The Buried Pyramid (32 page)

“She’ll be all right now,” Eddie reassured Stephen as he handed him up the reins. “Keep these in hand, but don’t tug. A camel’s nose is more sensitive than even a good horse’s mouth, and you could tear the flesh.”

Flat Foot gave Eddie no trouble. He accepted a second provision basket that young Castor brought out from the kitchen, thanked him, then called: “All right, Neville, get us on our way.”

Jenny’s first experience of a camel in motion was as remarkable as its rising. The animal swayed slightly, in a motion nothing like the walk, trot, or even the smooth canter of a horse. Once she had adjusted to the strange feel, she noted that unlike a horse, Tiny was moving the legs on either side of his body in unison. This pacing gait was surprisingly smooth, but her body, accustomed to other balance, fought it.

They were out of Cairo city limits before she adjusted enough to look around, and when she did she noticed that Stephen looked positively ill.

“I’m sure,” the young man said when queried, “I would do as well walking on my own two feet.”

Although other tourists were heading for the pyramids, none were close. Eddie therefore spoke freely.

“You might, for a short time, but you’d wear out fast, twist an ankle, or overheat. If you want to be part of Neville’s mad venture, then you’d better get accustomed to riding a camel.”

“What about a horse?” Stephen protested. “Everyone has heard about the magnificent Arab steeds: subsist on a handful of dates and a half-cup of water and all that.”

“Ah, but a camel doesn’t need even that half-cup of water,” Eddie said. “A properly trained camel—by which I mean one accustomed to desert work—can go without water for a couple of weeks. Some trainers swear that they do better if you don’t feed them either, but force them to live off their own resources. I wouldn’t go that far, but a camel would spit at that handful of dates. It would rather have thorn bush or sagebrush—both of which should be plentiful this time of year.”

Stephen looked unconvinced, but Jenny was impressed.

“Do they really eat thorns?” she asked.

“I’ve seen them eat thorns long enough to use for sewing needles or as tent pegs,” Eddie responded with perhaps slight exaggeration, “and like it.”

Neville, as easy in his saddle as if it hadn’t been years since he was last astride, looked back. “Since we don’t know where we’re going or how much water and forage will be there, we can’t risk horses, Stephen. We need beasts that will take punishment. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Stephen replied, rather like a schoolboy chastised by his master, and made no further complaint.

The journey from Cairo to the pyramids at Gizeh took about an hour and a half, and carried them mostly through farmland. The road was fairly busy in both directions, with early tourists heading out, and farmers and merchants heading into the city. It provided a good test for their camel riding, and if Eddie hadn’t been alert, more than once Jenny or Stephen might have failed to handle their mounts. Being thrown was only one among their concerns. More likely—and more embarrassing, especially to Jenny’s pride—the camel would simply refuse to move ahead, but would stop and browse on some interesting bit of foliage.

When Jenny felt confident enough with Tiny’s gait to look ahead toward their destination, she had to fight a feeling of disappointment. She had already glimpsed the pyramids several times—from the train and from various points around Cairo. They had seemed small, worn, and rather insignificant. However, she had reassured herself that this was only in contrast to the multi-faceted architecture of the modern city.

Now that they were away from that distraction, the pyramids looked, if anything, worse, mere broken heaps of sandy colored stone. They hardly seemed worth the effort to reach.

Still, the Sphinx will be there, and maybe a few answers,
she consoled herself.
And I am learning how to ride a camel. How I will ache tomorrow!

Her initial disappointment was completely forgotten as they mounted the last, long, sandy slope to the plateau on which the mortuary complex had been built. Suddenly, the pyramids were revealed in their great size, mountains built by human hands, the last surviving of the Seven Wonders of the ancient world, showing without a doubt that they not only deserved their title, but held it still, even in the face of trains, steam liners, and other technological marvels.

The golden brown of the stone mellowed to gold in the light of the sun. Rough surfaces were solid, rebuking efforts to undermine their power. The rest of the complex had fared rather less well than the pyramids. The three lesser pyramids did show ruin; one of them was more a giant cairn than a structure. The temples, minor tombs, and other outbuildings were tumbled down, only hinting at their former orderly magnificence.

But the three large pyramids were everything one could hope for, and Jenny forgot her sore and stiffening muscles, forgot Tiny’s irritability. When Eddie made Tiny kneel, she slipped down from the saddle, her head thrown back so she could stare to her heart’s content.

Even in her dreamlike enjoyment, Jenny was very glad for the tart lemonade contained in the bag on Eddie’s camel. Uncle Neville, however, waved away the lukewarm cup and crossed to one of the water-sellers and came back with his flask filled with water so cold that it seemed that it must have been iced. Jenny expressed her astonishment, and Uncle Neville smiled, well-pleased.

“They keep it in special pottery jugs which are slightly porous. The water dews on the outside, and the resultant evaporation cools the water within.”

“Marvelous!” Stephen said, and Jenny, despite mild concerns about where the water might have been drawn, had to agree. She supposed that similar things were done in the American southwest, but she’d never bothered to notice or inquire. That was just life. This was adventure.

Climbing to the top of the Great Pyramid was an adventure—especially since to do so in long skirts required that Jenny be helped by three strongly built Arabs, all of whom were completely respectful, but who she thought were having far too much fun alternately pulling and pushing her up the uneven and awkward “stairway” created by the sandstone blocks.

Once the view from the top had been fully enjoyed, she turned to Stephen. The linguist was breathing a bit hard, having insisted on making the climb unassisted. Jenny herself was rather glad for the jumble of blocks that were all that remained of the next tier of the pyramid. She seated herself in a shady patch, and Stephen eagerly followed suit.

