Read Crocodile on the Sandbank Online
Authors: Elizabeth Peters
Tags: #Historical fiction, #Detective and mystery stories, #Mystery fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Historical, #Suspense, #Crime & mystery, #Political, #Women detectives - Egypt, #Peabody, #Amelia (Fictious character), #Crime & Thriller, #Mummies, #Peabody, #Amelia (Fictitious character), #Egyptology, #Cairo (Egypt), #Mystery, #Detective, #Women detectives, #Emerson, #Radcliffe (Fictitious character), #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Archaeologists' spouses, #Mystery & Detective - General, #Egypt, #Fiction - Mystery
Crocodile on the Sandbank (9 page)
Evelyn was rather shocked when I proposed this idea, and we had a
pleasant little argument. I gave her
a lecture on Khuenaten; she was
always anxious to learn.
"He abandoned the royal city of Thebes," I explained, "and built a new
capital dedicated to his god, on land that had never been contaminated
by other worship. Herr Lepsius discovered some of the boundary
inscriptions placed on the rocks around the city of Khuenaten. There
are also tombs in the cliffs, rather interesting ones; the drawings are
quite different in style from the usual tomb decorations. If the wind
suits, I think a visit there might be profitable. What do you say?"
I was leafing through my copy of Brugsch's Geographical Dictionary
(Heinrich Brugsch, the archaeologist, not his disreputable brother) as
I spoke; but I watched Evelyn out of the comer of my eye, and saw the
betraying color rise in her cheeks. She put down her pencil— she was
quite a good little artist, and had made a number of nice sketches
along the way— and gazed out across the river toward the cliffs.
"What is the name of the place, Amelia?"
I rifled busily through the pages of Brugsch.
"The ancient name of the place was—"
"The modern name is El Amarnah, is it not?"
"There are three villages on the spot, el-Till and el-Haggi Qandil and
El-Amariah. A corruption of these names— "
"Yes, yes, I recall— I recall Walter speaking of it. That is where he
and Mr. Emerson are working. You would have no reason to remember that,
of course."
I decided that Evelyn was being sarcastic. She seldom allowed herself
this luxury, so I overlooked it on this occasion.
"Is that so?" I said casually. "Well, I suppose there is no reason why
we should necessarily encounter the Emersons. The site is large and the
tombs are scattered. We will take it as settled, then. I will speak to
Reis Hassan."
Owing to a difficulty with the wind, we did not reach the village of
Haggi Qandil for two days. Indeed, we had some trouble reaching it at
all; if I had not been determined, Reis Hassan would not have stopped.
He mentioned unfavorable winds, disease in the village, the remoteness
of the archaeological remains from the river, and a number of other
irrelevant arguments. You would have thought the good captain would
have learned by now the futility of arguing with me; but perhaps he
enjoyed it. Honesty compels me to admit that Hassan may have had some
reason on his side. We ran aground on a sandbank outside the village
and had to be carried ashore by the villagers. We left Reis Hassan
staring gloomily at his crew, who were trying to free the boat and
making very little progress.
Michael, our dragoman, led the way into the village. It was a typical
Egyptian village— perhaps a trifle more wretched than others. The
narrow
streets were heaped with refuse of all kinds, steaming under the hot
sun. Dust and windblown sand coated every surface. Mangy dogs lay about
the streets, their ribs showing. They bared their teeth at us as we
passed, but were too miserable even to rise.
Half-naked children stared from eyes ringed with flies, and whined for
backsheesh.
Michael plunged into the crowd, shouting orders, and eventually we were
presented with a choice of donkeys. We chose the
least-miserable-looking of the lot, and then I proceeded to a ritual
which had caused considerable amusement along the way, and which
puzzled even our loyal Michael. Following my orders, interpreted by
Michael, the reluctant owners took the filthy cloths from the animals'
back, swabbed them down with buckets of water, and smeared on the
ointment I supplied. The donkeys were then covered with fresh saddle
cloths, supplied by me, which were laundered after every use. I think
it was the only time in the lives of these little donkeys that the
cloths were ever removed; sores and insects proliferated under them.
The scowls on the faces of the donkeys' owners turned to broad smiles
as I tipped them liberally for their unusual effort; I took the
opportunity to add a short lecture on the economic advantage of tending
one's livestock, but I was never sure how much of this discourse
Michael translated. With the now laughing attendants running alongside,
we trotted off across the desert toward the tombs.
The cliffs, which run closely along the river in other areas, fall back
here, leaving a semicircular plain some seven miles long by four miles
wide at its greatest extent. The cultivated land is only a narrow strip
less than half a mile wide; beyond, all is baking yellow-brown desert,
until one reaches the rocky foothills of the cliffs into which the
tombs were cut.
We were bouncing along in fine style, squinting against the glare of
the sun, when I beheld a figure coming toward us. The air of Egypt is
so clear one can make out details at distances impossible in England; I
saw at once that the person approaching was not a native. He wore
trousers instead of flapping skirts. My internal organs (if I may be
permitted to refer to these objects) gave an odd lurch. But soon I
realized that the man was not Emerson. Evelyn recognized him at the
same time. We were side by side; I heard her soft exclamation
and saw her hands clench on the reins.
Walter did not recognize us immediately. He saw only two European
travelers, and ran toward us with increased speed. Not until he was
almost upon us did he realize who we were; and he stopped so abruptly
that a spurt of sand shot up from under his heels. We continued to trot
decorously toward him as he stood swaying and staring like a man in a
dream.
"Thank God you are here!" he exclaimed, before we could greet him.
"That is ... you are really here?
You are not a vision, or a mirage?"
His eyes were fixed on Evelyn's face; but his agitation was so great I
deduced some other cause of trouble than frustrated love.
"We are really here," I assured him. "What is wrong, Mr. Walter?"
"Emerson. My brother." The lad passed his hand across his damp
forehead. "He is ill. Desperately, dangerously ill . . . . You have no
doctor with you, of course. But your dahabeeyah — you could take him to
Cairo . . . ?"
