Guardian of the Horizon (3 page)

Now that his decision had been accepted and the time of his departure drew near, Ramses found it easier to deal with Nefret's constant presence. It wouldn't be for long, he told himself. Nevertheless, he spent most of his time in his room, ostensibly working. David had gone off to Yorkshire, radiant at finally having received an invitation from his beloved's parents. (Ramses suspected his mother had had a hand in that.) One warm August afternoon he had just finished a tricky translation of a hieratic text when Nefret knocked at his door. She had honored his request that he be left alone--to work--and compunction smote him when he saw her sober face. "Am I interrupting?" she asked. "No, not at all. Come in." He stepped back and gestured her to a chair. She sat down, clasping her hands between her trousered knees. Her face was flushed with heat and her loosened hair clung wetly to temples and cheeks. The open neck of her shirt bared her slim throat and offered a distracting suggestion of rounded curves below. Ramses went back to his desk, ten feet away, and leaned against it. "Rather warm to be riding, isn't it?" he asked. She made a face at him. "It doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that that's what I was doing. May I have a cigarette?" Ramses lit it for her and retreated again. "Something's wrong," he said. "Tell me." "Are you sure I'm not bothering you? It's nothing, really. I probably imagined the whole thing." "It would bother me very much if you didn't feel you could come to me with anything that worries you. I'm sorry if I've been--" "Don't apologize, my boy. I know why you've been hiding in your room." "You do?" "You don't want to face the Professor." "Oh." "Don't let him upset you. He'll get over it." "I know. Well?" "Well. I did go riding, as you deduced. On the way back I stopped at Tabirka's pyramid." It took Ramses a few seconds to focus on the unexpected subject. Impatiently, she elaborated. "Tabirka--Tarek's brother, who came to England with Tarek. We buried him in the clearing where he died and raised a little pyramid--" "I know. I was surprised, that's all. I haven't heard you mention him or Tarek for a long time. Do you go there often?" "Every now and then," Nefret said evasively. (Or was it only his jealous fancy that she sounded evasive?) "It's a peaceful, pretty place. May I have another cigarette?" Ramses supplied it. She scarcely ever smoked. "What happened?" he asked. "It was warm and very still," Nefret began. "Not the slightest breeze. All of a sudden the leaves rustled violently, and I heard a voice, distant and hollow, as if it came from deep underground. Ramses--it spoke in the language of the Holy City." "The Lost Oasis?" Ramses said, stalling for time, "We called it the City of the Holy Mountain." The words, and the way she pronounced them, warned Ramses that he was on dangerous ground. Her head was bowed and her shoulders stiff, as if in anticipation of laughter or skepticism. Casually he said, "I know. What did the voice say?" "I didn't understand every word. It was a greeting, I think." She looked up. "You believe me? You don't think I imagined it?" "I don't believe you heard the ka of poor young Tabirka, calling to you from the next world. Neither do you, you've better sense. Perhaps someone is playing tricks." "Of course," Nefret said with a sigh of relief. "That's the obvious explanation, isn't it? But you can't imagine how uncanny it was, Ramses. I got away as fast as I could. I--I don't usually run away, you know." "How well I know." She returned his smile with a look so bright and grateful, he felt like a mean hound. Had he been behaving so churlishly that she had hesitated to approach him? She had come to him, though, not to his mother or father; that was a hopeful sign, and thank God he had had the sense to say the right thing. "Let's go and have a look." He held out his hand. "The fellow may still be hanging about. Or he may have left some trace of his presence." "Thank you, my boy." She took his hand and squeezed it. "For believing me." Ramses gently freed his hand. "We'll walk, shall we? It isn't far, and we can move more quietly on foot." Tall elms lined the narrow path through the woods. The leaves hung limp and still in the warm air. As they went on, the shadows darkened. A thunderstorm was brewing; clouds piled up in the eastern sky. The place did have an uncanny atmosphere, especially in stormy weather, for the strange little monument in the glade was a pyramid in the Cushite style, steeper-sided and smaller than those of Egypt. Few people knew of it, and