Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [47]
“What does it matter’ Walter was fairly dancing with impatience. “I am off, I cannot wait to see, but I thought you might like to accompany me. I fear the trail will be rough …”
“I fear so, too,” I said grimly. “I must apply myself to the question of appropriate costume. My rationals are an improvement on skirts, but they do not go far enough. Do you think, Evelyn, that we could fashion some trousers out of a skirt or two?”
The trail was rough, but I managed it. A few of the villagers accompanied us. As we walked, Walter explained that the tombs we were inhabiting were known as the Southern Tombs. Another group of ancient sepulchers lay to the north, and were, logically enough, referred to as the Northern Tombs. The newly discovered tomb was one of this group.
After several long miles I finally saw a now-familiar square opening in the cliffs above us, and then another beyond the first. We had reached the Northern Tombs, and a scramble up a steep slope of detritus soon brought us to the entrance to the new tomb.
Walter was a different man. The gentle boy had been supplanted by the trained scholar. Briskly he gave orders for torches and ropes. Then he turned to me.
“I have explored these places before. I don’t recommend that you come with me, unless you are fond of bats in your hair and a great deal of dust.”
“Lead on,” I said, tying a rope in a neat half-hitch around my waist.
I had Walter thoroughly under control by then. He would not have argued with me if I had proposed jumping off a pyramid.
I had been in a number of ancient tombs, but all had been cleared for visitors. I was somewhat surprised to find that this one was almost as clear, and far less difficult than Walter had feared. There was a good deal of loose rubble underfoot, and at one point we had to cross a deep pit, which had been dug to discourage tomb robbers. The villagers had bridged it with a flimsy-looking plank. Other than that, the going was not at all bad.
Walter too was struck by the relative tidiness. He threw a comment over his shoulder.
“The place is too well cleared, Miss Peabody. I suspect it has been robbed over and over again; we will find nothing of interest here.”
The corridor ended, after a short distance, in a small chamber cut out of the rock. In the center of the room stood a rough wooden coffin. Lifting his torch, Walter looked into it.
“There is nothing to be afraid of,” he said, misinterpreting my expression. “The wrappings are still in place; will you look?”
“Naturally,” I said.
I had seen mummies before, of course, in museums. At first glance this had nothing to distinguish it from any other mummy. The brown, crumbling bandages had been wrapped in intricate patterns, rather like weaving. The featureless head, the shape of the arms folded across the breast, the stiff, extended limbs—yes, it was like the other mummies I had seen, but I had never seen them in their natural habitat, so to speak. In the musty, airless chamber, lighted only by dimly flaring torches, the motionless form had a grisly majesty. I wondered who he—or she—had been: a prince, a priestess, the young mother of a family, or an aged grandfather? What thoughts had lived in the withered brain— what emotions had brought tears to the shriveled eyes or smiles to the fleshless lips? And the soul—did it live on, in the golden grain fields of Amenti, as the priests had promised the righteous worshiper, as we look forward to everlasting life with the Redeemer these people never knew?
Walter did not appear to be absorbed in pious meditation. He was scowling as he stared down at the occupant of the coffin. Then he turned, holding the torch high as he inspected the walls of the chamber. They were covered with inscriptions and with the same sort of reliefs to which I had become accustomed in the Southern Tombs. All centered on the majestic figure of pharoah, sometimes alone, but usually with his queen and his six little daughters. Above, the god Aten, shown as the round disk of the sun, embraced the king with long rays