Whispers in the Sand (29 page)

It was several minutes before Roger Carstairs appeared in the entranceway under the great outer pylon. He leant on his walking cane and surveyed the colonnades with enormous care, then slowly he moved forward.

It seemed to Louisa that he was making directly towards them. She caught her breath and felt the gentle pressure of Hassan’s hand on her arm. He smiled down at her and beckoned. Silently they slipped back into the shadows and made their way towards the inner entrance beneath the second great gateway.

Behind them Carstairs stopped in the middle of the courtyard and stared round. Louisa felt his eyes pass over them, then come back. She was sure he had seen them, but after a moment he moved on, heading as they were for the inner pylon.

A group of visitors moved into the bright sunlight for a moment and stood staring up at the huge relief of Neos Dionysos placing his sacrifices before Horus and Hathor. From behind her pillar, Louisa saw Carstairs hesitate, scrutinising the women with care. After a few moments he moved on again, clearly satisfied his quarry was not amongst them. Feeling the touch of Hassan’s hand, she turned away to follow him into the darker shade close to the wall and tiptoed with him towards the entrance.

She wasn’t sure how they did it. It was as though he had thrown a cloak of invisibility over them both and now, somehow, they were inside, under cover of the other party, without Carstairs seeing them. They left the others immediately and flitted across this smaller open court between the vast columns with their brightly painted capitals and on towards the hypostyle hall.

“Where is he now?” Louisa breathed as they waited. “Can you see him near the entrance?”

Hassan shrugged. “We must wait to see what he does next. We do not want to be trapped by going further into the temple. Although it is darker, there are fewer ways out, should he come after us.”

They waited, peering round the pillar, Louisa acutely aware that Hassan’s arm was touching hers, that his fingers brushed her fingers. She did not move away. Her heart was hammering in her chest, half from fear, half, she had to admit, from excitement.

She felt him move slightly, heard a pebble grate beneath his sandal on the paving slab as he peered out into the court. Carstairs had appeared beneath the archway and was once more standing staring round him. She held her breath; the fear was there again. She felt he could see them, or somehow sense them near him. His expression reminded her of a dog, every sense honed, poised, ready to attack its prey.

As if afraid he could feel her gaze upon him, she closed her eyes. Slowly she moved her head back and turned towards the doorway to the inner vestibule at the far end of the court. Beyond it lay the sanctuary.

When she opened her eyes, she saw a figure was standing there watching her. He was tall, dressed in white, his dark aquiline face a shadowy blur. As she watched, he began to move towards her, drifting over the rough paving slabs. His arms were crossed over his chest, but as he moved closer he unfolded them and reached out towards her.

She didn’t realise she had screamed out loud until Hassan pulled her against him, his hand across her mouth. “
Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar!
” He had seen it as well. “God is great; God is most great; God protect us.” He guided her steadily backwards towards the wall. “
Yalla!
Go away!
Imshi! Allahu Akbar!
God save us from both the evil spirit and from the English effendi!”

She had closed her eyes again, trembling violently, aware of the steady beating of his heart beneath her ear and the strength of his arm around her. The box in her pocket dragged against her hip as she walked. It seemed to her that it was growing hotter and heavier with every step. Her eyes flew open as, with an exclamation of horror, she broke away from him and fumbled in the soft, gauzy cotton of the gown. She wasn’t sure what she intended to do. Take it out. Throw it away. Hurl it towards the sanctuary perhaps. The tall figure was still there when she turned. It seemed to have come no closer, but it was, if anything, more solid. She could see the details of the face now, the gold embroidery on his gown with the girdle at his waist and what looked like the tail of a leopard hanging to the ground.

“Dear God, save us!” Her own whisper was barely audible as she shrank back into the shadows.

“In the name of the gods which you serve and of Isis your queen, begone!”

The voice immediately beside them made Louisa gasp. She cowered back into Hassan’s arms.

Carstairs was only a few feet from them now. His eyes were fixed on the apparition, his hand outstretched palm foremost.

For a moment no one moved. Louisa had closed her eyes again. When at last she looked up, the tall figure had vanished. In its place Carstairs was standing right in front of them, his face contorted with anger.