His brother's danger and Evelyn's unexpected appearance had turned the
poor boy's brains to mush.
I realized that I must take charge.
"Run back to the boat and get my medical kit, Michael," I said. "Hurry,
please. Now, Mr. Walter, if you will lead the way. . ."
"A doctor. . ." mumbled Walter, still looking at Evelyn as if he didn't
believe in her.
"You know there is no doctor nearer than Cairo," I said. "Unless I see
Mr. Emerson, I cannot tell whether he is fit to be moved. It would take
days to get him to Cairo. Lead on, Mr. Walter."
I jabbed him with my parasol. He started, turned, and began to run back
in the direction from which he had come. The donkeys, aroused by my
voice, broke into a trot. Skirts flying, parasols waving, we dashed
forward, followed by a cloud of sand.
Emerson had situated himself in one of the tombs that had been dug into
the rock wall of the hills bounding the plain. The entrances looked
like black rectangles against the sunbaked rock. We had to climb the
last few yards, along a sort of path that led up the cliff. Walter
devoted himself to Evelyn; the donkey attendants would have helped me,
but I swatted them off with my parasol. I needed no assistance. I was
panting a trifle when I finally reached the entrance to the tomb, but
it was— yes, I confess it— it was with agitation rather than exertion.
The lintel and jambs of the entrance were covered with carved reliefs.
I had no time for them then; I entered. Once inside, I cast a quick,
comprehensive glance about, and understood why Emerson had chosen to
take up his abode in the resting place of the ancient dead, rather than
pitch a tent. The room was long and narrow— a passageway, as I later
discovered, rather than a chamber. The far end was lost in shadow, but
diffused sunlight illuminated the area next to the entrance. Wooden
packing cases served as tables. Some were covered with tins of food,
others with books and papers. A lamp showed how the room was lighted by
night. A few folding camp chairs were the only other pieces of
furniture, save for two camp beds.. On one lay the motionless form of a
man.
He lay so still that horror gripped me; I thought for a moment that we
had come too late. Then an arm was flung out and a hoarse voice
muttered something. I crossed the room and sat down on the floor by the
cot.
I would not have known him. The beard, which had been confined to lower
cheeks and jaw, spread upward in a black stubble that almost met his
hairline. His eyes were sunken and his cheekbones stood out like spars.
I had no need to touch him to realize that he was burning with fever.
Heat fairly radiated from his face. His shirt had been opened, baring
his throat and chest, and exposing a considerable quantity of black
hair; he was covered to the waist with a sheet which his delirious
tossing had entwined around
his limbs.
Evelyn sank to her knees beside me.
"What shall I do, Amelia?" she asked quietly.
"Dampen some cloths in water. Walter, you must see that we do not run
out of water, send the men for more. I don't suppose he can eat; has he
taken water to drink?"
"He won't take it," Walter said.
"He will take it for me," I said grimly, and began to roll up my
sleeves.
By the time Michael arrived with my bag, we had managed to make Emerson
more comfortable. Constant application of water to his face and breast
had lowered his temperature somewhat, and I had forced a few drops past
his cracked lips. He knocked my bonnet off and sent me sprawling before
I succeeded; but resistance merely increased my determination. I then
gave him a stiff dose of quinine, lying flat across his chest and
pinching his nose shut, while Walter held his arms and Evelyn sat on
his legs. Not surprisingly, he fell into an uneasy sleep after these
exertions, and I was able to turn my attention to arrangements for the
future. Michael was sent back to the dahabeeyah for bedding and
supplies. Evelyn went with him, to help him select the personal things
we would need. I ordered her to remain on board, but she refused, with
the quiet determination she showed at certain times. So I directed
Walter to pick out a nice tomb for us.
He was staring at me in the most peculiar fashion. He did not speak,
but he kept opening and closing his mouth. If he had not been such a
handsome fellow, he would have reminded me of a frog.
"There is a nice tomb close by, I trust," I repeated, resisting the
desire to poke at him with my parasol. "Go along, Walter, we mustn't
waste time; I want the place all swept out and tidy by the time our
luggage arrives. Where are your workmen? Some of them can take care of
that matter."
"Nice tomb," Walter repeated stupidly. "Yes. Yes, Miss Peabody, there
are several other tombs nearby.
I don't know whether you would call
them nice...."
"Walter, you are incoherent," I said. "This is no time to lose your
head. I understand your concern, but there is no need for it now. I am
here. I have no intention of leaving until Mr. Emerson is on his feet
again. I have always wanted to spend some time with an archaeological
expedition; it should be a delightful experience. There is no point in
moving your brother, for the crisis will come in the next few hours,
long before we could reach the nearest town. I believe there is no
cause
for alarm. He has a strong constitution; and at the risk of sounding
repetitious, may I say again that I am on the job."
Walter was sitting on the floor next to me. He watched as I wrung out
another cloth and slapped it on Emerson's chest. Then, quite without
warning, he leaned forward, took me by the shoulders, and kissed me
soundly on the cheek.
"I believe you, Miss Peabody; there is no cause for alarm with you
here. I believe you would square off at Satan if he came around and
inconvenienced you!"
Before I could reply he had jumped to his feet and bolted out.
I turned back to my patient and wrung out another cloth. There was no
one there but myself and Emerson, and he was sleeping; so I permitted
myself to smile. Some Eternal Designer had robbed Peter
to pay Paul;
one Emerson had an extra share of charm and the other had none. Poor
Evelyn; no wonder she had succumbed! Luckily Emerson presented no such
danger to any woman.
I had to admit, though, that he looked rather pathetic in his present
state. A fallen colossus is more pitiable than a felled weakling. As I
went on wiping his hot face, some of the lines of pain smoothed out,
and he gave a little sigh, like that of a child sinking into restful
sleep.
