Crocodile On The Sandbank

by Elizabeth Peters

  "You were the one who uncovered it," I reminded him. "What are you planning to do to protect it?"

  "I've had a wooden shelter built, but that is only a small part of the problem. The question is, what preservative can we apply that won't damage the paint? It is crumbled to powder; an ordinary brush simply smears the surface. And the varnishes that have been used in such cases are atrocious; they darken and crack…"

  "But you, of course, have found a solution," I said.

  "A solution is precisely what it is. A mixture of weak tapioca and water, brushed on the painting- "

  "You said brushing marred the paint."

  Emerson looked as dignified as a man can look under such adverse circumstances.

  "I brush it on with the edge of my finger."

  I stared at him with reluctant admiration.

  "You are determined, I'll say that for you."

  "It is slow work; I have to do it myself, I can't trust any of the workmen. I have only covered part of it." He groaned feelingly. "I tell you, woman, I must get up and see to my pavement."

  "I'll see to your pavement," I said. "Stay in bed or you will have a relapse and be ill for weeks. Even you must see that that would be foolish."

  I did not wait for an answer, it would only have been rude. I started along the ledge. Evelyn caught my sleeve.

  "Amelia, where are you going?"

  "To see Mr. Emerson's pavement, of course. Have you ever known me to break my word?"

  "No, but… Do you not think you might assume a more appropriate costume?"

  In some surprise I glanced down. I had forgotten I was wearing my dressing gown and slippers.

  "Perhaps you are right, Evelyn."

  As the reader has no doubt realized, female fashion has never interested me. However, while in London, I had learned of the Rational Dress League, and had had a dress made in that style. It was of slate-colored India cloth, with a plain, almost mannish bodice and a few simple frills at the cuffs as its only ornament. But the daring feature of this costume was the divided skirt. The two legs were so full that they resembled an ordinary kilted skirt and did not give me nearly the freedom of action I desired, but they were a good deal more practical than the so-called walking dresses then in vogue. I had kept this garment at the very bottom of my trunk; in Cairo, I had not had quite the courage to wear it. Now I took it out, shook out the creases, and put it on.

  As I scrambled down the rocky, hot path, I appreciated the divided skirt; but I still yearned for trousers. At the foot of the slope I found Walter arguing with the cook, a morose-looking individual with only one functional eye. I never did make out what the argument was about, but I settled it, and saw the chicken, which the cook had been waving under Walter's nose, plucked and in the pot before I proceeded. Walter offered to accompany me, but I sent him back to his brother. Emerson needed a watchdog; I did not.

  I found the place where the workers were employed and introduced myself to the foreman, Abdullah. He was a stately figure of a man, almost six feet tall; his flowing snowy robes, long gray beard and voluminous headcloth gave him the look of a biblical patriarch. He was not a native of one of the local villages, but came from Upper Egypt and had worked with Emerson before.

  Abdullah directed me to the pavement, which was some distance away. It was easy to find, however, because of the low wooden roof that had been erected over it.

  There was a great stretch of it- twenty feet across by perhaps fifteen feet long- miraculously, magnificently preserved. The colors were as fresh as if they had just been applied- exquisite blues, glowing reds, and cool greens, with touches of white and deep blue-black to emphasize details. Birds flew with outstretched wings in luxuriant gardens where flowers bloomed. Young animals, calves and kids, frolicked amid the undergrowth, kicking up their heels. I could almost hear them bellowing and bleating with the sheer joy of living.

  I was still squatting on the ground, looking, when Evelyn and Walter found me.

  "Amelia, it is the hottest part of the day; the workers have stopped for food and rest, and all sensible people are indoors. Come back and have lunch." "I won't eat a bite of that miserable-looking chicken," I said. "Evelyn, look; only look. I have never seen anything like it. And to think that the gold-trimmed sandals of the beautiful Nefertiti may have walked across this surface!"

  "It is exquisite," Evelyn agreed. "How I would love to sketch it!"

  "What a splendid idea!" Walter exclaimed. "And how pleased my brother would be to have a copy, in case of accident. I am the official expedition artist, among other things, and I am very bad at it."

