Guardian of the Horizon (11 page)

voice. "Don't wake her." Emerson's grumble was his best attempt at a whisper. "The heat seems to bother her quite a lot," Ramses said, his even voice softened by concern. "Father, can't you persuade her to remain at Gebel Barkal instead of--" "Certainly not," I said, and sat up. "What time is it?" A single lamp, with a cracked shade, smoked redly, casting gruesome shadows across the faces of my companions. "Time for a bite to eat," said Emerson, avoiding the question of how much longer the jolting journey would take. "We have waited for you, my dear. It was clever of you to think of purchasing food." "I knew you wouldn't think of it," I retorted. "Have Selim and the others been supplied?" Ramses assured me they had, and we tucked into the food with good appetite. "You look much better, Aunt Amelia," Nefret remarked. "You were smiling in your sleep. Did you dream of something pleasant?" "Quite pleasant, my dear. I saw--" My voice cracked, and Ramses at once handed me a cup of tea. Sipping it, I reconsidered what I had been about to say. There wasno way I could convey the potency of that dream and its effect. They would think me silly and sentimental if I spoke of Abdullah. Emerson might pat me on the head. He means it to be comforting, but he pats too hard and musses my hair. "I dreamed about Luxor," I explained. "The cliff above Deir el Bahri. The air was beautifully clear and cool and the sun was rising." Emerson cleared his throat noisily. "It won't be long before we are there again, Peabody, my dear. I promise." He patted me on the head. "Ouch," I said. The interminable trip dragged on. I dozed fitfully in the circle of Emerson's strong arm. Nefret had also succumbed, curled up on the seat with her head on Ramses's lap. He was reading, or trying to, by the dim light, but he seldom turned a page. At last the first faint blush of dawn lessened the darkness. "There it is!" Emerson shouted in my ear. "Gebel Barkal!" In fact it was not. The great mountain temple of the ancient Cushites was still several miles away. However, the train was slowing, and I was willing to make allowances for Emerson's imagination. Ramses closed his book and put his hand lightly on Nefret's shoulder. She murmured sleepily and turned her head, her face rosy with sleep. "Wake up," Ramses said. "We are arriving. Mother, how are you feeling?" "Perfectly fit," I assured him. "What now, Emerson?" "Everything is quite in order," said Emerson proudly. "You remember my old friend--" "Not Mustapha, Emerson! I hoped he was dead!" "Peabody!" said Emerson in shocked surprise. "I meant--that is to say--I thought he must be dead." Ramses had turned away, his hand raised to hide his mouth. He remembered Mustapha and my blistering comments on that gentleman's ideas of a comfortable dwelling. A tent in the desert--a cave in the cliffs--would have seemed like Shepheard's compared with the house Mustapha had furnished us. "Oh," said Emerson. "Well, he's not. And there he is, right on time. Admirable chap!" The years had left no mark on Mustapha, possibly because he had already been as wrinkled and cadaverous as he was likely to become--and as dirty. As before, he was so very glad to see us, it was difficult to resent the old fellow. There were real tears in his eyes when he embraced Emerson and saluted me. He praised Nefret's beauty and grace, looked wonderingly at Ramses, who had been a boy of ten at their last meeting, and burst into a litany of praise with which I was becoming only too familiar. "Just like your honored father! Tall and handsome and strong, pleasing the women with your--" "Quite," said Emerson, with a little cough. "Well, Mustapha, I see you have a number of stout fellows ready to help us. This is our reis, Selim, and his cousin Daoud, and his cousin Ali." Kareima was the end of the line. I watched the train empty. Apparently Emerson's ruse had succeeded, for I saw no European travelers. The other passengers were locals. During the train ride I had tried several times to make Emerson tell me how he planned to proceed once we reached Napata. He had simply smiled with insufferable smugness. "You said you would leave it to me, Peabody." I really regretted having done so, though to be fair I do not suppose I could have improved on Emerson's arrangements. The route we had followed was not the one we had taken ten years earlier, when we arrived by steamer from Kerma--in other words, from the opposite direction. This part of the extensive region known as Napata was new to me and I cannot say I liked the looks of it. Except for the depot, there was nothing at Kareima except a collection of the round huts known as tukhuls. The palm branches of which they are woven offer hospitality to a variety of insect and rodent life. The inhabitants are very generous, and most would willingly turn out of their own houses in order to lend (hire out, I should say) them to visitors; but intrepid travelers who visit this region are well advised to bring their own supplies, including tents. We had brought tents. It was a cheering thought. "We will set up our first camp at Gebel Barkal," said Emerson, stroking his chin. "It is only a few miles farther on. Unless, Peabody, you would like to rest for a while. Mustapha has offered his--" "No!" I