Neither Evelyn nor I saw our beds until dawn. Walter had made some of
his workers clean out a tomb for us, and Michael fitted it up quite
comfortably; but I would not leave my patient, and Evelyn would not
leave me. Or perhaps it was Walter she was reluctant to leave. I had no
time or energy to inquire, for Emerson became delirious toward sunset,
and it took all my strength and Walter's to keep him from harming
himself, or us. I acquired a handsome bruise across one cheek when
Walter's grip on his brother's arm failed for a moment. I have never
seen a man carry on so; you would have thought him an Egyptian soul
traversing the perils of the Afterworld, and us crocodile-headed
monsters trying to keep him from Heaven. Well, we kept wrestling him
back onto the bed, and I forced more medicine down him; and in the
early hours of the morning he fell into a coma that must end, as I
knew, in death or recovery.
In a way, those succeeding hours were worse than the violent struggles
of the earlier time. Walter knelt by the bed, unaware of anything
except his brother's gasping breath. The fever rose, in spite of our
efforts. My hands were sore from wringing out cloths, and my bones
ached— especially those of my left hand,
for at some point before he
dropped into his coma Emerson had seized it and would not let go. It
was terrifying to feel the hard grip of that hand and see the
immobility of the rest of his body. I had the superstitious feeling
that he was clinging as if to a lifeline, and that if I forced his
fingers apart he would drop into the bottomless abyss of death.
As the night wore on I grew giddy and light-headed with lack of sleep.
The scene was uncanny: the smoky lamplight casting its shadows over the
taut faces of the watchers and the sunken countenance of the sick man;
the utter stillness of the night, broken at long intervals by the
wavering howl of a jackal, the loneliest, most desolate sound on earth.
Then, in the darkest hour before dawn, the change came.
It was as palpable as a breath of cold air against the face. For a
moment my eyes failed, and I felt nothing. I heard a sound, like a
strangled sob, from Walter. When I opened my eyes I saw him lying
across the foot of the bed, his face hidden and his hand resting on bis
brother's arm. Emerson's face was utterly peaceful. Then his breast
rose in a single long inspiration— and continued to move. The hand that
held mine had gone limp. It was cool. He would live.
I could not stand; my limbs were too cramped with crouching. Walter had
to half carry me to my bed. He would sit with Emerson the rest of the
night, in case there was a relapse, but I had no fear of that. I fell
into slumber as one falls into a well, while Evelyn was bathing my
hands and face.
When I woke later that morning I could not imagine for a moment where I
was. Stone walls instead of the white paneling of my cabin; a hard
surface below instead of my soft couch. I started to turn, and let out
a cry of pain; my left hand, on which I had tried to raise myself, was
swollen and sore.
Then memory came back; I levered myself up from the pallet on which I
had slept and fumbled for my dressing gown. Across the room Evelyn
still slept the sleep of exhaustion. A beam of light streaming through
a gap in the hastily curtained doorway touched her fan: hair and made
it glow like gold.
When I stepped out onto the ledge in front of my improvised bedchamber,
the heat struck like a blow. In spite of my anxiety I could not help
pausing for a look. Below me a panorama of desert rolled away to the
blue curve of the river, with the western cliffs beyond like ramparts
of dull gold. The huts of the village were cleansed by distance; half
hidden by the graceful shapes of palm trees, amid the green of the
cultivated fields, they looked picturesque instead of nasty. Midway
between the village and the cliffs a huddle of black shapes, busy as
ants, moved amid a great dusty cloud of sand. I surmised that this was
the site of the current excavation.
I walked along the ledge to the next tomb, whence I could hear sounds
of altercation. My anxiety had been unnecessary. Emerson was himself
again.
I wish it clearly understood that my feelings that bright morning were
those of pure Christian charity. For Emerson I felt the comparison and
interest one always feels toward a person one has nursed.
These sentiments did not last two minutes.
When I entered I saw Emerson half out of bed, restrained only by
Walter's arm. He was partially clad;
his nether limbs were covered by
the most incredible garments, pink in color. He was shouting at Walter,
who waved a small dish under his nose like a weapon.
Emerson stopped shouting when he saw me. His expression was hardly
welcoming, but I was so glad to see his eyes aware and sensible,
instead of flaring wildly with fever, that I gave him a cheerful
forgiving smile before I inspected the contents of the dish Walter was
holding.
I forgot myself then; I admit it. I had picked up several forceful
expressions from Father, and I used them in his presence, since he
never heard a word I said; but I endeavored to avoid them in other
company. The sight of the sickly gray-green contents of the dish were
too much for my self-control.
"Good Gad," I burst out. "What is that?"
"Tinned peas," said Walter. He looked apologetic, as well he might.
"You see, Miss Peabody, they are
an excellent cheap source of food. We
also have tinned beef and beans and cabbage, but I thought this might
be more— "
"Throw it out," I said, holding my nose. "Tell your cook to boil a
chicken. One can obtain chickens, I hope? If this is what you eat, no
wonder your brother had fever. It is a wonder he doesn't also have
dysentery and inflamed bowels."
Walter brought his hand to his brow in a military salute and marched
out.
I turned to Emerson. He had flung himself back onto the bed and pulled
the sheet up to his chin.
"Go on, Miss Peabody," he said, drawling offensively. "Comment on my
other organic failures if you will. I understand I am to thank you for
saving my life. Walter is inclined to dramatize things; however, I
thank you for ministering to me in your inimitable fashion. Consider
yourself thanked. Now go away."
I had intended to go, until he told me to. I sat down on the bed and
reached for his hand. He jerked it away.
"I wish to take your pulse," I said impatiently. "Stop acting like a
timid maiden lady."
He let me hold his wrist for a few moments. Then he pulled his hand
free.
"I wish Miss Nightingale had stayed at home where she belongs," he
growled. "Every wretched Englishwoman now wants to become a lady of the
lamp. Now, madam, if your instincts are satisfied,
take yourself away
or—or I shall rise from my bed!"
"If that is what you intend, I shall certainly remain. You cannot get
up today. And don't think to frighten me by threats. I watched you all
night, remember; your anatomy is not prepossessing, I agree, but I am
tolerably familiar with it."