  Evelyn promptly disclaimed any skill, but Walter continued to press her. I grew tired of their mutual raptures after a time and staggered to my feet.

  We had an atrocious lunch- stringy, tough chicken and some unidentifiable vegetables cooked into a tasteless mass. My devoted Michael was at hand; I took him aside for a whispered conference. I decided to put off discussing future arrangements with Evelyn and Walter until that evening. It was rather hot, and after my disturbed night I was ready to take a siesta.

  Michael was a jewel. When Evelyn and I came out of our tomb in the late afternoon, the place was transformed. Tables and chairs, even a small rug, had been spread out along the ledge, making a charming little piazza or balcony – a balcony with a view such as few property owners enjoy. The cool breeze of evening fanned our cheeks, and across the river the most splendid sunset I had ever seen, even in Egypt, turned the sky to a glowing tapestry of light. From below, a succulent odor wafted up to my appreciative nostrils. Michael had brought food as well as furniture, and was supervising the criminal of a cook.

  I sank down luxuriously in one of the chairs. Michael came trotting up the cliff with tall glasses of lemonade. Walter soon joined us. I was about to ask when I might check on my patient, when a sound of rattling pebbles turned all our heads around.

  Emerson stood in the door of his tomb. He was fully dressed and looked comparatively respectable, except for his face; it was as gray as the shadows in the darkening western cliffs; and one of his hands was tightly clenched on the stone jamb.

  Men are never of any use in an emergency. I was the only one who moved; and I reached Emerson just in time to catch him by the shoulders and prevent his head from striking against the rock as he fell. It was hard, prickly rock; I could feel a thousand sharp points through my skirts as I sat down, rather more suddenly than I had planned, for Emerson was a considerable weight. I was forced to hold him tightly against me with both arms, or he would have tumbled off the ledge.

  "There is absolutely no limit to this man's arrogant stupidity," I exclaimed, as Walter came rushing to us. "Fetch Michael and help your brother back to bed, Walter. And for pity's sake," I added angrily, as Emerson's unconscious head rolled against my breast and bristly black hairs scratched me through the fabric of my bodice, "for pity's sake, get rid of this beard!"

  5

  EMERSON WAS luckier than he deserved. His injudicious act did not bring on a relapse, but it was obvious that he would be too weak to assume command for some days. Clearly something had to be done; equally clearly, I was the one to do it.

  I brought Emerson out of his faint, forced another dose of quinine down him, and left Abdullah sitting on his legs to keep him down. His curses floated out across the valley as I left him.

  Without, the sky had darkened. A glittering web of stars covered the indigo-blue vault; the afterglow transformed the cliffs into glowing ghost shapes, the shadows of rock. Side by side Evelyn and Walter sat looking out across the valley.

  I had intended to discuss my plans with them; but one look told me they wouldn't care. I did not need to see their faces, their very outlines were eloquent.

  I had decided mere was no purpose in removing Emerson to a more civilized milieu. By the time we reached Cairo he should be on the road to recovery- unless the removal from his beloved antiquities induced a stroke from sheer rage, which was more than likely. I had told Micha
el we would remain where we were for approximately a week, by which time Emerson should be out of danger. Michael assured me that the boat crew would be delighted to rest for a week, so long as they were paid. He was distressed that I refused to stay on the boat, traveling back and forth to the excavations daily. I saw no need for this, it would simply be a waste of time.

  For the next two days everything went smoothly. At least I thought it did. Later I discovered that there had been ominous signs, if anyone of intelligence had been watching for them. Unfortunately I was not. I was totally preoccupied with my- that is, with Emerson's pavement.

  His notion of tapioca and water was good, but I improved on it, adding a teaspoonful of starch and two of bismuth to each quart of water. He had been correct about the impossibility of using an ordinary brush to apply the mixture. I had used my right hand, my left hand- and was almost ready to remove shoes and stockings in order to use my toes- when Evelyn intervened.

