He knew that his knowledge would bring him misery. Truth always does. Come."

She clicked her tongue, and her horse began to amble down the trail, into the valley. Father Jerome gently kicked the flanks of his mount, and followed his guide. The trail was more than wide enough for the horses to make their way down, but Jerome still kept close to the cliff wall, fearful of his horse stumbling and falling. He was thankful when they reached the valley floor and were on level ground. As they splashed their way across the river they were met by four riders, each one visibly armed.

The smallest of the welcoming party rode a little ahead of the others. "Hello Martha," he said in an accent similar to Martha's. "Who is the stranger?"

Martha bowed her head in greeting. "Matthew. This is Jerome. He is a seeker after truth."

Matthew looked Jerome up and down, his eyes slitted in concentration. "I see," he finally said. "Well, Jerome, what do you have to say for yourself."

Jerome coughed to clear his throat. "I've come a long way. I've heard that your community has a book that shows the ultimate truth of God's creation."

The other riders exchanged worried glances. Matthew continued to stare at Jerome. The priest continued, "I wish to see it. Please."

"Where you from?" Matthew asked.

"I'm from the seminary at Durham. Durham - England."

"A black crow?" Matthew's tone was suspicious.

"I was." Jerome tried to keep his voice steady. He felt that if he said the wrong thing, then his quest would end here, in the dusty soil of this unknown valley. "The church has disowned me. They have tried to kill me. I no longer have any spiritual authority, beyond that little which God grants any man."

"I can vouch for him, Matthew," Martha interjected. "What he says is true, as far as I have seen."

Matthew moved his horse aside. "Very well. We shall take you to the prophet. He will determine the truth of the matter."

The other riders formed up around Martha and Jerome, and the group began to move down the valley, following the path of the river.

While the trees hid the extent of the valley settlement from above, its full size was obvious on the ground. As the group rode downstream, Jerome saw farmsteads and orchards, all neat and well tended. Small groups of tanned people watched him ride past and, as they approached the cluster of buildings at the centre of the settlement, the number of curious spectators increased. That all stood in silence, watching Jerome and his escorts ride past.

Eventually the group arrived in front of a modest dwelling, set apart from the others. It was part of a group of buildings centred around what appeared to be a meeting hall large enough to hold a few hundred individuals. A pair of iron gates had been placed between stone pillars, but there was no wall. The gates seemed out of place, as if they had been dropped here from above.

The group stopped just outside the gates. Matthew and Martha dismounted. Jerome started to get down from his horse, but stopped when he saw the other riders had not moved. Matthew looked back at him.

"Well?" he asked. "Do you want to meet the prophet or no?"

Slowly, Jerome lowered himself to the ground. His legs were unsteady, unused to bearing his weight after so much time in the saddle. He followed Matthew and Martha into the house. Just inside the door was a large, well-lit room. The walls were lined with shelves, each shelf home to numerous leather- and cloth-bound books. At the centre of the room was a lectern that had been carved from wood. It rose from the floor into a fluted column with an eagle perched on top of it. The outspread wings of the eagle cradled a single tome, its covers closed and locked shut.

Jerome stepped forward, curious as to whether this was the book he sought.

"Perhaps it is," said a voice from the far side of the room.

Jerome halted and looked up. A man, in his middle age judging by the salt and pepper colour of his long hair and beard, had entered the room. Martha and Matthew both went down on one knee. "Father," they said in unison. Jerome hesitated, unsure how or whether to show respect to the newcomer.

"Don't worry," said the middle-aged man. "I do not deserve your respect. Not yet. I still have to earn it." He extended a hand. "Welcome, Jerome. An appropriate name."

Jerome stepped forward and took the man's hand in his own. As he did so, Martha and Matthew rose to their feet.

"Are you the prophet?" Jerome asked.

The man shook his head. "I am not the prophet, merely the latest to be regarded as such - despite what people here may say. Anyone here can be the prophet, provided they show the appropriate understanding."

"Understanding of what?"

The man walked over to the lectern and tapped the locked volume on it. "This."

"That is the book?" Jerome asked.

"It is. You have come to divine its secrets, yes?"

"I have."

The man smiled a snaggletoothed grin. "Well, we must see if you are capable of understanding them first."