Tomb of the Golden Bird (16 page)

working under such conditions," David said, with a friendly smile at Suzanne. "But there are few artists with your talent," Suzanne replied, lowering her eyes and blushing prettily. "Never could I claim to equal it, Mr. Todros. I would be humbly grateful for any advice." "Tomorrow morning," said Emerson. "Six A.M." When Emerson speaks, the gods obey, much less mere mortals. We were all up before dawn and ready to go at the hour Emerson had decreed. We were able to get out of the house without Sennia; wearied by her first excursion into society, followed by a long chat with Gargery, who wanted to hear all about it, she slept late. Fatima had declared her intention of beginning preparations for her holiday baking, so I hoped that would keep the children and Sennia occupied until we returned. I had plans for the day. The only one missing from Cyrus's crew was Suzanne. "I told her she could meet her granddad's train," Cyrus explained. "He arrives today?" I asked in surprise. "I wonder why she didn't mention before last night that he was coming." "Didn't want to make us feel obliged to entertain him, I suppose," Cyrus said. "Who gives a curse?" Emerson demanded. "We are wasting time. David, I want to show you the areas we have investigated. Perhaps you will spot something I missed." He strode off, with the others following like ducklings after their mother. I waited until the luncheon baskets had been opened before announcing my plans. I could tell they came as no surprise to Emerson. His protests were somewhat half-hearted. "You needn't come," I said, selecting a cucumber sandwich. "But David hasn't even seen the famous tomb. By tomorrow the word of its being reopened will have spread and everyone in Luxor will be there." "May I go, sir?" Jumana asked. "Sure," said Cyrus. "I'd kind of like to have a look myself." "Oh, go on, the lot of you," Emerson shouted. "You're no use anyhow. Selim and I can manage quite well without you." Selim, who had hoped to join us, looked crestfallen. I gave him a wink and a pat on the shoulder. Ordinarily the tourists left the Valley around midday, returning to their hotels across the river or to the Cook's rest house near Deir el Bahri. I delayed until later in the afternoon in the hope of avoiding the crowds. We made quite a large party in ourselves, for in the end everyone, with the exception of Emerson, had declared their intention of accompanying me, and he had grumpily given Selim permission. He rode with us as far as the end of the path from the West Valley and galloped away with his nose in the air. I suspected he would not go far. Lounging near the entrance was Kevin O'Connell. "I expected you before this, ma'am," he said, removing his pith helmet. "Go away, Kevin," I said automatically. "Why?" He fell in step with me, nodding pleasantly at David, on my other side. "You are persona non grata in any case. Be nice, Mrs. E., and I will return the favor. Carter has most of the entrance cleared." "Where is Miss Minton?" "Hovering over the tomb," said Kevin, scowling. "She has tried twice to approach Carter, but she had no more success than I did. I must say, his manners leave a great deal to be desired." Some persons find the Valley of the Kings stark and forbidding, its monochromatic buff cliffs unrelieved by greenery or rippling water. Yet it has a beauty of its own. Shaped by wind and weather, the walls of the narrow wadis have assumed fantastic shapes and the shadows exhibit subtle changes in color, from soft lavender to gray-blue, as the direction of the sun's rays changes. In my opinion it was not as impressive as it had been before Howard Carter and his successors tidied the place, smoothing the paths, bringing electric lights into the most popular tombs and erecting walls round their entrances. It had to be done, not only to make access easier for the tourists who provided income to the local people, but to prevent rainwater from rushing down the cliffs intothe tombs. Rainstorms in Luxor are infrequent, but formidable; I had beheld several myself, and knew how damaging they could be. And yet, and yet. . . the sheer romance of clambering over fallen rubble, of creeping down the narrow bat-filled passages with only a flickering candle to light the way, of being among the first to behold a burial chamber littered with the broken remnants of the treasures its occupant had taken to the tomb—and the remnants of the occupant himself—a snapped-off arm, its fingers extended like claws, a face whose withered lids were half open, showing slits of white, seeming to blink in the wavering flame . . . How fortunate I had been to experience such delights! My deep sigh made David look curiously at me. "All right, are you, Aunt Amelia?" "I was remembering the old days. Did you know," I said dreamily, "that sometimes onions were inserted under the eyelids of the mummy to give a lifelike appearance?" David's sympathetic imagination understood the seeming