Children of the Storm (17 page)

But it was the other two members of the party who caught my attention. They were not a pair one easily forgot. Emerson had seen them too. He straightened and stared.

The boy who had introduced himself as Justin Fitzroyce caught sight of us. Crying out in recognition, he came toward me, scrambling nimbly over the uneven ground and followed closely by his black-a-vised protector.

“It is my friends the Emersons,” the lad exclaimed. “Are you archaeologists? What are you doing? Where is the pretty lady?”

Emerson had opened his mouth. Now he closed it and looked helplessly at me. It was impossible to be curt with the young chap, whose bright face shone with ingenuous goodwill.

“Good morning, Mr. Justin,” I said. “So you are still in Luxor.”

“Yes, we like it here. I have seen all the tombs in the Valley of the Kings and several of the temples. But there is still a great deal to see.” Seeing Nefret coming toward us, he exclaimed, “There she is. I remember her name—another Mrs. Emerson. There are two Mrs. Emersons.”

“Three, in fact,” Nefret said pleasantly. “You haven’t met the other one. Did you and François come here alone?”

His attendant’s scowling face was like a thundercloud hovering over the boy’s sunny countenance. “I can take care of the young master,” he growled.

“But we did not come alone.” Justin turned and gestured at the two women. “That is my grandmother. Her health has improved greatly since we came. But this is her first excursion and she must be careful not to tire herself.”

“Who is the other lady?” I asked.

“She is not a lady,” Justin said carelessly. “She is Miss Underhill.”

“Your grandmother’s companion?”

Justin nodded, dismissing the non-lady. “I will tell them to go back to the hotel. I will stay with you.”

“Let me speak to your grandmother,” I said, anticipating Emerson’s protest. Surely the old lady would forbid such a scheme.

She remained seated, her shoulders bowed and her head bent as I introduced myself and Nefret. At first there was no response. Then she said, in a voice cracked with age, “My name is Fitzroyce. You will forgive me, I hope, if I say good-bye instead of good morning. It has been most interesting, but at my age even the smallest exertion leaves one exhausted.”

“Of course,” I said. “Can we assist you in any way?”

“Thank you, no.” She pressed a handkerchief to her lips.

“I help the lady,” the dragoman volunteered.

I knew the fellow; he was one of the more dependable of the Luxor guides. Mrs. Fitzroyce seemed to have all the attendants she needed, though her companion had retreated a few steps into the shadow of a column, and had adopted the humble pose of a dependent. She wore the garments suitable for that role, drab and shabby and ill-fitting. Cast-offs of her mistress? I wondered. No self-respecting woman would have purchased a hat like hers; it was an aged straw with faded ribbons that tied under her chin. The spotted veil had several rents in it.

“I am staying here,” Justin announced. “I want to see the temple of Hathor and help my friends dig.”

I began, “I am afraid—”

An unexpected cackle of laughter from the old lady interrupted me. “You don’t want him getting in your way, Mrs. Emerson? You heard the lady, Justin. Come with me.”

There was authority in that aged voice, despite its tremulous pitch. Justin pouted, like the child he was mentally if not physically. His actual age I would have judged to be approximately fourteen. His mental age was not so easy to determine. His vocabulary and ease of speech were sometimes fairly advanced. It was his social and emotional adjustment that seemed not quite normal. His manners were quite engaging, and I was sorry to have to disappoint him; but aside from the inconvenience, I did not wish to be responsible for the boy.

“Oh, very well,” Justin said. “I will come and visit you another day. Where do you live?”

“That would be nice,” Nefret said, tactfully avoiding an answer. “But now we must get back to work. Good-bye.”

It took them some time to get themselves away; looking up from my work periodically, I caught glimpses of Justin’s bright head as he darted to and fro, and heard his attendant’s voice pleading with him to come. Then I saw them no more. It was getting on toward midday by then, and I reminded Emerson he had promised to send Walter back to the house for the afternoon. One look at Walter halted any objections my spouse might have made; he had not complained nor faltered in his tasks, but he was red with sunburn and staggering with fatigue. Emerson did not even complain when I sent Ramses with him. The rest of us settled down in the little shelter I had erected in the shadow of the temple walls and opened our picnic baskets.