those who did took it to be one of the fake antiquities once popular with English gentry who had an interest in Egypt. On one side was a small enclosure in imitation of an offering chapel. Ramses had himself inscribed on the lintel the hieroglyphs that gave the dead boy's name and titles and a short prayer invoking the goodwill of the gods of the judgment. Tabirka deserved an easy journey to the next world. He had been murdered by Nefret's cousin, who had tried every dirty trick in the book to keep the Emersons from bringing her back to threaten his inheritance. Ramses really didn't expect to find anything or anyone. She had most probably been daydreaming a little, putting herself in a fanciful mood, and had misinterpreted the sound of an animal or bird. He was caught completely off guard when a hard body crashed into him, knocked him flat, and fell heavily on top of him. Winded and bruised, Ramses stared up into the dark face that hovered over him. It split in a wide, terrifying grin, and hands reached for his throat. Nefret was yelling and raining blows on the fellow's back with a branch. It didn't seem to have much effect. Ramses found breath enough to yell back. "Get out of the way!" He brought his hands up in time to slam the other man's forearms apart, rammed an elbow under his chin, heaved him up and over onto his back, and scrambled to his feet. Nefret lowered the branch. "Nicely done, my boy," she said breathlessly. "Thank you." Ramses stood poised, ready to kick out if his erstwhile opponent showed signs of continuing the fight. The fellow was rubbing his throat, but he was still grinning, and his lean body, clad only in a kiltlike lower garment, was completely relaxed. Ramses stared in mounting disbelief. With his dark skin and bizarre costume he was as out of place in an English woodland as a tiger in a drawing room. There was something familiar about the aquiline features. "Tarek was right," the stranger remarked. "You have become a man."

We have entertained a number of unusual guests in our home, but never had I seen one so extraordinary as the young man who was in the drawing room with Ramses and Nefret when I came down to tea. Barefoot and bareheaded, his body uncovered except for a brief skirt or kilt, he might have stepped out of an ancient Egyptian tomb painting. I stopped short; and Ramses said, "Mother, may I present Prince Merasen. He is the brother of Tarek, whom you surely remember." I am seldom at a loss for words, but on this occasion I was unable to do more than emit a wordless croak of surprise. Nefret hurried to me and took my arm. "Aunt Amelia, are you all right? Sit down, please." "A nice hot cup of tea," I gurgled, staring. The young man raised his hands to shoulder height and bowed. It was the same gesture shown in innumerable tomb paintings, a gesture of respect to the gods and to superiors. He was far more at ease than I. Well, but he had been prepared for me, and I certainly had not been prepared for him! "A nice whiskey and soda, instead?" said Ramses. He sounded a trifle sheepish. "I apologize, Mother. I didn't think to warn you." "Not at all," I replied, taking the glass he handed me. "Will you take a chair, Mr. ... Er ... Does he speak English?" "I speak very good" was the cool reply. "It is why Tarek sent me." "Tarek sent you?" I repeated stupidly. "Yes, Sitt Hakim. I am honored to see you. They tell many stories about you in the Holy City. And about the Father of Curses, and the Brother of Demons, and the Lady Nefret." "Father of Curses" was Emerson's Egyptian sobriquet (and well-deserved, I should add), as Sitt Hakim, "Lady Doctor," was mine. We had been known by those honorifics when we were last in the Holy City. If I remembered correctly, Ramses had not at that time acquired his nickname of "Brother of Demons" (a tribute to his supposedly supernatural talents). Merasen must have heard Ramses referred to by that name during his journey to England, perhaps from Egyptians in London who had given him directions to Amarna House. I nodded acknowledgment, sipping my whiskey, and trying to collect my scattered wits. The young man bore a certain resemblance to his brother, with his well-cut features and well-made frame--or rather, I told myself, his brother as I remembered him. He must be about eighteen, the same age Tarek had been ten years ago. "It is good to see you too," I said, politely if somewhat mendaciously--for I suspected his arrival meant trouble. It wasn't likely that Tarek would send an emissary all that long, dangerous way simply to say hello. "Er--Ramses, perhaps you can lend our guest some clothes." "I have