Children of the Storm (7 page)

“I can’t see any wounds or bruises,” Nefret said. She bent over the youth and was about to loosen his collar when his golden lashes fluttered and lifted, framing eyes of a soft, celestial blue. A dreamy smile curved the delicate lips. “You are very beautiful,” he said, catching hold of Nefret’s hand. “Are you an angel or a goddess? The Egyptian goddesses had dark hair . . .”

“A friend,” Nefret said gently. “I will take care of you.”

“François will take care of me.” His eyes moved in innocent curiosity around the circle of staring faces. “Where is he? Where is my good François?”

“Here, young master, here.” François, for so the boy’s smile of recognition proved him to be, had accepted the futility of struggle. His body relaxed and his features lost their ferocity. They were no more pleasant in repose; his nose was crooked and a seamed scar twisted his mouth. He had the shallow, retreating brow that some authorities consider evidence of a criminal nature, and the lower portion of his face was out of proportion, with a long jaw and large cheekbones. “Let me go to him,” he begged. “Monsieur, s’il vous plaît—je vous en prie—”

“It appears,” I remarked, “that we may have misjudged the situation. Release him, Ramses.”

The man knelt beside the boy and lifted him gently to his feet, the tenderness of his manner in striking contrast to his former ferocity. “We will go home now,” he murmured. “Come, young master. Come with François.”

“Yes.” The boy nodded. “But first I must know the names of these new friends, and I must tell them mine. I am Justin Fitzroyce. And you, beautiful lady?”

The sad truth had dawned on Nefret, as it had on me. She spoke to him as she would have spoken to a child, and like a well-trained child he gave each of us his hand as Nefret pronounced our names. “I will see you again, I hope,” he said sweetly. “You will come to visit me?”

“Thank you,” I said. “Where do you live?”

François, his arm supporting the slim frame of his “young master,” nodded toward the river. “The dahabeeyah Isis. You may speak to my mistress if you still doubt me.” The face that had been so benevolent when he spoke to the boy darkened again, and he turned blazing eyes on Ramses.

“There is no need,” I said.

“No! You must come. My honor has been questioned. She will tell you.”

“I am sorry,” my son began.

“There is no need to apologize,” I said firmly. “François surely understands that a stranger might have misinterpreted his behavior and acted in what he believed to be the boy’s defense.”

A curt nod was the only response from François, but the boy continued to smile and wave as his servant led him away.

“What a sad state of affairs,” said my dear, soft-hearted Emerson. “The lad must be subject to fits. It was necessary for his manservant to subdue him lest he harm himself.”

“Possibly,” Nefret said. “Persons in a state of mania can have extraordinary strength. Frenzy is not typical of epilepsy, however.”

“No,” I agreed. “And one would have supposed that if François was aware of his master’s condition he would have learned how to deal with it less forcibly. Goodness gracious, he is twice the boy’s size.”

“And built like a prizefighter,” Ramses said, absently rubbing his wrist. “He knows a few dirty moves too.”

“It is not our affair,” Emerson declared. “You heard me, Peabody; you are not to call on his family and pry into their affairs and lecture them about medical treatment. You always—”

“No, Emerson, I do not ‘always,’ and I have no intention of interfering in this case. We have other matters to attend to.”

“Too true,” said Cyrus, sighing.

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

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They stopped by the Castle in the forlorn hope that the missing Italian had turned up after all. He had not. Emerson persuaded Cyrus and Bertie to go to Deir el Medina with him, and Katherine emphatically seconded the suggestion. They could not expect to hear from Russell until late that night and, as Katherine candidly admitted, “To be honest, my dear, if you search that room one more time, I shall scream.”

Ramses helped Nefret collect his vociferous offspring and their paraphernalia. His mother marched off to Emerson’s study, with a glint in her eyes that made Ramses wonder what she was up to now. He decided it was more than likely that Emerson would stroll in that evening to find she had finished the article for him. Then there would be a row. About time, he thought. They hadn’t had a first-class argument in days.

They rode the horses, since the distance was too great for short legs. Ramses took his daughter up with him on Risha and Nefret held Davy, who was a fraction less wriggly than his sister. They loved riding with their parents and Charla told Ramses so at length. He assumed from her chuckles and gestures that was what she was talking about; he didn’t understand a word.