irrelevance. He laughed a little, and slipped my arm through his. "That must have been a wonderful sight." The stairwell leading to the tomb entrance lay in a pit approximately twenty feet below ground level. More tidying, I thought sadly, observing the cleared space before the stairwell, the rough shed that had been constructed, the electric cable snaking its way across the ground. Several tents had been erected, presumably for the use of the guards; I doubted very much that Lord Carnarvon or Howard would settle for such rude accommodations. Just above and behind the pit lay the rectangular opening to the tomb of Ramses VI. A low retaining wall of unmortared stone surrounded the declivity. David and I joined the rest of our party near the entrance to the tomb. Howard's activities had not gone unobserved, and a few of the more dedicated sightseers lingered, leaning over the wall. They might be said to brighten the drab hues of the Valley, though not in an appropriate manner; some of the ladies wore frocks of saffron and nile green and the gentlemen, gaudily striped flannels. Many held cameras. Mingling with them and squatting on the paths that led like a spiderweb over thehills of debris on either side were representatives of the local villagers wearing turbans and galabeeyahs. Margaret Minton, close to the wall, raised her arm and waved. I did not wave back. Mr. Callender, trying to ignore the cameras that clicked every time he appeared, was directing a group of workmen who were filling baskets with the last of the rubble and carrying them away. "So that's it," David said softly. "Not very exciting." "You know better than that," David said. "Can we get any closer?" "Several of your distant cousins are among the guards," I said, with a meaningful smile. His arrival had been noted, and when he approached one of the men the others gathered round, embracing and greeting him. Hearing their raised voices, Callender popped his head up and demanded to know why they had left their posts. "Allow me to introduce my nephew by marriage, Mr. David Todros," I said, stepping forward. "You are no doubt familiar with his work. Where is Howard?" "He has left for the day," Callender said. "And I am about to do so. Er—Todros. A journalist?" "No, sir," David replied. "An Egyptologist," I said, stressing the word. "And an artist of some standing. He was greeting some of his kinsmen, as you saw." "Yes. I have heard of him. Related to your former reis, Abdullah, I believe." Having established David's status as a "native," he nodded brusquely and then called out to the spectators: "The Valley is closing. Everyone must leave." "How rude," Nefret said indignantly. Callender gave her a harried look and set off along the path toward the entrance, moving quite briskly for a stout man. In the same carrying voice Nefret announced, "That order does not apply to US." Once Callender was out of sight, everyone relaxed. The workers put down their tools and lit cigarettes, and Reis Girigar began chatting with David. Some of the spectators left; the guards extracted baksheesh fromthose who wanted to stay on; and Miss Minton sat down on the wall and scribbled in her notebook, ostentatiously ignoring both Kevin and Sethos. Except for Cyrus, who stood staring hungrily at the stone-cut steps, the others lost interest and wandered off. Jumana attached herself to Nadji and led him off in the opposite direction. "I am having a severe attack of deja vu," I said softly to Ramses. "There are too many people lurking, and the tomb is accessible again. Why hasn't Carter installed the gate?" "It isn't a simple procedure," Ramses replied in equally soft tones. "There will have to be a framework, bolted into solid rock. All the same ..." He broke off, frowning at Kevin, who was eavesdropping shamelessly. "You anticipate trouble?" the latter asked eagerly. "Go away, Kevin," I said. Ramses strolled off along the path, his eyes moving from side to side. I hastened to catch him up. We had not gone far when the air was rent by a horrific burst of sound—not from behind us, near Tutankhamon's tomb, but farther ahead, at the entrance to one of the side wadis. A cloud of pale dust rose heavenward. Ramses broke into a run. "Stay back," he shouted. Naturally I proceeded, at the quickest pace I could manage. When I reached him the dust was still settling. A ragged gap had been blown out of the path and the hillside next to it. Fallen stone littered the ground. Fallen stone and . . . I looked away. "Who?" I gasped. Ramses turned something over with his foot. It left a hideous smear on the dust. "Farhat ibn Simsah." "Are you sure?" "Yes. Don't look, Mother." I tried not to, but there is a ghastly compulsion that draws the eyes to scenes of horror. Ramses interposed his person between me and the torn, bloody remains, and seized me as I swayed. I heard voices and running footsteps, heard Ramses call out to the others to stay away; then I was lifted into a pair of strong arms