Most of the tourists had also sought repose and refreshment, at Cook’s Rest House or at their hotels. A welcome quiet descended upon the valley—quiet, that is, except for Emerson’s voice, lecturing. I let him talk, since it would have been difficult to stop him. I had been a little concerned about Lia, but she had kept up well. David was the same as he had always been, lean and lithe and enthusiastic. As soon as he had wolfed down a few sandwiches he jumped up and declared he wanted to have a closer look at some of the reliefs of the Ptolemaic temple.

“Look all you like, but don’t get too interested,” said Emerson. “Vandergelt has some scheme of copying the tomb paintings. The tomb of Sennedjem . . .”

His voice trailed off. He was looking at the hill, where the crumbling remains of small brick pyramids and little chapels marked the site of the village cemetery. Slowly and deliberately he put down his half-eaten chicken leg and got to his feet.

“What is it?” I asked. “What do you—”

Emerson was on his way, running and leaping over the broken ground toward the hill. A very loud “Hell and damnation” was the only response to my question. Then I looked up and saw what had prompted his action. High above were two figures, moving slowly along one of the paths that crossed the slope. I recognized, as Emerson must have done, the brown tweeds and slender form of the boy Justin, followed by his bulkier shadow.

“Good heavens,” Nefret exclaimed. “Is that Justin? He shouldn’t be up there.”

“Emerson reached the same conclusion and, as you see, he is acting upon it with his customary promptitude,” I replied. “I had better go along too, in case a woman’s soothing presence proves necessary. The rest of you stay here.”

Nefret had half risen. She nodded in agreement, though her brow was furrowed. “Be careful, Mother.”

I felt sure a soothing presence would be necessary—not, in this case, because of a premonition or foreboding, but because I was only too familiar with my husband’s character and habits. I knew I could never catch Emerson up, but I went as fast as I dared, and I uttered a few low-voiced expletives of my own as I hurried along. Had the boy eluded his grandmother, or had he persuaded her to go on without him? Ordinarily I would not have been concerned, for the path, though steep in some places, was not beyond the skill of an ordinary healthy young lad. A slip and a tumble could result in serious injury, however, and I doubted that François could act promptly and effectively enough if Justin had another of his seizures. Neither of them was accustomed to terrain like this.

I was on the lower slope when Emerson reached the pair. His voice rolled like thunder. “What the devil do you mean, letting the boy attempt this? Come with me, Justin.”

As I could have told Emerson, and would have, had I been closer, it was precisely the wrong approach. Emerson compounded it by taking peremptory hold of the lad. His grasp, affected by anxiety, was heavy, but not so painful as to explain Justin’s reaction. He let out a thin high-pitched scream, and began to writhe and twist, trying to pull away.

I doubt that any admonitions of mine could have prevented the accident; in any case, I was too out of breath to shout. I was still ten feet away when François grabbed Justin by the shoulders and tugged at him. Emerson held on. The boy’s head flopped back and forth and his hat fell off. He was still writhing and screaming. François let him go and caught Emerson by the throat. The three became a Laocoön-like group of intertwined bodies and flailing limbs. Emerson broke away, realizing, as he later explained, that the combat was likely to injure the boy; but as he stepped back he fell headlong and rolled down the slope in an avalanche of broken stones.

Crying out in alarm, the others of our party ran toward the foot of the hill, with Selim in the lead. A quick look showed me that Emerson was standing up, despite the attempts of the others to restrain him. A string of expletives and complaints, loudly uttered, assured me that his vocal powers at least were unimpaired. Anxious as I was to lend my assistance, I did not feel I could leave the boy. However, he had come out of his fit and was calmly brushing himself off. He gave me a puzzled smile.

“What has happened to Mr. Emerson?” he inquired innocently.

“He fell,” I replied. “I think your attendant tripped him.”

“Shame on you, François,” Justin exclaimed. “You should not have done that. It was wrong.”

“He was hurting you,” the fellow muttered.

“Was he? I don’t think so; he seems to be a very kind man. I hope he is not injured.”

“So do I,” I said, giving François a long hard look.

It would have been impossible for François to look harmless, but he did appear somewhat subdued. “It was an accident,” he mumbled. “I did not mean to harm him. But no one touches the young master.”