  She had been copying the painting, and was doing splendidly. I was amazed at her skill; she caught not only the shapes and colors, but the vital, indefinable spirit underlying the mind of the ancient artist. Even Emerson was moved to admiring grunts when she showed him her first day's work. She spent the second morning at the task, and then went up for a rest, leaving me at work. Having covered the edges of the painting, I had set some of the workers to building walkways across the pavement; the supports rested on blank spaces where pillars had once stood, so there was no defacement of the painting, but I had to watch the men closely. They thought the process utterly ridiculous, and would have dragged planks across the fragile surface if I had not supervised them every moment.

  They had finished the job and I was lying flat across the walk working on a new section when Evelyn's voice reached me. Glancing up, I was surprised to see that the sun was declining. My last useful finger was beginning to bleed, so I decided to stop; bloodstains would have been impossible to remove from the painting. I crawled back along the boards.

  When I reached the edge, Evelyn grasped me by the shoulders and tried to shake me.

  "Amelia, this must stop! Look at your hands! Look at your complexion! And your dress, and your hair, and- "

  "It does seem to be rather hard on one's wardrobe," I admitted, gazing down at my crumpled, dusty, tapioca-spotted gown. "What is wrong with my complexion, and my hair, and- "

  Making exasperated noises, Evelyn escorted me back to the tomb, and put a mirror in my hands.

  I looked like a Red Indian witch. Although the wooden shelter had protected me from the direct rays of the sun, even reflected sunlight has power in this climate. My hair hung in dusty elf-locks around my red face.

  I let Evelyn freshen me and lead me out to our little balcony. Walter was waiting for us, and Michael promptly appeared cool drinks. This evening was an occasion, for Emerson was to join us for the first time. He had made a remarkable recovery; once he grasped the situation he applied himself to recuperation with the grim intensity I might have expected. I had agreed that he might dress and join us for dinner, provided he wrapped up well against the cool of evening.

  He had acrimoniously refused any assistance in dressing. Now he made a ceremonious appearance, waving Walter aside; and I stared.

  I knew the beard was gone, but I had not seen him since the operation. I had overheard part of the procedure that morning. It was impossible not to overhear it; Emerson's shouts of rage were audible a mile away, and Walter had to raise his voice in order to be heard.

  "Excessive hair drains the strength," I had heard him explain, in a voice choked with laughter. "Hold his arms, Michael; I am afraid I may inadvertently cut his throat. Radcliffe, you know that fever victims have their hair cut off- "

  "That is an old wives' tale," Emerson retorted furiously.

  "And even if it were not, hair on the head and hair on the face are not the same."

  "I really cannot proceed while you struggle so," Walter complained. "Very well… Miss Peabody will be pleased."

  There was a brief silence.

  " Peabody will be pleased that I retain my beard?" Emerson inquired.

  "Miss Peabody claims that men grow beard in order to hide weak features. Receding chins, spots on the face…"

  "Oh, does she? She implies my chin is weak?"

  "She has never seen it," Walter pointed out.

  "Hmph."

  That was all he said; but since silence followed the grunt, I knew Walter had won his point.

  Seeing, as I now did, the beardless countenance of Emerson, I understood why he had cultivated whiskers. The lower part of his face looked a little odd, being so much paler than the rest, but the features were not displeasing- although the mouth was set in such a tight line I could not make out its shape. The chin was certainly not weak; indeed, it was almost too square and protuberant. But it had a dimple. No man with a dimple in his chin can look completely forbidding. A dimple, for Emerson, was out of character. No wonder he wished to hide it!

  Emerson's defiant eyes met mine, and the comment I had been about to make died on my lips.

  "Tea or lemonade?" I inquired.

  When I handed him his cup, a half-stifled expletive burst from his lips. Walter followed his gaze.

  "My dear Miss Peabody, your poor hands!"

  "There must be some better way of going about it," I muttered, trying to wrap my skirt around the members in question. "I haven't given the matter much thought as yet."

  "Naturally not," Emerson said gruffly. "Women don't think. A little forethought would prevent most of the suffering they constantly complain about."

  Walter frowned. It was the first time I had seen the young fellow look at his brother with anything but affectionate admiration.