that could belong to only one individual. "Oh, Emerson," I cried. "You came. I knew you would!" "Curse it," said Emerson. Strong emotion robbed him of further speech, but I knew what he would have said had he been able, and the comfort of his embrace restored me. "I am not harmed, Emerson. I am quite myself again. You can put me down." "Not on your life," said Emerson, and bore me away. From Manuscript H As Ramses had known she would, Nefret insisted on having a look at Farhat, or what remained of him. One look was enough to satisfy her physician's conscience that nothing could be done for the man. Ramses stood by while she inspected the ruined body, hating what she was doing but knowing he couldn't have prevented her. "He must have been bending over the . . . whatever it was . . . when it exploded," she said, rising to her feet. "The blast caught him full in the chest and head. Dynamite?" "I don't think so. We mustn't disturb anything before the police arrive." He took her arm. "Come away, sweetheart. Mother may need you." Nefret's face was paler than usual, but she managed a smile. "Not Mother. She'll be swigging brandy and telling them all about it." In the shadow of the western cliff the rest of their party was gathered round his mother. Seated on the wall by the entrance to the tomb of Ramses III, she was talking and gesticulating with the hand that held her flask of brandy. Jumana held Bertie tightly by the arm. Reassured as to his wife's well-being, Emerson had planted himself in the middle of the path and was holding the curious back with shouts and a few shoves. "No one is to approach. The police have been sent for." "Aziz?" Ramses asked his father. "You don't suppose the British authorities would be concerned about the death of a native?" his father replied with heavy sarcasm. "I would suppose Howard Carter might be concerned about this one." Ramses's father spared him a narrow-eyed glance. "You are thinking along those lines, are you? Well, well, we will discuss it later. O'Connell, stay where you are." One of Emerson's more moderate shoves sent Kevin staggering back. His hat fell off. Someone laughed, and O'Connell lost his temper. "You are interfering with the freedom of the press, Professor," he shouted. "Quite right," said Margaret Minton, notebook in hand. It was she who had laughed. She slid neatly past Emerson, evaded Sethos's outstretched hand, and trotted toward the scene of the . . . accident? Sethos started after her, but stopped after a few steps and stood with arms folded, his expression indecipherable. Kevin tried to pull away from Emerson, who held him off with one hand. "You let her pass," Kevin panted. "Blatant discrimination! Mrs. Emerson, I appeal to you!" "Let him go, Emerson" was her calm reply. "As he will see, there is no news in this. Only the unfortunate death of a local fellah." "Don't you want to have a look?" Ramses asked his uncle. "Unlike my. . . unlike Miss Minton I do not revel in bloody corpses," said Sethos. "Amelia's description was quite enough for me. Is anyone watching the tomb? Most of the guards seem to be here." Margaret came into view, a little green in the face but quite composed. "What was his name?" she demanded. "What do you care?" Sethos replied. "He was only a native." "What happened to him?" Margaret addressed the question to Ramses. Sounds of retching reached them, and after a moment Kevin appeared. He was wiping his mouth on his sleeve, but his journalist's instincts were unaffected. "What happened to him?" he gurgled. Emerson turned. "Obviously the unfortunate man came upon some explosive device and accidentally set it off. That's all there is to it. The police are on their way. Now get away from here, all of you." Margaret stood her ground until Emerson advanced upon her. "You are interfering with the press, Professor," she exclaimed, backing away. "Damn right," said Emerson. "Leave of your own accord or be carried away. I want everyone out of the Valley immediately." His wife leaped to her feet. "Witnesses, Emerson. Suspects! We must interrogate all who were present." "Now?" Emerson exclaimed. "See here, Peabody—" "At least take all their names and addresses." She replaced the brandy flask and whipped out paper and pencil. This comment cleared the scene more effectively than Emerson's shouts. Ramses felt certain she had expected this; as a "profound student of human nature," she knew most people prefer not to be involved with the police. Most of the spectators melted away. Cursing, Emerson dragged a few diehards out from their hiding places and pursued them along the path to the entrance. When everyone had left except their own party, he addressed Girigar. "Everything all right here?" "Yes, Father of Curses." The reis was obviously shaken. "Is there danger to the tomb, do you think? Shall I send word to Carter Effendi?" "There will be no danger if you and your men remain true to their duty," Emerson said sternly. "Yes, Carter should be notified. Send one of your men at
