A River in the Sky

by Elizabeth Peters

  Once again Emerson’s formidable presence calmed the storm.

  “The disturbance has ended,” he announced in the loudest possible voice. “There is no danger. Go about your business. What about breakfast, eh?”

  This last to me. I acquiesced, for the morning’s activity had left me quite peckish, and we all proceeded into the dining salon. In response to our friends’ questions, I explained what had occurred.

  “But, Professor,” Nefret exclaimed. “You are injured. Come upstairs and let me—”

  “Just a bump on the head,” said Emerson, shoveling in eggs and toast. “Hurry and finish, all of you. We must be on our way. Where is that fellow—er—”

  “Hiding in his room, I think,” said Selim, who fully agreed with Emerson’s refusal to mention Plato’s name.

  “Go and roust him out,” Emerson ordered. “From now on I want him under my eye.”

  I persuaded Emerson to allow me to examine his injuries, which were, as I had realized, superficial. He had an impressive lump on his cranium, but as he pointed out with perfect equanimity, that portion of his anatomy had frequently suffered in such a manner. We returned to the lobby, where I arranged for porters to carry the supplies I had purchased the night before. Selim had Plato firmly by the arm; Nefret and Daoud were waiting; and so was a slim young man with a little blond mustache. He was still twisting his hat.

  I had completely forgotten about him. Emerson would have said so and was, I believe, about to do just that when I bade Mr. Camden a courteous good-morning.

  “I was here at eight,” he hastened to remark. “But no one seemed to know where you had gone, and then you went to breakfast, and I did not like—”

  “Most considerate, ’pon my word,” said Emerson. “Well, well, let us be off.”

  We made an imposing procession, proceeding two by two like the animals entering the Ark, Emerson and I in the lead, Nefret behind us with Selim, and Daoud towing Mr. Plato. The latter had protested making one of the party, claiming that his throat was sore, his head ached, and his feet hurt. Needless to say, his complaints had no effect on Emerson, nor on Daoud. Mr. Camden trailed along behind, followed by a string of porters carry ing my purchases.

  “That was something else I neglected to do,” said Emerson in a low voice. (Low for Emerson, that is.) “Ask Page about that chap Camden.”

  “No doubt you will be able to test his knowledge yourself, Emerson. You are proceeding directly to the site you have chosen to excavate, I presume?”

  “Too damn many things to do first,” Emerson grumbled. “I will get you settled at our new house, and talk to Kamir about leasing the land. This is the last time I try to work in this benighted country, Peabody. Things are much simpler in Egypt, and not so dangerous.”

  Remembering our frequent encounters with violent criminals thirsting for our blood, I smiled a little. I understood what he meant, however. Ordinary villains are one thing; religious rioters and spies of various nationalities are less predictable.

  “Then,” Emerson continued, “I intend to reinforce what I told Morley yesterday by inspecting his excavation. It is a sacrifice, but one I am obliged to make.”

  “In fact, you are dying to find out what he’s up to,” I remarked.

  Emerson’s scowl became a broad grin. “Quite right, my dear. As a reward for your insight, I will allow you to accompany me.”

  OUR ARRIVAL WAS ANNOUNCED in advance by the usual idlers who had nothing better to do than lounge around waiting for something interesting to happen. As we neared the house I had selected, we were met by Kamir himself, beaming and bowing.

  “What is this?” he demanded, surveying our porters with scorn. “You need nothing, I have made all ready for you. Come and see, come and see.”

  To give him credit, which I must do, he had accomplished quite a good deal. The worst of the dust had been removed and several pieces of furniture supplied—chairs and tables and several bedsteads. The best one could say for the furniture was that it was very sturdy.

  Waiting for us in an adjoining room were three potential servants. All three were unveiled; they had expected to see only other females, but Daoud, who had not realized what we were about to do, had followed Nefret, still towing Plato. The women shrieked and readjusted their veils. Plato pulled away from Daoud and fled, and poor Daoud, horribly embarrassed at his breach of manners, backed out of the room mumbling apologies.