“Tell me, Stephen, what is less respectable—a young woman in trousers that cover her limbs as effectively as any skirt, or the same young woman being manhandled by three strange men?”

Stephen wiped his streaming forehead with the back of his hand before remembering to fish his handkerchief from a trouser pocket.

“I refuse to enter into a debate on that matter. I will say that both would provide a certain degree of visual interest—indeed, in the case of the latter I should say ‘does.’ ”

Jenny leaned forward, folded her fan with great deliberation, and used it to hit him sharply across the arm. The Arabs, who waited for them a few paces away, howled with laughter. Stephen colored, and was about to say something when his gaze caught something of interest below.

“I say, Jenny, look down there, over by our camels.”

Jenny did so, shading her eyes with her hand, for as the sun had risen higher, the glare off the surrounding sand and rock made her wish for smoked glasses.

We must get some, if Eddie hasn’t already done so,
she thought idly. Then such idle musings were replaced by pure astonishment.

“That’s Lady Cheshire!” she exclaimed. “And Captain Brentworth and Mrs. Syms, I’m sure of it. Can it be a coincidence that they chose this day of all days to visit the pyramids? Were they newcomers to Cairo I might think it more likely, but these must be as familiar to them as the British Museum.”

“It might be coincidence,” Stephen said, but his tone did not express belief. “I did wonder that your uncle didn’t escort you to the top of the pyramid.”

“Are you saying that he might have been waiting for them?”

“I don’t think that is impossible.”

Jenny didn’t either. She began the descent so precipitately that her Arab escorts had to pinch out their half-smoked cigarettes to assist her.

At the bottom, Jenny left them to apply to Eddie Bryce for their tip, and crossed—Stephen only a few steps behind her—to the little group. She didn’t know what she was going to do or say, only that she didn’t wish to leave Uncle Neville alone with Lady Cheshire a moment longer.

Alone was probably a poor choice of terms, for in addition to Lady Cheshire’s constant escort, there were Arabs selling lemonade, cool water, and “genuine anteekahs” milling around the fringes. Still, Jenny couldn’t help but feel she was somehow right. Any man—at least any man as susceptible as Uncle Neville—who spent too much time beneath the gaze of those pale green eyes might as well be alone.

Lady Cheshire greeted them as casually as if they were on the front porch at Shepheard’s Hotel, offering no explanation for her presence. Nor, Jenny realized, could she demand one without seeming rather more aggressive than she wished. Instead, she accepted the glass of lemonade offered to her, made some enthusiastic comments about the view from the top of the pyramid, and waited to hear what would next be said.

“I suppose you plan to go inside the pyramid?” Lady Cheshire asked in notes of playful mockery.

Jenny nodded. “I would like to very much. However, I would rather walk around and see the rest of the complex while the day is relatively cool.”

Everyone assented to this suggestion, and they trooped off, Eddie acting as their guide. Jenny noted that he had adopted a slightly sing-song accent to his speech, and somewhat simplified his vocabulary. She doubted that the Cheshire party even realized he was English rather than Egyptian, a suspicion that was confirmed when Lady Cheshire asked him a question, addressing him as “Ibrahim.”

“A bit of a joke,” Uncle Neville said softly, almost in her ear. “When we saw them coming, Eddie bet me he could completely take them in. I think I’m going to lose.”

“Did you . . .”

Jenny resisted the sudden impulse to ask if Uncle Neville had had anything to do with the others’ arrival, changing her question in mid-phrase.

“Did you learn anything about that fortune teller?”

“We did indeed, scouted while you and Stephen were making the climb. She pitches her tent over by the Great Sphinx himself.”

“Isn’t the sphinx a her?” Jenny asked, recalling their earlier discussion.

“Some are,” Uncle Neville agreed, “but not this one. I believe it’s thought to be a portrait of one of the pyramid builders—Chephren, I think.”

The Great Sphinx was on a different, slightly lower section of the plateau than the pyramids, more detached and therefore even grander than usually depicted in drawings. Jenny liked the statue immensely, though she wished the nose hadn’t been broken. It made the stern nobility of the features slightly pathetic.

“Is it true that the damage was done by Napoleon’s soldiers?” she asked.

“I don’t think so,” Uncle Neville replied. “I heard that it was done much earlier, but for all he did for Egyptology, Napoleon was not loved—I don’t suppose conquerors ever are—and the story spread.”

True to form, Mrs. Syms was the first to call attention to the fortune teller. She came bustling over to where they were trying to make out some of the writing on the sphinx, full of excited importance.

“I went over to see what that was,” she said, indicating a pavilion pitched on the shady side of the towering monument, “and it’s just too thrilling. There is a fortune teller there, a woman. She calls herself the Sphinx and claims, so the boy told me, to directly channel the wisdom of the ancients through the statue itself.”

Jenny tried to deduce if there were anything suspicious in this presentation, but Mrs. Syms was very much in her element, thrilled by this evidence of occult science. Jenny glanced at Captain Brentworth and Eddie Bryce, but the one looked bored and the other impassive.

“Of course we must have our fortunes told,” Mrs. Syms went on. “Imagine what my friends in the Silver Twilight will say when I come home and tell them.”

“Imagine,” agreed Lady Cheshire, a trace dryly. “Well, if you insist, Sarah, I certainly do not mind. There is shade near the tent, and we can make a comfortable seat on the sand.”

Jenny dove in before the lady’s apparent indifference would make participation seem foolish.