Guardian of the Horizon (15 page)

tomorrow will tell the tale. By morning we will be halfway between the river and the first oasis. If we can get them past that point, they will have to come on with us or risk getting lost and running out of water. Let us hope there are no more untoward incidents tonight." "Untoward incidents, indeed," I said sarcastically. "Another attack, you mean." "The Tebu do not attack at night," said Emerson, with a certainty I wished I shared. As it turned out, they did not. Morning dawned clear and bright and the first rays of the sun illumined the landmark we sought: a tumble of black stone, marked by a pair of columnar shapes. As Emerson had discovered on our first trip, it was the ruin of a small building, most probably a shrine, dating from Meroitic times. The desert had been less arid when the noble families of that vanished civilization traveled westward. There may have been waterhere two thousand years ago, though there was certainly no evidence of it now, nor of any life. The fact that the night had passed without "untoward incident" had restored the confidence of our drivers. I had thought they might entertain superstitious fears of the ancient ruin--which, as all men knew, were haunted by ghosts and afrits--but as I overheard one of them remark, "The Father of Curses and the Sitt Hakim know how to drive off demons, and if evil men come, we can hide behind the stones." It was a very sensible way of looking at the matter. So there was relieved laughter and even a snatch of song as the men set up the tents and tended to the camels. As I had expected he would, Emerson immediately discarded his coat and began crawling round the tumbled stones, emitting little yelps of excitement like a dog nosing out rabbit burrows. Ramses paced restlessly back and forth, while Selim and I boiled water for tea. I did hope Ramses was not still brooding about my request. It did not seem likely. My son was not one to let his imagination run away with him. "Father," he said suddenly. "Have a look, will you?" "What is it?" I exclaimed, rising to my feet. "Oh dear, not the Tebu again!" "No, it's all right," Ramses said. "But something's coming this way. I can't make it out, the sun is in my eyes. Father?" Emerson's eyes followed the direction of his pointing finger. "An animal of some sort." "Yes, sir," Ramses said patiently. "Well, curse it, your eyes are better than mine. If you can't tell what sort of animal, how do you expect me to? It's not moving very fast. A gazelle?" "Out here?" In my opinion this was no time for idle speculation, however much they appeared to enjoy it. "Use the binoculars," I said, somewhat sharply. "What? Oh," said Emerson. "Where are they?" "Where you left them, I suppose. Never mind, I will get them." I went back to the tent and located Emerson's binoculars, underhis coat and hat, which he had thrown on the ground. When I returned to the group, the men, including Selim, were still arguing. They had agreed that the animal must be a camel, but could not identify the nature of its rider. "It is a strange shape," Selim said somewhat nervously. "Not like a man. Does it have--does it have two heads?" Honestly, I thought. Men. Raising the binoculars to my eyes, I adjusted the focus. The animal was a camel. There were two heads, which was not surprising, since there were two people. I recognized one of them immediately--Mr. Newbold, the Great White Hunter, who did not look very great at that moment. In one arm he held the other individual, who lay limp in his grasp. The features were hidden, but I felt sure I knew who it was.

