Lion in the Valley (29 page)

Mrs.
Axhammer of Des Moines, Iowa (wherever that barbaric location may be), emitted
the evillest laugh I had ever heard. "Let 'em sit. Poor weak critters,
they can't keep up with me—and I'm sixty-eight years old, ma'am, not a day
less. That's my nephew—Jonah's his name—I brung him along so he could tend to
things, but he ain't worth a plugged nickel. Thinks he'll get cut out of my
will if he ain't nice to me. Doesn't know he's already cut out of it. I hired
that fool woman for a companion, but she ain't holding up either. A lady's got
to
have a chaperone, though. What's that boy staring at me for? Ain't
you taught him any manners?"

"I
venture to say," said Ramses, in his most pedantic manner, "that most
people would forget their manners when confronted with someone as remarkable in
appearance as yourself. However, I do not wish any opprobrium to attach to my
mama. She has endeavored to correct my behavior, and if the result is not as it
should be, the blame is mine, not hers."

It
was difficult to assess the effect of this speech on Mrs. Axhammer, for the
veil blurred her features. Personally, I thought it rather a handsome effort.
Ramses advanced and held out his hand. "May I escort you, madam?" he
asked.

The
old lady brandished her parasol. "Get away, get away, you young rascal. I
know boys; trip you up, boys do, and put spiders on you."

Ramses
began, "Madam, rest assured I had no intention—"

"Now
how could you be any use to me?" the old lady demanded irascibly.
"Puny little critter like you. ... Here, ma'am, I'll take your arm. You're
short, but you look strong."

She
caught me by the shoulder. She was wearing dainty black lace mittens, but there
was nothing delicate about her hand, which was as heavy as a man's. I permitted
the liberty, however. Courtesy to the elderly is a trait I endeavor to instill
in my son—and the lady's grip was too strong to be easily dislodged.

As
we walked slowly toward the pyramid, Mrs. Axhammer subjected me to a searching
and impertinent interrogation. She asked how old I was, how long I had been
married, how many children I had, and how I liked my husband. I returned the
compliment as soon as I could get a word in, asking her how she liked Egypt.

After
a long diatribe about the heathen customs and unsanitary habits of the modern
Egyptian, she added in an equally vitriolic tone, "Not that civilized
folks act much better, ma'am. The scandals I heard in Cairo would make a lady
blush, I do assure you. Why, there was a young English lady murdered her
inamorato a few days ago; cut his throat ear to ear, they say, in her very
room."

"I
had heard of it," I said. "I cannot believe any young lady would do
such a thing."

A
gust of wind blew Mrs. Axhammer's veil askew, just as she bared a set of large
white teeth whose very perfection betrayed their falsity. "There's no
doubt in my mind," she snapped. "Women are dangerous, ma'am, much
more dangerous than the male. I see you've got one out here with you. Don't
approve of women taking work away from men. Ought to stay home and tend to the
house."

Realizing
I would get no more out of the malicious old creature except ignorant
maledictions about her own sex, I determined to finish my duties and get rid of
her. She paid no attention to my lecture, which, if I may say so, was of
admirable quality, and resisted my efforts to lead her away from the
excavations.

"There's
a white man down there with all them natives," she exclaimed indignantly.
"Is that your husband? Ain't he got no sense of dignity? Hi, there,
you—" And she made as if to jab Emerson, whose back was turned, with her
parasol.

Like
lightning I brought my own parasol into play, striking up the shaft of Mrs.
Axhammer's with a skill worthy of a master swordsman. The ring of steel on
steel made Emerson jump, but he did not turn round.

The
old lady burst out laughing and feinted playfully
at me with her
parasol. "Useful instruments, ain't they? Never travel without one. Hey,
there—"

She
spun round; and as her flailing draperies settled, I saw to my consternation
that they had concealed a small kneeling form.

"Ramses!"
I exclaimed. "What are you doing?"

