He Shall Thunder in the Sky (27 page)

     Early as we were, we had only just arrived at the tomb when our first visitor appeared. Visitors, I should say, for Quibell had brought his wife Annie along. She was a talented artist who had worked for Petrie at Sakkara. It was then she had met her future husband, and I well remembered the day when poor James had come staggering into our camp at Mazghuna requesting medicine for himself and “the young ladies.” Mr. Petrie’s people were always suffering from stomach trouble, owing to his peculiar dietary habits; the half-spoiled food he expected them to eat never bothered him in the slightest.

     Emerson greeted his colleague with a grumble. James, who was quite accustomed to him, replied with a smile and hearty congratulations. Selim and Daoud lowered him into the shaft while Emerson hovered over it like a gargoyle.

     “Khafre, do you think?” James called up. “I don’t see an inscription.”

     “There may be one on the base,” Emerson replied. “As you see, we have not yet uncovered it. If you will get out of there, Quibell, we can proceed.”

     Annie declined to emulate her husband’s example; her sensible short skirt and stout boots were suitable for hiking in the desert but not for being lowered into shafts. So we took her to the little rest place I had set up, arranging camp stools and tables and a few packing cases, in the cleared area in front of the tomb, and left the men to get on with it. She was impressed by the quality of the reliefs, and declared that the false door would make a splendid watercolor.

     “Unfortunately we have no one who could do it,” Ramses said.

     “Yes; you must miss David. What a pity . . .” She did not finish the sentence.

     “Tragedy, rather,” I said. “Part of the greater tragedy that has overtaken the world. Ah, well, we must all do what we can, eh? But I believe I hear a party of confounded tourists approaching. If you will excuse me, Annie, I am on guard duty today and must not shirk my task.”

     By mid-morning, when we stopped for tea, I had driven away a good two dozen people, none of whom were known to me. Annie and James had left, after discussing the disposition of the statue with Emerson. James’s suggestion, that it be taken directly to the Museum, had been rejected by Emerson with the scorn it deserved. “You will claim it in the end, no doubt, but until we make the final division of finds, it will be safer in my custody. The security measures at the Museum are perfectly wretched.”

     Soon after we returned to work, other visitors came, whom it was impossible to drive away. Clarence Fisher, who was about to begin work in the West Cemetery field, dropped by to have a look; the High Commissioner, Sir Henry MacMahon, arrived, escorting some titled visitors who were aching to “see something dug up.” They soon became bored with the slow, tedious process, but they were replaced by Woolley and Lawrence and several officers with archaeological leanings. Emerson sent Ramses up to entertain them (i.e., keep them out of his way) while he went on with the job. As courtesy demanded, I offered refreshment, which they were pleased to accept.

     Bedrock was several meters below the unexcavated portion of the cemetery, so my little rest area was walled by sand on two sides. All of us (except Emerson) retired thither, and I poured tea.

     “I trust our discovery has not lured you away from your duties,” I remarked. “We are counting on you gentlemen to save us and the Canal from the Turks, you know.”

     My friendly touch of sarcasm was not lost on Woolley, who laughed good-naturedly. “Fortunately, Mrs. Emerson, your safety is not solely dependent on the likes of us. All we do is sit poring over maps. It is good to get away from the office for a while. I miss being in the field.”

     Lawrence was discussing Arabic dialects with Ramses, who — for a wonder — let him do most of the talking. One had to admire the young man’s zeal, if not his appearance; he was not wearing a belt, and his uniform looked as if he had slept in it. I thought Ramses looked bored.

     It was Nefret who first saw the newcomers. She nudged Ramses. “Brace yourself,” she said.

     “What for?” He looked in the direction she indicated, and jumped up in time to catch hold of the bundle of flying hair and skirts that came tumbling down the slope of sand beside him. Miss Molly brushed herself off and grinned broadly.

     “Hullo!”

     “Good morning,” said Ramses. “Where is Miss Nordstrom?”

     “Sick,” said the young person with, I could not help suspect, some satisfaction. “At her stomach.”

     “Surely you did not come alone,” I exclaimed.