"But my pavement," Emerson shouted. "What is happening to my pavement?
You fiend of a woman, I must go and see what they are doing to my
pavement!"
"My pavement" had been a recurrent theme in his delirium, and I
wondered what he was talking about. The only allusion that occurred to
me was the description in the Gospel of Saint John: "When Pilate
therefore heard that saying, he brought Jesus forth, and sat down in
the judgment seat in a place that is called the Pavement-----" However,
although I considered Emerson quite capable of blasphemy, I doubted
that he would compare his illness with that divine Martyrdom.
"What pavement?" I asked.
"My painted pavement." Emerson looked at me consideringly. "I have
found part of Khuenaten's royal palace. Pavements, walls, and ceilings
were painted. Some have miraculously survived."
"Good— that is, how amazing! Do you mean that the royal heretic's
palace
once stood where that waste of sand now stretches?"
"You know of Khuenaten?"
"Yes, indeed. He is a fascinating personality. Or do you think he was a
woman?"
"Balderdash! That is typical of the fools who manage archaeological
research today. Mariette's notion, that he was taken captive by the
Nubians and cas----- that is, operated upon— "
"I have read of that theory," I said, as he stuttered to a halt. "Why
is it not possible? I believe the operation does produce feminine
characteristics in a male."
Emerson gave me a peculiar look.
"That is one way of putting it," he said drily. "It seems more likely
to me that Khuenaten's physical peculiarities are an artistic
convention. You will note that his courtiers and friends are shown with
similar peculiarities."
"Indeed?"
"Yes. Look there." Emerson started to sit up and clutched the sheet to
him as it slid. He was a very hairy man. "This tomb belonged to a high
noble of Khuenaten's court. Its walls are decorated with reliefs in the
unique Amarna style."
My curiousity aroused, I reached for the lamp. This motion produced a
scream of rage from Emerson.
"Not the lamp! I only use it when I must. The fools who light the tombs
with magnesium wire and lamps are vandals; the greasy smoke lays a film
on the reliefs. The mirror— take the mirror. If you hold it at
the
proper angle it will give you sufficient light."
I had observed the mirror and wondered at this unexpected sign of
vanity. I ought to have known. It took me some time to get the hang of
the business, with Emerson making sarcastic remarks; but finally a
lucky twist of the wrist shone a beam of reflected light through the
doorway in which I stood, and I stared with wonder and delight.
The reliefs were shallow and worn, but they had a vivacity that at once
appealed to me. There seemed to be a parade or procession; all the
small running figures followed the mighty form of pharaoh, ten times
the size of lesser men. He drove a light chariot, handling his team of
prancing horses easily; in the chariot with him was a slightly smaller
crowned person. Their heads were turned toward one another, it seemed
as if their lips were about to touch.
"He must have loved her very much, to give her such a prominent place
at his side," I mused aloud. "I am inclined to agree with you, Emerson;
no man who was less man a man would violate tradition by showing his
devotion to his beautiful wife. Even her name, Nefertiti — 'the
beautiful woman has come' . . ."
"You read the hieroglyphs?" Emerson exclaimed.
"A little."
I indicated, without touching it, the oval cartouche in which the
queen's name was written, and then moved my finger toward the empty
ovals which had once contained the names of Khuenaten.
"I have read of this — how the triumphant priests of Amon destroyed
even the royal heretic's name after he died. It is strangely disturbing
to see the savagery of their attack. How they must have hated him, to
obliterate even his name!"
"By doing so they hoped to annihilate his soul," Emerson said. "Without
identity, the spirit of the dead could not survive."
The incongruity of the conversation, with a gentleman in pink
undergarments, did not strike me until Evelyn appeared in the doorway,
and as abruptly disappeared. From without, her timid voice inquired
whether she might come in.
"Oh, curse it," Emerson exclaimed, and pulled the sheet over his head.
From under it a muffled voice bade Evelyn enter.
Evelyn entered. She was properly dressed in a pale-green cotton frock,
and looked as neat and dainty as
if she had had all the amenities of
the dehabeeyah at her disposal instead of a basin of tepid water. She
was a little flushed. Knowing her as I did, I concluded that she was
amused, although I could not imagine why. Emerson pulled the sheet down
to the bridge of his nose. Over its folds a pair of blue eyes regarded
Evelyn malevolently. She did not look at him.
"Do come in, Evelyn, and look at these carvings," I exclaimed, flashing
my mirror about expertly. "Here
is the king riding in his chariot and
his queen beside him— "
"I am sure they are fascinating, Amelia, but do you not think it might
be better to wait for a more propitious time? Mr. Emerson needs rest,
and you are not really dressed for a social call-----" There was
a suspicious quiver in her voice.
She suppressed it and went on, "Walter seems to be having some trouble
with the chicken you ordered."
"I suppose I must take charge, as usual." With a last lingering glance
at a group of running soldiers, I replaced the mirror.
"So long as you are taking charge, you might have a look at my
pavement," Emerson said grudgingly. "You stand here chattering like a
parrot, and every moment the paint is chipping away— "
"You were the one who uncovered it," I reminded him. "What are you
planning to do to protect it?"
"I've had a wooden shelter built, but that is only a small part of the
problem. The question is, what preservative can we apply that won't
damage the paint? It is crumbled to powder; an ordinary brush simply
smears the surface. And the varnishes that have been used in such cases
are atrocious; they
darken and crack..."
"But you, of course, have found a solution," I said.
"A solution is precisely what it is. A mixture of weak tapioca and
water, brushed on the painting— "
"You said brushing marred the paint."
Emerson looked as dignified as a man can look under such adverse
circumstances.
"I brush it on with the edge of my finger."
I stared at him with reluctant admiration.
"You are determined, I'll say that for you."
"It is slow work; I have to do it myself, I can't trust any of the
workmen. I have only covered part of it." He groaned feelingly. "I tell
you, woman, I must get up and see to my pavement."