“So. You see the danger now of playing with matters you do not understand!” he said. “I assume that as its keeper has shown himself here, you have the ampulla with you? It would be sensible to let me have it, I think.” He held out his hand.

Neither Louisa nor Hassan moved. Carstairs’s face darkened. “Let go of your mistress, you dog!”

Hassan moved back without a word. His expression grew hard. Louisa’s fright turned suddenly to blind fury. She pushed the box back into her pocket as she moved forward. “How dare you speak to Hassan like that! How dare you! He was protecting me. He takes the greatest care of me!”

She was aware of faces watching from the shadows. The party of Europeans glanced at them as they made their way towards the next vestibule and hurried forward. From the colonnade a group of Nubian faces, blacker than the shadows, watched with rounded eyes, then melted away out of sight.

“Then he has done his duty.” Carstairs’s voice was even. He took a deep breath, visibly calming himself. “The bottle please, Mrs. Shelley. For your own safety.”

“I am perfectly safe with Hassan, thank you, Lord Carstairs.” Her eyes met his and held them. “And the ampulla, as you call it, need not concern you. Nor need any superstitions and visions you may have thought you saw. Whatever it was did not harm us.” She hoped he could not see how her hands were shaking as she hid them in the folds of her skirt. “I came here on a whim to paint the temple. I did not feel I needed your permission, nor would I have dreamt of soliciting your company. I saw when we visited the obelisk how boring for you and the Fieldings was my desire to linger over the visit in order to draw and paint the views. I do better on my own!”

“How grateful for my intervention!” he sneered. “Do you realise, Mrs. Shelley, what would have happened had I not been here? Do you realise what would have happened had the priest Hatsek appeared?”

There was a moment’s silence. Louisa stared at him defiantly. “The priest Hatsek?”

A tight smile illuminated his face for a moment, then disappeared. “The second djinn. The hieroglyphs are drawn on your piece of paper, Mrs. Shelley. Clearly you do not recognise them.”

“No, Lord Carstairs, I did not recognise them. I read neither Arabic nor hieroglyphics, as you are well aware,” she said coldly. “Nor do I believe in curses and evil genies!”

“Then you should. Their names are written clearly on the paper you showed me. Anhotep, high priest and servant of Isis, and Hatsek, servant of Isis, priest of Sekhmet, the lion-headed goddess. The lion-headed goddess is the goddess of war, Mrs. Shelley. Wherever she went, there was terror and death. The wind from the desert is the hot breath of her rage. Do you not feel it, even now? And were you not so afraid of the figure you saw just now that you threw yourself into the arms of your Egyptian servant?”

She hesitated, and she saw the triumphant gleam in his eye. “Please, Mrs. Shelley, don’t lie to yourself, even if you insist on lying to me. Had I not arrived at that moment, you and your servant would be dead!”

Louisa stared at him. Behind her, Hassan folded his arms into the sleeves of his white
galabiyya
. His meek silence was belied by the disdain in his eyes. Nevertheless, at Carstairs’s words Louisa heard him mutter again under his breath the prayer for the protection of Allah.

“The ampulla, Mrs. Shelley. Surely now you will allow me to take it.”

“Why should it be safer with you than with me, Lord Carstairs?” Part of her wanted to give it to him. Indeed, she wanted to throw it at him and scream at him to take it, keep it, throw it in the Nile if he wanted to. Another part of her felt a healthy flash of rebellion. Somewhere in the back of her head, she could hear her beloved George’s voice: ‘Don’t let him bully you, Lou. Don’t let him take it from you. How do you know he didn’t conjure that fiend up just to intimidate you? What does he want it for, Lou?’”

She felt herself smile at the thought of her husband and the oh so sensible advice he would have given her, and she saw the surprise on Carstairs’s face. He had expected her to cower in fear.

“I appreciate your help, but whatever it was we all imagined we had seen, it has gone now. So, I shall return to my sightseeing and to my painting, Lord Carstairs, and allow you to continue your own visit uninterrupted.” She turned and, beckoning to Hassan, began to walk swiftly away.

“You have made him very angry, Sitt Louisa.” Hassan’s low voice at her elbow slowed her steps. “He is not a good man. He will make a bad enemy.”

