by N E. David
It occurred to Blake that the American would suddenly surprise him and turn out to be athletic, bounding up the path with unlooked-for strength and purpose. Surely, he thought, there must be some virtue, however small, hidden within so large a frame. But if so, it was not of the physical kind and he was sadly mistaken. As her size and shape suggested, Mrs Biltmore struggled to progress through the harsh terrain, huffing and puffing at every step and for ever in need of a stop to catch her breath.
“Oh my!” she kept protesting, looking up toward the head of the valley. “Do we have to go all the way up there? Why, I don’t believe I’ll be able to make it. Why don’t you folks just go on without me, I’ll be fine right here.” And every so often she would affect to sink down on a nearby boulder.
But she did make it, for despite her objections and constant protestations to the contrary, she seemed inwardly determined and any strength she possessed lay in her will rather than her physical ability.
Ira brought up the rear, his slight frame bounding from rock to rock like a jack rabbit, but without at any point straying in front of his wife.
As they progressed upwards through the valley, the sixth sense which had afflicted Blake earlier in the day cut in yet again. He’d stopped to lend Mrs Biltmore his arm for the umpteenth time Why, thank you Mr Blake when he turned to look behind him, and sure enough, following them at a discreet distance, there was the girl from the temple. She’d dispensed with her heavy jacket to reveal a white T-shirt promoting some rock band or another and she carried a black parasol above her head. As Blake halted, so did she, and a look was exchanged between them. Then, when he and his charge resumed their painful progress, he could hear the scrunch of her Cuban heels on the stones once more. It was as if she were stalking him.
Keith was striding out in front. His plan, he had announced, was to head up to the tomb of Seti I –‘the finest in the valley’ according to his guide book – and then work his way back down at leisure.
It sounded like an admirable idea and Blake was sure it would have worked well but for the fact that Mrs Biltmore was proving an unforeseen and frustrating drag on their headway. In addition to which, after a good twenty minutes hiking and having turned off up a narrow spur, they found the tomb they had targeted was closed for renovation. The entrance was barred off and a sign in red Arabic lettering had been posted to the side. There was an immediate feeling of disappointment and after starting out with such good intentions, this discovery seemed to dampen their spirits.
“Well now that’s a great shame,” said the large American, blowing with exertion. “After all that effort.”
Her will to continue suddenly evaporated in the heat and she did at last sink down onto a nearby boulder, collapsing into the shade beneath the overhanging entrance and fanning herself once more with her hat. Ira took up a position next to her, watching her like a sharp-eyed hawk. And with their main charge stranded and immobile like a beached whale, the whole troupe came to a grinding halt and they stood about like a yacht luffed against the wind.
“What now?” said Blake, hands on hips.
“I suppose we’d better go back,” said Keith.
Janet instantly nodded, grabbing at his sleeve. She’d shown little interest in entering the tomb and seemed reluctant to descend below ground under any circumstances. Blake pressed on with his questioning. “So do you mean to tell me we’ve come all the way up here for nothing and now we’re simply going to turn round and go all the way back?”
“It looks that way.” Keith was apologetic.
“Isn’t there another tomb we can go in?”
With his wife tugging at his arm, Keith grew suddenly diffident.
“I’m not entirely sure…”
“Oh for goodness sake…” said Blake, for whom this was just another frustration.
As they were talking, their period of indecision had allowed Miss Malaysia to catch up (Blake was now confident of her country of origin). She had continued to follow them up the narrow spur right the way to the entrance to the tomb and was now standing at Blake’s elbow. No doubt she had come to chide him again, he thought. Surely she was not still pursuing him after the incident at the temple?
But before they had chance to acknowledge her presence and ask as to her intentions, she butted in without any form of introduction.
“Is there a problem?”
“Yes there is,” said Blake, determined to be assertive. “We’ve come all the way up here to see the tomb of…” (and just as he wanted to appear decisive, the name escaped him)
“…Seti I,” said Keith, helping him out.
“Seti I,” continued Blake, “and the damned thing’s closed. On top of that, Mrs Biltmore here,” he waved a hand at the prostrate form of the distraught American, “has conked out on us and can’t take another step. Besides which we’re all lathered with the heat and our leader here has lost his get up and go. So all in all, I should say we’re in a state of complete limbo.”
An edge had crept into his voice as if to betray his mounting sense of disquiet. What he dared not add to this list was that along with everything else, there were no birds to be seen and as they’d ascended the valley, he’d become progressively more and more agitated. Now, driven to the edge of despair, it had all boiled over at once. And to top it all off, here was that damned girl, come to annoy him again.
By contrast, Miss Malaysia appeared cool and calm and looked round the group, assessing what action to take. Her first move was to produce a water bottle from her small backpack and thrust it in the direction of Mrs Biltmore.
“You should drink. Here, take this.”
While the American took in fluid, she turned to address the rest of them.
“You want to see tombs? This one’s no good – it’s closed.” She pointed at the nearby notice. “Come with me. I can show you some tombs.”