  Once the men had left, two of the women were persuaded to lower their veils. Stout females of middle age, both pressed their cases vehemently, promising to work their fingers to the bone (the Arabic equivalent). One claimed to be an experienced cook, adding proudly, “I can make the English dishes too. Bistek, butter to-ast, egg.”

  The other woman had retreated to a corner, where she stood with bowed head. “And you?” I said. “Do you also wish to work for us?”

  She raised her head and I saw a smooth, fine-skinned brow and two big brown eyes, rimmed with kohl, under delicately curved brows. “I can, I wish to…” She faltered.

  “Speak up,” I said, not unkindly. “Can you clean? Carry water from the pool?”

  “No, Sitt. I wash clothes, I wash them very clean, I work at my house, I bring them all back next day, I cannot be here because I…because…”

  “She has a child.” The self-proclaimed cook, who had told me her name was Yumna, spoke up loudly. “A child who has no father.”

  There was no particular malice in her voice, she was simply stating a fact; but the girl shrank back and bowed her head. Nefret, her sympathy immediately engaged, said gently, “How old is the child, and who watches over it when you are not at home?”

  We hired the girl, of course. Nefret told her she must bring the baby, which was a girl a little over a year old, with her when she came to us, since the old woman who looked after her did not sound reliable.

  “I wish you had consulted me before you said that, Nefret,” I remarked in English. “What are we supposed to do with an infant underfoot?”

  “It won’t be underfoot, or on the premises for long at a time, Aunt Amelia.”

  Her protruding chin and firm mouth told me argument would be futile. She would probably take not only the baby but its youthful mother under her wing. I knew I could expect no support from Emerson. He is hopelessly sentimental about unprotected young women and infants. (He suffers from the delusion that no one knows this.) I am not wholly hard-hearted myself. I gave in with no more than a sigh.

  After unpacking the supplies I had brought, I gave the two older women a lecture on cleaning methods, warning them in the strictest possible terms about the danger of inhaling or consuming ammonia, carbolic, Keating’s powder, and other dangerous materials. “If I find you have done so,” I said sternly, “I will dismiss you.”

  In fact, doing what I had forbidden might well have “dismissed” them permanently; but I had made that point as firmly as I could, and felt an additional inducement to sensible behavior would do no harm. After I had demonstrated the proper method of scrubbing floors and walls, I decided I could leave them to it.

  “Finished?” Emerson inquired when I joined him. “Finally! Women do make such a fuss about these things.”

  He would be the one to make a fuss if he were made to sleep on the floor or do without his morning coffee. Remembering our comfortable, well-furnished house in Luxor and my excellent house keeper Fatima, I too had begun to regret agreeing to this expedition, if for no other reason (and there were other reasons) than that I would have to start all over again here. And, thanks to my son’s thoughtless behavior, I would not be present for the next few days in order to supervise the work.

  “Have you come to an arrangement with the owner of the property where you intend to excavate?” I asked.

  A grunt from Emerson and a pleased smile from Kamir acknowledged that arrangements had been made, to the satisfaction of the latter at least.

  “Now for Mr. Morley,” I said.

  “He will be at luncheon,�
�� said Emerson scornfully.

  A slight movement from Daoud indicated that he too wished he were, but Emerson was in no mood to brook delay. He led the way down the hill and off to the right, stopping at last at the base of a steep slope of rock. It was not very high, only about twenty feet, but it was almost sheer and devoid of vegetation except for thorny shrubs and an occasional cactus. How he found the right spot I do not know, for the place looked no different from the terrain on either side—stony and barren, strewn with stretches of what might once have been walls or terraces—or random heaps of stone.

  Several men of the village had followed us, offering their services as diggers. Their importunities wrung a mild “Curse it” from Emerson. “I want this area roped off,” he said to Selim. “Ask Kamir for the necessary materials, I feel sure he can supply them—at a price.”