“I am going to touch him now,” I said firmly. “Take my hand, Justin, and we will go down together. Stay well back, François, we don’t want another accident, do we?”

The boy slipped his hand confidingly into mine and let me lead him back down the path. He was a few inches taller than I, but slimmer. The brief violent interlude had been forgotten; his countenance was, if anything, complacent.

“You should not have gone up there, Justin,” I said.

“I wanted to see the tombs.”

“That could be even more dangerous than the path. Some of the shafts are open; a tumble into one of them would hurt you badly. Promise me you will not go there again.”

“Can I see the temple, then? It is a temple to Hathor. She is a beautiful goddess, like the other Mrs. Emerson. Does she ever come there?”

With a slight shock I realized he was not speaking of Nefret.

“No, I don’t think she does, Justin.”

“The dragoman said she does. On the night of the full moon. He has seen her and so have some of his friends.”

I promised myself a word with that gentleman. He had no business putting such notions into the boy’s head. It might be advisable to have a word with Mrs. Fitzroyce as well. How could she entrust her young grandson to a villainous character like François? Devoted he undoubtedly was, but his judgment left something to be desired. In some ways he was as deficient in sense as Justin.

Emerson came stalking to meet us. Fearing that he might renew the combat, I interposed my person between him and François.

“Well, you are a sight,” I said, inspecting him. “Another shirt . . . not only your shirt this time, you have torn the knees out of your trousers.”

“Better my trousers than my head,” said Emerson. “As you see, my dear, I am relatively unscathed. Is the boy all right?”

Justin shrank back. “He is bleeding. I don’t like blood.”

Fearing, from the boy’s alarmed expression, that he was in danger of falling into another fit, I forced a laugh.

“He is not badly hurt, Justin.”

“Not a bit of it,” said Emerson heartily. “In a tumble of that sort, the trick is to shield one’s head, and roll, rather than—”

“We don’t need a lecture on tumbling, Emerson,” I interrupted. “Come to the shelter and let Nefret disinfect those cuts. Justin, go home at once. Do you have transportation?”

I directed the question at François, but it was Justin who answered. “Our horses are waiting. I ride very well. But I don’t want to go yet. I want to stay with the pretty Mrs. Emerson.”

“You must do as you are told. François—”

“Yes, madame. We will go now. I regret . . .”

“Hmmm,” said Emerson, fixing him with a steady stare. “It is lucky for you that you didn’t try your tricks on a less—er—athletic individual.”

“It is my duty to protect the young master,” François muttered sullenly.

“If you injure someone in the course of your duty, you will be dismissed and possibly imprisoned,” said Emerson. “I promise you that. Control your temper, as I am controlling mine. Only the boy’s presence prevents me from teaching you a lesson you would not soon forget.”

Emerson really was controlling himself quite well, but in my opinion he ought to have omitted the last sentence. It was meant as a challenge and it was understood as such. François’s scarred face twisted and he gave Emerson a hostile look.

“Go now,” I said sharply.

I sent David with them to locate their horses. When he returned, he reported that they had departed, and that Justin’s naive boast was not greatly exaggerated. “He handles a horse well. And he has excellent manners. He thanked me nicely. How did you become acquainted with an odd pair like that?”

Emerson, twitching impatiently under Nefret’s attempts to bandage a few of the deeper scratches on his arms and knees, said, “She’s always getting involved with lame ducks and hapless lovers.”

“It was Ramses who got involved this time,” I retorted. “The poor lad had one of his fits on the corniche in Luxor, and Ramses—quite understandably—misunderstood François’s efforts to restrain him. He is too young to be a lover, hapless or otherwise.”

“I don’t know about that,” Lia said with a knowing smile. “He could hardly take his eyes off Nefret. Boys of that age sometimes develop violent attachments.”

“There isn’t a scrap of violence in the lad,” I said. “And he thinks of Nefret as a goddess—Hathor, perhaps. He seems to have got it into his poor confused head that she manifests herself here in her temple.”

Selim, who was waiting for instructions, looked up. “He is not the only one to think so, Sitt Hakim. Two of the men of Gurneh say they have seen a white lady, veiled and crowned with gold, standing before the temple.”