clothes, English clothes." The boy indicated a bundle at his feet. "I will put them on?" It was a question, not an offer; I rose to the occasion, as any good hostess should when confronted with well-meaning eccentricity. Smiling, I shook my head. "Not if you would rather not. The weather is extremely warm." Nefret, who had exhibited growing signs of impatience, burst out, "Aunt Amelia, perhaps you can persuade Merasen to tell us why he is here. I doubt that he undertook that long, arduous journey simply to make our acquaintance." "My thought exactly," I agreed. "He has not confided in you and Ramses?" "No, he was too busy fighting with Ramses," Nefret said caustically. The boy grinned engagingly. "Tarek said Ramses would now be a man. I wished to see what sort of man." "You found out," said Ramses curtly. The overt antagonism and the touch of braggadocio were so unlike him I looked at him in surprise. Merasen only smiled more winningly. "And she"--a little bow in the direction of Nefret--"she is even more beautiful than Tarek said. She is not your wife?" Ramses's countenance became even stonier. Nefret said, "I told you, we are brother and sister, in affection if not by birth." Realizing, as did I, that the monarchs of the Holy City, like Egyptian pharaohs, often married full or half sisters, Nefret amplified the statement. "I am no man's wife, Merasen, nor about to be." "Now that we have settled that," I said. "What is the message, Merasen?" "It is for the Father of Curses." "Oh, dear," I murmured. "Ramses, will you go and get your father? You needn't mention the identity of our guest," I added. Ramses smiled and went out of the room, leaving the door open. "And you, Nefret," I went on, "might just warn Gargery before he brings the tea tray. I don't want any more cups broken." "He knows," Nefret replied. "We met him in the hall. He was absolutely thrilled." "He would be," I muttered. I heard the rattle of the tea cart, which was coming at a great pace. Emerson got there before it. I could tell from his appearance that he had been hard at work, for he had removed as many of his garments as was proper. His shirt was open and the sleeves rolled above the elbow, baring his muscular forearms. "What is all this?" he demanded. "Ramses said--" His eyes lit upon the prince, who had risen and was making his obeisance. "Ah," said Emerson, without so much as blinking. "A visitor from the Lost Oasis? Sit down, my boy, sit down. I am--" "Emerson, the Father of Curses," the boy breathed. "Now that I see you, I know the stories are true. That you drove a spear straight through a man's body and killed another with your bare hands, and fought a hundred men with sword in hand to help Tarek to the throne." Emerson drew himself up to his full height, basking in the admiration that filled the young man's eyes. "At the bottle already, Peabody?" he inquired, smirking at me. I looked accusingly at Ramses. He shook his head. Ramses preferred equivocation to prevarication, so I had to believe he had not mentioned our visitor to his father. The tea cart rattled in, propelled by Gargery. He was alone; either the maids had been too timid to face the visitor, or, what was more likely, Gargery had seized on an excuse to prolong the service of the genial beverage so that he could listen to our conversation. I had no intention of discussing our visitor's purpose in Gargery's presence, so I dismissed the latter, telling him we would wait on ourselves. He left the door slightly ajar. I slammed it and heard a muffled yelp. I then turned my accusing gaze on my son. "You told your father." "No, Mother, honestly." "Emerson, how dare you pretend you aren't surprised?" Emerson tried to keep a straight face, but he could not. "I saw him through the study window," he admitted with a grin. "Almost fell off my chair. Well, well. You are welcome in my house . . . What is your name, my friend? You may leave off bowing," he added graciously. The young man drew himself up. "I am Merasen. I bring a message to the Father of Curses from Tarek, my brother and my king." Emerson held out his hand. "I do not have the writing," the boy admitted. "It was lost when the slavers took me. But I know the words. I will speak them. 'Come to me, my friends who once saved me. Danger threatens and only you can help me now.' " Curse it, I thought. Glancing at Ramses, I saw my sentiments mirrored in his normally inexpressive face. The expression--tightened lips, narrowed eyes--was fleeting. Emerson--it was just like him!