Lion in the Valley (30 page)

I
followed suit. "It is French cognac," I exclaimed.

"The
best French cognac," Emerson said. "Father, where did you get
this?"

The
priest had already emptied his cup. He poured another generous measure and
replied innocently, "It was here in my house when I returned."

"We
have been anxious to hear of your adventure, Father," Emerson said.
"How well I recall the anger of my distinguished chief wife, the Sitt
Hakim here, upon learning that the priest of Dronkeh was not who he pretended
to be. 'What have you done with the real priest, you son of a camel?' she cried.
'If you have injured that good, that excellent man, I will cut out your heart!'
"

Emerson's
version was not a very accurate rendering of what I had said, but I had indeed
inquired about the missing priest, and well I remembered the M.C.'s cynical
reply: "He is enjoying the worldly pleasures he has eschewed, and the only
danger is to his soul."

After
thanking me for my concern, Father Todorus launched into his story. It was
clear that he had only been waiting for us to ask, and that constant repetition
had shaped his account into a well-rehearsed narrative of the sort to which
Egyptians can listen over and over
again. Unfortunately, there was less
information than stylistic elegance in the long, rambling tale; stripped of
unnecessary verbiage, it could have been told in a few sentences.

Father
Todorus had gone to bed one night as usual, and had awakened in a strange
place, with no notion of how he had arrived there. The room was elegantly,
indeed luxuriously furnished (the description of its silken curtains and soft
couch, its tinkling fountain and marble floors occupied the bulk of the
speech). But he saw no one save the attendants who brought him rich food and
rare liquors at frequent intervals, and since the windows were barred and
shuttered, he could see nothing that would give him the slightest clue as to
his whereabouts.

His
return was accomplished in the same eerie fashion; he awoke one morning in the
same narrow cot from which he had been spirited away, and at first he could
hardly believe the entire episode had not been a long and vivid dream. The
astonished cries of his parishioners upon his reappearance, and the accounts
they gave him of what had transpired during his absence, proved that his
experience had been real. But the innocent man frankly admitted he was inclined
to attribute the whole thing to evil spirits, who were known to torture holy
men by tempting them with the goods of this world.

"So
you were tempted, were you?" Emerson asked. "With rich food and fine
wines and liquors—"

"They
are not forbidden by our faith," Father Todorus hastened to remark.

"No,
but other temptations are forbidden, at least to the clergy. Were the
attendants who waited upon your reverence men or women?"

The
guilt on the poor man's face was answer enough. Emerson, chuckling, would have
pursued the subject had I not intervened. "It would be more to the point,
Emerson,
were we to ask Father Todorus for a more detailed description of the place in
which he was imprisoned. He may have heard or seen something that would give us
a hint as to its location."

I
spoke in English, and Emerson answered in the same language. "If that
swine Sethos is as clever as you seem to think he is, he will have abandoned
that place long ago. Oh, very well, it will do no harm to ask."

Father
Todorus was visibly relieved when, instead of returning to the awkward subject
of his temptations, Emerson asked about his prison. Like so many people, the
priest was a poor observer; specific questions brought out facts he had
suppressed, not intentionally but because he had never thought about them. He
had not been able to see out the windows, but he had heard sounds, though
muffled and faraway. When added one to another, the noises he mentioned made it
evident that he had been, not in a village or isolated villa, but in the heart
of a city.

"Cairo,
Emerson," I cried.

"I
assumed that from the first," said Emerson repressively. "But where
in that teeming hive of humanity?"

Further
questioning failed to answer that important question. When we rose to take our
leave, we were hardly wiser than when we had come. Father Todorus, who had
consumed two cups of brandy, accompanied us to the door, reiterating his thanks
and assuring us he would mention us in his prayers—a compliment Emerson
received with a grimace and a growl.

As
we walked toward the donkeys I said, "Father Todorus is certainly generous
with his cognac. I suppose Sethos left in such haste, he could not carry away
the comforts with which he had provided himself, but to
judge
from the rate at which it is being consumed he must have left a considerable
quantity."

Emerson
came to a stop. "Ha!" he cried. "I knew some detail was nagging
at my mind, but I could not imagine what it was. Good thinking, Peabody."

Whereupon
he ran back to the priest's house, with, I hardly need say, me following. When
Father Todorus responded to his peremptory knock, he was still holding his cup.
Seeing Emerson, he smiled beatifically. "You have returned, O Father of
Curses. Come in, with the honored sitt your wife, and have—hic!—more
brandy."

"I
would not deprive you, Father," said Emerson with a grin. "For surely
your supply must be limited."

The
little man's face lengthened. One might have thought Emerson had accused him of
robbery and worse, and Emerson said aside, in English, "Really, Peabody,
it is too easy to confound this fellow; he has no more talent for dissimulation
than a child."

"Less,"
I said meaningfully, "than some children."

"Humph,"
said Emerson. Returning to Arabic, he addressed the priest. "Your supply
has been replenished, Father—is that not true? How often and in what
manner?"

The
priest groaned. He started to wring his hands; remembering that he still held
the cup, he quickly drained it. With a glance at the curious onlookers, he
muttered, "It was the devils, O Father of Curses. I beg you will not let
these people know; they might appeal to the patriarch for help against the
powers of evil, and I assure you, I swear to you, that I can conquer the
devils, I am constantly at prayer—"

Emerson
reassured him and the little man found courage to speak. There had been two
deliveries of cognac
by the demons since his miraculous return
from imprisonment. On both occasions he had found the boxes at his bedside when
he woke in the morning. He had not bothered to look for signs of intrusion,
since it was well known that devils, being bodiless, do not leave footprints.

