Whispers in the Sand (16 page)

She slipped off the canvas folding stool upon which she had been sitting before her easel and sank cross-legged on the Persian rug, fluffing her skirts up round her. When she glanced up, he was offering her a plate, his deep brown eyes grave as they rested for a moment on her face. There wasn’t a trace of servitude in his manner as he smiled the slow, serious smile she was growing to like so much.

Taking the lump of bread he offered, she put it on her plate. “You spoil me, Hassan.”

“Of course.” Again the smile.

They ate in companionable silence for a while, listening to the cheerful twittering of the sparrows which lived in the walls high above them. Another party of visitors appeared in the distance and stood staring up at the huge pylon. The woman was wearing a pale green dress in the latest fashion, and Louisa reached for her sketchpad, captivated by the splash of lightness in the intensity of the courtyard. The figures disappeared slowly out of sight, and she let the pad fall. “We look like exotic butterflies one minute, and like trussed fowl the next,” she commented ruefully. “Out of place in this climate. So uncomfortable, and yet for a while, beautiful.”

“Very beautiful.” Hassan repeated the word quietly. Louisa looked up, startled, but he had already turned away, intent on the food. “Some of the ladies in Luxor wear Egyptian dress in the summer,” he said after a moment. “It is cool and allows them to be more comfortable.”

“I should like that so much,” Louisa said eagerly. Then her face fell. “But I can’t see Lady Forrester tolerating me as a guest on her boat if I did anything so outrageous. I have gowns of my own which would be more comfortable than this,” she gestured at her black skirt, “but sadly, they are bright colours, and the Forresters would not approve, and so I decided I could not wear them in their presence for risk of offending them.” Janey Morris’s gowns had, she noticed, been folded away by Jane Treece amongst her nightwear.

“Perhaps on our visits away from the boat we could arrange somewhere for you to change so that Lady Forrester need not be made unhappy.” This time there was a distinct twinkle in his eye. “I can arrange for clothes for you, Sitt Louisa, if you wish it. Think how much more comfortable it would be for you now.” Although he barely looked at her, she had the strangest feeling he could see through to every stitch she had on—the tight corset, the long drawers, the two petticoats, one of them stiffened, beneath the black skirt of her travelling dress, to say nothing of the lisle stockings, held up with garters, and the sturdy boots.

“I don’t think I can bear it a moment longer.” She shook her head. The tight wads of her hair, her hat, suddenly everything stifled her. “Can we buy some things for me to wear here in the village, on the way back to the boat?”

He shook his head. “We need to use discretion. I shall arrange it before we reach our next destination. Have no fear, you will be comfortable soon.”

Setting one of the boys to guard their belongings, they strolled a little later through the colonnaded court into the hypostyle hall and stood gazing around them at the massive pillars. “You feel the weight of the centuries on your head here, do you not?” His voice was almost a whisper.

“It is all so huge.” Louisa stared up, awed.

“To inspire both men and gods.” Hassan nodded, folding his arms. “And the gods are still here. Do you not feel them?” In the silence the distant cheeping and gossip of the sparrows echoed strangely. Louisa shook her head. It was the sound of English hedgerows and London streets where the birds hopped in the road to scavenge between the feet of dray horses. Out here, amidst so much grandeur, they were incongruous.

“Shall we go on?” Hassan was watching her face as the shadows fell across it. Ahead of them, the second hypostyle hall was darker still. He was walking slightly ahead of her, a tall, stately figure. On this occasion he was wearing a blue turban and a simple white
galabiyya
with embroidery at the neck and hem. The shadows closed over him as he moved out of sight. For a moment she stood still, expecting him to reappear, waiting for her to follow him. But he didn’t. The silence seemed to have intensified around her. Even the birds were suddenly quiet in the unremitting heat.

“Hassan?” She took a few steps forward. “Hassan? Wait for me!”

Her boots echoed on the paving slabs as she moved towards the entrance where she had seen him disappear. “Hassan?” She spoke only quietly. Somehow it seemed wrong to call out loud, like shouting inside a cathedral.

It was too quiet. She couldn’t hear him. “Hassan?” She reached the entrance and peered into the darkness, suddenly frightened. “Hassan, where are you?”

“Sitt Louisa? What is wrong?” His voice came from behind her. She spun round. He was standing some twenty feet away in a ray of light from an unseen doorway. “I am sorry. I thought you were still beside me.”

“But I was. I saw you go in there…” She spun round towards the dark entrance.

“No. I said we would go and look at the room of the Nile. It is the room from where the water was brought each day for the priests’ libations.” He came towards her, his face suddenly concerned.

“I saw you, Hassan. I saw you go in there.” She was pointing frantically.

“No, lady.” He stopped beside her. “I promise. I would not frighten you.” Just for a moment he put his hand on her arm. “Wait. Let me look. Perhaps there is someone else here.” He strode towards the darkened entrance to the hall of offerings and stood peering in. “
Meen
! Who is there?” he called out sharply. He took a step further in. “There is no one.” He was shading his eyes to see better. “But there are many chambers further in. Perhaps there are other visitors here.”

