The Mummy Case (13 page)

Emerson snapped his fingers. "It was a monastery, Peabody. Those were the monks' cells, and that ruin in the far corner must have been the church."

"How curious," I exclaimed.

"Not at all. There are many such abandoned sanctuaries in Egypt. This country was the home of monasticism, after all, and religious communities existed as early as the second century A.D. The nearest village, Dronkeh, is a Coptic settlement."

"You never told me that, Emerson."

"You never asked me, Peabody."

As we continued our tour of inspection I became conscious of a strange feeling of uneasiness. It was wholly unaccountable; the sun beamed down from a cloudless sky and, except for the occasional agitated rustle when we disturbed a lizard or scorpion from its peaceful nest, there was no sign of danger. Yet an air of brooding desolation lay over the place. Abdullah sensed it; he stayed close on Emerson's heels and his eyes kept darting from side to side.

"Why do you suppose it was abandoned?" I asked.

Emerson stroked his chin. Even his iron nerves seemed affected by the atmosphere; his brow was slightly furrowed as he replied, "It may be that the water supply failed. This structure is old, Peabody—a thousand years, perhaps more. Long enough for the river to change its course, and for a deserted building to fall into ruin. Yet I think some of the destruction was deliberate. The church was solidly built, yet hardly one stone remains on another."

"There was fighting, I believe, between Muslims and Christians?"

"Pagan and Christian, Muslim and Christian, Christian and Christian. It is curious how religion arouses the most ferocious violence of which mankind is capable. The Copts destroyed the heathen temples and persecuted the worshipers of the old gods, they also slaughtered co-religionists who disagreed over subtle differences of dogma. After the Muslim conquest, the Copts were treated leniently at first, but their own intolerance finally tried the patience of the conquerors and they endured the same persecution they had inflicted on others."

"Well, it does not matter. This will make an admirable expedition house. For once we will have enough storage space."

"There is no water."

"It can be carried from the village." I took my pencil and began making a list. "Repair the roof; mend the walls; insert new doors and window frames; sweep—"

Abdullah coughed. "Cast out the afreets," he suggested.

"Yes, to be sure." I made another note.

"Afreets?" Emerson repeated. "Peabody, what the devil—"

I drew him aside and explained. "I see," he replied. "Well, I will perform any necessary rituals, but first perhaps we ought to go to the village and carry out the legal formalities."

I was happy to acquiesce to this most sensible suggestion. "We should not have any difficulty obtaining a lease," I said, as we walked side by side. "Since the place has been so long abandoned, it cannot be of importance to the villagers."

"I only hope the local priest does not believe in demons," said Emerson. "I don't mind putting on a show for Abdullah and the men, but one exorcism per day is my limit."

As soon as we were seen the villagers came pouring out of their houses. The usual cries of "Baksheesh!" were mingled with another adjuration—"Ana Christian,
Oh Hawadji
—I am a Christian, noble sir!"

"And therefore entitled to additional baksheesh," said Emerson, his lip curling. "Bah."

Most of the houses were clustered around the well. The church, with its modest little dome, was not much larger than the house next to it. "The parsonage," said Emerson, indicating this residence. "And there, if I am not mistaken, is the parson."

He stood in the doorway of his house—a tall, muscular man wearing the dark-blue turban that distinguishes Egyptian Christians. Once a prescribed article of dress for a despised minority, it is now worn as a matter of pride.

Instead of coming to greet us, the priest folded his arms and stood with head held high like a king waiting to receive petitioners. His figure was splendid. His face was all but invisible, adorned by the most remarkable assemblage of facial hair I had ever seen. It began at ear level, swept in an ebon wave across cheeks and upper lip, and flowed like a sable waterfall almost to his waist. His eyebrows were equally remarkable for their hirsute extravagance. They were the only feature that gave any indication of the owner's emotions, and at the moment their configuration was not encouraging, for a scowl darkened the pastoral brow.

At the priest's appearance most of the other villagers faded quietly away. Half a dozen men remained, loitering near the priest. They wore the same indigo turbans and the same suspicious scowls as their spiritual leader.

"The deacons," said Emerson with a grin.