SIX

Ramses couldn't get the image out of his mind: Nefret, sprawled on the sand at his feet, her shirt crimsoned by her heart's blood . . . not dead but dying, slowly and in agony, because his hand hadn't been steady enough to do the job right. The surer alternative was a bullet through the head, but he doubted he could bring himself to do it. He had seen men die that way. It was not a pretty sight. Shooting his mother wouldn't be much fun either. If worse came to worst, a quick death was preferable to slavery, especially for a woman . . . Wasn't it? Or was that one of those hoary old sayings that people recited but never really thought about? Like "England expects every man to do his duty" and "Better death than dishonor." Did women really believe that, or was it something men wanted them to believe? At least he was no longer in doubt as to how his mother felt. Hearing that brisk, matter-of-fact voice propose the unthinkable had shaken him. But he oughtn't have been surprised; that was his mother for you. She could look a fact in the face without flinching, no matter how unpalatable it was. Which was more than he could do. He closed his eyes, as if that could shut out the image of Nefret; and then it wasn't Nefret,but the girl Daria, her blood soaking into the sand and her wide, dead eyes staring emptily, and he knew he had killed her . . . And he started out of a half-doze to see dawn pale in the eastern sky, and close ahead the twin black columns that had been their first landmark. Knowing his father would want him to spend most of the day investigating the miserable ruin, he walked back and forth, stretching his legs and trying not to look at Nefret. Emerson had apparently decided his old acquaintance had "stayed bribed," but Ramses wasn't so confident. His eyes kept straying toward the east, hoping not to see an ominous cloud of sand. What he did see eventually was not so much ominous as strange. The beast could only be a camel, but what was a single camel doing here? His mother's surprised identification ofthe camel's rider brought them all to attention. "He appears to be in distress," she added, raising her voice to be heard over Emerson's curses. "And he is holding someone before him on the saddle. Someone who is unconscious or ... Oh dear." She started impetuously forward. So did Nefret. Emerson threw out his arms and barred their path. "Stay back, both of you. What the devil did I do with my . . . Give me that, Selim, and keep the women back!" He snatched Selim's rifle and stalked off to meet the approaching riders. Ramses followed more slowly. Unlike his father, who had divested himself of binoculars, weapon, and extraneous clothing, he was armed, but he didn't draw the pistol. Newbold was not fool enough to start trouble with an enraged Emerson. He had both arms round the girl. She was a limp white bundle, wrapped in dusty garments, except for her head, which had fallen back against his shoulder. "What the devil are you doing here?" Emerson demanded. "Following you, what do you suppose?" Newbold's haggard face twitched as if he were trying to smile. "Ran into trouble, though. Barely got away. No water. Please . . ." Emerson nodded at his son, and Ramses caught the girl as she slipped through Newbold's failing hold. She was as light as a bird. Her eyes opened, and a dreadful ripple of deja vu ran through him. It was the face he had seen in his dream, pale and empty-eyed. Then her eyelids fell and she turned her face against his breast. "Take her to your mother, Ramses," Emerson ordered. He held the heavy rifle in one hand, as easily as he would have held a pistol. "Come ahead, Newbold. You can stick on for another twenty feet, I presume." Nefret broke away from Selim and came running to meet Ramses. "Is she hurt? Poor little thing, that brute had no business forcing her to come with him on a trek like this. Put her in my tent, Ramses." Ramses left her crooning reassurances as she divested Daria of her muffling garments. The girl hadn't spoken, but she was awake and aware; the wide dark eyes followed him as he went out of the tent. His mother was ministering to Newbold--in her own fashion. She prodded the bruise on his face with sufficient force to wring a grunt of protest from him and then snatched the cup of water from his hand. "Your injury is superficial. Not too much water; you ought to know better." "This isn't my kind of country," Newbold said. "Thank you, Mrs. Emerson. Now may I lie down and get some sleep? I've been on that camel for almost twenty-four hours." Ramses had to admire the man's nerve; he was behaving as if he were an invited guest. His nonchalance had no effect on Selim and Daoud, who stood over him like prison guards. Emerson's scowl grew even darker. "So was the--er--young lady, I presume. How is she, Ramses?" "Just tired and thirsty, I