exclaimed. "That is--it is good of Mustapha, but I would rather go on. By what means of transportation, may I ask?" Mustapha proudly indicated a variety of means. I declined to ride in the carts, which were already being laden with our belongings, and rejected a camel in favor of a gloomy-looking donkey. Mustapha had also provided two horses, which kept prancing and rolling their eyes in a menacing manner. I had the feeling Mustapha expected some entertainment from watching us attempt to ride the creatures. His face fell when Ramses, who can ride anything on four legs, sprang into the saddle and brought the balky beast under control with knees and hands. Emerson took the other horse. He had no trouble either. Even an obstreperous horse knows better than to argue with Emerson. Leaving the men to finish loading the carts, we proceeded on our way through the village. Before long, the Holy Mountain came into sight. It was an impressive natural feature, a flat-topped mountain of sandstone rising up over two hundred feet from the plain. At its base were the ruins of temples that had stood on that spot for over a thousand years, raised to the glory of the god Amon-Re and numerous other deities. As we drew nearer, I saw that there was movement among the tumbled stones. "What is going on?" I asked Mustapha. "They are digging, Sitt Hakim." He added, in a tone of mild disgust, "Digging for broken stones and empty pots, like you. They have found no gold." Emerson and Ramses were some distance ahead, but I heard Emerson's "Hell and damnation!" clearly. I believe Ramses attempted to restrain him, but he was in such a passion he paid no attention. He set the horse to a gallop. It was not a sensible thing to do, considering the broken ground. We went after him as fast as we could, but before we caught him up the horse stumbled and Emerson flew over its head, landing with a thump at the feet of a manwho had appeared from behind one of the broken walls. He was wearing European clothing and a pith helmet. With an exclamation of concern he assisted Emerson to rise. Our worst forebodings had been fulfilled. The tally was now almost complete. The man was a confounded Egyptologist!

FIVE

"You aren't going to wash the damned camels, are you?" Emerson inquired, in the tone of one who hopes for a negative answer but does not really expect it. "Certainly I am. Have you ever known me to shirk my duty to man or beast?" "These camels look extremely clean," said Emerson, in a last-ditch effort to stop me. "Without wishing to be rude about a friend of yours, Emerson, I refuse to take on faith any object, animate or not, brought to us by Mustapha." "Curse it," Emerson muttered. "Well, don't expect me to help you. Bloody nonsense!" It was only a token protest. Emerson would never mistreat an animal or allow it to be mistreated. Besides, he knew I would go ahead anyhow. On my first visit to Egypt I had discovered that most of the little donkeys bestrode by tourists suffered from sores and mistreatment, and I had made it a point ever since to wash and doctor all the animals we employed. I had to give Emerson credit; he had refrained from mentioning the dismal fate of the last batch of camels I had doctored. I have to give myself credit; it was not my fault that someone had put poison in my camel medicine. "It won't take long, Emerson. I believe I have the hang of it now." This proved to be a somewhat optimistic assessment. I havereached the conclusion that it is impossible for anyone to wash a camel quickly and easily. Camels have perfectly vile tempers and, I could almost believe, more joints than a normal quadruped. Ropes around the camel's legs and around its neck were held by our men, two to each rope, but this did not prevent the creature from protesting in its mournful howl and kicking for all it was worth. I stood on a little mound with a bucket of soapy water and my brush, and scrubbed whatever part of the camel came within reach. Ramses and Nefret helped by rinsing the beast off while trying to avoid its flailing feet. They were both good with animals, but as Ramses remarked once the job was done, even Saint Francis would have come a cropper with a camel. It was a rather vulgar way of putting it, in my opinion, but since he was wet to the waist and rubbing his shin, I allowed him a little leeway. We had been at our present camp, at the pyramid field of Nuri, for two days. It was across the river and several miles downstream from Gebel Barkal. Emerson had insisted we move on as soon as he identified the "confounded Egyptologist" (he had employed a more emphatic adjective). Fortunately he had been somewhat winded by his tumble off the horse, so I was able to get to him before he burst into a denunciation of the unfortunate man, who, I felt certain, was guilty of nothing more than being where Emerson did not want him to be. I stuck to that opinion even after Mr. MacFerguson, shaking hands all round and smiling broadly, mentioned that he had worked this past summer at the British Museum. "Budge," growled Emerson, this being the first word he had breath enough to utter. "No, sir, MacFerguson," said that gentleman in surprise. "May I say, sir, what an honor it is to meet you--and Mrs. Emerson--and young Mr. Emerson--and Miss Forth--" "Selim and Daoud," I