-- responded with chivalrous, unquestioning enthusiasm. "Certainly, certainly! How can we do less?" "Emerson," I said repressively. "You might at least ask what sortof danger Tarek is in before you commit yourself, and us, to what you once referred to as a harebrained adventure." "I agree," said Ramses. "That was quite different," Emerson exclaimed. "On that occasion we were following a rumor and a questionable map, and that villainous servant of Reggie Forthright had poisoned our camels. This time--" "Professor!" Nefret jumped to her feet. "Excuse me. But could we, for once, stick to the point instead of arguing? Aunt Amelia has asked a sensible question. Merasen--what is the danger that threatens Tarek?" "It is a strange sickness. Not one of our priests can cure it. It comes and goes away, and each time it leaves the sick one weaker. Two times Tarek has fallen ill. He is a strong man and it will take long to kill him, but now the child is sick too. He is Tarek's heir, his only true son. It is for him Tarek sends to you." "Good Lord," Nefret gasped. "The little boy can't be more than ten years old. We must go, of course." "Let's hear a little more about this," Ramses said coolly. "How long has it been since you left the Holy Mountain? Surely you did not cross the desert in the heat of summer." I understood what he was getting at. The journey must have taken weeks, if not months. It might be too late for Tarek and his child. Nefret understood too. Her face paled. "What difference does it make?" she asked passionately. "There is a chance we might be in time, a chance we must--" "I am not denying your premise." Ramses's voice was like icy sleet on flame. "But we need to learn all we can before we decide what to do. Tell us about your journey, Merasen." It was a riveting narrative, for the boy spoke with considerable eloquence. He had left the Holy Mountain in the season of Peret-- winter--with only six companions. It was a small force to face the peril of the desert, but no more could be spared, for they went in secret, braving the old law of the Holy Mountain that forbade contact with the outside world on pain of death. The others were members of the royal bodyguard, strong men, armed with swords and bows. They had been on their way for several days when they met the caravan--thirty men and as many camels, driving a forlorn line of bound captives. Slavery had been officially abolished and the trade vigorously suppressed--to the credit of Britain let it be said! But as we all knew, the caravans still crossed the desert with their miserable human cargo, bound for the slave markets of Khartoum and Wadi Haifa and the Egyptian oases. The villains knew that if they were caught it would go hard with them. They had immediately fired upon the small band of strangers. "The others they killed," the boy said calmly, "but me they took alive." Yes, I thought sickly, they would. Most of the slaves were women and children and youths of both sexes. He was a handsome boy, and well-made. The older men would not bring so high a price, and they might be dangerous to their captors. So was Merasen, as they were to learn. When they searched his camel bags they found the rings of gold Tarek had given him to pay his way to England, and beat him to make him tell where he had gotten them. Though injured and frightened, he had wits enough to invent a convincing lie. He and his companions were treasure hunters, looters of ancient tombs. They had found this cache in a crumbling ruin far to the south, but there was nothing else there, they had taken it all. So the slavers left off beating him for fear of spoiling the youthful good looks that would bring a high price in the market, and ordered one of the women in the caravan to tend his wounds. He pretended weakness and meekness, biding his time until his wounds had healed and he had learned enough of their whereabouts and their destination to make escape feasible. The woman knew a little English and helped him to learn some Arabic. It was she who told him of the soldiers of England who fought the slavers and of the town on the Great River where they were stationed. By one means or another (and I thought I could guess one of those means), he persuaded her to help him get away, promising that if he found the soldiers he would guide them back and win freedom for her and the others. She passed on to himall she could learn from those who knew something of the region; and on a moonless night, when they were less than a day's journey from the Great River, Merasen stole a camel and fled, leaving two men dead. "I found the soldiers," he said. "So I kept my word to the woman and had my revenge and my reward. They told me I was a brave lad and gave me money. It