Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [178]
A large granite sarcophagus occupied most of the space in the small chamber. It was covered by a rotting linen pall sewn with gold-sequined spangles that glittered in the light. The walls were painted with scenes of the funeral and the judgment of the soul, with gods and goddesses welcoming the dead man to eternal life. On the wall to Ramses’s left was a carved doorway, with a small offering table in front of it. The door faced west; through it would come the ka of the deceased, to feast on the food supplied for it. The offerings were fresh: fruits and bread, a jug of what was probably beer or wine, a roast fowl.
Ramses was not superstitious about mummies, he had seen too many of them; but when a shrouded form appeared from behind the huge stone box where Forth’s dry bandaged body lay, an involuntary shiver ran through him. Then he recognized the old wisewoman and realized she was leading another person by the hand. Nefret’s hair glittered like the gold on the pall. She did not look at him, even when he spoke her name.
Ramses got his feet under him and tried to stand. The point of a spear pricked his chest.
“You are a fool,” the old woman said. “Or a man in love. They are the same, yes? No harm will come to her unless you cause it. Do not move. Speak softly, if you must speak.”
She led Nefret to the side of the sarcophagus and settled her on a pile of cushions. Nefret’s face was calm, her body relaxed, her breathing deep and even. Ramses looked up at the man who held the spear. His expression was absolutely terrified. Not a comfortable position to be in, between the devilish old woman and the wrath of a brother of demons. He doubted the fellow would dare use the weapon, but it would have been foolish to take the chance. He forced himself to speak evenly. “What do you want then?”
“The past and the future. Her memories of the great Father Forth. Her foreseeing of what will come. For in this state all time is open to the sleeper. It is not a stream that flows in one direction only but a pool in which she may move at will.”
In spite of his fear for Nefret, Ramses was fascinated. How had this illiterate, primitive old woman come upon a theory of time like that of certain advanced modern thinkers? He knew what was wrong with Nefret. It was the same trance state into which Tarek had once sent him—a technique practiced in many cultures and in many ages, called by many names. He had only the vaguest memories of what had happened during that bizarre episode, but he had waked as if from a dreamless sleep, without ill effects. Had his face worn the same expression—inhumanly calm, faintly smiling? He knew it would be worse than folly to attempt to rouse her. Only the hypnotist could do that safely.
The old woman settled Nefret more comfortably on the pillows, her withered old hands as gentle as those of a nurse. She raised Nefret’s bowed head and Ramses’s skin prickled when Nefret held the pose into which she had been placed, like a jointed doll with blue glass eyes.
The old woman turned. “She is ready.”
Though the height of the sarcophagus concealed the other side of the chamber, Ramses had deduced there must be other rooms behind this one, containing items of funerary equipment and offerings. The old woman had waited in one of them with Nefret, and so had someone else. He came out now, around the corner of the sarcophagus.
“I am sorry,” he began.
“I trusted you, Tarek! So did she. Why have you done this?”
“It was necessary,” Tarek said urgently but softly. “Forgive me for deceiving you and treating you roughly, but you would not have let me bring her here if I had told you the truth. It is for her good, and yours, and mine, that