The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog (24 page)

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To a female in the pink of condition, as I always am, a disturbed night is of no consequence. I arose fresh and alert, ready to face the difficulties I felt sure were about to ensue. Emerson had been biding his time, trying to get us off guard by performing his archaeological duties, but he is not a patient man, and I suspected he was about to carry out his ridiculous plan. There was no way I could prevent him from doing so, for reasoned argument has no effect whatever on him when he has got some silly idea into his head. All I could do was anticipate the worst and take steps to prevent it from happening. There was one advantage to his scheme, the farther we went from the river, the more difficult it would be for Kevin O'Connell to get at us.
My first sight of Emerson that morning strengthened my hunch that today was the day. He was eating
his breakfast with the air of a man stoking himself with food in anticipation of strenuous activity ahead, and he was in a suspiciously genial mood, complimenting Rene on the quickness with which he was learning excavation methods, and praising Charlie's plan of the site. From time to time he tossed a scrap of sausage to Anubis, who snapped it out of the air like a trout rising to a fly. I wished the confounded beard did not hide his mouth. Emerson's mouth always gives him away when he is contemplating something underhanded, he cannot control the corners of it.
He saw me staring. "Does something offend you, MISS Peabody? Crumbs in my beard, are there? Or
is it the beard itself? Come, come, don't be shy of expressing your opinion."
"Since you ask," I began.
"I do, I do. Having strong opinions myself, I can hardly object to others' possessing them."
"Ha!" I said. "Well, then, I must say that yours is one of the most unprepossessing examples of an unattractive appendage I have ever beheld. Beards are unsanitary, unsightly, hot— or so I would
suppose, dangerous— to smokers, and indicative of masculine insecurity. Men grow them only
because women cannot, I believe."
Emerson's eyes narrowed with rage, but he could not speak at once because his mouth was full of
egg and sausage. Before he could swallow, Cyrus— whose hand was plucking nervously at his goatee— exclaimed, "I never thought of it that way. Maybe I should— "
"Don't be a fawning fool, Vandergelt," Emerson growled. "She is talking nonsense in the hope of annoying ME. Who the devil began this talk of beards, anyway? Hurry and finish, all of you, I want
to be off."
And he was off, leaving the door swinging wildly on its hinges. The young men jumped up and galloped after him. I buttered another piece of toast.
"I didn't mean you, Cyrus," I said, smiling at him. "That goatee is so much a part of you, I cannot
imagine you without it."
I meant it as a compliment, but he did not seemed pleased.
The air was still cool and pleasant when we went ashore. I lagged behind, talking with young Charlie,
who had sought me out with the obvious intention of consulting me. It took him a while to get to the point, in fact, I had to ask him straight out what was worrying him.
"It's the stela," he admitted. "The one high up on the cliff— you remember?"
"Stelae," I said. "Don't concern yourself about it, Charles, it will be some time before Emerson turns
his attention to the stelae."
"No, ma'am, it won't! He wants me to get at it today. And— er— I couldn't tell the professor, I didn't dare,  but I can't— I have not— rather, I should say I have ..."
"Fear of heights?"
He looked as guilty as if he had just confessed to murder
"My dear Charles, that is nothing to be ashamed of. Scientific research indicates that such fears are weaknesses the sufferer cannot control. You must confess the truth, it would be dangerous, possibly
fatal, for you to force yourself to a task you cannot perform." Charles did not appear to be cheered by this consoling diagnosis, so I went on, "If you like, I will tell Emerson."
The young chap squared his manly shoulders. "No, ma'am, I thank you, but that would be cowardly."
"Tell him yourself, then, but bear in mind that I will disclose the truth if you do not do so. Now hurry
on, we are falling behind."
The others were already out of sight. As we hastened along the village street, returning the greetings of those who hailed us and stepping over dogs and chickens and children, a man came to meet us. I stifled an exclamation of impatience, it was the sheikh, the mayor of the village, and I could see from his
manner that he was intent on delaying me.
We had managed to avoid the time-consuming ceremonies of welcome which courtesy normally requires in such little communities, but I saw no way of getting out of it now without mortally offending the man.
