Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [42]
Four
The government steamers take two days to cover the stretch between Shellal and Wadi Halfa. It took us four. However, the region through which we passed was fraught with interest, and the prevailing north wind was pleasantly cool under a shaded awning. Without entering into details which the majority of my readers would find tedious as well as extraneous, I should explain that the area had been called by a number of different names over the centuries: the Land of the Bow, Cush, Nubia, the Sudan, to mention only a few. The Meroitic civilization flourished in southern Nubia after the fall of the earlier Cushite kingdom at Napata. Ruins of all periods abounded, for the conquering pharaohs of ancient Egypt had been succeeded by kings of Napata and queens of Meroe, and by Greek and Roman invaders; Christianity had raised its churches and Islam its mosques. Sitting on deck, we studied them through field glasses and Emerson mumbled discontentedly. “There’ll be nothing left of them in another century, Peabody. Those villains at Aswan keep raising the water level.”
Additional entertainment was provided by bits of the boat falling off. Obviously this was not an unusual occurrence, for the crewmen remained unperturbed as they retrieved (most of) the bits and tied them back on. On one occasion we came to a dead halt in the middle of the river and it required some brisk steering by Farah to keep us from going aground while the engines were being repaired. Selim, who could not keep away from machinery of any kind, assisted in the repairs. He came back to us shaking his head in mingled horror and admiration. “I do not know how this boat has stayed afloat,” he declared. “The engine is held together with wire and rust.”
Even this somewhat alarming encounter did not bring two of our fellow passengers on deck. According to our captain, they were missionaries, on their way to the southern Sudan. Wingate, the governor, had wisely restricted the ardor of these individuals in the Moslem areas, for Islam does not take kindly to proselytizers. Denizens of the “pagan” areas farther south were fair game, however, and it was thither our fellow passengers were bound. We did not set eyes on them until the last day, when we were only a few hours from Wadi Halfa. They had, as Captain Farah solemnly explained, bad stomachs.
Alimentary disorder had not prevented them from exhibiting their religious zeal. The partitions between cabins were flimsy affairs; every evening, prayers and hymns echoed through the walls and went on so long that Emerson was eventually inspired to shout demands for silence. He could shout much more loudly than they could sing, so that put an end to the performances.
Yet so uneasy had I become that I could not help wondering whether these persons were what they claimed to be. Sethos had a strange sense of humor, and it would be like him to disguise himself as a man of the cloth. When they finally appeared in the saloon on the morning of the day we were to dock, I stared unabashedly.
They were not a married couple, but brother and sister—the Reverend and Miss Campbell. The lady was tall and slim and in my opinion rather too beautiful for a missionary. She was plainly dressed and her face was bare of cosmetics, but this only emphasized the delicate modeling of her cheekbones and the white brow framed by masses of auburn hair. Her voice was low, her accent well-bred, her manner frank and open, her smile engaging.
She was certainly not Sethos.
Nor was her brother, I decided. He was as ugly as she was beautiful, with scanty light brows and a pathetic wisp of a beard. The eyebrows might have been plucked and bleached and