Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [181]
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.
A sudden jar broke her numbed hold. Her head went under water and her feet jolted against a solid surface. She stood up, wobbling on one leg, and pushed the streaming hair out of her eyes. The log that had been both disaster and savior had run up against a muddy bank. It was not either of the river banks—just another damned island.
A wave lapped her ankles. The log dipped, as if nodding a courteous farewell, and floated away. Nefret leaned over and threw up.
Once she had rid herself of the rest of the water she had swallowed, and all of the meal she had eaten, she realized she was ravenous. A brief, hobbling survey of her current position offered no hope of relieving her hunger or her thirst. This island was a little larger than the other, but not much, and she was still in the middle of the river, no closer to either shore than she had been, though she was some distance downstream. The only other inhabitants were birds, snowy white egrets, and a few kingfishers. She startled a nesting goose, which rose flapping and honking. In the strengthening light Nefret considered the clutch. No, she wasn’t that hungry. Not yet.
She sat down and examined her bare leg. It hurt like the devil, but there was no break, just a bruise the size of her closed fist. Swearing and wincing, Nefret probed the injured arm, and diagnosed a bruised bicep. She wouldn’t be using that arm for a while. But there would be boats on the river soon. She ought to be able to hail one of them, making damn good and sure before she did so that it was not a dahabeeyah the size of the Isis.
It did not take her long to discover that the main channel was too far away for her faint calls to carry. She grew hoarse from shouting. Against the gray-green reeds her body was essentially invisible. She had nothing bright to wave, no way of starting a fire.
When the sun was high overhead, she saw the Amelia go past. She went on waving and calling until it was out of sight, and then sank down and hid her face in her folded arms.
I DECIDED I COULD ABANDON my post for a short time, and summoned the others to the saloon. No one was hungry, but it is necessary to keep up one’s strength when strenuous endeavor