They were eagerly awaited, especially by Selim’s four youngest children, who ranged in age from a staggering one-year-old to the big sister of six. Daoud and his wife Kadija had stopped by, too. Ramses knew he wouldn’t see much of Nefret for the rest of the afternoon; she and Kadija were close friends, and Kadija, a woman of majestic proportions and the owner of a famous green ointment whose recipe she had inherited from her Nubian foremothers, was still shy of him and his father. She and Nefret went off with Selim’s wives and the children, leaving the men to smoke and drink coffee under the shady arcade of the courtyard.

Daoud planted his huge hands on his large knees and beamed at Ramses. His beard was grizzled now, but his strength was unimpaired. It was equaled only by his large heart. “Is there news?” he asked hopefully.

There was plenty of news. Ordinarily Ramses would have taken Selim into his confidence, but although he was extremely fond of Daoud, he was well aware of the latter’s weakness for gossip. “Nothing you don’t know,” he said. “We go to Cairo on the Sunday, and will bring the family back with us a few days later.”

“Sooner than later,” said Daoud firmly. “It has been too long since they have been here, and to think I have never set eyes on the namesake and great-grandson of my honored uncle Abdullah!”

“They call him Dolly,” Ramses said. “They plan to stay the entire season, so you will see a great deal of him.”

Selim’s fine dark eyes had moved from speaker to speaker. Now he cleared his throat. “This time it is Daoud who has news to tell. He has found out why Hassan left the Father of Curses.”

Daoud looked reproachful. He enjoyed his reputation as the family’s official storyteller, and he would have worked up to the disclosure with proper rhetoric. However, he rallied promptly. “It is surprising news, Ramses. You would never have imagined it. Even I, when he told me, was struck dumb with amazement. My eyes opened wide and my voice failed me.”

“But not for long,” said Selim, grinning. He sobered almost at once; Ramses had the impression that something was troubling him. “So, Daoud, do not draw the tale out. Tell Ramses what Hassan said.”

“I will show him,” Daoud declared, rising ponderously to his feet. “Come, Ramses. It is not far.”

Ramses waved Selim’s protest aside. Daoud had been deprived of his great announcement; he was entitled to prolong the suspense. “Where?” he asked, rising in his turn.

“Follow me.” Selim went to the door of the house and called out, raising his voice to be heard over the bedlam within. “We are going out. We will come back soon.”

“So you have to report to the ladies, do you?” Ramses asked as they followed Daoud along the street, if it could be called that. The village had grown like Topsy, without any coherent plan, and the paths wound around and sometimes through modern houses and ancient tombs. “And I hear from Daoud that you are contemplating taking a third wife. Remember the advice I passed on to you last year. Three women are six times as much trouble as two.”

Selim smiled and stroked his beard. “I tell them what I choose and I do as I like.”

“Of course. And the third wife?”

“They cannot agree whether I should do it.”

He glanced at Ramses’s carefully controlled face and burst into a hearty laugh. “So. Am I—what is the word?—henpecked?”

“Only wise,” Ramses said, joining in his laughter. “Your English gets better all the time, Selim. I say, is Daoud offended by our levity? Even his back looks hurt. What’s this all about?”

“Perhaps it is better that you see,” Selim admitted.

Their destination was the modern cemetery near the village. Like the ancient burial grounds, it was located in the desert, not in the green strip of irrigation bordering the river. It was the hottest time of the day; the barren ground baked in the sun’s rays. For the most part the graves were small and humble, marked only by simple pillars or low benchlike tombstones. The most impressive monument was the tomb they had had built for Abdullah. Designed by David, it was of conventional form—a domed, four-sided structure—but unusually graceful and attractive. Even from a distance Ramses saw that it looked different. His amazement mounted as they drew nearer. A rope slung across the lovely arched entrance held a bizarre variety of what must be offerings—strings of beads and glass, handkerchiefs, a bunch of hair. Under the cupola, next to the low monument over the tomb itself, sat a motionless form, turbaned head bent, hands folded.

“Good Lord,” Ramses exclaimed. “It’s Hassan. What the devil is he doing?”