think. Nefret is looking after her." "Very well, Newbold, start talking," Emerson said. "You can rest after you've told us what you are doing here. It will probably be a pack of lies, but I believe I can winnow the truth out of it." "There's no point in trying to lie about why I'm here," Newbold said coolly. "I've been on your trail ever since Cairo, where I heard a number of things that made me believe you were after something more lucrative than a wrecked archaeological site. Your sudden departure from the train at Abu Hamed caught me unawares--but it also confirmed my suspicions. You wouldn't have lied about your destination if your purpose had been what you claimed." His voice had grown hoarse. "Mrs. Emerson, may I trouble you for another sip of water?" Face grim, she provided it. "Go on, Mr. Newbold." "We left the train at Berber and hired camels and drivers. You had left Nuri by the time we arrived there, but the obliging villagers told me which way you'd gone, and it wasn't difficult to follow your trail, since you were only a few hours ahead. Then we ran into the trouble I mentioned--a band of raiders. They killed my men--shot some of them in cold blood after they had surrendered. Their camp is a day's ride to the southwest--there's a well, which they keep cleared." Again his voice failed. He took another sip of water. "They intended to hold me and Daria for ransom, or so they said. I thought it wiser not to take that for granted. Early yesterday morning, several hours before dawn, most of the men rode away, and I saw my chance. Stole back one of my camels and Daria, and made my escape." "Daring escape, don't you mean?" Emerson inquired. "Why didn't you head back to the river instead of trying to locate us--a needle in a haystack, so to speak?" Newbold looked back at him without expression. "Followed the raiders' trail, I suppose," said Emerson. "Lucky you were able to elude them when they were on their way back, eh? Oh, the devil with it. Find him a blanket and a bit of shade, Daoud, and stand guard over him until I relieve you." Already the sun was high enough to make the ground shimmer. Ramses heard his mother humming to herself. The melody was one of her favorite Gilbert and Sullivan songs: "Here's a state of things--here's a pretty mess." "You've got that right, Mother," he said. "What shall we do with the bastard?" "Tie him up and leave him here," Selim said promptly. "We can make the knots so he can free himself after we have gone, and we will leave one of the camels and enough water for him to reach the Nile." "The girl too?" Ramses inquired. His mother gave him a look of mild surprise, and he realized she had been about to ask the same question. She hadn't expected him to make it first. Neither had he. To cover his confusion he took out a cigarette. It was an indulgence he seldom permitted himself, since his supply was limited, and smoking dried the throat. "I fear that idea is not feasible, Selim," Emerson said, filling his pipe. "In addition to the objection Ramses has raised, supposing he wasn't able to free himself? He would die horribly and slowly of dehydration. Much as I despise the fellow, I don't want his death on my hands. And if he were able to free himself soon enough, he would be right back on our trail." He shook his head regretfully. "I can only think of two alternatives. Either we take them along or we send them back with enough of our men to make sure they do go back. Well, Peabody, what is your opinion? I feel certain you have one." "I am not certain I do, Emerson." Her husband gave an exaggerated start of surprise, and she went on, with less than her usual assurance. "Neither alternative is ideal. Showing him the way to the Holy Mountain is precisely what we wanted to prevent and what he hoped to achieve. On the other hand, providing an adequate escort would mean divesting ourselves of at least half a dozen men and camels. That would leave us dangerously short-handed." "There is a third alternative," said Emerson, puffing thoughtfully. "Not alternative, Emerson. There can only be two. The derivation of the word--" "Never mind the confounded grammar lesson, Peabody. We could take them as far as the first oasis and leave them there, along with the slowest and most timid of our drivers." After a moment Ramses said, "I think you've hit on the only possible solution, Father. From the oasis we will be escorted by Tarek's men." And, he added to himself, we'll have fewer deaths on our conscience if something goes wrong. If only they could persuade his mother and Nefret to stay too. "Are we agreed, then?" Emerson asked. "Good. Get some rest, Peabody." "You too, Emerson." "Shortly, shortly. Ramses and I want to do a bit of excavating, isn't that right, my boy? You too, Selim." "Yes, sir," said Ramses. "Yes, Father of Curses," said Selim resignedly.