  “What about him?” Selim asked, indicating Plato.

  “Nefret will make sure he doesn’t wander off.”

  “Of course.” She took Plato by the arm. “Are you feeling quite well, Mr. Plato?”

  Plato lowered the scarf he had wound round his neck and coughed hollowly. “Better, my dear, better. A trifle faint from lack of nourishment, that is all.”

  “We may as well have a spot of lunch while we wait for Selim,” I suggested.

  Daoud was happy to go in search of nourishment. He came back with bread and cheese, dates and figs. We had not quite finished when Selim returned, with a coil of rope over his shoulder and an armful of stout stakes. Emerson paced off the area he wanted enclosed, and then addressed our audience.

  “In two days’ time I will return and hire workers. Until then no one is to dig in this place or pass behind the ropes. If you disobey I will know and my curse will fall upon you. Your eyes will go dark and your ears will wither and fall off, and so will your—”

  It was this last threat—which propriety prevents me from recording—that carried the greatest conviction. A chorus of protestations arose, and as Emerson waved his arms in mystic gestures, some of the men retreated to a safe distance.

  I handed Emerson the last piece of cheese, plucking it out from under Plato’s hand. “Well done, my dear. Have we finished here? Obviously you cannot begin work today.”

  “No,” Emerson admitted reluctantly. “We haven’t the necessary tools or the cameras, or…Camden, did Petrie teach you anything about opening a new site? How would you begin here?”

  “Well, uh…As you said, sir, photographs…Laying out a grid…” He looked helplessly at the unprepossessing slope. “This isn’t at all like an ordinary tell.”

  “Hmph,” said Emerson, rubbing his chin. “Very well, that will be all for today. We won’t begin here for several days. How can we reach you?”

  “I am at the King David Hotel, sir. Good day to you all.”

  And off he went, at a pace that suggested he was relieved to have been relieved.

  “He may know a great deal about pottery, Emerson,” I said, interpreting Emerson’s frown.

  “He doesn’t seem to know much else, Peabody. What I wouldn’t give to have…” He broke off with a catch of breath. “Well, well. Let us see what we can do with Morley.”

  We retraced our steps, back toward the pool and the area guarded by Morley’s men. I decided to improve Emerson’s state of mind by giving him a chance to lecture. He always enjoys that.

  “I confess, Emerson, that I am somewhat confused about what Mr. Morley is doing. Is it Warren’s shaft he is exploring?”

  Emerson took my arm and said in a pleased voice, “I don’t wonder that you find the situation confusing, my dear. This area is a warren of tunnels and sewers and cisterns, some ancient, some modern. In ancient times two passages were dug to ensure that a source of water would be available to the city in case of siege. The first, constructed by the Jebusites, was a shaft from inside the walls down to a point where jugs could be lowered into a pool below. That’s the one your friend Joab”—he jerked a thumb back at Plato—“is supposed to have used to lead the forces of David into Jerusalem. There is, of course, no evidence what ever for this. Eh, Joab?”

  “It was a hard climb,” Plato droned. “The stone was slippery with damp and some fell, down, down into the pool.”

  “At any rate,” said Emerson, “the next water tunnel was constructed by Hezekiah on the eve of the Assyrian attack.” He gave me a challenging look, which dared me to remind him that he had denied the historicity of the entire Old Testament. There was no denying this fact; the inscription found in the tunnel had been dated to that period.

  “It ran,” Emerson went on, “from the Gihon spring to the present pool of Siloam and is still extant today.” He whirled on Plato, so abruptly that the latter let out a little scream. “Is that the tunnel referred to in your famous scroll?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  Plato raised his eyes to heaven. “It has been many centuries since I led the Israelites into the city. Since then Assyrians and Babylonians, Greeks and Romans—”

  “Never mind the rest of them,” Emerson growled. “Confound it! That bastard Morley has gone on with his excavation despite my warning.”