once." "I'll stay until Aziz gets here," Ramses said. His father nodded. "Quite right. The rest of us may as well go. I prescribe stiff whiskeys all round, especially for you, Peabody." "They will be welcome, though not necessary, my dear." She patted her forehead delicately with a folded handkerchief. "Should not the other ibn Simsah brothers be told of Farhat's demise?" "I suspect they know already," Emerson said grimly. "Come along. Cyrus, Jumana, Bertie . . . Nefret?" "I'm staying too." Nefret moved closer to Ramses. "Mr. Aziz may want to consult me." "Ah," said her mother-in-law, giving her a thoughtful look. "Quite. A bientot, then, my dears." Left alone with his wife (except for Reis Girigar and a dozen soldiers), Ramses said, "You needn't stay to protect me, darling. Everything is under control." "Like hell it is. Was that an accident?" "I don't suppose he deliberately blew himself up," Ramses said. "Here's a nice flat stretch. We may as well be comfortable; it will take Aziz a while to get here." The nice flat stretch was just out of sight of the tomb and the guards. Ramses put his arm round his wife, who nestled into his embrace. "Alone at last," she murmured. "We don't get many such chances." "And in such romantic surroundings," Ramses said sardonically. "With a mutilated corpse nearby." She turned her face toward him. In the dusk her hair shimmered silvery gold. " 'Every year another dead body,' as Abdullah used to say. I don't mean to sound callous, but one does become accustomed to it." "I'm the luckiest man in the world," Ramses said. Nefret laughed. "What brought that on?" "I don't say it often enough. Not many women could adapt to the bizarre life this family leads—and seem even to enjoy it." " 'Enjoy' isn't precisely the word. I think I might miss it, though, if it ended." Smiling, the contours of her face softened by shadows, she looked like the girl he had fallen in love with in the caves of the Holy Mountain. He tightened his grasp and she leaned against him. She was right—too right. They had few moments of quiet, without the demands of children or parents. Someone was always around, or about to be. There never seemed to be time enough to tell her how much she meant to him. Their relationship had its ups and downs, but that only made it more precious. Nothing is perfect except the works of God. An old woodworker of his acquaintance had said that once; he always left a little flaw in each piece of furniture. All at once Ramses came to a decision he had been putting off for weeks. He'd talk to Nefret about it—but not now, not when her warm weight pressed against his body and her soft breathing rose and fell. He was almost sorry when a hail from Girigar betokened the arrival of the police. Aziz ran a tight ship. His men, immaculate in white uniforms, made the soldiers in their dusty, ill-fitting black look even shabbier. The area in front of Tutankhamon's tomb was brightly lit, a security measure Ramses could only approve. He shook hands with Aziz, whose beardedbrown face held a certain suppressed satisfaction. The job of guarding the tomb had been given to the army, not to him. He was on the job now, and meant to display his superior efficiency. Nefret and Aziz were well acquainted; she had assisted the police on a number of occasions. She had a high regard for him, and Ramses had always suspected Aziz's feelings for her were a trifle stronger than admiration. Always the gentleman, he bowed over her hand before getting down to business. "Tell me what you heard and saw. The facts only, please." Ramses had had time to organize his thoughts. When he had finished his brief account, Aziz nodded approvingly. "Now show me." The cliffs of the narrow side wadi cut off light from the stars and rising moon. Illumined by the light of torches, the scene of death looked even worse, a kaleidoscope of grisly images. After a quick, comprehensive survey, Aziz stroked his neatly trimmed beard and said, "I fear it will be difficult to take photographs. We will try, however." Nefret let out a little exclamation of dismay. "I am sorry, Mr. Aziz. I ought to have done that earlier." "Do not apologize, madam. No doubt you have made an examination of the remains?" "Only a superficial examination. I didn't want to disturb the scene. He was beyond help, and there can be no question as to what killed him. The explosion struck him in the chest and face." "So he was holding it or bending over it. Unusual, to say the least," Aziz said dryly. "These people know how to use dynamite. He wouldn't stand by after he had lit the fuse." "It wasn't dynamite," Ramses said. He directed the beam of his torch to one side. A spark flared. "That's glass. Part of a small glass bottle. And there, and there . . . Scraps of a pipe." "A pipe?" Aziz exclaimed. "A bomb? I have heard of such things . . ." "A very primitive bomb," Ramses said. "And horribly easy to make. You start with a piece of iron piping with screw