The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog (33 page)

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The men had to spend most of the day clearing the tomb entrance, which was choked with fallen rocks. Some were of considerable size, and the sloping scree had been hardened by repeated flooding and drying into the consistency of cement. It was I who pointed out to Cyrus that we must sift through this debris. Water must have poured into the tomb through the opening above, and through other apertures as yet undisclosed, on more than one occasion, and objects might have been flushed out onto the slope.
Only Cyrus's good manners— and, I would like to believe, his respect for my professional expertise— prevented him from objecting vigorously to this procedure, for it took a great deal of time. It was late
in the day before the wisdom of my methods was proved. The broken fragment we discovered would certainly have been overlooked by careless excavators.
It was only a piece of alabaster (more properly calcite), five centimeters long and apparently shapeless. The credit for recognizing its importance must go to Feisal— who, of course, had been trained in my methods. He brought it to me, smiling in anticipation of praise. "There is writing on it, Sitt. You see
the hieroglyphs."
The excitement that suffused every inch of my being when I read those few signs was enough to overcome, for the moment at least, all other considerations. Summoning Cyrus with a piercing cry, I indicated the broken inscription. " The king's great wife Neferneferuaten Nefertiti.' It is part of a
shawabti, Cyrus— a shawabti of Nefertiti!"
"A ushebti?" Cyrus snatched it from me. I forgave him this momentary lapse of courtesy/ like myself,
he understood the import of the words.
Ushebtis, or shawabtis, were strictly funerary in nature. They were images of the dead man (or woman), animated in the afterlife to perform services for him and work in his stead. The wealthier an individual, the more of these little statues he possessed. Fragments of many ushebtis bearing the name of Akhenaton had turned up, Emerson had found three more the previous day, in the royal tomb But this was the first
I had seen or heard of with the name of the queen.
"By the Almighty, Amelia, you're right," Cyrus exclaimed. "It's the lower legs and part of the feet of a ushebti. It can't have come from the royal tomb . ."
"That is not necessarily true." Some scholars, I regret to say, concoct fantastic theories from inadequate evidence, but I have never been prone to this weakness and I felt I must caution Cyrus against overen-thusiasm.
"Broken fragments of Akhenaton's funerary equipment, including ushebtis, must have been thrown out
of his tomb," I went on. "And a violent flood could have washed them some distance down the wadi.
But this was not part of bis tomb furnishings. Her name appears on many objects along with his, but ushebtis were designed and named only for the dead person."
Cyrus held the battered fragment as gently as if it had been solid gold. "Then this must have come from her tomb. This tomb!"
"No," I said regretfully. "I think not. If she had a separate tomb it would surely have been nearer his. From what little we have seen of this one, it is small and unfinished. However, this is a remarkable discovery, Cyrus. I congratulate you."
"The credit goes to you, my dear."
"And Feisal."
"Oh, sure." Cyrus gave Abdullah's son a hearty slap on the back "Big baksheesh for you, my friend.
Even bigger if you turn up any more pieces like this."
However, by the time sunset forced an end to the work, nothing more of interest had been discovered. The frustration of his hopes put Cyrus in a bad temper, though I must say it was a model of saintly forbearance compared to the demonstrations of which Emerson was capable. "I'm sure tired of trying to wash in a cupful of water," he grumbled, as we trudged along the dusty path. "If I don't get near a tub pretty soon, I won't be fit company for a mule, much less a lady."
"The lady is in no better case," I said with a smile. "I confess that of all the inconveniences of camping out, the absence of adequate means of ablution vexes me most. Unless I have lost count, tomorrow is Friday, the men will want their day of rest, so I presume Emerson intends to return to the river."
"You can't take anything for granted where that bullheaded billy goat is concerned," Cyrus said picturesquely.
I promised to see what I could do to convince Emerson. I hope no one will suppose that it was a lack of Spartan fortitude that made me favor a reprieve from our labors. A lady likes to be fresh and dainty at all times, and a lady who is attempting to win the heart of a gentleman cannot feel much confidence in her success when she looks like a dusty mummy and smells like a donkey. However, those were not my reasons (at least I think they were not) for wishing to leave the royal wadi. The place was beginning to oppress me. The rocky walls seemed to have edged in closer, the shadows were deeper. I had crawled
on hands and knees through dusty tunnels and squirmed through holes scarcely large enough to admit
my body without ever feeling the sense of claustrophobia that afflicted me now.