The poor old mayor we had known was long dead; his successor was a man in the prime of life, who looked healthier and better-fed than most of the fellahin. He greeted me with the customary formula
and I replied in kind. "Will the Sitt honor my house?" was the next question
Knowing this visit might take an hour or more, I sought a courteous way of escape. "The honor is too great. I must follow Emerson Effendi who is my— er— who is the leader of the work. He will be angry
if I delay."
I had thought the argument would be persuasive in this male-dominated world, but the mayor's brow
grew troubled. "The Sitt must hear me. I tried to speak with the Father of Curses, but he would not stop. He is a man without fear, but he should know Mohammed has returned."
Mohammed is a very popular name in Egypt. It took me a moment to identify this one. "The son of the old mayor? I thought he had run away, after the affair of the mummy that was only an evil man."
"He ran away, yes. When you and the Father of Curses unmasked the evildoer, Mohammed knew he would go to prison for helping the bad man. Or that the Father of Curses would punish him, which would have been just as painful. He was gone from the village for many years, but he has returned, Sitt, for I saw him myself last night."
I wished, not for the first time, that some ineffable Power had not chosen to interpret my prayer so whimsically. Another ghost from the past! Would all our old enemies return to haunt us? While I pondered, the mayor went on with mounting agitation.
"We are honest people here, we respect the Father of Curses and his honored chief wife and all the
Inglizi who hire us to work. But in every village there are a few who are not honest, I think Mohammed
is trying to stir them up against the Father of Curses, for he was talking loudly in the coffee shop and
the ones who listened were the evildoers among us. Warn the Father of Curses, Sitt, and take care for yourself. Mohammed holds you in equal blame for his disgrace. He hoped to be the sheikh after his
father died."
And still hoped, I fancied. The mayor's concern for us was not entirely altruistic, Mohammed could
be a potential rival. Nevertheless, he was an honest man, and I thanked him before hurrying on.
Emerson had named our excavation site the Eastern Village, overriding the objections of Cyrus, who claimed that one house and part of a wall did not a village make. He added that no one, not even an idiot like Akhenaton, would build a residential quarter so far from the river. (Cyrus was one of those who did not share my exalted view of the heretic pharaoh, but he generally kept his opinions to himself when I was present.)
They were arguing the matter when I arrived on the scene, for even at my best pace I could not catch Emerson up when he was in a hurry. Emerson had spread his plans out across a boulder. Taking his
pipe from his mouth, he used the stem as a pointer. "These are ancient roads, Vandergelt, half a dozen
of them converge at this point, which is midway between the southern and northern tombs. The house
we finished uncovering yesterday is obviously one of a number of such dwellings, there is mud-brick
of similar shape and material scattered all over the hollow. Oh, curse it, I can't be bothered to explain
my reasoning now, why the devil should I? Go with Abdullah, he is following the face of the enclosure wall. He ought to come across a gate soon."
Muttering and shaking his head, Cyrus went off. Watching Abdullah and his trained men of Aziyeh was fascinating for an archaeological enthusiast, in some places only a skilled eye could distinguish between crumbled brick and the natural soil that had buried it. Cyrus was enthusiastic about the profession, mistake me not, but like many excavators he preferred royal and nobles' tombs to the dwellings of the humble, which these clearly were. The only artifacts we had uncovered were faience beads and a
wooden spindle whorl.
"Emerson," I said urgently. "I must speak to you "
"Well, what is it?" He had rolled up the plan and was poised on one foot, impatient to get to work.
"The mayor told me an old enemy of ours— of yours— has returned to the village."
"What, another one?" Emerson let out a bark of laughter. He started off. I ran after him.
"You must listen to me. Mohammed has good reason to hold a grudge against us— you. He is a sneak
and a coward— "
"Then he will have better sense than to bother me. I think," said Emerson consideringly, "that we will divide the work force. Charles seems to be getting the hang of it; with Feisal to help him, he can start
on the southeast corner. I want to get an idea of how much diversity in plan . . ."
He trotted off, still talking.
As I had suspected, Emerson had only been teasing poor Charlie when he threatened to set him to work on the boundary stela. The subject was not mentioned again. By the time we stopped for luncheon, the partially uncovered walls of a second house had proved Emerson's theory, to his satisfaction, at least.