end-caps. Inside, there'sa metal container filled with picric acid. You suspend a small glass bottle from one end of the pipe. It holds nitric acid and is closed with a loose plug of cotton wool. The device is completely harmless as long as the pipe is held upright; but when it is tipped, the nitric acid oozes through the cotton wool and mixes with the picric acid and ..." "And detonates it," Aziz finished. "How do you know of this device?" He sounded suspicious, but then Aziz always did. "Explosives aren't one of my major interests," Ramses said dryly, "but I heard of it a few weeks ago from Thomas Russell, the Cairo Commandant of Police." Aziz's tight lips relaxed. Thomas Russell Pasha was admired, if not liked, by every dedicated police officer in Egypt. It was no disgrace to him, Aziz, to learn from Russell. "Where did Farhat hear of it?" Nefret asked. "Easy to make, you say, and the materials wouldn't be hard to come by, but how would a man like that, illiterate and uninformed, know how to put them together?" "You underestimate the criminal mind, madam," Aziz said. "These villains communicate with one another, passing on information by word of mouth or by example, from Cairo to the remotest villages. Unlike his brothers, who are as cowardly as they are unscrupulous, Farhat was a hardened criminal. But not a very intelligent one. Either he did not heed the warning about how to handle the device, or in his arrogance he disregarded it. He is no loss," Aziz finished, with a ceremonial dusting of his hands. "Except, perhaps, to his mother," Nefret said. Aziz's stern face softened. "You are a mother, madam, and good of heart. Do not distress yourself. You may safely leave this to me." It was a dismissal, however kindly meant. As they walked along the path toward the entrance of the Valley and their waiting horses, Ramses wondered why Aziz hadn't asked the obvious question. What had Farhat intended to do with his homemade bomb? "So Carter never bothered to come round?" Emerson asked, handing Ramses a whiskey and soda. "Not while we were there." Ramses shoved the Great Cat of Re aside and joined his wife on the settee. "He knew the tomb was safe. Girigar and the others are on the job and Aziz is there with several of his men." "1 know, my dear Emerson," I said, in response to Emerson's wordless grumbles. "You would have marched up and down before the tomb all night. However, there is no reason to suppose that Farhat meant to use his handy little bomb in an assault on the tomb. A most useful device, I must say. Amazingly easy to construct . . ." "Don't get any ideas, Peabody." Emerson's grumbles took on speech. "Why on earth would I want to make a bomb, Emerson?" "God only knows," said Emerson with feeling. The Vandergelt gang, as Cyrus had taken to calling it, had declined my invitation to tea. Even Jumana had appeared upset, and I myself was in no proper state of mind to entertain. We got the children off to bed and persuaded Sennia to spend the evening with Gargery, so that by the time Ramses and Nefret arrived we were able to talk freely. "What did he mean to do with it?" asked Sethos. "Who?" Emerson roused himself from a train of thought which, to judge by his expression, had aroused certain forebodings. Slumped in an armchair with his legs stretched out and his hands folded on his waist, Sethos said, "Farhat. What was he intending to blow up?" I had revised my initial theory after hearing Ramses's description of the bomb. "You, perhaps," I said. "That sort of device is more characteristic of revolutionaries than tomb robbers." Sethos let out a snort of derision, and Ramses said, "Farhat was no revolutionary, nor, in my opinion, was he likely to have been hired by such persons. However, I think someone other than Farhat constructed that bomb." "Sir Malcolm was in the Valley today," I said. "I saw him looking on. He has acquired a new dragoman. The other fellow must have had enough of him." "He's always in the Valley," said Emerson. "You only want to makehim guilty of something, Peabody. What good would it do him to have a bomb tossed into the entrance of Tutankhamon's tomb?" "It might risk damage to the antiquities," I admitted. "Or block the entrance," Ramses said. "I agree with Mother's original suggestion. This smacks of politics, not theft." "Dinner is served," said Fatima, in the doorway. As we filed in, she plucked at my sleeve. "Is he in danger, Sitt? Was the bomb meant for him?" "We don't know, Fatima. We must trust to God." Her worried face brightened. "Yes, Sitt, it is true. Allah would not let harm come to such a good man. I have placed charms in his room." Sethos may have overheard the exchange. He was an accomplished eavesdropper. Fatima served the soup course, and he said, almost casually, "I've been having second thoughts about the other business. Has it occurred to any of you that the mad pursuit and furious attacks don't really amount to much? No one has been killed or seriously injured, except