She pursed her lips. “I make a bad enemy, too, Hassan. I have been as decorous and polite as I know how, but I will not have him browbeat me into submission. Nor will I have him insult you.”

Hassan grinned. “I am not insulted, Sitt Louisa. The English milord does not upset me, and he should not be permitted to upset you, but—” he paused thoughtfully. “He has powers, this man. Powers to dismiss the djinn. But not in the name of Allah nor of your Christian God, and it does not feel right. I think he has studied the evil arts.”

Louisa stared at him, shocked. “But he is an English gentleman!”

Hassan shrugged. “I am not a learned man, Sitt Louisa, but in my heart I feel things, and in this I know I am not wrong.”

She bit her lip, scanning his face for a moment.

“He wants the bottle, Sitt Louisa, because the power of the djinn is harnessed to it.”

She shook her head. “They are not djinn, Hassan. If he is right, they are priests of the ancient religion of your country; priests who, he suspects, are learned in magic, too.” She paused. “Do you think he was right? Do you think this Hatsek, if that is his name, would have killed us?”

They walked out of the shadow of the colonnade once more and into the sunlight and felt the heat like a hammer blow on their heads.

“I do not know. I did not feel the fear of death. Terror. Yes, I felt that. But it was of the unknown.”

If either had looked back to see whether or not Carstairs was following them, they would have seen that for several seconds he stood watching them, then he turned sharply on his heel and headed towards the inner vestibule and beyond it into the darkness of the sanctuary itself.

When they reached their belongings once more, Hassan gave the boy his longed for, hard-earnt coin, spread out the rug, and began to lay out Louisa’s painting things for her once more. “When he walks past, as he surely will, you must be painting very hard,” he commanded. He pulled out the little folding stool for her and set up her easel and sunshade. “Do not look at him. Concentrate on the picture you will be making.”

Louisa smiled. “Do you think that will be enough? He will walk away quietly?”

“I think he will, if you surround yourself with silence.”

She smiled. “That sounds very wise.” She glanced at him, but he was busy once more opening her paintbox.

She set up her sketchbook on the easel and stared regretfully at the half-finished sketch of the Kiosk of Trajan. She would have to continue painting the capitals with their bright green and blue decoration instead. There was no time to move and seat herself elsewhere. He might be coming at any time. She permitted herself a quick glance over her shoulder. There was no movement behind them in the great pillared hall. The only sound was the desultory cheeping of sparrows as the heat reflected off the courtyard and baked the island into a torpor.

Leaning forward, she reached for her water pot, and Hassan, ever watchful, unstoppered the container and poured some in for her. Rinsing her brush, she selected an azure pigment in her box and began to transfer it to the china palette, bringing in more water and dabbing in touches of yellow until she had enough of the green she desired to begin her wash.

Hassan squatted down in the shade of the pillar she was drawing, seemingly lost in thought, and as her eyes passed over him, she found herself reliving the moment she had thrown herself into his arms. He had been strong, reassuring. He had smelt of a pleasing mix of sweet tobacco and spices and clean, freshly laundered cotton which had been dried by the washerwomen in the baking sun.

Her tongue protruding slightly from between her teeth, she rinsed the brush again. She had sketched a man, she realised, beside one of the ornate columns in her sketch. Not Hassan. This was a tall, solemn man with a dark, handsome face who stared, arms folded, out across the Nile towards the distant mountains to the west.

She became conscious suddenly of footsteps behind them on the rough paving slabs of the courtyard, and she froze, her eyes fixed on the paper. She listened as they moved closer, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. They stopped, then the sound moved sharply away as though the owner had suddenly noticed them and been deflected.

Stealing another look, she saw a tall, fair-haired man in a brown, light tweed suit and a pith helmet, carrying a bag on his shoulder. The footsteps she had heard had come from his studded walking boots. Where he had come from she wasn’t sure, but as he strode away, he didn’t look back.

“Do not be fooled, Sitt Louisa,” Hassan said quietly. “Lord Carstairs is still here.”

“We could go. We could go back to the boat.”

“You would let him chase you away?” Hassan raised an eyebrow. “But you will have to face him again. He is a friend of Sir John’s. Better here. Better now.”