He Shall Thunder in the Sky taps-12

by Elizabeth Peters

  I guided my steed past the carriages and camels and cabs and throngs of tourists toward the site where we were working, but I could not resist casting frequent glances at the towering slopes of the Great Pyramid. I am particularly attracted to pyramids. It was delightful to be working in such proximity to the mightiest of them all and know that, for the time being and in a limited sense, it was mine! I had no great hope of exploring it in the immediate future, however. Emerson meant to concentrate on the private tombs. Anyhow, the pyramid was a major tourist attraction, and it would have been difficult to work there in peace. Our own excavations were so close to the south side, we were always having to shoo wandering visitors away.

  From Manuscript H

  Every time Ramses entered the tomb he felt a pang of sympathy for the German archaeologist who had been forced to leave it. Removing the fill and erecting the shelter had taken a long time, but the first chamber of what appeared to be a large complex tomb had now been emptied, and he had begun copying the reliefs. The painted carvings along the west wall showed the prince Sekhemankhor and his wife Hatnub seated before an offering table loaded with foodstuffs and flowers. The inscriptions identified the pair, but so far they had not found a reference to the king whose son Sekhemankhor claimed to be.

  Ramses was working alone that afternoon, inspecting the wall to ascertain how much of the relief had been damaged and whether restoration was possible. His thoughts were not the best of company these days, so when Selim came looking for him his response was ungracious.

  “Well? What do you want?”

  “It is an emergency,” said Selim. He often spoke English with Ramses, trying to improve his command of the language, and his voice lingered lovingly on the long word. “I think you had better come.”

  Ramses straightened. “Why me? Can’t you deal with it?”

  “It is not that sort of emergency.” The light was poor; they had been using reflectors, since the supply of electric batteries was limited and his father would not permit candles or torches; but he saw Selim’s teeth gleam in the black of his beard. He was obviously amused about something, and determined to share it with his friend.

  They emerged from the tomb into the mellow light of late afternoon, and Ramses heard voices. The bass and baritone bellows of the men mingled with the excited cries of children, and over them all rose and fell a series of penetrating sounds like the whistle of a locomotive. Egyptians enjoyed a good argument and did it at the top of their lungs, but the loudest voice sounded like that of a woman. He quickened his pace.

  Straight ahead rose the southern face of Egypt ’s mightiest pyramid. The crowd had gathered around the base. They were all Egyptians except for a few foreigners, obviously tourists. One of the foreign females was doing the screaming.

  Ramses raised his voice in a peremptory demand for silence and information. The men came trotting toward him, all yelling and gesticulating. Selim, just behind him, raised an arm and pointed. “Up there, Ramses. Do you see?”

  Ramses shaded his eyes and looked up. The sun was low in the western sky and its slanting rays turned the pyramid’s slope to gold. Several dark shapes stood out against the glowing stone.

  Climbing the Great Pyramid was a popular tourist sport. The layers of stones formed a kind of staircase, but since most of the stones were almost three feet high, the climb was too arduous for the majority of visitors without the help of several Egyptians, hauling from above and sometimes pushing from below. Occasionally a timid adventurer balked when he was only partway up, and had to be hauled ignominiously down by his assistants. Perhaps that was what had happened, but he couldn’t understand why Selim had dragged him away from his work to enjoy the discomfiture of some unfortunate man… No, not a man. Squinting, he realized the motionless form was female.

  She was a good halfway up, two hundred feet from the ground, sitting bolt upright on one of the stones, with her feet sticking straight out. He couldn’t make out details at this distance—only a bare dark head and a slender body clad in a light-colored frock of European style. Not far away, but not too close either, were two men in the long robes of the Egyptians.

  He turned to Sheikh Hassan, the nominal chief of the guides who infested Giza . “What is going on?” he demanded. “Why don’t they bring her down?”

  “She won’t let them.” Hassan’s round face broke into a grin. “She calls them bad names, Brother of Demons, and strikes them with her hand when they try to take hold of her.”

