Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [36]
I was leafing through my copy of Brugsch’s Geographical Dictionary (Heinrich Brugsch, the archaeologist, not his disreputable brother) as I spoke; but I watched Evelyn out of the corner of my eye, and saw the betraying color rise in her cheeks. She put down her pencil—she was quite a good little artist, and had made a number of nice sketches along the way—and gazed out across the river toward the cliffs.
“What is the name of the place, Amelia?”
I rifled busily through the pages of Brugsch.
“The ancient name of the place was—”
“The modern name is El Amarnah, is it not?”
“There are three villages on the spot, el-Till and el-Haggi Qandil and El-Amariah. A corruption of these names—”
“Yes, yes, I recall—I recall Walter speaking of it. That is where he and Mr. Emerson are working. You would have no reason to remember that, of course.”
I decided that Evelyn was being sarcastic. She seldom allowed herself this luxury, so I overlooked it on this occasion.
“Is that so?” I said casually. “Well, I suppose there is no reason why we should necessarily encounter the Emersons. The site is large and the tombs are scattered. We will take it as settled, then. I will speak to Reis Hassan.”
Owing to a difficulty with the wind, we did not reach the village of Haggi Qandil for two days. Indeed, we had some trouble reaching it at all; if I had not been determined, Reis Hassan would not have stopped. He mentioned unfavorable winds, disease in the village, the remoteness of the archaeological remains from the river, and a number of other irrelevant arguments. You would have thought the good captain would have learned by now the futility of arguing with me; but perhaps he enjoyed it. Honesiy compels me to admit that Hassan may have had some reason on his side. We ran aground on a sandbank outside the village and had to be carried ashore by the villagers. We left Reis Hassan staring gloomily at his crew, who were trying to free the boat and making very little progress.
Michael, our dragoman, led the way into the village. It was a typical Egyptian village—perhaps a trifle more wretched than others. The narrow streets were heaped with refuse of all kinds, steaming under the hot sun. Dust and windblown sand coated every surface. Mangy dogs lay about the streets, their ribs showing. They bared their teeth at us as we passed, but were too miserable even to rise. Half-naked children stared from eyes ringed with flies, and whined for backsheesh.
Michael plunged into the crowd, shouting orders, and eventually we were presented with a choice of donkeys. We chose the least-miserable-looking of the lot, and then I proceeded to a ritual which had caused considerable amusement along the way, and which puzzled even our loyal Michael. Following my orders, interpreted by Michael, the reluctant owners took the filthy cloths from the animals’ back, swabbed them down with buckets of water, and smeared on the ointment I supplied. The donkeys were then covered with fresh saddle cloths, supplied by me, which were laundered after every use. I think it was the only time in the lives of these little donkeys that the cloths were ever removed; sores and insects proliferated under them.
The scowls on the faces of the donkeys’ owners turned to broad smiles as I tipped them liberally for their unusual effort; I took the opportunity to add a short lecture on the economic advantage of tending one’s livestock, but I was never sure how much of this discourse Michael translated. With the now laughing attendants running alongside, we trotted off across the desert toward the tombs.
The cliffs, which run closely along the river in other areas, fall back here, leaving a semicircular plain some seven miles long by four miles wide at its greatest extent. The cultivated land is only a narrow strip less than half a mile wide; beyond, all is baking yellow-brown desert, until one reaches the rocky foothills of the cliffs into which the tombs were cut.
We were bouncing along in fine style, squinting