"I'll see to your pavement," I said. "Stay in bed or you will have a
relapse and be ill for weeks. Even you must see that that would be
foolish."
I did not wait for an answer, it would only have been rude. I started
along the ledge. Evelyn caught my sleeve.
"Amelia, where are you going?"
"To see Mr. Emerson's pavement, of course. Have you ever known me to
break my word?"
pleasant little argument. I gave her
a lecture on Khuenaten; she was
always anxious to learn.
"He abandoned the royal city of Thebes," I explained, "and built a new
capital dedicated to his god, on land that had never been contaminated
by other worship. Herr Lepsius discovered some of the boundary
inscriptions placed on the rocks around the city of Khuenaten. There
are also tombs in the cliffs, rather interesting ones; the drawings are
quite different in style from the usual tomb decorations. If the wind
suits, I think a visit there might be profitable. What do you say?"
I was leafing through my copy of Brugsch's Geographical Dictionary
(Heinrich Brugsch, the archaeologist, not his disreputable brother) as
I spoke; but I watched Evelyn out of the comer of my eye, and saw the
betraying color rise in her cheeks. She put down her pencil— she was
quite a good little artist, and had made a number of nice sketches
along the way— and gazed out across the river toward the cliffs.
"What is the name of the place, Amelia?"
I rifled busily through the pages of Brugsch.
"The ancient name of the place was—"
"The modern name is El Amarnah, is it not?"
"There are three villages on the spot, el-Till and el-Haggi Qandil and
El-Amariah. A corruption of these names— "
"Yes, yes, I recall— I recall Walter speaking of it. That is where he
and Mr. Emerson are working. You would have no reason to remember that,
of course."
I decided that Evelyn was being sarcastic. She seldom allowed herself
this luxury, so I overlooked it on this occasion.
"Is that so?" I said casually. "Well, I suppose there is no reason why
we should necessarily encounter the Emersons. The site is large and the
tombs are scattered. We will take it as settled, then. I will speak to
Reis Hassan."
Owing to a difficulty with the wind, we did not reach the village of
Haggi Qandil for two days. Indeed, we had some trouble reaching it at
all; if I had not been determined, Reis Hassan would not have stopped.
He mentioned unfavorable winds, disease in the village, the remoteness
of the archaeological remains from the river, and a number of other
irrelevant arguments. You would have thought the good captain would
have learned by now the futility of arguing with me; but perhaps he
enjoyed it. Honesty compels me to admit that Hassan may have had some
reason on his side. We ran aground on a sandbank outside the village
and had to be carried ashore by the villagers. We left Reis Hassan
staring gloomily at his crew, who were trying to free the boat and
making very little progress.
Michael, our dragoman, led the way into the village. It was a typical
Egyptian village— perhaps a trifle more wretched than others. The
narrow
streets were heaped with refuse of all kinds, steaming under the hot
sun. Dust and windblown sand coated every surface. Mangy dogs lay about
the streets, their ribs showing. They bared their teeth at us as we
passed, but were too miserable even to rise.
Half-naked children stared from eyes ringed with flies, and whined for
backsheesh.
Michael plunged into the crowd, shouting orders, and eventually we were
presented with a choice of donkeys. We chose the
least-miserable-looking of the lot, and then I proceeded to a ritual
which had caused considerable amusement along the way, and which
puzzled even our loyal Michael. Following my orders, interpreted by
Michael, the reluctant owners took the filthy cloths from the animals'
back, swabbed them down with buckets of water, and smeared on the
ointment I supplied. The donkeys were then covered with fresh saddle
cloths, supplied by me, which were laundered after every use. I think
it was the only time in the lives of these little donkeys that the
cloths were ever removed; sores and insects proliferated under them.
The scowls on the faces of the donkeys' owners turned to broad smiles
as I tipped them liberally for their unusual effort; I took the
opportunity to add a short lecture on the economic advantage of tending
one's livestock, but I was never sure how much of this discourse
Michael translated. With the now laughing attendants running alongside,
we trotted off across the desert toward the tombs.
The cliffs, which run closely along the river in other areas, fall back
here, leaving a semicircular plain some seven miles long by four miles
wide at its greatest extent. The cultivated land is only a narrow strip
less than half a mile wide; beyond, all is baking yellow-brown desert,
until one reaches the rocky foothills of the cliffs into which the
tombs were cut.
We were bouncing along in fine style, squinting against the glare of
the sun, when I beheld a figure coming toward us. The air of Egypt is
so clear one can make out details at distances impossible in England; I
saw at once that the person approaching was not a native. He wore
trousers instead of flapping skirts. My internal organs (if I may be
permitted to refer to these objects) gave an odd lurch. But soon I
realized that the man was not Emerson. Evelyn recognized him at the
same time. We were side by side; I heard her soft exclamation
and saw her hands clench on the reins.
Walter did not recognize us immediately. He saw only two European
travelers, and ran toward us with increased speed. Not until he was
almost upon us did he realize who we were; and he stopped so abruptly
that a spurt of sand shot up from under his heels. We continued to trot
decorously toward him as he stood swaying and staring like a man in a
dream.
"Thank God you are here!" he exclaimed, before we could greet him.
"That is ... you are really here?
You are not a vision, or a mirage?"
His eyes were fixed on Evelyn's face; but his agitation was so great I
deduced some other cause of trouble than frustrated love.
"We are really here," I assured him. "What is wrong, Mr. Walter?"
"Emerson. My brother." The lad passed his hand across his damp
forehead. "He is ill. Desperately, dangerously ill . . . . You have no
doctor with you, of course. But your dahabeeyah — you could take him to
Cairo . . . ?"
His brother's danger and Evelyn's unexpected appearance had turned the
poor boy's brains to mush.
I realized that I must take charge.
"Run back to the boat and get my medical kit, Michael," I said. "Hurry,
please. Now, Mr. Walter, if you will lead the way. . ."
"A doctor. . ." mumbled Walter, still looking at Evelyn as if he didn't
believe in her.
