Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [52]
“What things?”
“Afreets, demons—all strange things. They fear ghosts of the dead. The mummy—they ask where it has gone.”
That was all he could, or would, say. I went back to my pavement in some perturbation of spirit. I could hardly sneer at the ignorance of the natives when I had experienced equally wild thoughts.
The reader may well ask why I had not spoken of my adventure. I asked myself the same question; but I knew the answer, and it did not reflect creditably on my character. I was afraid of being laughed at. I could almost hear Emerson’s great guffaws echoing out across the valley when I told him of seeing his lost mummy out for a midnight stroll. And yet I felt I ought to speak. I knew I had not seen an animated mummy. My brain knew it, if my nervous system did not. I spent the rest of the day brushing tapioca and water over my lovely pavement and carrying on a vigorous internal debate —common sense against vanity.
When we gathered on the ledge for our customary evening meeting, I could see that the others were also distraught. Walter looked very tired; he dropped into a chair with a sigh and let his head fall back.
“What a wretched day! We seem to have accomplished nothing.”
“I shall come down tomorrow,” said Emerson. He looked at me. “With Peabody’s permission or without it.”
Walter sat upright.
“Radcliffe, why do you address Miss Peabody so disrespectfully? After all she has done for us…”
It was unusual for Walter to speak so sharply—another indication, if I had needed one, of the strained atmosphere.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” I said calmly. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, you know. As for your returning to work tomorrow…”
I looked Emerson up and down. The clinical appraisal annoyed him, as I had known it would; he squirmed like a guilty schoolboy, and exclaimed. “What is your diagnosis, Sitt Hakim?”
Truthfully, I was not pleased with his appearance. He had lost considerable flesh. The bones in his face were too prominent, and his eyes were still sunken in their sockets.
“I disapprove,” I said. “You are not strong enough yet to be out in the sun. Have you taken your medicine today?”
Emerson’s reply was not suitable for the pages of a respectable book. Walter sprang to his feet with a hot reproof. Only the appearance of Michael, with the first course of our dinner, prevented an argument. We went early to bed. I could see that Emerson fully intended to return to the excavations next day, so he needed his sleep, and after my disturbed night I too was weary.
Yet I did not sleep well. I had disturbing dreams. I awoke from one such dream in the late hours of the night, and as my sleep-fogged eyes focused, I saw a slim white form standing by the doorway. My heart gave such a leap I thought it would choke me. When I recognized Evelyn, I almost fainted with relief.
She turned, hearing my gasp.
“Amelia,” she whispered.
“What is it? Why are you awake at this hour? Good Gad, child, you almost frightened me to death!”
She looked ghostly as she glided toward me, her bare feet making no sound, her white nightdress floating out behind her. I lighted a lamp; Evelyn’s face was as pale as her gown. She sank down on the edge of my bed, and I saw that she was shivering.
“I heard a sound,” she said. “Such an eerie sound, Amelia, like a long, desolate sigh. I don’t know how long it had been going on. It woke me; I am surprised it didn’t waken you too.”
“I heard it, and it became part of my dream,” I answered. “I dreamed of death, and someone weeping over a grave… Then what happened?”
“I didn’t want to wake you; you had worked so hard today. But the sound went on and on, until I thought I should die; it was so dreary, so unutterably sad. I had to know what was making it. So I went and drew the curtain aside and looked out.”
She paused, and went even paler.
“Go on,” I urged. “You need not fear my skepticism, Evelyn. I have reasons, which you will hear in due course, for believing the wildest possible tale.”
“You cannot mean that you too—”