The others had returned from their work, so I went off to look for Abdullah. He and our other men had their own little camp, they were frightful snobs (as they had some reason to be, since they were the most sought-after trained workers in the country) and always refused to hobnob with lesser men. I had brought along my medical kit and when I saw the delighted smiles that greeted me I felt ashamed that I had not taken the time to fahddle with them, or even ask whether they needed attention.
I felt even more ashamed when they displayed a variety of minor injuries, ranging from a mashed finger to a bad case of ophthalmia. After I had washed out Daoud's eyes with a solution of boracic acid, and tended the other injuries, I scolded them for not coming to me at once.
"Tomorrow we will return to the river," I said. "My medical supplies are low, and we all need rest."
"Emerson will not go," said Abdullah gloomily.
"He will go
willingly,
or rolled in a rug and carried on our backs," I said.
The men grinned and nudged one another, and Abdullah's dour face brightened a trifle. But he shook
his head. "You know why he came here, Sitt."
"Certainly I know. He hoped to entice our enemy into attacking him again, so that he could catch the fellow. So far only half that brilliant plan has succeeded. We have been attacked twice— "
"Not we, Sitt Hakim. You."
"And Mohammed. That is three attempts, and we are no nearer a solution than before."
"It has made Emerson very angry," said Abdullah. "He did very foolish things today, even more foolish than is his custom. Once he almost escaped me. Fortunately Ali saw him slip away and followed him.
He was almost at the end of the wadi before Ali came up to him."
"What was he doing?" I demanded.
Abdullah spread his hands out and shrugged. "Who can follow the thoughts of the Father of Curses? Perhaps he hoped they were waiting to find him alone."
"All the more reason why we must persuade him to leave this place," I said firmly. "It is too dangerous.
I will go now and find him."
"I will have the rug ready, Sitt," said Abdullah.
Emerson was not in his tent. It was getting dark, night gathered in the narrow cleft like black water
filling a bowl. Stumbling over stones and swearing under my breath (an indication, if any were needed, that my state of mind was far from the calm that ordinarily marks it), I finally smelled tobacco and made out the red glow of his pipe. He was sitting on a boulder some distance from the fire. At first I took the dark shape at his feet for another rock. Then its outlines shifted, like shadows moving.
"Get up at once, Bertha," I said sharply. "A lady does not squat on the ground."
"I did offer her a rock," said Emerson mildly. "So spare me the lecture I feel sure you were about to deliver. She was in need of comfort and reassurance, as any normal female would be under these circumstances. You would not expect an English gentleman like myself to turn away a lady in distress."
"She might have come to me." I fear my tone was still a trifle critical. "What is the matter, Bertha?"
"How can you ask?" She continued to crouch at his feet, and I thought she pressed closer to him, if that were possible. "He is out there, watching and waiting. I can feel his eyes upon me. He is toying with me, like a cat with a mouse. Your guards are useless, he can come and go as he likes, and when he wishes to strike at me, he will." She rose to her feet and stood swaying. Even in the dark I could see the agitated trembling of her draperies. "This is a horrible place! It closes in around us like a giant tomb, and every rock, every crevice hides an enemy. Are you made of ice or stone, that you cannot feel it?"
I would have slapped her soundly across the cheek if I had been able to locate that part of her body precisely. Reaching out blindly, I took hold of some part— an arm, I believe— and shook it vigorously. "Enough of that, Bertha. None of us is pleased to be here, but an exhibition of unwomanly hysteria
won't help matters."
A voice from the dark repeated, "Unwomanly?"
Ignoring it, I went on, "You will only have to endure one more night here. We are leaving tomorrow."
"Do you mean it? Is it true?"
Emerson must have inadvertently inhaled a quantity of smoke. He began coughing violently. "Yes,"
I said loudly. "It is true. Now go and— and— oh, I don't care what the devil you do, only stop keening and wailing and getting everyone in a state of nerves."
She moved away, gliding over the uneven ground as easily as if she could see in the dark. Emerson had got his breath under control. He remarked, "Nothing seems to affect your nerves, MISS Peabody. Or your monstrous self-confidence. So you have decided we are leaving, have you?"
"Circumstances that should be apparent to any reasonable individual demand a brief interlude for rest
and reorganization. I cannot collate the rubbings and squeezes I made in the royal tomb under these conditions. The men are entitled to their day of rest, and I used most of my medical supplies on Mohammed, and furthermore . . Good Gad, why am I arguing with you?"