     “No, I came with them.” She gestured. Peering down at us was a pair of faces, one surmounted by a solar topee, the other by a large hat and veil. “Their names are Mr. and Miss Poynter. I heard them tell Nordie they were coming out to see the statue, so I said we would come with them, but then Nordie got sick — at her stomach — so I came without her.”

     Trying not to grind my teeth, I indicated an easier descent to the Poynters and greeted them more politely than I would have done had they not accompanied the young person. When Miss Poynter removed her veil, displaying a countenance that consisted mostly of chin and teeth, she looked so pleased with herself I realized she must have made use of the child to gain an introduction. We had achieved a certain notoriety in Cairo and were known not to welcome strangers.

     They settled down with every intention of remaining indefinitely and Miss Poynter began telling me all about her family connections and the swath she was cutting in Cairo society. Bored to distraction, I heard Miss Molly demanding that Ramses take her to see the statue, and his somewhat curt reply.

     “As you see, we have other guests. You will have to wait.”

     How she got away unobserved I do not know; but several minutes later I tore my fascinated gaze away from Miss Poynter’s teeth in order to acknowledge Woolley’s farewells. “We’ve played truants long enough,” he explained. “Thank you, Mrs. Emerson, for —”

     “Where is she?” I exclaimed, rising. “Where has she gone?”

     All of us except the Poynters immediately scattered in search of the girl. Knowing the reckless habits of young persons of a certain age, I was filled with apprehension; there were pitfalls and tomb shafts all over the area. We had been looking for several minutes before a shrill hail attracted our attention toward a dump area west of the street of tombs. Ours was not the only expedition to pile sand and rubble there; the mound was almost twenty feet high. Atop it a small figure waved triumphantly.

     “She’s up there,” Lawrence said, shielding his eyes. He chuckled. “Spoiled little devil.”

     Nefret looked anxious. “She could hurt herself. Someone had better go after her.”

     “She’s quite capable of getting down by herself,” said Ramses, folding his arms.

     Nefret had removed her coat earlier. Slim as a boy in trousers and flannel shirt, she began to mount the slope. She reached the top without mishap and held out her hand to the child. Miss Molly danced blithely away from her. A shrill laugh floated down to us.

     “Stop that, Molly!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “You are to come down at once, do you hear?”

     She heard. She stopped and looked down. Nefret made a lunge for her, and then . . . I could not see what happened; I only saw Nefret lose her balance and fall. There was nothing to stop her; followed by a long plume of sand and broken stone, she rolled all the way to the ground. The child’s scream of laughter changed to quite another sort of scream.

     I hastened at once to where my daughter lay on her side in a tumble of loosened golden hair and twisted limbs, but I was not the first to reach her. When I joined him Ramses had brushed the sand from her face. His fingers were stained with blood. “Your canteen,” he said, and took it from me.

     “Don’t move her,” I cautioned.

     “No. Nefret?” He poured the water in a steady stream, bathing her eyes and mouth first. She stirred, murmuring, and Ramses said, “Lie still. You fell. Is anything broken?”

     Woolley and Lawrence hurried up. “Shall I go for a doctor?” the latter inquired. “Bound to be one, in that gaggle of tourists.”

     “I
am
a doctor,” Nefret said, without opening her eyes. “Is Molly all right?”

     “She is coming down by herself, quite competently,” I said, looking round.

     She had selected a nice smooth slope of sand and was descending in a sitting position, and — to judge by her expression — quite enjoying herself. However, as soon as she reached the ground and saw Nefret, she began to cry out.

     “I’ve killed her! It’s my fault! Oh, I am sorry, I am sorry!”

     She ran toward us and would have flung herself down on Nefret had not Ramses intercepted her. She clung to him, weeping bitterly. “I didn’t mean to! Is she dead? I am sorry!”

     “So you damned well should be,” said Ramses. He shoved her away. “Woolley, take her back to the Poynters.”

     “Don’t be unkind to the child.” Cautiously Nefret stretched her limbs, one after the other, and sat up. A trickle of crimson laced her cheek, from a cut on her temple. “I’m not hurt, Molly. No bones broken, and no concussion,” she added, giving me a shaky but reassuring smile.