  We had reached the barricades, which were guarded by a few men in uniform. Some little distance beyond we could see a line of men carrying heavy baskets. They were stripped of most of their clothing and so coated with grayish dust, they resembled ambulatory mummies.

  “They have been working underground,” said Emerson. “The tunnel must be badly silted up. Here, you—where is the Englishman?”

  The man addressed had obviously been told about Emerson. He lowered the barrier and stepped back, gesturing. We found Morley seated under a shelter of canvas that resembled a tent whose sides have been raised. He was not at luncheon. He was taking tea. Seated next to him at the table was a woman whose fair hair was confined by a scarf of emerald-green silk and whose costume was an interesting mixture of East and West—tailored trousers and leather boots partially covered by a flowing silken tunic that matched the scarf.

  “Typical,” Emerson muttered. “Dallying with a woman instead of supervising his workmen.”

  She did not look the sort of woman with whom a man dallies. Her attire was exotic but not provocative; her features were strong, and her pale blue eyes studied me with steady self-assurance.

  “Will you join—” Morley began.

  “No,” said Emerson. “Devil take it, Morley, I told you not to go on with your work without a professional supervisor.”

  “I have complied with your demand, Professor, though I still question your right to make it.” Morley’s cheeks rounded in a smug smile. “May I present my professional colleague, Frau Hilda von Eine, a noted excavator of Hittite and Babylonian ruins.”

  Chapter Eight

  Morley could not have planned his strategy better. Not only had he acquired a professional archaeologist, but that professional was a female. Emerson enjoys intimidating other men, but the chivalrous part of his nature makes it virtually impossible for him to bully a woman. This can be a cursed inconvenience at times. However, I am perfectly capable of dealing with it.

  Seeing that Emerson was taken aback (quite understandably) by Morley’s announcement, I stepped into the breach.

  “How do you do,” I said, offering the lady my hand. “I am Mrs. Amelia P. Emerson.”

  “You are unmistakable, Mrs. Emerson” was the reply, in a soft gentle voice. “I have been looking forward to meeting you.”

  I went on to present my companions, beginning, as was proper, with Nefret. The lady—properly—acknowledged each with a smile and an inclination of her head. Reminded of his manners, Morley rose belatedly to his feet. Reminded of his manners, Emerson confined his response to a wordless mumble.

  “How long have you been in Jerusalem, Frau von…” I began.

  The lady took my catch of breath for a failure of memory and courteously repeated her name.

  “Yes, of course,” I said, r
ecovering myself with my customary aplomb. “Something caught in my throat. Hem. Well, we must not keep you from your tea. I hope you will do us the honor of calling on us one day.”

  “Tomorrow, perhaps?” Frau von Eine suggested.

  Nefret, who had not spoken a word until then, said, “Unfortunately, we are leaving Jerusalem tomorrow and may be gone for several days.”

  It was too late to poke her with my parasol.

  “Are you considering another site, then?” the lady asked. “Tell el Nasbeh and Jericho, for instance, have great possibilities.”

  “Thank you for the suggestion,” I said. “I look forward to a meeting at a later time. Good day to you. Good day, Mr. Morley.”

  Nefret was the first to turn away, followed by Selim and Daoud. Still staggered by the realization that had struck me, I did not notice at first that Plato had disappeared again. Interrogation produced the information that he had informed Nefret he intended to remain with Morley for a short time; she had seen no reason to forbid it.

  “No reason!” I burst out.

  “We cannot keep him a virtual prisoner indefinitely,” Nefret said. “What harm can he do us, after all? You weren’t proposing to take him with us tomorrow, were you?”

  “Speaking of that,” I began.

  “I hope you don’t mean to go back on your word,” Nefret said, fixing me with an icy blue stare.

  “Just a bloody minute,” exclaimed Emerson, coming to a dead stop. “Why did you drag me away, Peabody? I had a number of questions to ask that bastard, and—er—the lady.”

  “You were singularly inarticulate at the time,” I replied somewhat sharply. “This new development necessitates thought and consultation. In private, Emerson.”