"It would be a departure for you to deign to explain your decisions," Emerson replied, in the same ominously mild voice. "I take it you have subverted Abdullah and the other men, as well as your
faithful follower Vandergelt? I cannot prevent you from doing as you like, but what is to stop me
from remaining here?"
"Abdullah and the other men, as well as my faithful follower Vandergelt," I replied smartly. "Now
come back to the fire. Don't sit here in the dark inviting someone to stab you in the back."
"I will sit where I like, MISS Peabody, for as long as I choose. Good evening to you."

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No one tried to stab Emerson in the back, much to his disappointment, I felt certain. It was not long before he joined us at the fire I waited for him before making my announcement, since it is not my
habit to undermine his authority behind his back. Direct confrontation, and a brisk argument, saves
time in the long run, I had found.
The argument did not ensue, nor did the news of our departure produce the surprise and pleasure I
had expected. It appeared that everyone had taken it for granted.
"Friday is the Moslem holy day, after all," Charlie pointed out. "We figured an enlightened employer
like Mr. Vandergelt would be sympathetic to the rights of the laboring man and agree we were entitled
to the same " He gave his employer a cheeky grin.
Cyrus grunted, quite as Emerson might have done. Emerson did not even grunt.
I wondered what he was up to. A few moments of cogitation gave me an answer, however. He had
hoped to entice our enemy out into the open. So far that enemy had declined to take the challenge,
as any sensible person would. He had sent hired bullies and spies to do the dirty work, and if he had
been on the scene it had been under cover of darkness. I doubted that he had. His modus operandi, if
I may employ a technical term, was based on the principle of leading his regiment from behind. He had not dared face Emerson until the latter was chained and helpless.
Impatience is one of Emerson's most conspicuous failings, and although "stubborn" is too mild a word
for him, he does not refuse to accept a conclusion when it is forced upon him. His stratagem had not succeeded, nor was it likely to. Of course I had realized this from the first, and if Emerson had been willing to listen to reason I would have told him so. He had not been willing to listen, the conclusion had now been forced upon him, and he was getting bored with fighting off attentions that distracted him from his archaeological work and yielded no effective results. The time had come to shift his ground.
At least, I reflected, it had not been a complete waste of time. The removal of Mohammed was a dubious blessing, I did not doubt Sethos could find as many scurvy assassins as he wanted. But we (I use the word editorially) had done some good work in the royal tomb, and gotten some ideas about promising sites for future excavation. Kevin was firmly in hand, not wandering around the country causing trouble, and whether Cyrus admitted it or not, which he did not, I knew that Charlie was the man to be watched.
I was glad I had not yielded to my first unthinking impulse and put him under arrest. Secret surveillence of his movements might lead us to his master.
Most consoling of all— dare I admit it?— was the fact that we had survived two of the frightful fates mentioned in the antique tale. I did not dare admit it to anyone else, for fear of being laughed at, but as you will see, dear Reader, a woman's instincts are keener to discern the mysterious workings of Fate
than is cold logic.

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We were all in good spirits when we set out next morning. We were on foot,- since we were leaving the tents and much of our equipment behind, there was no need for donkeys Bertha's musical laugh echoed frequently from the rocky walls,- it held a note of anticipation that made me realize she was, after all, very young. Inured as I am to the hardships of desert travel, I found myself looking forward with great anticipation to a bath and a change of clothing. I had brought three of my working suits with me, all
were in a frightful state of dust and muss, for of course it had been impossible to rinse them out.
I felt as if some invisible burden had fallen from my shoulders when we emerged from the widening mouth of the wadi and saw the plain stretching out before us. Open air, sunlight, distance! They came
as an indescribable relief after those days of confinement. The sun was high and the desert quivered
with heat, but beyond it the cool green of the cultivation and the glitter of water refreshed the eyes.
Our path led along the north side of the low hills that enclosed the Eastern Village. No one suggested we stop to rest, though we had been walking for two hours, we were all anxious to press on Emerson had forged ahead, as was his infuriating habit, the cat clung to his shoulder, and Abdullah was close on his heels. Bertha and the two young men had fallen behind. I am sure I need not say that Cyrus was beside me as he always was.
Only our voices broke the stillness. Gradually, however, I became aware of another sound, sharp-pitched and monotonous as the mechanical ringing of a bell. It rose in volume as we approached the end of the ridge. Ahead and to the left I saw the wall of the little house Cyrus had caused to be built. The sound might have been coming from it.