  “She slapped them?” Ramses was tempted to laugh. The situation was too serious for that, however. The wretched female must have become hysterical, and if the guides took hold of her against her will, her struggles could result in injury to her and charges of assault—or worse—against them. No proof of malicious intent would be needed, only her word. He swore in Arabic, and added irritably, “Can someone stop that woman yelling? Who is she?”

  The woman in question pulled away from the arms that held her and ran toward Ramses. “Why are you standing there?” she demanded. “You are English, aren’t you? Go and get her. Save the child!”

  “Calm yourself, madam,” Ramses said. “Are you her mother?”

  He knew she wasn’t, though. She might have had “governess” printed across her forehead. The ones he had met fell into two categories: the timid and wispy and the loud and dictatorial. This woman was of the second type. She glared at him from under her unplucked eyebrows and rubbed her prominent nose with a gloved hand.

  “Well, sir? As an English gentleman—”

  “English, at any rate,” said Ramses. He was tempted to point out that his nationality did not qualify him to tackle the job, which any Egyptian could do better, but he knew there was no sense arguing with a frantic female. He detached the large hand that gripped his arm and pushed her into the reluctant grasp of Selim. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll go after her.”

  And if she tries to slap me, he thought, I’ll slap back. A sovereign cure for hysteria, his mother always claimed. What the deuce was wrong with the damned fool governess, allowing a child to attempt such a dangerous feat? Either she was incompetent or the kid was unmanageable.

  Like a certain unmanageable boy whose competent mother hadn’t been able to prevent him from attempting equally dangerous feats. As he started up, he remembered the first time he had climbed the pyramid alone. He had been ten years old, and he’d come close to breaking his neck several times. His mother seldom employed corporal punishment, but she had spanked him soundly after that escapade. Perhaps he was in no position to be critical of adventurous children.

  Pulling himself from step to step, he looked up only often enough to orient himself. He’d climbed all four sides of the Great Pyramid at various times, but he wasn’t fool enough to take unnecessary chances. Some of the stones had crumbled at the edges, some were broken, and they were of different heights. Nor did he raise his eyes when a voice from above hailed him.

  “O Brother of Demons! We came with her, we did what she said. Then she sat down and would not move, and she struck at us when we tried to help her. Will you speak for us? Will you tell them we did our best? Will you—”

  “Make certain you are paid?” Ramses stepped onto the same level as the speaker. He was a wiry little man, his long robe tucked up to expose bony shanks, his feet bare. He and his wife inhabited a hut in Giza Village with several goats, a few chickens, and two children. Two others had died before they were a year old.

  Ramses reached in his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “Here. Go down now, I can manage her better alone.”

  Blessings showered him as the two guides began the descent. He made certain his expression was stern before he turned to face the object of the emergency. He’d formed a picture of her in his mind. She’d be eleven or twelve, with scabs on her knees and elbows, freckles on her nose, a stubborn chin.

  He had been right about the chin. There was a scattering of freckles too. His guess about her age was verified by her hideous and impractical garm
ents. The dress looked like a female version of the sailor suits his mother had forced on him when he was too young to fight back; the knotted tie hung like a limp blue rag from the base of her throat. The skirt reached just below her knees, and the legs that stuck out at a defiant angle were encased in thick black stockings. He could only begin to wonder what she was wearing underneath—several layers of woollies, if his understanding of the governess mentality was accurate. Mouse-brown hair hung in damp tangles down her back, and her rounded cheeks were wet with perspiration. Her eyes were her most attractive feature, the irises a soft shade of hazel. He put their penetrating stare down to terror, and decided she needed reassurance, not a scolding.

  He sat down next to her. “What happened to your hat?” he asked casually.

  She continued to stare, so he tried another approach. “My name is Emerson.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “That is odd,” he said, shaking his head. “To think that for over twenty years I have been mistaken about my own name. I must have a word with my mother.”