was not enough. I was on the Great River, but deep in the south, in the country they call Sudan. I worked, yes, and I stole, when it was safe to do it, but it took me many months to make my way here. If I have failed my king, it is on my head." The narrative had held us spellbound. Emerson had taken out his pipe, but had been too absorbed to light it. Now he cleared his throat. "You have not failed. Few men could have acted with such courage and wisdom." "Quite right," I said, though it was clear that my commendation meant little as compared with that of Emerson. Hero worship brightened the young man's face. Obviously the stories of Emerson's prowess had become part of the folklore of the Holy Mountain, and I must admit that it would not have been necessary to enlarge them beyond the bare facts. "Months," Nefret said. "At least five months. And it will be another month before we--" "We will discuss it later," I said, for dusk was creeping into the room. "Ramses, will you show our guest to his room--a room-- any room--and find him appropriate attire? I don't care what, so long as he is more or less covered at dinner." "I'll show him," Nefret said, getting to her feet. "David's clothes will fit him better than yours, Ramses, and he can have David's room, at least for the time being. Is that all right, Aunt Amelia?" "Yes, my dear, thank you for asking," I replied. She took him by the hand and led him out. "Father," Ramses began. Emerson held up a peremptory hand. "Not here. Come to the library." Leaving Gargery pouting as he cleared away the tea things, we followed Emerson to the designated chamber. He went at once to acupboard next to the fireplace and took out a heavy steel box, which he unlocked. After rummaging through the papers it contained, he removed a yellowing document and spread it out on the desk. The three of us studied it in silence. The markings were still clear--numbers and several enigmatic symbols, the picture-writing of ancient Egypt. We had used a copy of this map to reach the Holy Mountain ten years ago. After our return with Nefret I had wanted to destroy it. Emerson had refused. "One never knows," he had said. "The time may come . . ." he had said. Now I wished we had destroyed it. It was not often I recalled the details of that terrible journey--the heat and blowing sand, the constant thirst, and the treachery of the men we had hired. I had no memory of the final days, since I had fallen ill and was unconscious when Tarek's rescue party found us and took us the rest of the way. Our departure from the Holy Mountain had been made in haste and in darkness, but I retained one very vivid memory. Looking back as we rode away, in constant fear of pursuit, I saw the encircling mountain range rising up against the stars like the ramparts of a medieval castle--a castle ablaze, for fire rose from the central portion like a volcano in eruption. We had left Tarek still fighting for his throne, though he had assured us that most of the opposition had fallen. We had an unspoken
agreement not to talk of the place, but I had often wondered how matters came out. Well, at least we knew that Tarek had conquered. Emerson was the first to speak. "It will take weeks to collect supplies and mount an expedition. In any case we could not possibly start out before September, the desert heat is simply too great. If we decide to go." He looked expectantly at me. "So you are having second thoughts, are you?" I inquired. "I am not a complete fool," Emerson retorted. "Of course it would solve the problem of where we mean to work this season." "Unquestionably," I agreed with a certain degree of irony. "The hazards of the journey and the uncertainty as to what we will find when we get to the Holy Mountain, supposing we do get there, add up to a strong possibility that we will never have to face that particular problem again." "It wouldn't be as risky this time," Emerson mused. "We were limited as to camels and men, and weren't sure that the map was accurate." "That is true," I admitted. "I don't suppose I could persuade you to--" "Remain behind? Don't be absurd, Emerson." "I knew you would say that. Well, Ramses? You have been very silent. I will quite understand if you prefer to spend the winter in Germany, as you--" Ramses interrupted him with an Arabic word that made Emerson's eyes widen. "Good Gad, my boy, where did you learn that one?" he inquired. "You know I intend to go with you," Ramses said furiously. "Yes," said Emerson, trying not to smirk. "You know why I've hesitated." "Yes." Emerson's smile faded. "I too would prevent her if I could. But it is impossible. Tarek was a friend, close as a brother. Moreover, she is a trained physician, and this mysterious illness may be one she can diagnose and cure. Short of locking her up, which is illegal as well as impractical, I can think of no way of excluding her. Can you?" Ramses turned on his heel and walked to the window. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking out into the twilight. Finally his rigid shoulders relaxed, and when he turned he had his face under control. "No, I can't. She went off with Merasen so she could talk to him about Tarek, you know. He'll fire her up even more, especially if he tells her about the child." "He is a remarkable young man," Emerson said. "And it was an epic journey. He could not have survived without those same qualities of wit and courage that marked--" Ramses cut in. "Did you believe his story?" "Why should we not?" I exclaimed in surprise. "We have only his word." Ramses began pacing up and down. "There are a number of things about his narrative that bother me. He'd been in Kent for several days before we found him--camping out, near Tabirka's pyramid, waiting for one of us to come to him." "Perhaps he was shy about approaching the house," I suggested. "But I admit attacking you was a rather odd way of introducing himself." "Oh, I can understand that," Ramses admitted grudgingly. "I might have done something equally idiotic when I was his age, especially if I had been in strange surroundings, uncertain and a little afraid. Win or lose, you've had the satisfaction of asserting your manhood." "If you will forgive me for saying so, my dear, you are in no position to criticize," I said. "To judge by his appearance, he is only a year or two younger than you, and you have not entirely conquered your habit of--" "Hmph," said Emerson loudly. "What makes you doubt his story, Ramses?" "I simply pointed out that it cannot be substantiated." "Oh, bah," said Emerson. He began ticking off points on his fingers as he mentioned them. "He resembles his brother. He speaks the language. He knows of our earlier visit, and"--he coughed modestly--"what we did there. In detail. How else could he have learned these things?" "I don't doubt that he comes from the Holy Mountain, or that he wants us to go there. It is his motive that is unproven. We've nothing in writing, not even Tarek's alleged letter." "Your point is valid," I admitted. "And there are a number of other points that, in my opinion, require to be explained. We need not make a decision this instant. I assure you, Ramses, that I will bring to bear all my expertise at subtle interrogation." "Yes, Mother," Ramses said. "Ha," said Emerson. "Put the map away, Emerson. It is time to dress for dinner." "I am dressed," said Emerson, inspecting his ink-speckled shirt. "See here, Peabody, you don't expect me to get myself up in boiled shirt and black tie, do you?" I took him away. Ramses said he would lock the map in the dispatch case, and we left him brooding over it with a particularly vul-turine air. I allowed Emerson to expostulate for a while beforeinforming him that no, I did not expect him to assume formal evening wear, but that he might at least change his shirt and brush his hair. He did so without further argument, humming cheerfully and tunelessly. I supposed the song was one of his favorite vulgar music-hall ditties, but no one could have recognized the melody. I knew why he was in such a pleasant frame of mind. Emerson enjoys adventure for its own sake, and his archaeological brain was all afire at the prospect of examining again the unique monuments of the Lost Oasis--a culture frozen in time, so to speak, for it had had almost no contact with the outside world since the fourth century A.D., when refugees from the fallen capital of Meroe found their way there, joining earlier immigrants from the late dynasties of ancient Egypt. Furthermore, Merasen's proposal had relieved Emerson of the necessity of settling on an excavation site for the coming year--and it had put an end to Ramses's plan of spending the winter in Germany. I selected a rather becoming gown of my favorite crimson, for, to be honest, I needed to keep my own spirits up. No matter what precautions we took, the journey would be difficult and dangerous. And what would we find at the end of that journey? A dead child and a dying king--the end of a dynasty, with pretenders crawling round the bodies like flies? Even if we could make our way there without incident, our reception was in doubt. We too had broken the law of the Holy Mountain by the very act of leaving it--and we had stolen their revered High Priestess.