Emerson heard it too. He stopped, cocking his head. Lowering the cat to the ground he turned, heading for the house.
The sun beat down on my shoulders and head with the force of an open fire, but a sudden chill permeated every inch of my body I had recognized the sound It was the howling of a dog.
I shook Cyrus off and began to run. "Emerson!" I shrieked "Don't go there! Emerson, stop!"
He glanced at me and went on.
Though Emerson dislikes displaying any of the softer emotions, he is as fond of animals as I. His
efforts on behalf of abused and threatened creatures do not attain the extravagance to which his son is unfortunately prone, but he had often interfered to rescue foxes from hounds and hunters. The cries of the dog suggested it was in pain or distress. They drew Emerson as strongly as they would have drawn me— had I not had cause to anticipate danger from such a source
I saved my breath for running. I can, when it is necessary, attain quite a rapid pace, but on this occasion
I believe I broke my own record. Emerson had reached the house before I caught him up. He paused,
his hand on the latch, and looked at me curiously.
"The creature has got shut up inside somehow. What is— "
Being unable to articulate for want of breath, I threw myself at him.
It proved to be an error, but one for which I may be excused, I think. I had not observed his fingers
had already pressed the latch.
Hearing our voices, the dog had begun hurling itself at the door. It burst open. Emerson staggered back against the wall, and I fell rather heavily onto the ground.
The pariah dogs of the villages are scrawny, starved creatures of indeterminate breed. They are not pets, but feral beasts who have good cause to fear and hate human beings. Those who survive the hardships
of early life do so because they are tougher and more vicious than their peers. And this one was mad.
It would have gone straight for Emerson's throat if I had not shoved him aside. Now it attacked the first object it saw— my foot. Bloody foam flew in pink flecks from its jaws as it sank its teeth into my boot, shaking it, gnawing it. My parasol was still in my hand I brought it down on the dog's head. The blow would have stunned an animal less frenzied. It only drove this one to a more furious attack.
Emerson snatched the parasol from me. Raising it over his head, he struck with all his strength. I heard the crack of bone and a last, agonized howl that will haunt my memory forever. The beast rolled over, thrashing and kicking. Emerson struck again. The sound was less sharply defined this time but equally sickening.
Emerson seized me under the arms and dragged me away from the body of the dog. His face was as white as the bandage on his cheek— whiter, if I must be accurate, for the bandage had got very dirty,
and he had refused my offer to change it that morning. Abdullah stood nearby, his knife in his hand.
He was as still as a statue, and he too had gone pale.
Kneeling beside me, Emerson reached up and took Abdullah's knife. "Start a fire," he said. Abdullah stared blankly at him for a moment, and then nodded.
There was fuel at hand, part of Kevin's supplies. I was vaguely aware of Abdullah's rapid movements,
but most of my attention, I confess, was focused on my boot, at which Emerson was slashing. The laces were knotted and sticky with saliva, and the part of the boot around the ankle had been torn to shreds.
"Don't touch it!" I exclaimed. "Your hands are always scratched and cut, an open wound—"
I broke off with a cry of pain I could not repress, as Emerson seized the boot in a savage grip and wrenched it off. Cyrus came round the corner of the house in time to hear my exclamation. Fury darkened his brow and he was, I think, about to hurl himself on Emerson when he saw the body of the dog. The color drained from his face as, with his usual quick intelligence, he grasped the significance of the scene.
"God in heaven!" he cried. "Did it— "
"That is what I am trying to ascertain, you damned fool," said Emerson, inspecting my dirty stocking
with the intense concentration of a scientist peering through a microscope. "Keep them back," he added, as the others hurried up, exclaiming in question and in alarm. "And don't touch the— "
The sound that issued from his lips was not a gasp or a groan. It was a muttered expletive. I had seen
it too— such a small rent, barely an inch long. But it was large enough to mean my death.
Carefully Emerson stripped the stocking off and took my bare foot in his hand.
It is not proper to be vain about one's personal appearance, and heaven knows I had little cause, but in the privacy of these pages I will confess I had always believed I had rather pretty feet. Small and narrow, with high arches, they had been described in appreciative terms by no less an authority than Emerson himself. Now he stared fixedly, not at the appendage but at the tiny scratch on my ankle. The skin had barely been broken. There were only a few drops of blood.