He then launched into a speech of greeting in his most impeccable Arabic. I added a few well-chosen words. A long silence ensued. Then the priest's bearded lips parted and a voice growled a curt
"Sabakhum
bil-kheir—good morning."

In every Muslim household I had visited, the formal greeting was followed by an invitation to enter, for hospitality to strangers is enjoined by the Koran. We waited in vain for this courtesy from our co-religionist, if I may use that term loosely, and after an even longer silence the priest asked what we wanted.

This outraged Abdullah, who, though an admirable person in many ways, was not devoid of the Mussulman's prejudice
against his Christian fellow-countrymen. Ever since he entered the village he had looked as if he smelled something bad. Now he exclaimed, "Unclean eaters of swine's flesh, how dare you treat a great lord in this way? Do you not know that this is Emerson, Father of Curses, and his chief wife, the learned and dangerous Lady Doctor? They honor your filthy village by entering it. Come away, Emerson; we do not need these low people to help with our work."

One of the "deacons" edged up to his leader and whispered in his ear. The priest's turban bobbed in acknowledgment. "The Father of Curses," he repeated, and then, slowly and deliberately, "I know you. I know your name."

A chill ran through my limbs. The phrase meant nothing to the priest, but all unknowingly he had repeated an ominous formula used by the priest-magicians of ancient Egypt. To know the name of a man or a god was to have power over him.

Abdullah found the comment offensive, though probably for other reasons. "Know his name? Who is there who does not know that great name? From the cataracts of the south to the swamps of the Delta—"

"Enough," Emerson said. His lips were twitching, but he kept a grave face, for laughter would have hurt Abdullah and offended the priest. "You know my name, Father? It is well. But I do not know yours."

"Father Girgis, priest of the church of Sitt Miriam in Dronkeh. Are you truly Emerson, the digger-up of dead man's bones? You are not a man of God?"

It was my turn to repress a smile. Emerson chose to ignore the second question. "I am that Emerson. I come here to dig, and I will hire men from the village. But if they do not want to work for me, I will go elsewhere."

The villagers had begun edging out into the open as the conversation proceeded. A low murmur arose from them when they heard the offer to work. All the fellahin, Muslim and Copt alike, are pitifully poor. The chance to earn what they considered munificent wages was not an offer to be missed.

"Wait," the priest said, as Emerson turned away. "If that is why you have come, we will talk."

So at last we were invited into the "manse," as Emerson called it. It was like all the other Egyptian houses we had seen, except that it was a trifle larger and slightly cleaner. The long divan that was the chief piece of furniture in the main room was covered with cheap, faded chintz, and the only ornament was a crucifix with a horribly lifelike image of Christ, smeared with red paint in lieu of blood.

At the priest's suggestion we were joined by a timid little walnut-colored gentleman who was introduced as the sheikh el beJed—the mayor of the village. It was obvious that he was a mere figurehead, for he only squeaked acquiescence to everything the priest said until, the matter of employment having been settled, Emerson mentioned that we wanted to occupy the abandoned monastery. Then the mayor turned as pale as a man of his complexion can turn and blurted, "But, effendi, that is not possible."

"We will not profane the church," Emerson assured him. "We only want to use the rooms that were once storerooms and cells."

"But, great Lord, no one goes there," the mayor insisted. "It is accursed—a place of evil, haunted by afreets and devils."

"Accursed?" Emerson repeated incredulously. "The home of the holy monks?"

The mayor rolled his eyes. "Long ago all the holy men were foully murdered, O Father of Curses. Their spirits still haunt their house, hungry for revenge."

"We do not fear devils or vengeful ghosts," Emerson said courageously. "If that is your only objection, effendi, we will take possession immediately."

The mayor shook his head but did not protest further. The priest had listened with a sardonic smile. Now he said, "The house is yours, Father of Curses. May the restless spirits of the holy men requite you as you deserve."

Abdullah followed us along the village street, radiating disapproval as only Abdullah can. It felt like a chilly breeze on the back of my neck.

"We are going the wrong way," I said to Emerson. "We entered the village at the other end."

"I want to see the rest of the place," was the reply. "There is something strange going on here, Amelia. I am surprised your vaunted intuition did not catch the undercurrents."