"You know there is no doctor nearer than Cairo," I said. "Unless I see
Mr. Emerson, I cannot tell whether he is fit to be moved. It would take
days to get him to Cairo. Lead on, Mr. Walter."
I jabbed him with my parasol. He started, turned, and began to run back
in the direction from which he had come. The donkeys, aroused by my
voice, broke into a trot. Skirts flying, parasols waving, we dashed
forward, followed by a cloud of sand.
Emerson had situated himself in one of the tombs that had been dug into
the rock wall of the hills bounding the plain. The entrances looked
like black rectangles against the sunbaked rock. We had to climb the
last few yards, along a sort of path that led up the cliff. Walter
devoted himself to Evelyn; the donkey attendants would have helped me,
but I swatted them off with my parasol. I needed no assistance. I was
panting a trifle when I finally reached the entrance to the tomb, but
it was— yes, I confess it— it was with agitation rather than exertion.
The lintel and jambs of the entrance were covered with carved reliefs.
I had no time for them then; I entered. Once inside, I cast a quick,
comprehensive glance about, and understood why Emerson had chosen to
take up his abode in the resting place of the ancient dead, rather than
pitch a tent. The room was long and narrow— a passageway, as I later
discovered, rather than a chamber. The far end was lost in shadow, but
diffused sunlight illuminated the area next to the entrance. Wooden
packing cases served as tables. Some were covered with tins of food,
others with books and papers. A lamp showed how the room was lighted by
night. A few folding camp chairs were the only other pieces of
furniture, save for two camp beds.. On one lay the motionless form of a
man.
He lay so still that horror gripped me; I thought for a moment that we
had come too late. Then an arm was flung out and a hoarse voice
muttered something. I crossed the room and sat down on the floor by the
cot.
I would not have known him. The beard, which had been confined to lower
cheeks and jaw, spread upward in a black stubble that almost met his
hairline. His eyes were sunken and his cheekbones stood out like spars.
I had no need to touch him to realize that he was burning with fever.
Heat fairly radiated from his face. His shirt had been opened, baring
his throat and chest, and exposing a considerable quantity of black
hair; he was covered to the waist with a sheet which his delirious
tossing had entwined around
his limbs.
Evelyn sank to her knees beside me.
"What shall I do, Amelia?" she asked quietly.
"Dampen some cloths in water. Walter, you must see that we do not run
out of water, send the men for more. I don't suppose he can eat; has he
taken water to drink?"
"He won't take it," Walter said.
"He will take it for me," I said grimly, and began to roll up my
sleeves.
By the time Michael arrived with my bag, we had managed to make Emerson
more comfortable. Constant application of water to his face and breast
had lowered his temperature somewhat, and I had forced a few drops past
his cracked lips. He knocked my bonnet off and sent me sprawling before
I succeeded; but resistance merely increased my determination. I then
gave him a stiff dose of quinine, lying flat across his chest and
pinching his nose shut, while Walter held his arms and Evelyn sat on
his legs. Not surprisingly, he fell into an uneasy sleep after these
exertions, and I was able to turn my attention to arrangements for the
future. Michael was sent back to the dahabeeyah for bedding and
supplies. Evelyn went with him, to help him select the personal things
we would need. I ordered her to remain on board, but she refused, with
the quiet determination she showed at certain times. So I directed
Walter to pick out a nice tomb for us.
He was staring at me in the most peculiar fashion. He did not speak,
but he kept opening and closing his mouth. If he had not been such a
handsome fellow, he would have reminded me of a frog.
"There is a nice tomb close by, I trust," I repeated, resisting the
desire to poke at him with my parasol. "Go along, Walter, we mustn't
waste time; I want the place all swept out and tidy by the time our
luggage arrives. Where are your workmen? Some of them can take care of
that matter."
"Nice tomb," Walter repeated stupidly. "Yes. Yes, Miss Peabody, there
are several other tombs nearby.
I don't know whether you would call
them nice...."
"Walter, you are incoherent," I said. "This is no time to lose your
head. I understand your concern, but there is no need for it now. I am
here. I have no intention of leaving until Mr. Emerson is on his feet
again. I have always wanted to spend some time with an archaeological
expedition; it should be a delightful experience. There is no point in
moving your brother, for the crisis will come in the next few hours,
long before we could reach the nearest town. I believe there is no
cause
for alarm. He has a strong constitution; and at the risk of sounding
repetitious, may I say again that I am on the job."
Walter was sitting on the floor next to me. He watched as I wrung out
another cloth and slapped it on Emerson's chest. Then, quite without
warning, he leaned forward, took me by the shoulders, and kissed me
soundly on the cheek.
"I believe you, Miss Peabody; there is no cause for alarm with you
here. I believe you would square off at Satan if he came around and
inconvenienced you!"
Before I could reply he had jumped to his feet and bolted out.
I turned back to my patient and wrung out another cloth. There was no
one there but myself and Emerson, and he was sleeping; so I permitted
myself to smile. Some Eternal Designer had robbed Peter
to pay Paul;
one Emerson had an extra share of charm and the other had none. Poor
Evelyn; no wonder she had succumbed! Luckily Emerson presented no such
danger to any woman.
I had to admit, though, that he looked rather pathetic in his present
state. A fallen colossus is more pitiable than a felled weakling. As I
went on wiping his hot face, some of the lines of pain smoothed out,
and he gave a little sigh, like that of a child sinking into restful
sleep.
* * *
The crisis of the fever came that night, and we had our hands full.Neither Evelyn nor I saw our beds until dawn. Walter had made some of
his workers clean out a tomb for us, and Michael fitted it up quite
comfortably; but I would not leave my patient, and Evelyn would not
leave me. Or perhaps it was Walter she was reluctant to leave. I had no
time or energy to inquire, for Emerson became delirious toward sunset,
and it took all my strength and Walter's to keep him from harming
himself, or us. I acquired a handsome bruise across one cheek when
Walter's grip on his brother's arm failed for a moment. I have never
seen a man carry on so; you would have thought him an Egyptian soul
traversing the perils of the Afterworld, and us crocodile-headed
monsters trying to keep him from Heaven. Well, we kept wrestling him
back onto the bed, and I forced more medicine down him; and in the
early hours of the morning he fell into a coma that must end, as I
knew, in death or recovery.