for the old holy man, whose death might not have been intended. We agree, do we not, that Farhat's—er—accident had nothing to do with us?" He had used almost the same words I had used when discussing the business with Ramses earlier—with Sethos as the suspect. "Then what was the point of it all?" I asked. Sethos finished his soup before replying. "I don't know. But it may be that our fears of violence were groundless. Take the cases one by one. Ramses and Emerson were never in serious danger; the fire was easily extinguished and there were other means of egress. The old man might have passed away from sheer terror while being searched. Nadji was left relatively unharmed after they realized he wasn't me, and Gargery was delivered unscathed to the station in time to catch the train." I didn't want to worry Fatima—she seemed to be more concerned about him than about the rest of us!—but I was curious to see what other facile explanations he could come up with. "You were shot at and wounded," I pointed out. "And someone tried to push you under a train." "Oh, that was a long time ago. An initial burst of enthusiasm, let us say. The point is that no one else has been threatened, and I don't believe they will be. Certainly not the children. Anyone who knows your lot knows you would tear the Middle East apart if either was harmed." He looked round the table, awaiting an objection. None was offered. Oh, well done, I thought. He is good at this sort of thing. Even Ramses looked impressed by the argument; Nefret's blue eyes smiled, and David nodded slowly, as if in agreement. "So," said Sethos breezily, "the logical conclusion is that our 'friends' know we haven't deciphered the message, since we would have acted upon it. They have decided, correctly, that we can't decipher it or we would have done so by now." "You aren't suggesting that we relax our guard, are you?" Emerson asked. "Not at all. All I'm suggesting is that we avoid stirring up trouble, and hope they will do the same. What's this? Ah, Maaman's famous stuffed lamb. Thank you, Fatima. I trust your concerns are relieved." "Oh, yes. So long as you wear the charm." "Wear? Charm?" Ramses asked. I had not observed the thin silk cord round Sethos's neck. Feeling all eyes upon him, he fished the little object out from under his shirt. It was a silver hegab, of the sort usually worn by women, cylindrical in shape and containing a small scroll with a written protective charm or religious verse. "Very nice," I said. Emerson chewed vigorously on his lower lip, repressing the rude comment that would have hurt Fatima's feelings; and David said gently, "Yes, Fatima. What about us, though?" "You are not in danger," said Fatima with perfect composure, and finished serving the stuffed lamb. It was very good, but my appetite was not at its best. Was Sethos so complacent that he failed to realize his reasoning pointed the finger of guilt straight at him? Every point he had made could be applied to him. He might even have shot himself. As he had once said to me, he was violently averse to pain, but the wound was not serious in itself. I could visualize him, eyes screwed shut and hand shaking, as he aimed and squeezed the trigger. It had been a while since I dreamed of Abdullah; when I saw him coming toward me from the Valley of the Kings, looking from side to side as if enjoying the view, I was sufficiently vexed to say something silly. "Where have you been?" "Here," said Abdullah, stroking his silky black beard. It was not such a bad place to spend eternity. Bleak as a lunar landscape, the rocky plateau stretched out behind him, but the wind blew fresh from the river and the valley below lay unrolled like a woven carpet—silvery sand bordered by emerald-green fields and sparkling water, patterned with little villages and the tumbled stones of the ruined temples along the cultivation. We always met there, where we had so often stood together in life. "Hmph," I said. Abdullah chuckled. "As Emerson would say. Have you ever wondered, Sitt, why I come to you and not to him, who was as close as a brother?" "No." There was no need to say more. We stood in silence for a moment, looking into each other's eyes. "I didn't mean to reproach you," I said. "But I am in desperate need of advice. We have had our share of trouble, heaven knows, but never have I been in such a state of confusion. I don't know whom to trust or what to do." "You want ME to tell YOU what to do?" Abdullah asked in exaggerated astonishment. The moment had passed. It was just as well; such spiritual intimacy cannot be sustained. I sat down on the ground and tucked my feet under me, hoping I would be able to rise without awkwardness. I didn't want any more pointed remarks about my age and infirmities from Abdullah. "I will tell you, then," said Abdullah, dropping easily to a sitting position near me. "Celebrate your Christmas and make the little ones happy. But do not give Charla a bow and arrow." "As if I would.