  Either she had no sense of humor or she was in no mood for jokes. “It’s your father’s name. That’s what people call him. I’ve heard about him. I’ve heard about you too. They call you Ramses.”

  “Among other things.” That got a faint smile. He smiled back at her and went on, “You mustn’t believe all you hear. I’m not so bad when you get to know me.”

  “I didn’t know you looked like this,” she said softly.

  The stare was beginning to bother him. “Has my nose turned blue?” he asked. “Or—horns? Are they sprouting?”

  “Oh.” The color flooded into her face. “I’ve been rude. I apologize.”

  “No need. But perhaps we should continue this conversation in more comfortable surroundings. Are you ready to go down now?” He stood up and held out his hand.

  She pressed herself farther back against the stone. “My hat,” she said in a strangled voice.

  “What about it?”

  “It fell off.” Her slender throat contracted as she swallowed. “The strap must have broken. It fell… it bounced…”

  He looked down. One couldn’t blame her for losing her nerve. The angle of the slope was approximately fifty degrees, and she was two hundred feet up. Watching the pith helmet bounce from step to step to step, and picturing one’s body doing the same thing, must have been terrifying.

  “The trick is to never look down,” he said easily. “Suppose you keep your back turned. I’ll go first and lift you from one level to the next. Do you think you could trust me to do that?”

  She inspected him from head to foot and back, and then nodded. “You’re pretty strong, aren’t you?”

  “Strong enough to manage a little thing like you. Come on now. No, don’t close your eyes; that does make one giddy. Just keep looking straight ahead.”

  She gave him her hand and let him raise her to her feet.

  He went slowly at first, till her taut muscles relaxed and she yielded trustingly to his grasp. She didn’t weigh anything at all. He could span her waist with his hands. They were still some distance from the bottom when she laughed and looked up at him over her shoulder. “It’s like flying,” she said gleefully. “I’m not afraid now.”

  “Good. Hang on, we’re almost there.”

  “I wish we weren’t. Miss Nordstrom is going to be horrid to me.”

  “Serves you right. It was a silly thing to do.”

  “I’m glad I did it, though.”

  A crowd had clustered round the base of the structure. The upturned faces were ovals of coffee-brown and umber and sunburned red. One of them was a particularly handsome shade of mahogany. His mother must have sent his father to fetch him home; he’d lost track of the time, as usual.

  He dropped from the last step to the ground and swung her down. When he would have set her on her feet she fell back against him and clung to his arm.

  “My ankle! Oh, it hurts!”

  Since she seemed about to collapse, Ramses picked her up and turned to receive the applause of the audience. The English and Americans cheered, the Egyptians yelled, and his father pushed through the spectators.

  Emerson’s expression was one of affable approval; it broadened into a smile as he looked at the girl. “All right, are you, my dear?” he inquired. “Well done, Ramses. Present me to the young lady, if you please.”

  “I fear I neglected to ask her name,” Ramses said. Now that she was safely down he was beginning to be annoyed with the “young lady.” There wasn’t a damned thing wrong with her foot; she was trying to look pathetic in the hope of staving off the expected and well-deserved scolding. To give the governess credit, she appeared to be more relieved than angry.

  “It was my fault, sir,” said the girl. “I was so frightened and he was so kind… My name is Melinda Hamilton.”

  “A pleasure,” said Emerson, bowing. “My name—”

  “Oh, I know who you are, sir. Everyone knows Professor Emerson. And his son.”

  “Most kind,” said Emerson. “Are you going to put her down, Ramses?”

  “I’m afraid I hurt my foot, sir,” said the young person winsomely.

  “Hurt your foot, eh? You had better come to our house and let Mrs. Emerson have a look. I’ll take her, Ramses. You can bring Miss—er—um—with you on Risha.”

