The Hippopotamus Pool (29 page)

He understood that, but he continued to look puzzled. Finally he said, "I do not know. It was ..." He waved one thin, expressive hand. "It was the right way."

An artist with a better command of English and a better opinion of himself would have put it more elegantly. I knew what he meant, however.

"I do not waste the time." From another basket he removed a notebook and pencil. "I learn. Do you want I read to you?"

He proceeded to do so, opening the notebook to a page on which I recognized Nefret's neat printing. There were only a few sentences, employing the simplest words, but she had woven them into a little story about a boy who lived in Egypt where the sun was bright and the river was wide.

"Very good," I said. I was beginning to sympathize with the poor mother hen whose one ungainly offspring showed signs of turning into something she had not expected and did not know how to deal with. What would the boy do next—logarithms?

I got to my feet. "I must go back to work, David. I am pleased with you. But don't neglect—do you know that word?—the portrait of Nefret for your studies. It is quite ... remarkable."

"I will make it well, Sitt Hakim. It is for you."

As I walked away I heard him repeating "re-mark-able," over and over, trying to imitate my inflection.

I decided to wait until the portrait head was finished before I showed it to Emerson. Surely he would be as touched as I had been, and as impressed by the lad's talent. However, Emerson's prejudices were deep-seated. It would require a great deal to convince him David was loyal.

How great we were soon to find out.

It was almost noon before the steps were finally in place. Men always make an unnecessary fuss about carpentry and other simple jobs—in the hope, I suppose, of making women believe those "masculine" chores are more difficult than they really are—but this particular job did present some problems. Affixing the structure firmly to the rock face required heavy steel bolts and a series of supports, and Mohammed had to make a number of final adjustments. After Emerson had stamped up and down the stairs several times to make certain of their solidity, I was given the honor of being the first to make the ascent.

The entrance passageway having been cleared down to floor level, we set to work on the antechamber. The photography took quite a long time, since Emerson wanted views from every conceivable angle and various distances. For light he had been using reflectors—large sheets of tin, angled to catch the rays of the sun and direct them onto the area to be photographed.

They had proved to be remarkably effective. Sir Edward had developed his plates each evening, and the results were even better than we had hoped.

As the afternoon wore on, my impatience with these necessary but tedious tasks increased. I itched to begin the actual excavation—to expose fully the fascinating depictions of Tetisheri paying homage to the gods of the Underworld, partaking of offerings, seated in royal state with her deceased husband and dutiful grandson—to learn whether the animal under her chair, partially concealed by the rubble, was a cat or a dog or some other pet— to sift through the interesting debris, which contained broken pieces of coffins and bits of their former occupants. Ramses was equally affected; finally, unable to resist, he reached for a brown brittle object protruding from the mass. A peremptory comment from his watchful father made him jump and pull his hand back.

More and more frequently my eyes were drawn to the rectangular opening in the far wall. Interesting as the clutter in the anteroom appeared to be, it paled before the prospect of what might lie beyond that black hole. When Emerson called a halt to our labors, announcing that we would lay out a grid and begin clearing the room the following day, I could bear it no longer. He was, as always, the last to leave. I lingered.

"Emerson," I whispered. "Do you think—tonight?"

He understood. I had known he would. That ardent spirit was as open as mine to the lure of adventure and discovery. He too had shot increasingly frequent glances toward that mysterious opening.

Yet he hesitated, and when he spoke his voice held a note of unusual indecision. "I don't know, Peabody."

"Are you suffering from premonitions, my dear?"

"I never suffer from premonitions!" One of the bats, hanging from the ceiling like a living frieze, stirred, and Emerson continued in a more moderate tone but with equal heat. "Forebodings, premonitions, idle fancies! Keep your premonitions to yourself, Peabody, curse it!"

"I have none at the moment, Emerson. Only ungovernable curiosity."

"I am relieved to hear it." Still he hesitated to commit himself. I prepared to deliver the conclusive argument—or rather to voice it aloud, for Emerson was as familiar as I with his son's annoying habit of trying to steal a march on his parents.

"If we don't explore the tunnel, Ramses will—alone and without the proper safety precautions. I am only surprised he hasn't tried it already."

"Curse it," said Emerson.

Evelyn was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, with a cup of water and a wet cloth. "You look exhausted, Amelia," she said anxiously. "Quench your thirst and wipe your face."

I thanked her and availed myself of the water, which was certainlywelcome. "You must be tired of sitting alone down here," I said. "It won't be long, Evelyn, before your talents are required."

"Oh, I don't mind. I enjoy talking with David. He was a little shy at first, but he seems easier with me now. And," she added with a smile, "the cats have been excellent company. I thought they would be unable to resist the lure of a tomb filled with bats, but they have stayed with me."

"It must be your irresistible charm," I said. "Bastet is fond of tombs and she is seldom far distant from Ramses; but she has not come closer than the mouth of the entrance passage."

We did not inform the others of our scheme until after Gertrude and Sir Edward—and Kevin, whose hints that he might be induced to stay for tea I had ignored—were on their way to Luxor. It was Emerson who made the announcement, adding, with a stern look at me, "We will not attempt it until I have examined the place thoroughly and made certain there is no danger of further collapse. This will be a preliminary reconnaissance, and unless I am completely satisfied, we will not proceed. Is that understood?"

All insisted on accompanying us. I did not attempt, as I once would have done, to dissuade Evelyn. Those Turkish trousers, to which neither of us had referred directly, affected me to the point of tears (or would have done had I been given to tears). She must have had that ensemble made in secret, tried it on during the rare moments of privacy afforded a wife and mother, and hidden it away again. It was a poignant fantasy, a substitute for the active life she had been denied. Well, she had it now, and who was I to prevent her from taking the risks that gave such a life its piquant pleasure?

