Children of the Storm (51 page)

“We’re two hours down from Luxor,” Sethos said. “That means she passed here late in the afternoon. And we know we’re going in the right direction. There was always a chance she’d turn and go upstream.”

“But they are at least six hours ahead of us, even if they stopped last night.”

“They must have done,” Sethos said impatiently. “Don’t be such a pessimist, Amelia, it isn’t like you. No captain would risk his boat trying to navigate this river after dark.”

“Then she would have to put in last night . . . where?”

“Somewhere around Qena,” Ramses replied. “Three hours away, at our present speed. We daren’t go faster, none of us knows the river well enough. Eat something, Mother.”

I took a piece of bread, since Nasir would not leave me alone, and went back to my post on the other side of the boat.

Sunlight sparkled on the water. Our speed had increased, once we were in mid-channel. I could not take my eyes from the passing scene, and I wished I had another pair of them in the back of my head. We had men stationed at the prow and the stern and along both sides, watching as keenly as I, but that wasn’t enough for me; I felt I could trust no eyes but my own. The water, which looks so clear and sparkling at a distance, was a muddy brown and as littered as a Cairo alley. The river constantly shifts, eating away at one bank or the other; we passed a once-flourishing grove of palm trees, some precariously balanced on less than half their root base, others already fallen, their leaves trailing in the water. Withered palm fronds and dead branches floated past, with an occasional dead animal for interest. I am sure I need not tell the Reader that my eyes followed each such object with morbid dread, and each time I held my breath until I had identified it.

The river was not the populous thoroughfare it had been during my early years in Egypt, when it had been the only means of travel and transport. The railroad was cheaper and quicker, except for short distances. In Middle Egypt one would still see barges carrying sugar cane to the factories, but below Assiut only small local boats and an occasional tourist steamer used the river. We came up on one of the latter, flying the British flag, and I recognized one of Cook’s vessels, the Amasis. We passed her so close I could see the pale, staring faces of the passengers standing at the rail—too close for the captain’s taste, apparently, since he waved his fists and yelled at us.

Ramses came to me. He had lost his hat and his hair blew wildly about his face. “I let David take over,” he said. “I hope he can do better than I.”

“We are going too fast. That was a good-sized island we passed. Shouldn’t we have investigated the other side of it?”

Ramses turned to face me, one arm resting on the rail—but his eyes, like mine, continued to scan the banks. “We cannot circle every island and sandbank, there are too many of them. With an inexperienced hand at the tiller there’s a good chance we would run aground. That would slow us even more.”

“What is the point of this pursuit then?” I demanded.

“Could you have remained in Luxor, knowing that every minute, every hour was taking them farther away?”

A flush of shame warmed my face. He and I were the ones most deeply affected, and he was taking it better than I—externally. I was not deceived by his impassive countenance and cool voice.

“No more than you,” I said.

His expression did not change. “There is relatively little traffic on this part of the river, and it’s possible, even probable, that a conspicuous vessel like the Isis would have been observed. What I’m praying for is that she ran aground. Though it’s more likely that we will. Mother, you will wear yourself out standing here. Come to the saloon and have something to eat. Nasir keeps cooking; I can’t stop him.”

“I will wait until we reach Qena. How is Selim?”

“I can’t stop him either,” Ramses admitted. “He won’t leave his engines. He seems to be all right.”

Another hour passed. I counted off every minute, willing the hands of my watch to move faster. There might be news at Qena. A rotten log floating by had the exact shape and size of a human body.

Cyrus was the next to approach me. “Come and have luncheon, Amelia,” he said, covering my clenched hand with his. “We’ve got a dozen people keeping watch, you can’t do any good here.”

“Soon. We are nearing Qena, I believe. That is Ballas, on the West Bank.”

Qena is a prosperous town, set in a well-cultivated countryside and noted for the quality of clay in the area. All along the bank lay row upon row of pottery vessels, round-bellied pots and tall water jars, ready for transport. Beyond the rows of pots a banner was raised, held high on long poles by two men. It was white. The Isis had not been seen.

The other men had gathered round. Bertie let out a muffled oath, and Daoud invoked his god. “Does this mean the boat did not come this far?” he asked.