  "You should be ashamed to speak so, Radcliffe," he said quietly. "Miss Peabody's hand was swollen and painful for hours after you passed the crisis of your sickness, you held it so tightly; and I had to carry her to her bed because her limbs were cramped from kneeling beside you all night long."

  Emerson looked a little uncomfortable, but I think I was even more embarrassed. Sentimentality always embarrasses me.

  "No thanks, please," I said. "I would have done as much for a sick cat."

  "At least you must stop working on the pavement," Walter said. 'Tomorrow I will take over the task."

  "You can't do the pavement and supervise the workers at the same time," I argued, conscious of an inexplicable annoyance.

  Emerson, slouching in his chair, cleared his throat.

  "Abdullah is an excellent foreman. There is no need for Walter to be on the spot at all times. Or is there, Walter?"

  How he had sensed the truth I do not know, but Walter's uneasy silence was answer enough.

  "Come," Emerson insisted, in a voice of quiet firmness. "I knew this evening that something was worrying you. What is it? Fruitless speculation will be worse for me than the truth, Walter; be candid."

  "I am willing to be candid, but it isn't easy to be explicit," Walter said, smiling faintly. "You know how one becomes sensitive to the feelings of the men. There are so many meaningful signs- the singing of the work crews, the way in which they move about, the joking and laughter- or the lack thereof. I don't know how long it has been going on. I only sensed it today."

  "Then it has not been going on long. You are too experienced to be unaware, preoccupied though you are." Emerson glanced meaningfully at Evelyn, who sat listening with her hands folded in her lap. "Are the men hostile? Are they hiding something they don't want us to know about?"

  Walter shook his head; the dark hair tumbled over his high brow, giving him the look of a worried schoolboy.

  "Neither of those, I think. Your illness disturbed them; you know how superstitious they are, how ready to find evil demons behind every accident. But I can't really account for the feeling. There is a general laxity, a slowing down, a- a stillness. As if they knew something we don't know- and are afraid of it."

  Emerson's brows drew together. He struc
k his hand on his knee.

  "I must see for myself."

  "If you venture out into that sun tomorrow, you will be back in bed by noon," I said firmly. "Perhaps I can have a look around myself. But I hate to neglect my pavement, even for a day."

  " Peabody, you are not to touch the pavement tomorrow," Emerson said. "Infection is in the air here; you will lose a finger or two if you continue to rub them raw."

  I am not accustomed to be spoken to in that tone. Oddly enough, I was not angered by the order, or by the name. Emerson was looking at me with a kind of appeal. His mouth had relaxed. It was, as I had suspected, a well-shaped organ.

  "Perhaps you are right," I said.

  Evelyn choked on her tea and hastily set the cup down.

  "Yes," I continued. "No doubt you are right. Then I will supervise the workers tomorrow and see what I can ascertain. What are you digging up at present, Walter?"

  The conversation became technical. Evelyn showed us the progress of her drawing; this time Emerson unbent far enough to mutter, "Not at all bad," and suggest that Evelyn might copy some of the tomb reliefs when she had finished the pavement.

  "A trained artist would be a godsend on expeditions like this," he exclaimed, his eyes flashing with enthusiasm. "We cannot save all the relics; we are like the boy with his finger in the dike. But if we had copies of them before they are destroyed…"

  "I would like to learn something of the hieroglyphic signs," Evelyn said. "I could copy them more accurately if I knew what they meant. For example, there seem to be a dozen different kinds of birds, and I gather each has a different meaning. When the inscriptions are worn it is not always possible to see what the original form was; but if one knew a little of the language…"

  Emerson beetled his eyebrows at her, but it was clear that he was impressed; before long be was drawing birds on his napkin and Evelyn was attempting to copy them. I looked at Walter. His ingenuous face was luminous with pleasure as he watched his admired brother and the girl he loved. Yes, he loved her; there could be no question of that. She loved him too. And at the first declaration from him, she would ruthlessly destroy their happiness because of a convention that seemed more absurd the more I considered it. Knowing what was in store, my heart ached at the sight of Walter's face.