said, indicating those two stalwarts. "Our reis and his able assistant." Mr. MacFerguson shook everybody's hands again. He was a comical-looking man, with a round blob of a nose and a long chin, and ears that had spread out to remarkable dimensions as soon as he removed his pith helmet. "Dear me, this is an unexpected pleasure!"said he, in a prim little voice like that of someone's maiden aunt. "I had heard you planned to work at Meroe." "Had you, indeed?" said Emerson, who had been in receipt of several sharp pokes from my parasol. "Yes, yes, word of your plans gets about, even to such a remote spot as this. I received a communication from Mr. Reisner only last week." "Ah," I said. "So you are connected with Mr. Reisner's Nubian Survey, not with the British Museum." "No, no. That is--yes, yes, the Nubian Survey, under Mr. Reisner. But how rude I am to keep you standing here in the sun! Allow me to offer you a glass of tea while you tell me how I may assist you. This is a huge site, and I would be absolutely delighted to share it with individuals of such distinction." Emerson shook his head irritably. Then a new idea seemed to occur to him. His eyes moved from Mr. MacFerguson's preposterous nose to his equally remarkable ears. "Hmmm," he said. "That is--thank you. Most kind." While MacFerguson bustled about, finding seats for us in the shade of his tent and directing his servants to make tea, I whispered to Emerson, "I know what you are thinking, Emerson. You are mistaken." "How do you know what I am thinking? How do you know I am mistaken? That nose is too good to be true." "Be that as it may, Emerson, and be MacFerguson who he may, he is not Sethos. For one thing, Sethos is almost as tall as you, and MacFerguson is several inches under your height. For another, his eyes are dark brown. For a third thing, he has short stubby fingers and broad palms. It is impossible to change the shape of one's hands. Sethos's hands are narrower and more flexible, with long slender fingers." Emerson's glare informed me that I ought to have omitted this last criterion. I said hastily, "And his shoulders are much narrower than yours, my dear. So please don't pull his nose." "Bah," said Emerson, convinced against his will but still aggravated. "All the same, he may have been sent here by Budge." "Nonsense, Emerson. His being here is pure coincidence. Be nonchalant, my dear. Be agreeable. Smile. Do not arouse suspicions which are, in my opinion, as yet unaroused." "Ermph," said Emerson, thereby acknowledging the justice of my remarks. I cannot say that his attempt at a smile was particularly convincing, though it did show quite a number of teeth. He declined Mr. MacFerguson's eager offer to share the site, however. "We mean to have another go at the pyramids of Nuri," he explained. "Finish the job we started ten years ago. Better be on our way, eh, Peabody?" MacFerguson's face fell. "At least let me show you round the site, Professor. There has been a great deal done since you were last here." "Another time," said Emerson, with a longing glance at the looming bulk of Mount Barkal and the ruins that stretched out around its base. They had never been properly excavated, and it was Emerson's contention that they were the remains of temples of various periods, stretching back in time to the sixteenth century B.C. or even earlier. Emerson loves temple ruins, the more complicated, the better. I gave him an affectionate pat on the arm. The resourceful Mustapha summoned up a small flotilla of boats and we got ourselves and our baggage across the river. My attempts to persuade Emerson to postpone this activity until the following day fell on deaf ears. "May as well get it over, Peabody. I want to be on our way within forty-eight hours, before that fellow MacFerguson can report we are here." "I cannot believe he is one of the vultures, Emerson. Our change of plans was so sudden, no one could have anticipated we would head for Napata, and he had been there for almost a week." "So he claims," Emerson muttered. "I have never heard of the fellow. Have you?" "No, but perhaps he is new to the field." "Hmph," said Emerson. We left the animals behind. There would be, Mustapha assured us, other donkeys and camels awaiting us. I sincerely hoped so. Thepyramids were on the plateau, a mile and a half from the river, and the sun was hot. However, Emerson was in the right; the crossing had to be made sooner or later, and unpacking and repacking our goods would be an unnecessary waste of time. It was late afternoon before my donkey ambled up the slope and I saw the pyramids ahead, black against the blazing reds and purples of the sunset. An even more welcome sight were the flatter pyramid shapes of tents. The men had gone on ahead, with the baggage camels and what appeared to be half the local population, and many willing hands had made light work of preparing camp. A quick look round told me that Budge, or someone of his ilk, had been at Nuri since we worked there in '98. The poor pyramids were even more dilapidated than they had been then. "There's Mother," called Ramses, as I and my escort approached. "All right, are you, Mother?" "She'll be fine as soon as she gets her whiskey," said Emerson, assisting me to dismount. "See to it, will you, Ramses? This way, Peabody, my dear."