“Not necessarily,” Ramses said. He leaned out over the rail, squinting against the sunlight. Water traffic was heavier here, vessels coming in to load, and departing with their cargoes of pots, a steamer slowing for the landing ahead, where tourists would disembark for a visit to the temple of Denderah. Feluccas glided like large white butterflies around the larger boats. One of them appeared to be heading straight for us.

Ramses let out a shout. “Stop! Tell Selim to stop the engines.”

The boat was heading straight for us. Standing upright, one hand on the mast, the other arm waving in emphatic gestures, was a man whose face and sturdy frame were oddly familiar. His bearded face split in a grin when the Amelia began to slow. The little craft came neatly alongside. The man grasped one of the hands that reached down for him, and scrambled nimbly on board.

“Reis Hassan,” I cried. “How did you—”

“The word has gone down the river with the speed of a flying bird. We have been watching for you. What have you done to my boat?”

“Nothing yet, but we had a few close calls,” Ramses said, with the first genuine smile I had seen on his face for hours. “Marhaba, Reis Hassan—welcome and thrice welcome. Something told me we might see you here.”

“Nothing told me,” I admitted. “Yet I ought to have known. Thank you, my friend, worthy son of your father.”

He shrugged my thanks away. “This is not a time for talk. What is the plan? Where do you want to go? And who”—his voice cracked—“who is steering my boat?”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nefret had asked for more oil for the lamp. She hadn’t got it. They had also refused her request to see Emerson, but she knew where he was—in the room next to hers. As they led her along the passageway she had raised her voice in a string of swear words, and got an immediate, equally profane, response. The doctor added a few curses of his own before he pushed her into her room.

At least she knew he was still alive and conscious, and she had been able to reassure him about herself. The lamp was burning low. It wouldn’t last much longer. She examined the wall that separated the two rooms, inch by inch, and could have laughed aloud when she heard a steady scraping sound at the base of the partition. Lying flat on the floor, she retrieved the last of the hoarded nails from her shoe.

At the first sound from her, the scraping stopped. Three soft knocks sounded. She knocked back, three times, wondering what system of communication he had in mind. Tapping through the alphabet would take forever.

Apparently Emerson came to the same conclusion. The scraping resumed. Her ear against the panel, Nefret located the source of the sound and began digging with her nail. The wood of the partition was thin, but neither of them had a proper tool; it seemed like, and probably was, hours before a sharp point jabbed into her hand. She pulled it back, and heard splinters snap as Emerson enlarged the hole. When she heard his voice she lay flat and pressed her ear to the small opening.

“Nefret, my dear. Can you hear me?”

“Yes. Father, are you hurt?”

“Perfectly fit, my dear. Pay attention, time is running out on us. It will be light before long. They had me in that room for a bit earlier on. I believe you can lift the bar on the outside of the shutters.”

“I haven’t anything to use as a lever. I tried to steal a knife at dinner, but—”

“Pay attention, I said. There’s a lamp bracket next to the washbasin. I managed to loosen it a trifle. If you keep bending it back and forth, it ought to come off. Do it now.”

“Yes, sir.”

The last of the oil flickered out as she wrenched at the metal strip. It came away from the wall so suddenly, she staggered. She had to feel her way back to the hole.

“I’ve got it,” she reported. “As soon as I get out of here I’ll come to your window and—”

“As soon as you get out of there you will go over the side. I don’t know how far we are from land. Are you willing to risk it?”

“Risk be damned. I won’t leave you here.”

Their faces were close together. She felt his breath warm on her cheek. “You can’t get me out. Even if you could, I would find it a trifle difficult to swim with fifty pounds of ironmongery attached to me. Are you crying? Don’t cry, curse it! Do you know what they’re planning?”

“Yes. That horrible old woman told me, at dinner. But I can’t . . .” She knew he was right, though. She couldn’t free him, and she was no good to him as a fellow prisoner.

“She told me, too. Or rather,” said Emerson complacently, “she confirmed my deductions. I could have dropped—if I hadn’t already been recumbent—when she told me who she was. It just goes to show that one should never leave old enemies lying carelessly about. Go on, now. Er—”

“À bientôt, Father.”