From that point on, Emerson changed the routine of our march. The bitter cold of the night and the steaming heat of midday were equally unbearable, so he broke the trek into two parts, the first from around midnight until nine or ten A.M., the second from late afternoon until men and camels both gave out, which usually happened around eight. As we went on, day after steaming day and night after starry night, there were fewer bones and other evidences of life along the trail. The men were tired. More and more frequently they dropped out of line to snatch half an hour's sleep before running to catch us up. We were delayed for several hours when one of them failed to return; he had "walked to his fate," as the desert men put it, losing his head and his sense of direction after unremitting hours of sand and heat. Emerson finally located him, wandering aimlessly at right angles to the trail, and brought him back. Emerson kept riding back, looking for signs of pursuit. He returned from one such foray with a furrowed brow, and I inquired apprehensively, "Did you see anything suspicious?" Emerson shook his head, and Ramses, who was walking with me, said, "That's good." "I'm not so sure," Emerson replied. "We've had encounters with the slavers and Newbold. We have yet to hear from the military and the Egyptological community." "Surely not now," I protested. "We are too far from the river." "I'm not so sure," Emerson repeated. "And what about Merasen and his confederates, whoever they may be?" "They have the map," Ramses said. "They wouldn't have to keep close on our trail." Newbold plodded along in sullen silence. Nefret had kept Daria with her, and Emerson had refused Newbold's demand that she be returned to him with such eloquence that the request was not repeated. The girl now shrank from Newbold, hurrying to whichever one of them was closest to her when he approached. I wondered what the fellow had done to her. She had claimed she wasn't afraid of him. Forth's second landmark, the dead tree, had fallen at last. Its bleached white branches looked like the skeleton of a mythical monster. As we sat round the campfire that night, Emerson said, "Only three more days to the oasis. I wonder what we will find there." "Water, I trust," I said. "The stopper came out of one of the fatasses today and several gallons were lost before anyone noticed." "There is plenty of water," Emerson replied. "I was wondering whether Tarek has sent an escort to meet us." "He surely will," Nefret said eagerly. "He must be as anxious to see us as we are to see him." Ramses, who had been tracing abstract designs in the sand with a stick, looked up. "He may have given us up by now. It took Merasen--" He stopped, with a snap of teeth, at a warning gesture from Emerson. Newbold was not a part of the group--he never was, since we had made it plain his company was not wanted--but he was sitting a little distance away, listening. We had told him nothing about our final destination or the circumstances that had prompted our journey, only that we proposed to leave him in safety and relative comfort within a few days. He had not given up trying to learn more, however. After his attempts to ingratiate himself with Selim and Daoud had failed miserably, he took to chatting with the drivers. This too was a failure; they knew even less than he did, and his attempts at bonhomie were not convincing, since he considered "natives" beneath him. The terrain began to change, becoming rougher and more broken. Walking was difficult, and the men complained of sore feet. Theirheel-less slippers were not suitable for country like this. Even the hardy Bedouin were showing signs of uneasiness. One morning, while the men were unloading the camels, Zerwali the Bedouin approached Emerson. After the formal greetings, he asked how much farther Emerson meant to go. "I hired you for thirty marhalas," Emerson reminded him. "We have only been seven days on the march." "But you did not tell us where we were going. This is new country to me. We do not come this way." "We have only encountered one group of raiders," Emerson pointed out. "And as you saw, they surrendered as soon as they recognized me." "It is not ordinary raiders that keep us from this path." He hesitated, reluctant to admit fear, and then went on, "Years ago, some of the young men among our people heard of a rich oasis to the west and set out to find it. They did not come back. Others went forth. None came back. And there are legends . . ." "Ah yes, the customary legends," said Emerson to me. "Told by those who never saw the fearsome sights they describe." He went on in Arabic, "What sort of legends, Zerwali?" "Of burning mountains and fiery rain, O Father of Curses. Of men--if they are men and not afrits--eight feet tall whose arrows never miss their mark and who can outrun the fastest stallion." "Hmmm," said Emerson, stroking his by-now horrible beard. "Well, Zerwali, you have my word--the word of the Father of