Ramses's reaction was the most interesting. He did not say anything at all. That was suspicious in itself. I said, "Well, Ramses?"

Ramses returned my steady stare for several seconds, and then admitted defeat. "It is safe enough, Mother, for a person of small girth. The debris slopes down and thins out as one proceeds."

"How far did you go?" I inquired, with the control I had gained from years of painful experience.

"Only a few yards. Father came back up the stairs and I—"

"Curse it!" Emerson exclaimed.

After some discussion it was agreed that Ramses would be the one to enter the tunnel. Nefret's objections were the most vehement. "I am no fatter than Ramses! Just because I am a girl—"

"Now you know I allow no such discriminatory practices, Nefret," I interrupted. "Ramses has had more experience than you."

"Er, hmmm, yes," Emerson agreed. In his case, Nefret's accusation had been only too accurate, though he would never admit it. "Ramses is skilled at squirming through narrow spaces. Are you sure you are fit, my boy?"

"Yes, Father, quite fit."

"He is not!" Nefret never argued with Emerson's decisions. She had other, more effective methods of persuading him to change his mind. I could judge the degree of her indignation on this occasion by her abandonment of those methods in favor of direct confrontation. "He will have to crawl on his stomach, and a sharp edge of stone may tear the wound open again and I—"

"That will do," Emerson said.

Nefret knew that tone, though Emerson had never used it to her. Her lips trembled and her eyes filled with tears. It was an extremely affecting expression. I wondered if she had practiced in front of the mirror.

Emerson looked so guilty one would have thought he had slapped her, but he stuck to his guns. "Your concern for your brother does you credit, Nefret, but it is unnecessary."

Her concern (if that was what had prompted her objections) might have been unnecessary, but I thought I had better make certain. After dinner, before changing into my work clothes, I went to Ramses's room.

The wound had healed nicely. However, I took the precaution of adding several additional layers of bandages and strapping them firmly in place.

We made no attempt to steal away unseen; our destination would soon be known to the men on guard. It was only our purpose we hoped to conceal, for the present at least. Our men were still gathered round the campfire when we arrived. Emerson's stentorian shout brought them to their feet, and Abdullah hastened to meet us.

"Is it you, Father of Curses?"

"If you thought it was someone else, why the devil didn't you challenge them?" Emerson demanded.

"Be reasonable, Emerson," I said, as Abdullah shuffled his feet and looked away. "They have just finished their first meal of the day and had their first drink of water since sunrise. We should have told you we were coming, Abdullah."

"Confounded religion," Emerson grumbled.

Candles in our hands, we mounted the steps. It must have been a pretty sight from below—the line of flickering flames rising slowly into the darkness. At the last moment Emerson relented and allowed Abdullah to come with us.

He had done it, I think, as a tacit apology for his rude remarks about religion, but the dear old fellow proved useful. Abdullah's strength and keenness of eye had diminished over the years, but he was the most skilled reis in Egypt. Together he and Emerson quickly constructed from the boards they had carried with them a ramp over the heaped-up debris to the opening. After Abdullah had had a look inside, he and Emerson engaged in a mutteredcolloquy, and then Emerson turned to Ramses. "He feels it is safe. Go ahead."

Ramses scampered up the ramp and inserted his head and shoulders into the opening.

"Curse it, Ramses," said his affectionate father, "don't you know better than to plunge headfirst into a dark hole? Light your candle and for God's sake try not to set yourself or any flammable objects you may encounter ablaze."

"I am chagrined to have neglected the candle, sir. Excitement overcame my customary caution."

"Ha," I said. "Proceed slowly, Ramses, and keep talking."

"I beg your pardon, Mother. Did I hear you correctly?"

It was certainly not an order I had ever expected to give, but I was in no mood for a display of Ramses's peculiar variety of humor. "You heard me, young man. You have not been farther than six or eight feet into that hole. Describe exactly what you are seeing and how you are feeling as you go on."

Candle in his outstretched hand, Ramses had already eased most of his body into the tunnel. His "Yes, Mother" echoed weirdly.

"Hold on a minute," Emerson ordered. The visible part of Ramses, his lower limbs from the knees down, obediently stopped moving. Emerson looped a rope around the boy's left ankle and drew it tight. There was no comment from Ramses. "Go ahead," Emerson said. "And keep talking, or at least making noises. If your voice stops for more than thirty seconds, I will pull you out of there."

We gathered together round the foot of the little ramp and the light of the candles showed faces as grave and anxious as mine must have been. Walter put a comforting arm around Evelyn, whose wide eyes were fixed on the opening into which Ramses's feet had now vanished.

Emerson's last gesture had brought home to those who had not already known it how perilous was the undertaking. The crudely dug tunnel might collapse. The air in the depths—their extent as yet unknown—might be poisonous. The list of possible dangers was too long to be comfortable, and the rope round Ramses's ankle could be his only hope if he encountered one of them.

It must have been difficult even for Ramses to continue speaking in that confined space and with dust choking him, but he complied. As he went farther in, it became more and more difficult to understand his words. "Opens out" was one phrase, and "mummy cloth" and, loud and clear, the word "femur."

"We might have expected he would notice bones," I said softly to Evelyn, in an attempt to lighten her obvious anxiety.

"I don't care what he says so long as he keeps talking," Evelyn whispered. "How far has he gone, Radcliffe?"

Emerson had been paying out the rope. "Less than three meters. It is slow going with—"