“Er—yes. My dear.”

She was afraid to speak again, for she knew her voice would betray her. The faint slits of light at the shutters guided her. It took all her strength to force the blunt end of the bracket into the crack between shutter and window frame, and for a while she didn’t think she could exert enough pressure to force the bar up. It gave all at once, and Nefret’s heart stopped as it swung free, striking the shutter with a sound that seemed to her as loud as a pistol shot. Emerson heard it; he began to yell and bang on the door, making enough racket to drown out louder sounds than the ones she made climbing out the window. There was no one in sight on the narrow stretch of deck.

She felt as if some other entity had taken control of her body, blocking off emotions she couldn’t afford to feel. Smoothly and quickly, she closed the shutters and replaced the bar before she climbed over the rail and lowered herself into the water.

The shock of immersion took her breath away. Clinging to the side she looked round, trying to get her bearings. The moon was on the wane, a thin sliver of silver, but the stars were the bright stars of Egypt. Behind her, not far away, a low, dark bulk blotted out a section of sky. An island, and not a very big one—just long enough to hide the Isis from one direction.

Bare feet thumped on the deck, only a few inches over her head. Emerson’s outburst must have drawn some of them away from their posts temporarily. They had silenced him now.

Nefret drew in a deep breath and pushed herself away from the boat in a long glide. When she was forced to come up for air she turned onto her back and paddled gently with her hands. Now she could see the ghostly outlines of the cliffs of the high plateau. They looked awfully far away. West bank or east? She floated, letting the current carry her for a few yards downstream. The cliffs were those of the West Bank, then. Maybe the eastern shore was closer. Something bumped into her, something squashy and vile-smelling. Nefret fended it off, fighting revulsion. There were always dead animals in the Nile. She didn’t want to see what this one was. Turning over again, onto her front, she started swimming toward the island.

It was only a sandbank, less than sixty feet long and a few yards wide, but reeds had rooted themselves and weedy plants struggled for sustenance. Nefret pulled herself out of the water and looked round. The eastern shore looked just as far distant. If there was a village on either bank, it showed no lights. The villagers couldn’t afford to waste oil. She looked in vain for a familiar landmark. Emerson would have found one—he knew every foot of the river—but to her the cliffs looked all alike. To her left—north, downstream—she could see what appeared to be other small islands.

One thing was certain. She couldn’t stay here. Once her absence was discovered they would look for her, and the reeds offered no concealment. She sat down and began struggling with the wet laces of her boots. It cost her a fingernail before she got them off. Hastily she stripped off her wet shirt and trousers, flattened them into a bundle, and used her belt to strap them onto her back. Silly, perhaps, but if she was fortunate enough to reach shore she didn’t relish the idea of showing herself to a group of conservative villagers in wet, skimpy underclothing.

The sky over the eastern cliffs had paled. Dawn was near. She waded through the weeds, slid into the water, and started swimming toward the eastern shore, downstream, with the current and across it.

She had known everyone used the Nile as a trash depository, but it was one thing to know, and quite another to be in the middle of the mess, nose to nose with rotting vegetation and dead branches and other things she preferred not to think about. Organic objects that had sunk rose when the gases of decomposition swelled them. She had heard her first lecture on that interesting subject from her mother-in-law, years ago; Emerson had been absolutely scandalized . . .

The thing came at her from behind, floating downstream. It struck her upraised arm a numbing blow and caught her again on the shin as she went under, her mouth filling with water. She fought her way back to the surface, her lungs heaving. The thing was beside her, turning idly in a little eddy—a section of palm trunk, with a few fronds still attached. Dizzy with pain, and half-drowned, Nefret caught hold of a handful and with the last of her strength pulled herself far enough forward to throw one arm over the rounded trunk. Swimming was out of the question, her right arm hurt and her stomach was in knots and she was tired. So tired. She hung on, letting the impromptu raft draw her along with it, saving what was left of her strength, expending only as much energy as was necessary to keep her head above water. The sky began to brighten. Her left arm ached. Everything ached. Ankle, leg, right arm, back.