With
further assurances of our good will, we took our leave. The priest disappeared
into his house, no doubt in order to rid himself of the demonic gift in the
most appropriate manner.

"What
a curious thing," I exclaimed, as we trotted out of the village.
"This man, this unknown genius of crime, is a strange mixture of cruelty
and compassion. Cases of fine French cognac would not be my notion of apology
and compensation for such rude handling, but—"

"Oh,
do use your head, Peabody," Emerson shouted, his face reddening.
"Apology and compensation indeed! I never heard such balderdash."

"Why
else would he—"

"To
complete the corruption of the priest, of course. A bizarre and evil sense of
humor, not compassion, is the motive for these gifts."

"Oh,"
I said. "I had not thought of that, Emerson. Good Gad, it is no wonder,
such consummate depths of depravity are beyond the comprehension of any normal
person."

"They
are not beyond my comprehension," said Emerson, with a vicious snap of his
teeth. "Ordinary assault, abduction, and attempted murder I can put up
with; but this villain has gone too far."

"I
quite agree, Emerson. To play such a trick on poor Father Todorus—"

"Grrr,"
said Emerson. "Peabody, you astonish me."

"I
don't know what you mean, Emerson. Do you think there is any hope of waylaying
the deliverers of the cognac?"

'
'No, I do not. Sethos may tire of his joke and stop delivery, and if he
continues, we have no idea when the next visit will take place. It would be a
waste of time to keep the priest's house under observation, if that is what you
were about to propose."

"I
was not. I had reached the same conclusion."

"I
am happy to hear it, Peabody."

We
reached the house at teatime, and I at once set about preparing that repast,
assisted by Enid. Ramses and Donald had not returned; I caught myself listening
for sounds of riot and furious pursuit, such as often accompanied Ramses'
departure from home. Aside from the normal noises of awakening village life,
however, the only untoward sounds were those of distant gunshots. Even these
were not unusual, for shooting was a favorite amusement of the more ignorant
tourists, and the swampy areas between the canal and the river harbored great
flocks of unfortunate birds whom these "sportsmen" liked to massacre.

The
shadows lengthened, and still the wanderers had not returned. Emerson was pacing
up and down the courtyard glancing alternately at his watch and at the closed
gates, when at last a shout announced the long-awaited event. Abdullah opened
the gates and they rode into the compound, Donald close behind Ramses.

Ramses
immediately slid off his donkey and started for the back of the house, trying,
I suppose, to appear as if he were anxious to wash. Donald's hand shot out and
caught him by the collar. Holding him by that uncomfortable but convenient
handle, he marched the boy toward us.

"Professor
and Mrs. Emerson, I deliver to you your son. He has achieved a degree of
dirtiness I once thought impossible, even after my own youthful experiments
along that line, but he is intact, as I received him. I assure you that to keep
him in that condition was no small feat."

It
was evident that they had been near the river, for the substance that covered
Ramses was dried mud. Parts of it had flaked off, giving him a peculiarly
antique appearance, like a rotted mummy.

"I
will wash immediately, Mama," he wheezed. "If you will be so good as
to direct this—this person to unhand me."

But
by that time I had observed the little detail Ramses was so intent on
concealing from me. It was little indeed—a hole a half inch in diameter drilled
neatly into the side of his pith helmet. Moving a step to the side, I observed
a second hole, slightly larger, opposite the first.

Emerson
observed these unusual features at the same time, and, with a shout of
consternation, he snatched the hat off Ramses' head. He threw it to the ground
and began running his fingers through the boy's hair, completing the total
dishevelment of that area.

"It
is the mark of a bullet, Peabody," he cried. "A bullet has gone
completely through Ramses' hat! Ramses, dear boy, where are you wounded?"

"Oh,
do stop it, Emerson," I said. "If Ramses had been wearing the hat
when the shot was fired, the bullet would have gone straight through his
cranium and you would have no difficulty in noticing the result."

"He
was not wearing the hat," Donald said. "He was holding it in his
hand. That may relieve your apprehension, Professor, but in my opinion it still
calls for punishment. If this young man were my son, I would turn him over my
knee and give him a good hiding."

Ramses
slowly turned his head and gave Donald a look that would have made a wiser man
retract his threat. The boy's raven curls stood up in a bush like that of a
Masai warrior, and his expression was no more affable.

Emerson
ignored Donald's remark—it was not the first time he had heard suggestions of
that nature—but Enid gave an indignant cry. "I am not surprised at hearing
so cruel a sentiment from
that
source," she exclaimed, putting a
protective arm around Ramses. "Poor child! After such a frightening
experience, to be manhandled and cursed—"

"Confound
it, Enid, I didn't swear," Donald protested. "I was tempted to, but I
didn't."

Enid
turned her back on him and pulled Ramses close to her. "Come with Enid,
poor lad; she will tidy you and protect you from this bully."

Ramses'
face was pressed against her impeccable shirtwaist—impeccable, I mean to say,
until that moment—but I could see his cheek and one corner of his mouth. The
latter feature was curved in an insufferable smirk. He allowed himself to be
led away, with every appearance of enjoying the sort of embrace he would
ordinarily have protested.

Displaying
hands almost as filthy as those of Ramses, Donald also went to wash. If he
hoped to plead his case with Enid, he was given no opportunity, for she came
back almost at once, clasping Ramses' hand. His face and hands at least were
clean, and realizing that only total immersion would restore him to a semblance
of decency, I allowed him to take his tea with us, providing he sat some
distance from the table. Owing to the nutrients contained in it, Nile mud has a
particularly pungent and pervasive smell.