"They would have been hard to miss," I replied haughtily. "The priest is patently hostile to outsiders. I hope he won't undermine our authority."

"Oh, I pay no attention to such persons." Emerson stepped over a mangy dog sprawled in the middle of the path. It growled at him and he said absently, "Good dog, then; nice fellow," before continuing, "It is not concern but curiosity that makes me wonder why the reverend gentleman should demonstrate such antagonism. I always have trouble with religious persons; they are so confoundedly superstitious, curse them. Yet the priest was rude to us even before he learned who we were. I wonder..."

His voice trailed off and he stood staring.

Half hidden by a splendid group of stately palms and partially removed from the rest of the village stood several houses. In contrast to the other hovels in that wretched place, these were in impeccable repair and freshly whitewashed. Even the dust before the doors looked as if it had been swept. Three of the houses were the usual small two- and three-room affairs. The fourth was somewhat larger and had undergone reconstruction. A stubby steeple graced the flat roof, and above the door was a sign in gilt letters on black. It read, "Chapel of the Holy Jerusalem."

As we stood in silent wonderment, the door of one of the
smaller houses opened. An explosion of small boys burst out into the open, shouting and laughing with the joy of youths escaping from studies. As soon as they caught sight of us they darted at us, shouting for baksheesh. One minuscule cherub caught at my trousers and stared up at me with eyes like melting chocolate. "Baksheesh, Sitt," he lisped. "Ana Christian—ana Brotestant!"

"Good Gad," I said weakly.

Emerson put a hand to his head. "No," he cried passionately. "No. It is a delusion—it cannot be real. After all the other cruel blows of fate I have endured... Missionaries! Missionaries, Amelia!"

"Courage," I implored, as the swarthy infant continued to tug at my trousers. "Courage, Emerson. It could be worse."

Other children emerged from the door of the school—little girls, too timid to emulate the joie de vivre of their male counterparts. They were followed by another, taller form. For a moment he stood in the doorway blinking into the sunlight, and the rays of the noon-high orb set his silver-gilt hair to blazing like a halo. Then he saw us. A smile of ineffable sweetness spread over his handsome face and he raised a hand in greeting or in blessing.

Emerson collapsed onto a block of stone, like a man in the last throes of a fatal disease. "It is worse," he said in a sepulchral voice.

"Boys, boys." The beautiful young man strode toward us, waving his arms. He spoke in Arabic, perfectly pronounced but slow and simple. "Stop it, boys. Go home now. Go to your mothers. Do not ask for baksheesh, it is not pleasing to God." The youthful villains dispersed and their mentor turned his attention to us. At close range he was absolutely dazzling. His hair gleamed, his white teeth shone, and his face beamed with
goodwill. Emerson continued to stare dazedly at him, so I felt it incumbent upon myself to address the amenities.

"I fear we must apologize for intruding on private property, sir. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Amelia Peabody Emerson—Mrs. Radcliffe Emerson—and this..."

"This block of wood" might have been an appropriate description, for all the response Emerson made, but the beautiful young man did not allow me to proceed. "You need no introduction, Mrs. Emerson; you and your distinguished husband are well known to all visitors in Cairo. It is an honor to welcome you. I was informed only yesterday that you would be coming."

The monolithic indifference or catatonia of Emerson was shattered. "Who informed you, pray?" he demanded.

"Why, it was M. de Morgan," said the young man innocently. "The director of the Antiquities Department. As you may know, he is working at Dahshoor, not far from—"

"I know the location of Dahshoor, young man," snapped Emerson. "But I don't know you. Who the devil are you?"

"Emerson!" I exclaimed. "Such language to a man of the cloth!"

"Pray don't apologize," said the young gentleman. "It is my fault, for not mentioning my name earlier. I am David Cabot— of the Boston Cabots."

This formula seemed to have some significance to him, but it meant nothing to me—nor, I hardly need add, to Emerson, who continued to glare at young Mr. Cabot, of the Boston Cabots.

"But I am forgetting my manners," the latter went on. "I am keeping you standing in the sun. Will you enter and meet my family?"