  Damned if I will, Ramses thought, as his erstwhile charge slipped gracefully from his arms into those of his father. His splendid Arabian stallion would make nothing of the extra weight, but Miss Nordstrom would probably accuse him of trying to ravish her if he hauled her up onto the saddle and rode off with her into the sunset or any other direction.

  Emerson strode away, carrying the girl as easily as if she had been a doll and talking cheerfully about tea and cakes and the Sitt Hakim, his wife, who had a sovereign remedy for sprained ankles, and their house, and their pets. Did she like cats? Ah, then she must meet Seshat.

  Ramses stood watching them, nagged by the obscure and irrational sense of guilt that always filled him when he saw his father with a child. Neither of his parents had ever reproached him for failing to present them with grandchildren; he had believed they didn’t much care until Sennia had entered their lives. He still wasn’t certain how his mother felt, but his father’s attachment to the little girl was deep and moving. Ramses missed her too, but for a number of reasons he was glad Sennia was safe in England .

  He located the carriage Miss Nordstrom had hired and told the driver to bring the lady to their house. Then he mounted Risha and headed for home, wondering what his mother would make of his father’s latest pet.

  :

  I have become quite accustomed to having the members of my family bring strays of all species home with them. Nefret is the worst offender, for she is constantly adopting wounded or orphaned animals, but they are less trouble than wounded or orphaned humans. When Emerson strode into the sitting room carrying a small human of the female gender, a familiar sense of foreboding filled me. Men have a number of annoying qualities, but over the years women—especially young women—have given me considerable trouble. Most of them fall in love with my husband or my son, or both.

  Emerson deposited the young person in a chair. “This is Miss Melinda Hamilton, Peabody . She hurt her foot climbing the Great Pyramid, so I brought her to you.”

  Miss Hamilton did not appear to be in pain. She returned my clinical stare with a broad smile. A gap between her two front teeth and a sprinkling of freckles gave her a look of childish innocence, but I judged her to be in her early teens. She had not yet put up her hair or lengthened her frock. The former was windblown and tangled, the latter dusty and torn. She was not wearing a hat.

  “You are not an orphan, are you?” I asked.

  “ Peabody !” Emerson exclaimed.

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” said the young person coolly.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, recovering myself. “I was endeavoring, rather clumsily, I confess, to ascertai
n whether some anxious person is looking all over Giza for you. Surely you did not go there alone.”

  “No, ma’am, of course not. My governess was with me. The Professor just picked me up and brought me here. He is so kind.” She gave Emerson an admiring look.

  “Yes,” I said. “He is also thoughtless. Emerson, what have you done with the governess?”

  “Ramses is bringing her. Is tea ready? I am sure our guest is tired and thirsty.”

  He was reminding me of my manners—something he seldom gets a chance to do—so I rang for Fatima and asked her to bring tea. I then knelt before the girl and removed her shoe and stocking. She protested, but of course I paid no attention.

  “There is no swelling,” I announced, inspecting a small, dusty bare ankle. “Oh—I am sorry, Miss Melinda! Did I hurt you?”

  Her involuntary movement had not been caused by pain. She had turned toward the door. “My friends call me Molly,” she said.

  “Ah, there you are, Ramses,” said his father. “What have you done with the governess?”

  “And what have you done with your pith helmet?” I inquired. Like his father, Ramses is always losing his hats. He passed his hand over his tumbled hair, trying to smooth it back. He ignored my question, probably because he did not know the answer, and replied to his father.

  “She will be here shortly. I passed the carriage a few minutes ago.”

  “Hurry and clean up,” I ordered. “You look even more unkempt than usual. What have you been doing with yourself?”

  “Rescuing me,” said Miss Molly. “Please don’t scold him. He was splendid!”

  Ramses vanished, in that noiseless fashion of his, and I said, “I thought it was the Professor who rescued you.”

  “No, no,” said Emerson. “It was Ramses who brought her down from the pyramid. She’d hurt her foot, you see, and—”