Far from pursuing Blake, it seemed she had other intentions.
Blake caught Keith’s enquiring look. Who was this girl? Blake shrugged his shoulders and smiled blithely back. Beyond the scene at the temple when she had so affected him, he had no more idea than Keith did. And yet because of what appeared to be her relentless pursuit of him, he’d become curious. Why was it that this young woman should suddenly seek to take command like this and offer to show them around? What possible motive could she have?
Well, whatever it was she was after, he decided he didn’t much care. If she knew something they didn’t, well good for her, he was happy to go along with it. Unfortunately, she didn’t seem interested in birds.
“Lead away,” he said. “I’ve no objection.”
“Fine with me,” said Keith who looked happy to relinquish his self-imposed responsibilities.
“We’ll go in here,” said Miss Malaysia, indicating an opening immediately to their right. “Ramses I. Follow me.”
They began to move off – all except Mrs Biltmore who remained rooted to the spot and declined to rise from her seat. Now that she’d made herself comfortable, the determination she’d displayed in getting as far as she had seemed to have deserted her.
“I think I’ll stay here,” she declared, mopping her brow. “That all looks a mite too difficult for a body like mine. Ira’ll tell me about it later, won’t you, Ira?”
“Yup,” said Ira. “Sure will.”
For a brief moment Miss Malaysia stared at Mrs Biltmore with the same look of contempt she had visited on Blake earlier. Then, realising that the American was a lost cause and in no way presently susceptible to a lesson in culture, she thrust her parasol into her chubby hands.
“Take this. We’ll be ten minutes. Wait here.”
This last command seemed rather superfluous as, given her current state of exhaustion, it was not as though Mrs Biltmore was planning on going anywhere.
Blake took the opportunity to donate a bottle of water, Miss Malaysia having recovered hers.
“And this – you might need it.”
Remembering to remove his Panam
a, he ducked down into the tomb.
The first thing to do was get used to the light. After the blinding glare of the sun, the interior seemed dim and badly lit – but as the outline of the corridor and the walls became clear, pictures and paintings began to emerge from the gloom. Here were men and women, gods and goddesses with strange-shaped heads, chariots, horses, cattle and much to his delight, birds. He instantly recognised them – herons, egrets, geese – the same today as they had been three thousand years before. Since then man had moved on, built engines, rockets and travelled to the moon. The world had changed around them, but the birds had remained constant. And when he looked at them now, they somehow brought the past to life.
Further down in the burial chamber itself, Miss Malaysia was making a speech regarding its contents. It was noticeable that her attention to detail and manner were clearly an imitation of the young Egyptian guide. Keith listened intently to every word.
“How fascinating…”
Janet was not so engaged and looked distinctly edgy in the enclosed space while Ira scurried about, ensuring that he examined every detail for inclusion in his report.
They were underground for the full ten minutes that Miss Malaysia had promised. When they returned to the surface, blinking in the bright light, Mrs Biltmore was exactly where they’d left her, crouched on her boulder and sheltering beneath the black parasol.
“So, what was it like?” she was keen to ask.
“Very good,” said Blake. “You really should have joined us.”
But from the distressed look on her face he knew that had never been possible.
The question then arose as to what they should do next. The obvious answer was to ask Miss Malaysia. She replied without hesitation. “We’ll go and see Ramses IX.”
Blake was still puzzled as to her motives. He wondered whether she was really trying to help or whether they were just guinea pigs on whom she’d chosen to try out some newly acquired knowledge. Whatever game she was playing, Blake was keen to find out. He had no doubt that the tomb of Ramses IX would be much the same as that of Ramses I but for him, its interest now lay in the performance of their self-appointed guide rather than any of its contents.
As Miss Malaysia turned to make her way back down the valley, it was a signal for Mrs Biltmore to haul herself up from her boulder and prepare for the return journey.
“Well, I guess we’re off again…”
She handed back the parasol by way of Ira and fell into line.
Blake took the opportunity to seek out Keith and make an apology. The visit to the tomb had served to calm him down and he’d begun to feel contrite.
“Sorry about my little outburst back there. I was a bit out of order, I’m afraid.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Keith. “To tell you the truth, I’d forgotten all about it.”
“She’s very good, isn’t she?” said Blake, nodding in the direction of the young Asian.
“Very,” said Keith. “Any idea who she is?”
“Not a clue. Someone off the tour, I suppose.”
And for the moment, that was as far as they could get.
Somewhere toward the rear, Mrs Biltmore plodded gallantly on, gathering strength on the downhill stretch.
If anything, the tomb of Ramses IX was more impressive than that of his ancestor. The entry corridor was sloped rather than steeply stepped – and it was much more extensive, so there were far more pictures and paintings to admire.
Miss Malaysia’s performance was no less polished than before and in her desire to be thorough, she enumerated every detail. As a result, they were longer underground than they’d planned and so by the time they’d completed the slow upward climb to the surface and emerged into the daylight, squinting again, almost half an hour had elapsed.