     Ramses bent and lifted her up into his arms. I thought she stiffened a little; then she rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. He started back toward the tomb, but he had not gone more than a few steps when he was met by Emerson, who must have been told of the incident by one of the onlookers. My husband was in an extreme state of agitation and dishevelment. He snatched Nefret out of his son’s grasp and pressed her to his broad breast.

     “Good God! You should not have lifted her! She is bleeding — unconscious —”

     “No, sir, I’m not unconscious,” Nefret said out of the corner of her mouth. “But you are covered with sand, and it is getting in my eyes.”

     “Take her back to the shelter,” I directed. “She is only a bit shaken up.”

     “She is bleeding, I tell you,” Emerson shouted, squeezing her even more tightly. Both corners of her mouth were now pressed against his shirtfront, but I heard a stifled giggle and a murmur of reassurance.

     “Head wounds always bleed copiously,” I said. “Don’t just stand there, Emerson, go on.”

     I then turned my attention to Molly. She looked so woebegone and guilty, my annoyance faded. After all, she had intended no harm, and no real harm had been done. I took her hand and led her toward the shelter. She went unresisting, head bowed and eyes downcast.

     “It was an accident,” she muttered. “I didn’t mean —”

     “You are becoming repetitive,” I informed her. “If you regret your actions you can best show it by returning at once to Cairo with the Poynters.”

     The Poynters would have lingered, but I gave them no excuse to do so. Once they had departed, and Woolley and Lawrence had gone on their way, I bathed Nefret’s head and was about to apply iodine to the cut when she requested I use alcohol instead.

     “That rusty red clashes horribly with the color of my hair,” she explained. “Thank you, Aunt Amelia, that will do nicely. Now shall we all get back to work?”

     “You should return to the house and rest,” Emerson said anxiously. “What happened?”

     “I tripped,” Nefret said. “She was playing a little game of tag, skipping away from me and laughing, and somehow our feet got tangled up. I am perfectly recovered, and I know, Professor, you are dying to get back to your statue.”

     She took his arm and smiled up at him.

     I waited until they were out of earshot before I turned to my son.

     “Are you all right?”

     He started. “I beg your pardon?”

     “Did you hurt yourself? You ought not have carried her.”

     “I did not hurt myself.”

     “Is your arm painful?”

     “Yes. I expect it will be painful for a while. It is functional, however, and that is the main thing. He hasn’t turned up yet. Are you certain he is coming?”

     I knew to whom Ramses referred. I said calmly, “I don’t see how he can fail to respond. I sent similar invitations to a good many other people, but he must know that I had a particular reason for asking him. It is early yet. He will come.”

     I no longer wonder how the pyramids could have been built with the simplest of tools. The way the men went about raising our statue demonstrated the skill and strength their ancestors must have employed on similar projects. As they continued to deepen the shaft and the statue was gradually freed of the sand that had blanketed it all those years, the danger of its toppling over increased. If it had struck against the stone wall it might have been chipped or even broken. Emerson was determined that this should not happen. The top half of the statue was now tightly wrapped in rugs and canvas and any other fabric he had been able to find; ropes enclosed the bundle, and several of our strongest workers held other ropes that would, we hoped, prevent it from tipping over.

     It was a fascinating process, but I knew I could not allow archaeological fever to distract me from other duties. By early afternoon the crowd of spectators had increased. Some of them had cameras, and they kept on trying to take photographs, despite the fact that — thanks to my efforts — they were too far distant to get anything except a group of Egyptian workmen. I had to bustle busily about, since none of our skilled men could be spared to assist me, and I began to feel like an unhappy teacher trying to control a group of very active, very naughty children. At last I resorted to a clever stratagem. Mounting a fallen block of stone, I gathered most of the tourists to me and delivered a little lecture, stressing the delicacy of the operation and promising them they would get an opportunity to take all the photographs they liked once the statue was out. Strictly speaking, it was not a lie, since I did not specify
what
they could photograph. I try to avoid falsehood unless it is absolutely necessary.

     As I spoke — shouted, rather — I scanned the faces of the spectators. A number of the people I had invited had turned up, as well as a number of those I had not. I thought I caught a glimpse of Percy among the group of military persons who had come from the camp near Mena House, but I could not be certain; the individual in question was surrounded by tall Australians.