Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [137]
“As usual,” I said bitterly, “you talk of danger but not how to prevent it.”
Abdullah let out a little sound of exasperation. “I am not allowed. I have told you before—in attempting to prevent one danger, you may run headlong into another. You must work out the pattern for yourself. There is a pattern, Sitt. You will see it if you try. Come,” he went on, in a kinder voice, “let us look across the valley.”
I let him draw me to the spot where the path plunged down. “The sun is born again from the womb of night,” he said. “See how the light spreads, remaking the world.”
The shapes of mountain and sown land, ruined temples and homely houses seemed to spring into existence out of the nothingness of the night. He was trying to tell me something, but I was cursed if I knew what. My black mood lifted a little, though. His hand was as firm and warm as that of a living man.
“So you have become a poet as well as a saint, Abdullah?”
“Ah, that.” Abdullah looked pleased, but he shook his head. “It is part of the pattern too, Sitt. Go now. Be careful on the path—not only this one, but the one you must follow.”
He had never descended with me, not even a few steps. Always his path led toward the west.
EVEN EMERSON WAS IN NO fit state of mind for work the next day. None of us had got much sleep; it had been impossible for anyone to seek repose until I brought the news that Selim had survived the operation. Further comfort than that I could not honestly offer at the time, but Nefret, who had stayed with him all night, turned up for breakfast to report that he was holding his own, and indeed seemed a little better.
“I must get back,” she went on, looking with distaste at the heaped plate Fatima promptly set before her. “Kadija is with him now, but—”
“Eat something and then go to bed,” I said firmly. “You cannot risk falling ill. Kadija and I will look after him.”
“He will be all right, won’t he?” Sennia raised tragic black eyes.
“Yes,” I said.
“He wouldn’t dare die with your aunt Amelia and Nefret looking after him.” The speaker was Sethos, who had just entered, after snatching a few hours’ sleep on the dahabeeyah. He patted the child’s curly black head and glanced at his daughter, but contented himself with a nod and a smile.
I put my serviette on the table and rose. “I am going to Selim now. Get some rest, Nefret. I will notify you at once if there is any change. You can trust me to do that, I presume?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“The rest of you carry on. Keep busy.”
“Yes, Mother,” said Ramses.
“And you, Emerson,” I began.
“Yes, Peabody,” said Emerson, with only the slightest note of irony. “Are you certain you can trust me to carry out an investigation without your assistance?”
“In this case,” I conceded, “you are probably better qualified than I.”
“Good Gad,” said Emerson. “Probably?”
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
* * *
They had been too worried and distressed the night before to discuss what had caused the accident. Anyhow, it would have been unproductive to speculate before they had all the facts, and the wreckage could better be examined in daylight.
In the end, six of them rode to Gurneh. Walter would not be left behind—although, to the best of Ramses’s knowledge, he knew very little about the workings of motorcars—and Bertie turned up as they were leaving, to offer what assistance he could. They spent a little time with Selim’s wives, who went about the conventional gestures of hospitality with better spirits than Ramses had expected. They knew Selim had got through the operation.
“The Sitt Hakim sent Daoud to tell us,” one of them explained.
Of course, Ramses realized, she would think of that. He hadn’t.
Guiltily, praying he was not holding out false hope, he added additional reassurance. “He is better this morning. She says he will live.”
They had never doubted it. Not with the Sitt Hakim’s magic working for him. Nur Misur was loved