Curses--that we will meet no such dangers as you have described. Don't tell me you are afraid--you, who jeered at the Nubians for cowardice?" Zerwali gave him an evil look but left without further comment. We had been amazingly lucky, in fact. We had not lost a man or a camel, and despite the slight accident to the fatasse our water supply was holding up, even if it did taste vile. Late on the following day we passed a grotesque jumble of dried skin and white bones. "Could that have been our last camel?" I asked Emerson, who was walking with me. "I have been keepingtrack of the time, and it seems to me that we have just about reached the point where it collapsed." "It's possible," Emerson said indifferently. "Not that . . . Here, Peabody, where the devil are you going?" He followed me, of course. I stood by the miserable heap, remembering that terrible day, when the demise of our last camel had left us stranded miles from water, with little hope of reaching it before dehydration and exhaustion overcame us. Yet my strongest memories were of courage and loyalty--Tarek, who had never deserted us and who was to save us in the end; Ramses, only ten years of age, plodding doggedly through the sand without a whimper of complaint; Emerson, the bravest of men . . . "Are you going to say a prayer over it?" inquired the bravest of men disagreeably. I forgave him his little joke. If it was a joke. "I only wondered if the things we had to leave behind were still here." "Hmmm," said Emerson, his interest revived by the prospect of digging. We found nothing, though we excavated all round the cadaver. "No great loss," said Emerson. "Changes of clothing and a few books--that was about all we abandoned, wasn't it?" "Do you suppose Tarek came back and retrieved them? He was a great reader." Emerson gave me a long look. "Peabody, don't tell me you loaded us down with a supply of trashy novels for Tarek." "Naturally I brought gifts," I replied composedly. "Mr. Rider Haggard has written several other novels in the interim, and I also thought Tarek might like The Prisoner of Zenda and The Scarlet Pimpernel." "I don't doubt he would," Emerson muttered. "He had a weakness for romantic twaddle! It is getting dark. We had better catch the rest of them up." He persuaded me to ride for a while, so I mounted his camel and he walked beside me, his long strides easily matching the pace of the beast. I had been about to ask him how much farther we hadto go, but he kept mumbling to himself--the word "twaddle" was oft repeated--so I decided to work it out for myself. We had been approximately one marhala from the first oasis when the last camel perished, but our pace from then on had been slowed by my feverish malady and Ramses's short legs, to say nothing of a deficiency of water. When we stopped that night, Emerson had predicted it would take us two more days to reach the oasis, and Kemit had replied--how well I remembered!--"Half a day for a running man." We had waked next morning to find him gone. Though of course we went on, we hadn't got very far before even Emerson's giant strength at last failed, and I was unconscious when the rescue party Kemit led back along the trail arrived in the nick of time to save us. So then . . . with a strange little thrill I realized we were within a few hours of our destination. I could not recall much about the place; on our initial journey I had been in a coma, which lasted until after we reached the Holy Mountain, and on the return trip-- which might more accurately be called a "flight"--we had stayed only long enough to rest for a few hours and acquire fresh camels. It had been a pleasant spot, with flourishing palm trees and rich grass. One could easily understand why the desert men fought over such places, their emerald grass more precious than emerald gems in the midst of the wilderness. Would we reach it by the end of this night's march? Now that we were so close, my impatience could hardly be contained. I yearned for greenery and shade, for cold, pure water instead of the foul-tasting liquid in the fatasses--and, of course, for word of our friend. When Emerson called a halt shortly after midnight I protested. "Surely we can reach the oasis by morning if we go on, Emerson. I yearn for greenery and shade, for cold, pure--" "Yes, yes," said Emerson. "Come now, Peabody, you ought to know better than suggest we ride blithely up to the place in the dark. Tarek keeps a garrison there, and its purpose is to intercept curious travelers--by one means or another." "Oh. You are in the right, Emerson," I admitted generously. "It is just that I yearn--" "So does Nefret," said Emerson, as the men began barrakking and unloading the camels. "I had to speak firmly to her. Try to talk some sense into the girl, will you? And get into your blankets, the cold is bitter. As soon as it is light Ramses and I will go on ahead and reconnoiter." By now the men had become adept at efficient unloading, so it was not long