"Looking
up my skirts," the old lady howled. "Let me at him, ma'am, let me at
the little rascal. You've been too soft on him, ma'am; he needs a good thrashing,
and Mrs. Axhammer of Des Moines, Iowa, is the one to give it to him."

While
I engaged the agitated old person in a spirited exchange of thrusts and
parries, Ramses skipped hastily away. "I was merely examining your feet,
madam," he said indignantly. "They are very large, you know."

This
remark may have been intended to soften Mrs. Axhammer's anger, but as might
have been predicted, it had precisely the opposite effect. She set off after
Ramses, and, seeing he was having no difficulty in keeping a safe distance from
her, I followed at a more leisurely pace. At least Ramses' dreadful lapse of
manners had succeeded in drawing Mrs. Axhammer away from Emerson, and I fondly
hoped that once away, she would not return.

Such
proved to be the case. Shaking with indignation, Mrs. Axhammer mounted her
donkey and the caravan trotted off.

When
we returned to the house that afternoon, Emerson expressed himself as satisfied
with the morning's work. "I think I have it clear in my mind now, Peabody.
There are traces of at least three occupation levels, the latest addition
having probably been made in Ptolemaic times. The plan is complex, however, and
I would appreciate
your assistance, if you are finished
messing about with your pyramid."

Overlooking
the derogatory tone, I assured him that I was at his disposal. "There is
nothing inside, Emerson. I doubt that it was ever used for a burial."

"That
is what I said, Mama," remarked Ramses.

After
luncheon, Enid retired to her room with her book of detective stories. She had
not spoken a word to Donald, and his gloomy look testified to his depressed
spirits. I was about to suggest we have a little talk when Emerson said,
"What would you think about a ride to Mazghunah this afternoon, Peabody?
The communion vessels ought to be returned to the church."

"An
excellent idea, Emerson," I replied, wondering what was behind this
suggestion.

"Shall
we take Ramses?"

"I
would rather not," I said truthfully.

"And
I," said Ramses, "would prefer to take a little mild exercise, in the
form of a stroll around the village and its environs."

"Mild
exercise indeed," I exclaimed. "You have had a great deal of exercise
already, being chased by infuriated old ladies. Stay here and work on your
grammar."

"Never
mind, Peabody," Emerson said with a smile. "We cannot keep an active
lad like Ramses shut up in the house all the time. There is no harm in his
taking a stroll so long as Mr. Fraser accompanies him."

Neither
Ramses nor Donald appeared to care for that idea. "Such an arrangement
would leave the young lady unprotected," Ramses protested. Donald nodded
vigorous agreement.

"She
has stout walls and strong men to protect her," Emerson replied. "It
is broad daylight, and we won't be long. Mazghunah is only ten kilometers from
here,
and our business will be easily concluded."

So
it was arranged. Taking two of the donkeys, Emerson and I rode southward. We
saw no one, for at that time of day tourists and natives alike retire into the
shade. I hardly need say that Emerson and I are never deterred from the path of
duty by climatic conditions, and I, for one, enjoyed the ride.

The
path, scarcely discernible to any but a trained eye, led across the rocky waste
of the plateau, past the tumbled remains of the three brick pyramids of Dahshoor.
They had been built a thousand years after their great stone neighbors, but the
shorter passage of time had not dealt kindly with them. Once faced with stone,
in imitation of the older and larger tombs, they had crumbled into shapeless
masses of brick as soon as the facing stones were removed.

Dominating
the other ruins was the great bulk of the Black Pyramid, the tomb of Amenemhat
of the Twelfth Dynasty. Because of its location on the highest part of the
plateau, it appears from some vantage points to be even taller than its stone
neighbors to the north, and its ominous reputation is justified by its
appearance. I knew the interior of that monstrous structure only too well, for
it was in its sunken and flooded burial chamber that Emerson and I had been
flung by the villain who assumed we would never emerge alive. Only the most
heroic exploits on both our parts (with a little assistance from Ramses) had
enabled us to escape from perils which would have destroyed lesser beings.