My task, which was that of sifting through the fill removed from the site, had not proved onerous, there were few objects, and they were of poor quality. I was glad to stop, though, the sun was hot and there was little shade. How Bertha endured the heat in her muffling garments I could not imagine I had enlisted her aid that morning, she had been quick and competent.
Emerson had graciously consented to allow his hard-pressed workers to rest during the hottest part of
the day. This was customary on most digs, but Emerson always behaved as if he were making an enormous concession That day he did not so much as mutter. After the others had gone off to find
shelter from the sun, I kept my eye on Emerson. He had stretched out on the ground, his hat shading his face. I occupied one of the tents, Cyrus another. The young men had gone to the house Cyrus had built. Where Bertha was I did not know, but I felt certain the man Cyrus had assigned to watch her did know.
Less than half an hour had passed when Emerson removed the hat from his face and sat up. He gave
the tent where I lay concealed a long, suspicious survey before rising to his feet.
I waited until he was out of sight behind the ridge before I followed. As I had suspected, he was heading east, toward the cliffs and the entrance to the royal wadi.
The plain and the crumpled faces of the cliffs were utterly devoid of life. At this time of day even the desert animals sought their burrows. The only moving objects were a hawk, circling high in the sun-whitened sky, and the tall, erect figure ahead. My skin was prickling as I hurried after it. Emerson had— quite deliberately— given Mohammed or another adversary precisely the opportunity he wanted. Such a man would watch and follow, waiting in deadly patience for the moment when he might find his victim alone.
I waited until Emerson had almost reached the cleft in the cliff before I hailed him. I dared wait no
longer, there were a hundred hiding places in the tumbled rock at their base, thousands among the narrowing walls of the wadi. He heard, he turned, an explosive comment floated to my ears. But he waited for me to join him
"I ought to have anticipated this," he remarked, as, panting and perspiring, I came up to him. "Can't a man go for a peaceful stroll without you following like a hound on the scent? Return at once."
"Peaceful stroll?" I gasped. "Do you think I was fooled by all that nonsense about Nefertiti's tomb? I suppose you think you can order the rest of us to continue digging out that wretched village while you pretend to work in the royal wadi. You have no intention of wasting time there, the proposal is only a blind— a lure, rather, for an enemy stupid enough to believe your boasts about secret tombs— with yourself as the bait in the trap!"
"You are mixing your metaphors," said Emerson critically. His tone was mild, but I knew that soft
purring voice, and there was a gleam in his eyes I had seen before— but never directed at me "Now
turn around and go back, MISS Peabody— or squat there, on a rock if you prefer, till I return— or
I will put you over my shoulder and carry you back to your friend Vandergelt, who will make sure
you don't wander off again."
He took a step toward me. I took a step back. I had not meant to.
"Cyrus would not do that," I said.
"I think he would."
I thought he would too. And there was no doubt in my mind that Emerson would do what he had threatened to do.
The idea had a certain attraction, but I put it aside. I could not stop Emerson, short of shooting him
in the leg (an idea that had its own kind of attraction, but that might prove counterproductive in the
long run). If I were to guard and protect him, craft and cunning were my only weapons. I proceeded to employ them, dropping down on the rock he had indicated and blinking my eyes furiously as if I were trying to hold back my tears.
"I will wait here," I said, sniffing.
"Oh," said Emerson. "Well, then. See that you do." After a moment he added gruffly, "I won't be long."
As I believe I have mentioned, the wadi takes a turn to the east almost immediately, and a spur of rock cuts off the explorer's view of the plain. Emerson passed around it. I waited, watching the spot over the handkerchief I had raised to my eyes. After a short time Emerson's head appeared, his narrowed eyes glaring at me. I bowed my head to hide my smile and pressed the handkerchief to my lips.
The head vanished, and I heard the crunch of rock under his feet as he walked on. As soon as the
sounds faded I followed
My heart was thudding as I hastened on, threading a path among the boulders that littered the floor of
the canyon. The difficulty for me now was not concealment but a clear line of vision, the twists and
turns of the path, the heaped-up detritus, gave me only flashing glimpses of Emerson's form as he proceeded. It was pure luck— or the blessing of Providence, as I prefer to believe— that one such