before the tents were set up and our personal baggage placed in them. Excitement filled me with energy, and I wanted a cup of tea before I retired, so I joined Selim by the fire he had started. He had already begun brewing--or stewing--the tea. The Arab method of making tea is to boil the leaves until the liquid is dark brown. "This is almost the last of the firewood, Sitt," he said. "It does not matter, Selim. Tomorrow we will be with friends, who will supply us with everything we need." At least I hoped so. We had been proceeding on the assumption that though Tarek's messenger might be untrustworthy, Tarek's need of us was genuine. For our friend's sake we dared not assume otherwise. Tarek knew we would come if we could, but he had no way of knowing when. "Ah," said Selim. "And we will be rid of him, is it not so?" He nodded at Newbold, who was edging up to the fire. He had let himself go rather badly. None of us was fit for polite society, since bathing was impossible, but we had made the best use of the small amounts of water we allowed ourselves for washing, and Ramses had shaved every day, without having to be reminded more than three times. I had also reminded Emerson, who chose to take my remarks as suggestions which he felt free to disregard. His beard was now luxuriant, but at least he kept it clean and trimmed, which Newbold did not. "Am I to be allowed a cup of tea?" the hunter asked. "Or am I still persona non grata?" "You have had the same comforts we have had, so don't whine," I replied, handing him a cup. I had planned to have a little chat with Nefret, but she had retired with Daria into their tent, and when I approached it I saw theflap was closed. I understood how she must be feeling; all these long weeks she had worried about the little boy, Tarek's heir, and whether or not she would be in time to help him and his father. In a few hours she would find out, and the suspense was terrible. It was obvious that she preferred to be alone, so I did not force my company upon her. The moon was on the wane and the air was icy cold. Shivering, I retreated to my tent. I knew I would not sleep a wink . . . I was rudely awakened by a loud shout. Removing Emerson's arm from my person, I snatched up my parasol, crawled over him to the flap of the tent, and emerged into the chilly predawn light. The camp was ringed round by motionless forms, black against the paling sky. They were taller than any human could possibly be, their heads were oddly deformed, and each carried a long lance. "Friends?" said Selim to me. He had waked early in order to start a fire, and his shout had aroused the sleepers. I could hardly blame him for crying out in alarm, though as the light strengthened I realized that the seemingly abnormal height of the newcomers was caused by the fact that they were mounted on camels and that their heads were covered by helmetlike caps crowned with feathers. The spears were very long, and the quivers slung over their shoulders bristled with arrows. Emerson was among the last to appear, rubbing his eyes and cursing, but the sight brought him awake in a hurry. "Friends, yes," he said. "They do not look friendly," said Selim dubiously. Emerson turned in a circle, examining the riders. None of them had moved. "They are unquestionably from the Holy Mountain," he said, stroking his beard. "The headgear is unfamiliar--Tarek must have changed his guards' uniforms--but the shields are the same, and the bows." "If they are friends," said Daoud, who had been thinking it over, "why do they not greet you?" "Hmmm, well, I'm not sure," Emerson admitted. "Hold your fire, you damned fools," he added. "Ramses, will you--" A loud explosion interrupted him. Zerwali and the other Bedouin had crowded round, their weapons in their hands. It was Zerwali who had fired. Before the echoes of the shot died, he screamed and fell, clutching at his throat. An arrow had gone straight through it. "They are the demons of whom we told you," one of the Bedouin cried. "Are you men or children?" Emerson demanded. "Put down your weapons. They are human beings, like yourselves, and Zerwali was a fool who deserved his fate. Is he dead, Nefret?" "Yes." A single look had been enough. Nefret straightened. "Let me talk to them." Emerson frowned at her. "Go inside the tent and dress yourself," he said. "Ramses, come with me." He seldom used such a brusque tone with her. When he did she knew better than to disobey, but her face was mutinous. "My dear, it is a man's world," I said with somewhat forced cheerfulness. The immobile forms were beginning to get on my nerves. "Leave it to Emerson and Ramses. Ramses's Meroitic is not as good as yours, but it should be adequate." With his customary (when he is fully awake) acuity, Emerson had identified the leader of the troop. The man had more feathers on his hat and a medallion or pectoral depending from a cord round his neck. It shone like gold, as did the heavy armlet on his right arm. Like all the