For a moment no one spoke. Then Abdullah said, "The fire burns well, Father of Curses." He held
out his hand. I thought it trembled a little.
Emerson gave him the knife.
If Ramses had been there, he would already have been talking. Kevin was almost as perniciously loquacious as my son, so I was not surprised when he was the first to break the silence. His freckles
stood out dark against the pallor of his face. "It is only the merest scratch. Perhaps the dog was not
mad. Perhaps— "
"If someone does not silence that babbling idiot of an Irishman I will knock him down," said Emerson.
"We cannot afford to take the chance, Kevin," I said. "I am going to sit up now— "
"You are not going to sit up now," said Emerson, in the same remote voice. "Vandergelt, make yourself useful. Put your knapsack under her head and see if you can locate a bottle of brandy."
"I always carry a flask of brandy," I said, fumbling at my belt. "For medicinal purposes, of course.
There is water in this other flask."
Emerson took the brandy from me and wrenched off the top. I swigged it down like a hardened drunkard, for unnecessary martyrdom is not something I court. I only wished I could drink enough of the horrid stuff to render myself intoxicated and unconscious, but I knew if I consumed it too quickly I would only be sick.
Better sick, drunk, or in pain than dead. Hydrophobia is inevitably fatal, and it would be difficult to think of a more unpleasant way in which to die.
When Abdullah returned, my head was already spinning and I was glad to lie back against the support Cyrus had prepared. He knelt beside me, his face a mask of sympathetic anguish, and took my hand in his. The blade of the knife glowed cherry-red with heat. Abdullah had wrapped a cloth around the handle Emerson took it from him.
It is quite an uncomfortable sensation, of course. Oddly enough the thing I minded most was the hiss and the stench of burning flesh Someone cried out. Most probably it was I.
When I recovered my senses I felt someone's arms holding me. They were not Emerson's, blinking blurrily, I saw him standing nearby, with his back turned.
"It is all over, dearest Amelia," said Cyrus, pressing me closer. "Over, and safe, thank God."
"Excellent," I said, and fainted again.
The next time I woke I did not need to look to know who carried me cradled in his arms. I had been unconscious for some time, for when I opened my eyes I saw palm fronds overhead. A chicken squawked and flapped. Emerson must have kicked it aside. That was not like him, he usually stepped over them.
"Awake, are you?" he inquired, as I stirred feebly. "Allow me to be the first to congratulate you on behaving in a womanly fashion."
I turned my head and looked up at him. Perspiration had run down his cheeks and dried, leaving tracks through the dust that smeared them. "You may put me down now," I said. "I can walk."
"Oh, don't be an ass, Peabody," was the irritable reply.
"Let me take her," pleaded Cyrus, close at hand as always.
"Not necessary. We are almost there."
"How do you feel, my dear?" Cyrus asked.
"Quite well," I murmured. "Well, but rather odd. My head seems to be disconnected from the rest of me. Make sure it doesn't float away, Cyrus. It is so useful, you know. For putting one's hat onto."
"She is delirious," Cyrus said anxiously.
"She is dead drunk," said Emerson. "Interesting sensation, is it not, Peabody?"
"Yes, indeed. I had no idea."
I was about to go on, explaining some of the effects I was experiencing, when I heard the sound of running feet and a voice cried out, "Emerson! O Father of Curses, wait for me! It is well. The dog
was not mad. She is safe, she will not die!"
Emerson's arms squeezed like a vise and then relaxed. He turned, and I saw Abdullah hurrying toward
us, waving his arms. He was grinning from ear to ear and every few steps he gave an absurd little hop, like a child skipping.
We had reached the center of the village. The procession that had followed us from the cultivation—
men and women, children, chickens and goats— gathered around. Life in these villages is very dull.
Any excitement draws a crowd.
"Well?" said Emerson coolly, as his foreman came panting up.
"There had been a stick wedged in its jaws to hold its mouth open," Abdullah gasped. "The fragments pierced deep when the stick finally broke. And this"— he displayed a filthy, blood-stiffened length of tattered cord— "tied tightly around its— "
"Never mind," said Emerson, glancing at me.
"How horrible!" I exclaimed. "The poor creature! Just let me lay my hands on that villain and I will—
oh, dear. Oh, dear, suddenly I don't feel at all well. Wrath, I expect, has weakened my . . . Emerson,
you had better put me down immediately."