In a way, those succeeding hours were worse than the violent struggles
of the earlier time. Walter knelt by the bed, unaware of anything
except his brother's gasping breath. The fever rose, in spite of our
efforts. My hands were sore from wringing out cloths, and my bones
ached— especially those of my left hand,
for at some point before he
dropped into his coma Emerson had seized it and would not let go. It
was terrifying to feel the hard grip of that hand and see the
immobility of the rest of his body. I had the superstitious feeling
that he was clinging as if to a lifeline, and that if I forced his
fingers apart he would drop into the bottomless abyss of death.
As the night wore on I grew giddy and light-headed with lack of sleep.
The scene was uncanny: the smoky lamplight casting its shadows over the
taut faces of the watchers and the sunken countenance of the sick man;
the utter stillness of the night, broken at long intervals by the
wavering howl of a jackal, the loneliest, most desolate sound on earth.
Then, in the darkest hour before dawn, the change came.
It was as palpable as a breath of cold air against the face. For a
moment my eyes failed, and I felt nothing. I heard a sound, like a
strangled sob, from Walter. When I opened my eyes I saw him lying
across the foot of the bed, his face hidden and his hand resting on bis
brother's arm. Emerson's face was utterly peaceful. Then his breast
rose in a single long inspiration— and continued to move. The hand that
held mine had gone limp. It was cool. He would live.
I could not stand; my limbs were too cramped with crouching. Walter had
to half carry me to my bed. He would sit with Emerson the rest of the
night, in case there was a relapse, but I had no fear of that. I fell
into slumber as one falls into a well, while Evelyn was bathing my
hands and face.
When I woke later that morning I could not imagine for a moment where I
was. Stone walls instead of the white paneling of my cabin; a hard
surface below instead of my soft couch. I started to turn, and let out
a cry of pain; my left hand, on which I had tried to raise myself, was
swollen and sore.
Then memory came back; I levered myself up from the pallet on which I
had slept and fumbled for my dressing gown. Across the room Evelyn
still slept the sleep of exhaustion. A beam of light streaming through
a gap in the hastily curtained doorway touched her fan: hair and made
it glow like gold.
When I stepped out onto the ledge in front of my improvised bedchamber,
the heat struck like a blow. In spite of my anxiety I could not help
pausing for a look. Below me a panorama of desert rolled away to the
blue curve of the river, with the western cliffs beyond like ramparts
of dull gold. The huts of the village were cleansed by distance; half
hidden by the graceful shapes of palm trees, amid the green of the
cultivated fields, they looked picturesque instead of nasty. Midway
between the village and the cliffs a huddle of black shapes, busy as
ants, moved amid a great dusty cloud of sand. I surmised that this was
the site of the current excavation.
I walked along the ledge to the next tomb, whence I could hear sounds
of altercation. My anxiety had been unnecessary. Emerson was himself
again.
I wish it clearly understood that my feelings that bright morning were
those of pure Christian charity. For Emerson I felt the comparison and
interest one always feels toward a person one has nursed.
These sentiments did not last two minutes.
When I entered I saw Emerson half out of bed, restrained only by
Walter's arm. He was partially clad;
his nether limbs were covered by
the most incredible garments, pink in color. He was shouting at Walter,
who waved a small dish under his nose like a weapon.
Emerson stopped shouting when he saw me. His expression was hardly
welcoming, but I was so glad to see his eyes aware and sensible,
instead of flaring wildly with fever, that I gave him a cheerful
forgiving smile before I inspected the contents of the dish Walter was
holding.
I forgot myself then; I admit it. I had picked up several forceful
expressions from Father, and I used them in his presence, since he
never heard a word I said; but I endeavored to avoid them in other
company. The sight of the sickly gray-green contents of the dish were
too much for my self-control.
"Good Gad," I burst out. "What is that?"
"Tinned peas," said Walter. He looked apologetic, as well he might.
"You see, Miss Peabody, they are
an excellent cheap source of food. We
also have tinned beef and beans and cabbage, but I thought this might
be more— "
"Throw it out," I said, holding my nose. "Tell your cook to boil a
chicken. One can obtain chickens, I hope? If this is what you eat, no
wonder your brother had fever. It is a wonder he doesn't also have
dysentery and inflamed bowels."
Walter brought his hand to his brow in a military salute and marched
out.
I turned to Emerson. He had flung himself back onto the bed and pulled
the sheet up to his chin.
"Go on, Miss Peabody," he said, drawling offensively. "Comment on my
other organic failures if you will. I understand I am to thank you for
saving my life. Walter is inclined to dramatize things; however, I
thank you for ministering to me in your inimitable fashion. Consider
yourself thanked. Now go away."
I had intended to go, until he told me to. I sat down on the bed and
reached for his hand. He jerked it away.
"I wish to take your pulse," I said impatiently. "Stop acting like a
timid maiden lady."
He let me hold his wrist for a few moments. Then he pulled his hand
free.
"I wish Miss Nightingale had stayed at home where she belongs," he
growled. "Every wretched Englishwoman now wants to become a lady of the
lamp. Now, madam, if your instincts are satisfied,
take yourself away
or—or I shall rise from my bed!"
"If that is what you intend, I shall certainly remain. You cannot get
up today. And don't think to frighten me by threats. I watched you all
night, remember; your anatomy is not prepossessing, I agree, but I am
tolerably familiar with it."
"But my pavement," Emerson shouted. "What is happening to my pavement?
You fiend of a woman, I must go and see what they are doing to my
pavement!"