Although
I would have liked to explore the Black Pyramid again, and visit the ruined
monastery we had occupied the year before, we had no time for nostalgia that
day. We went directly to the village.

By
comparison to Mazghunah, Menyat Dahshoor is a veritable metropolis. The former
village is primarily
inhabited by Copts (Egyptian Christians),
but except for the characteristic indigo turbans, the inhabitants are
indistinguishable in appearance from other Egyptians, and the wretched little
houses are like those of any Moslem village. Ancient Coptic, the last remnant
of the tongue of the pharaohs, is no longer spoken except in a few remote
hamlets to the south, but it survives in the ritual of the Coptic Church.

The
village looked deserted. Even the dogs had sought shelter from the sun, and
nothing moved except a few chickens pecking at bugs. Strangers are such a
rarity in these primitive places, however, that our advent was soon
acknowledged, and people began trickling out of their houses. We drew up near
the well, which is the center of communal activity. Facing us was the church,
with the house of the priest next to it.

The
men gathered around Emerson, calling out greetings and inquiries. The women
approached me, many carrying sickly babies. I had expected this and had come
prepared; opening my medical kit, I began dispensing ipecacuanha and eyewash.

The
Sheikh El Beled (mayor of the village) had of course noted our arrival as soon
as the others, but dignity demanded that he delay awhile before presenting
himself. Eventually, he made his appearance; when Emerson informed him that the
lost communion vessels were about to be restored to him, tears filled the
little man's eyes, and he dropped to his knees, kissing Emerson's feet and
babbling thanks.

"Humph,"
said Emerson, not looking at me. Honesty demanded that we decline to take
credit for something we had not achieved; but on the other hand, there was no
need to explain a situation that was inexplicable even to us.

As
the news spread through the crowd, a scene of
utter pandemonium
broke out. People wept, shouted, sang, and embraced one another. They also
embraced Emerson, a favor he endured without enthusiasm.
"Ridiculous," he grunted at me over the head of a very fat lady,
whose veiled face was pressed against his chest. She was, I believe, raining
kisses on that region, while holding him in a grip he could not escape.

"You
see, Peabody," he went on, "the degrading effect of superstition.
These people are carrying on as if we had conferred health and immortality upon
them instead of fetching back a few tarnished pots. I will never
understand—er—awk—" He broke off, sputtering, as the lady raised herself
on tiptoe and planted a fervent kiss upon his chin.

Eventually
we quieted the crowd and, escorted by the mayor, proceeded to the church. On
the step, hands raised in thanksgiving, was the priest, and very odd it seemed
to behold his stout figure and genial face in the place of the great (in all
but the moral sense) Father Girgis. Everybody trooped into the church,
including the donkeys, and when the precious vessels had been restored to the
altar, such a shout broke out that the very rafters shook—which was not
surprising, since they were extremely old and brittle. Tears of joy streaming
down his face, the priest announced there would be a service of thanks the
following day. He then invited us and the mayor to join him in his house.

So
again we entered the edifice where once we had been welcomed by the Master
Criminal himself. So pervasive were the presence and the memory of that great
and evil man that I half-expected to see him in the shadows, stroking his
enormous black beard and smiling his enigmatic smile. It is a strange and
disquieting fact that evil can sometimes appear more impressive than virtue.
Certainly the Master Criminal had made a more imposing man of God than his
successor. Father Todorus was a foot shorter and several feet wider round the
middle; his beard was scanty, and streaked with gray.

He
was a pleasant host, however. We settled ourselves on the divan with its faded
chintz cushions, and the priest offered us refreshment, which of course we
accepted, for to refuse would have been rude in the extreme. I was expecting
the thick, sweet coffee which is the common drink; imagine my surprise when the
priest returned from an inner room with a tray on which rested a glass bottle
and several clay cups. After Emerson had taken a cautious sip of the liquid his
eyebrows soared.