“But I saw you.
You
.” Louisa moved forward until she was standing beside him. “If it wasn’t you, it was someone as tall, as dark, dressed the same…”

She leant forward on the threshold of a small inner chamber within the thickness of the wall, and her arm brushed his. She felt the warmth of his skin, smelt the cinnamon scent of him.

“See, it is empty.” His voice was close in her ear. Usually when she came close to him he moved deferentially away. In the narrow doorway he remained where he was. “Without a candle there is nothing to see. I shall fetch one from the hamper—”

“No.” She put her hand on his arm. “No, Hassan. I can see it’s empty.” For a moment they stayed where they were. He had turned from looking into the darkness and was gazing down at her with a look of such love and anguish that for a moment she found herself completely breathless. Then the moment had gone. “Hassan—”

“I am sorry.” He backed away from the door and bowed. “I am sorry, Sitt Louisa. Forgive me. There is much to see yet, and we have need of light for the inner sanctuary.
Istanna
shwaiyeh
. Please, wait a little. And I will fetch it.” He strode away from her, his face impassive once more, leaving her standing where she was in the doorway.

She glanced back into the darkness. Her heart was hammering under her ribs, and she felt hot and strangely breathless. Turning slowly to follow him, she found her fists clutched in the folds of her skirts. Firmly she unclenched them. She took a deep breath. This was nonsense. First she was having visions, imagining she saw him when he wasn’t there, then she was reacting to him as though…But her thoughts shied away even from the idea that she was attracted to him. This could not be.

He had not waited for her. She saw him stride once more into the shadows and then out into the sunlight of the great courtyard in the distance. This time he stayed clearly in sight, and now she could see, too, the other group of visitors. She could see the woman in the green dress, gazing up at something their guide was pointing out to them in a frieze far above their heads. She was bored, even from so far away Louisa could see it. And she was hot and uncomfortable in her chic flounced gown with its fashionable slight train dragging in the dust behind her. She could see the dark patches of perspiration showing beneath the woman’s arms, the broad tell-tale stripe of dampness between her shoulder blades, and suddenly she longed again for the loose clothing Hassan had promised or the soft cool fabric of the dresses folded beneath her nightgowns in the drawer on the boat. Wasn’t that what she had come to Egypt for? To be free. To be in charge of her own destiny. To be answerable to no one now except herself. Not to her husband’s family in London. Not to the Forresters. Not to their maid. With a sudden leap of excitement she picked up her skirts and ran after Hassan. “Wait for me!” She smiled at the other woman pityingly as she whirled past and wondered with a gurgle of amusement what she thought of this vulgar, hurrying baggage who had emerged from the holy of holies in pursuit of a tall, handsome Egyptian.

4

Thy servant hath offered up for thee a sacrifice and

the divine mighty ones tremble when they look upon the slaughtering knife…

I see and I have sight; I have my existence;

I have done what hath been decreed; I hate slumber…

and the god Set hath raised me up!

In the silence comes the sound of scraping, faint and far away. It is an intrusion, a sacrilege in the thick heat of the dark, where no whisper of movement, no breath, no pulse sounds inside or outside the linen that wraps the bodies.

On the walls, the sacred texts spin their legends into the firmament. For those two men the prayers were hasty, they were quickly copied. The net of prayers to speed them on their way, to protect their souls, to direct their spirit is written in pigment, not carved upon the rock. In the corner, hidden, powerful, commanding, written by an acolyte, one single prayer begs for their spirits, if they lie ill at ease, to reappear in the world they left so suddenly, “l hate slumber…”

Anna was awoken by a knocking on her cabin door. She stared up at the ceiling blankly for a moment, then squinted at her watch. It was eight-thirty.

“Who is it? Wait a minute!” Leaping out of bed, she shook her hair out of her eyes, trying to defog her brain. “Serena? I’m so sorry. I should have set my alarm.”

Turning the key, she pulled open the door. Andy stood there, wearing an open-necked shirt and chinos. He grinned at her. “I’m sorry. I thought I’d missed you at breakfast because you were an early riser.” His gaze took in her wild, unbrushed hair, her short nightshirt, and the long, bare legs, and his grin widened. “You were planning to come to Kom Ombo?”

“Yes!” Anna ran her fingers through her hair. “Oh God, yes! I’ve overslept! What time are they leaving?”

“Ten minutes.” He stepped away from the door. “I tell you what. Would you like me to fetch you some coffee from the dining room while you get dressed?”

“Would you?” She shrugged—impossible to stand on one’s dignity dressed in crumpled pink cotton and nothing else.

She whirled into the shower, grabbed a dress and a cheesecloth shirt to use as a jacket, shoved her feet into sandals, and was just placing films and camera into her bag when he reappeared in her doorway with coffee and a croissant wrapped in a napkin. “Ali even spread it with strawberry jam for you.” He handed them to her. “He seems to be quite a fan of yours. And there’s no need to choke yourself. Omar said we could just follow them on down the track towards the temple. It’s half an hour’s walk, I gather, but we can’t miss it. You can see the ruins from here.” He gestured at the window.