Mrs Biltmore had once more been left to her own devices next to the entrance and was fanning herself furiously.
“Well there you are! Goodness me, I’d thought you’d gotten lost down there or somethin’. Ira, I don’t know what you’ve been letting these folks get up to, but you need to pay a bit more attention, honey. Why, I thought you were never coming back.”
Ira deemed it sensible to remain silent.
There followed another ‘what shall we do next?’ debate. By now their appetite for tombs had been sated and the general consensus was that as much as they had enjoyed their impromptu tour, they should make their way slowly back to the bus. Keith made a short speech of thanks to their temporary guide, then the group split up and began to drift slowly back down toward the entrance.
It was now mid-morning and the influx of visitors was reaching its peak. Groups of tourists, most of them Japanese, were clustering round the entrances to the tombs and the lower end of the path was thronged with people.
Miss Malaysia hurried on ahead. Blake watched as her black parasol bobbed up and down above the crowd, charting her progress. Where on earth was she off to now? he wondered. He was convinced she’d chased him up the valley in order to teach him a lesson for his wayward behaviour at Queen Hatshepsut’s Temple. And in pursuit of her lifelong mission to constantly improve herself and those around her, she’d targeted some other group or individual in similar need of reform and was on her way to administer to their needs. God help them, he thought, they deserved his compassion.
His thoughts were confirmed when he reached the bus park to find Miss Malaysia had succeeded in buttonholing the young Egyptian tour guide. They were earnestly debating (or so Blake imagined) some of the finer points of tombs and antiquities. It was an animated discussion. At one point she began to gesticulate and furiously waved her hands. Why did she have to be so intense? he thought. And why all the rush? Did she not realise she had a whole lifetime ahead of her to pursue these passions?
Blake sighed at the thought. From the lofty standpoint of experience he was advising patience – but in reality he was envious of the young. What must it be like to be their age again, to have their passions, their desires? He’d once said the same thing about himself and birds. Oh, there’s plenty of time. You can do that later, perhaps when you retire. And yet here he was, gone sixty, and there was still so much to do.
The idea that he’d somehow wasted his life began to gnaw at him, and on the journey back to the ship, rather than slump down in his seat and doze off like the others, he sat staring out of the window in the hope of some form of redemption.
But there was nothing, just the dusty road, the flat arable fields next to the river and the ubiquitous presence of sparrows, swallows and Palm Doves on the overhead wires. He was hungry, he’d had nothing to eat since half past five that morning and it was only the prospect of a decent lunch that sustained him through the journey.
Chapter Seven
That afternoon Blake fetched his binoculars and his telescope from his cabin and went up onto the sun deck. His intention was to make up for the ‘lost’ time of the morning and catch up on his birding. The visit to the Valley of the Kings had been important but there had been little to see in the way of birds. True, Spur-winged Plover and the lark (of whatever type – he never did discover) were not to be sniffed at but he’d had to cut short his appreciation of it for fear of provoking Miss Malaysia. Her presence had constrained him and it annoyed him to think he’d allowed her to influence him so. She’d stolen his morning and the whole episode had left him feeling resentful – the afternoon and an intense study of the sandbanks adjacent to the ship would provide the necessary recompense.
But even as he gathered his gear together in his cabin he realised he’d left it too late. The ship was already in motion and the brown waters of the Nile were gliding gently past his bedroom window. They must have set off during the course of lunch but amid the various comings and goings at the table the transition had been so smooth as to be imperceptible. Now, the sandbanks were receding steadily into the distance and the chance to observe whatever inhabited them had been lost. It was another setback – but he was determined to remain philosophical a
nd settled for the idea of scanning the river and the nearby fields. This tactic was soon rewarded as Pied Kingfisher were almost constantly in view, hovering over the shallows and diving for prey.
It grew hot in the afternoon sun. It was only the third week in January but the heat was intense. He’d retained his Panama hat and neckerchief and buttoned down the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt to prevent his arms from burning. And once he’d taken these precautions it was actually quite pleasant to be out on deck – what with the river, the fields, the blue of the sky, and here and there the splash of kingfisher plunging. This was surely what he’d come for, to be outdoors in the fresh air, luxuriating in the quiet contemplation of birds.
It might therefore have been enjoyable had he not been subjected to a constant stream of interruptions. His telescope and tripod, standing nearby, continually attracted attention and he was eventually forced to go back to his cabin and the small dressing table where he attempted to write up his notes. He’d been on board for the best part of twenty-four hours and as yet nothing had gone down on paper. With his illustrated guide beside him on the makeshift desk, he opened his diary and began the first bird list of the trip, noting down the cast in order of appearance – House Sparrow, Barn Swallow, Palm Dove. He wanted to create a lasting record of the trip and what he’d seen – but he couldn’t concentrate. He’d got no further than the Colossi of Memnon and the recollection of Spur-winged Plover when he was suddenly overwhelmed by a bout of tiredness and felt compelled to slip off his shoes and lie down on the bed. Within a matter of moments he had dropped off and his bird list remained frustratingly incomplete.