“He is the servant of the sheikh,” Daoud said.

“What sheikh? Not Abdullah!”

Hassan got up and came to meet them, ducking his head under the rope with its motley attachments. Ramses observed that the white marble floor was strewn with flowers and palm branches, some fresh and colorful, some withered. Hassan did not appear to be practicing asceticism. He had been smoking a narghile and there were plates of bread and other food around him.

“What is this, Hassan?” Ramses demanded. “No one loved and admired Abdullah more than I, but he was no holy man.”

“It is good that you have come, Brother of Demons,” said Hassan, employing Ramses’s Egyptian nickname. His smile was beatific. Ramses wondered if there had been something in the pipe besides tobacco.

“He is a sheikh, without doubt,” Hassan went on. “Did he not save the life of the Sitt Hakim at the sacrifice of his own? Did he not come to her in a dream, as holy men do, and tell her to build him a proper tomb?”

Ramses looked at Daoud, who met his critical gaze with an unembarrassed smile. How their large friend had heard of his mother’s dreams of Abdullah he could not imagine; she had not confided even in the immediate family until recently. Her belief in the validity of those dreams was one of her few streaks of superstition; but believe she did. The skepticism of the rest of them did not affect her in the slightest, and Ramses had to admit, if only to himself, that the consistency and vividness of the visions were oddly impressive. One of the household staff must have overheard her talking about them, and passed the word on. Once it reached Daoud, the whole West Bank would know.

“But a holy man must perform miracles,” he argued.

“He has done that,” Hassan said. “When that wretched boy, who had sinned against the laws of the Prophet, would have killed again in the very shadow of Sheikh Abdullah’s tomb, did he not destroy the sinner? He performed other miracles for me. My heart was guilty and afraid. As soon as I came here and promised to be his servant I was glad again, and the pains in my body went away, and now you see that others have come to ask for his favor.” He gestured at the sad little offerings. “Already he has stopped the cough that kept Mohammed Ibrahim from drawing breath and cured Ali’s goat. Come, and pray with me. Ask him for his blessing.”

It wasn’t hashish that brought the light to his eyes. It was religious fervor—and who the hell am I, Ramses thought, to tell him he’s wrong, or deny such a harmless request?

He knew the prayers. He had known them since childhood. Removing his shoes, he followed the prescribed path round the catafalque. Daoud’s sincere, deep bass voice blended with his. “Peace be on the Apostles, and praise be to God, the Lord of the beings of the entire earth.”

They started back to Selim’s house, leaving Hassan cross-legged under the cupola. Daoud was enormously pleased with his surprise. “My uncle Abdullah will be happy to be a sheikh,” he remarked. “When next he speaks to the Sitt Hakim he will no doubt tell her so.”

“I will be sure to let you know if he does,” Ramses said wryly. He couldn’t imagine how his mother was going to react to this news.

Selim had joined in the prayers but not in the discussion. He strode along in silence. Ramses was not certain how devout he was; he followed the Five Pillars of Islam, observing the fast of Ramadan and giving generously to the poor, but some of his habits had been affected by his unabashed Anglophilia. He was more indulgent to his young wives than most local men, and he had adopted a number of English customs.

Including afternoon tea, which was ready when they reached the house, and the mingling of the sexes for that meal. Ramses had hoped for a private conversation with Selim; but there was no chance of that, with the children dashing around and shrieking, and the women all talking at once. Accepting a cup of tea from Selim’s younger wife, he smiled at Nefret, who had Selim’s baby on her lap. Did she want another child? he wondered. They hadn’t talked about it. As far as he was concerned, two were quite enough. He never wanted to see Nefret go through that ordeal of blood and pain again. Being a father was such a gigantic responsibility. A dozen times a day he asked himself if he was doing it right.

The dregs of his tea spattered the floor but he managed to hold on to the cup as Davy clambered onto his lap. He held the warm little body close. Maybe he was doing something right.

Kadija was watching them from over her veil. She was the only one of the women who would not unveil in his presence. His mother had often reminded her that since David’s marriage to Lia they were all one family now, but Kadija came from a Nubian tribe where the old traditions were strong. She had finally consented to use his first name, however.