"My pavement" had been a recurrent theme in his delirium, and I
wondered what he was talking about. The only allusion that occurred to
me was the description in the Gospel of Saint John: "When Pilate
therefore heard that saying, he brought Jesus forth, and sat down in
the judgment seat in a place that is called the Pavement-----" However,
although I considered Emerson quite capable of blasphemy, I doubted
that he would compare his illness with that divine Martyrdom.
"What pavement?" I asked.
"My painted pavement." Emerson looked at me consideringly. "I have
found part of Khuenaten's royal palace. Pavements, walls, and ceilings
were painted. Some have miraculously survived."
"Good— that is, how amazing! Do you mean that the royal heretic's
palace
once stood where that waste of sand now stretches?"
"You know of Khuenaten?"
"Yes, indeed. He is a fascinating personality. Or do you think he was a
woman?"
"Balderdash! That is typical of the fools who manage archaeological
research today. Mariette's notion, that he was taken captive by the
Nubians and cas----- that is, operated upon— "
"I have read of that theory," I said, as he stuttered to a halt. "Why
is it not possible? I believe the operation does produce feminine
characteristics in a male."
Emerson gave me a peculiar look.
"That is one way of putting it," he said drily. "It seems more likely
to me that Khuenaten's physical peculiarities are an artistic
convention. You will note that his courtiers and friends are shown with
similar peculiarities."
"Indeed?"
"Yes. Look there." Emerson started to sit up and clutched the sheet to
him as it slid. He was a very hairy man. "This tomb belonged to a high
noble of Khuenaten's court. Its walls are decorated with reliefs in the
unique Amarna style."
My curiousity aroused, I reached for the lamp. This motion produced a
scream of rage from Emerson.
"Not the lamp! I only use it when I must. The fools who light the tombs
with magnesium wire and lamps are vandals; the greasy smoke lays a film
on the reliefs. The mirror— take the mirror. If you hold it at
the
proper angle it will give you sufficient light."
I had observed the mirror and wondered at this unexpected sign of
vanity. I ought to have known. It took me some time to get the hang of
the business, with Emerson making sarcastic remarks; but finally a
lucky twist of the wrist shone a beam of reflected light through the
doorway in which I stood, and I stared with wonder and delight.
The reliefs were shallow and worn, but they had a vivacity that at once
appealed to me. There seemed to be a parade or procession; all the
small running figures followed the mighty form of pharaoh, ten times
the size of lesser men. He drove a light chariot, handling his team of
prancing horses easily; in the chariot with him was a slightly smaller
crowned person. Their heads were turned toward one another, it seemed
as if their lips were about to touch.
"He must have loved her very much, to give her such a prominent place
at his side," I mused aloud. "I am inclined to agree with you, Emerson;
no man who was less man a man would violate tradition by showing his
devotion to his beautiful wife. Even her name, Nefertiti — 'the
beautiful woman has come' . . ."
"You read the hieroglyphs?" Emerson exclaimed.
"A little."
I indicated, without touching it, the oval cartouche in which the
queen's name was written, and then moved my finger toward the empty
ovals which had once contained the names of Khuenaten.
"I have read of this — how the triumphant priests of Amon destroyed
even the royal heretic's name after he died. It is strangely disturbing
to see the savagery of their attack. How they must have hated him, to
obliterate even his name!"
"By doing so they hoped to annihilate his soul," Emerson said. "Without
identity, the spirit of the dead could not survive."
The incongruity of the conversation, with a gentleman in pink
undergarments, did not strike me until Evelyn appeared in the doorway,
and as abruptly disappeared. From without, her timid voice inquired
whether she might come in.
"Oh, curse it," Emerson exclaimed, and pulled the sheet over his head.
From under it a muffled voice bade Evelyn enter.
Evelyn entered. She was properly dressed in a pale-green cotton frock,
and looked as neat and dainty as
if she had had all the amenities of
the dehabeeyah at her disposal instead of a basin of tepid water. She
was a little flushed. Knowing her as I did, I concluded that she was
amused, although I could not imagine why. Emerson pulled the sheet down
to the bridge of his nose. Over its folds a pair of blue eyes regarded
Evelyn malevolently. She did not look at him.
"Do come in, Evelyn, and look at these carvings," I exclaimed, flashing
my mirror about expertly. "Here
is the king riding in his chariot and
his queen beside him— "
"I am sure they are fascinating, Amelia, but do you not think it might
be better to wait for a more propitious time? Mr. Emerson needs rest,
and you are not really dressed for a social call-----" There was
a suspicious quiver in her voice.
She suppressed it and went on, "Walter seems to be having some trouble
with the chicken you ordered."
"I suppose I must take charge, as usual." With a last lingering glance
at a group of running soldiers, I replaced the mirror.
"So long as you are taking charge, you might have a look at my
pavement," Emerson said grudgingly. "You stand here chattering like a
parrot, and every moment the paint is chipping away— "
"You were the one who uncovered it," I reminded him. "What are you
planning to do to protect it?"
"I've had a wooden shelter built, but that is only a small part of the
problem. The question is, what preservative can we apply that won't
damage the paint? It is crumbled to powder; an ordinary brush simply
smears the surface. And the varnishes that have been used in such cases
are atrocious; they
darken and crack..."
"But you, of course, have found a solution," I said.
"A solution is precisely what it is. A mixture of weak tapioca and
water, brushed on the painting— "
"You said brushing marred the paint."
Emerson looked as dignified as a man can look under such adverse
circumstances.
"I brush it on with the edge of my finger."
I stared at him with reluctant admiration.
"You are determined, I'll say that for you."
"It is slow work; I have to do it myself, I can't trust any of the
workmen. I have only covered part of it." He groaned feelingly. "I tell
you, woman, I must get up and see to my pavement."
"I'll see to your pavement," I said. "Stay in bed or you will have a
relapse and be ill for weeks. Even you must see that that would be
foolish."
I did not wait for an answer, it would only have been rude. I started
along the ledge. Evelyn caught my sleeve.
"Amelia, where are you going?"
"To see Mr. Emerson's pavement, of course. Have you ever known me to
break my word?"
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