Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [47]
She was showing signs of returning consciousness when Nefret came hurrying toward us. “What on earth…” she began.
“It is just the heat, I think,” I said, as, with an exclamation of concern, she bent over the young woman. “Get some water.”
The application of this substance to face and throat soon brought Miss Campbell round. When she became aware of her position, a deep blush warmed the pallor of her face and she tried feebly to stand.
“Mary…Mary, dear,” her brother cried, attempting to support her. “Lord, we are in your hands. Help us, guide us!”
“You would be better advised to ask me for help,” I said irritably. “I presume you have made no arrangements for lodgings here? No, I didn’t suppose you had. Take your sister to the government rest house, get her out of those hot clothes, and apply copious amounts of water internally and externally. Ramses will carry her if she cannot walk.”
“Daoud,” Ramses said shortly.
“Oh,” I said. “Yes, that would be better.”
We got them off with their luggage, such as it was—two suitcases and a small valise. Daoud carried the girl as easily as if she had been a kitten, his large friendly face wearing a reassuring smile. When he came back to announce they had settled in, Emerson—who had completely ignored the little drama—was ready to proceed. Our packing cases had been stored, except for our bags, which our own fellows had taken in charge.
“Peabody, my dear, I expect you are anxious to—er—change your clothing and bathe.”
“I bathed this morning,” I retorted. “Not much of a bath, in muddy water in a basin, but I doubt the government rest house here offers more elegant facilities.”
“Who said anything about the rest house?” Emerson offered me his arm.
“Oh, no, Emerson,” I said firmly. “Not your dear old friend Mahmud—what was his name?”
“El Araba,” said Emerson. “I don’t know why you should protest, my dear. He was most hospitable. However, the poor old fellow is dead these many years.”
“Well, wherever we are going, let us go,” Nefret said impatiently. “I want to make Hassan comfortable, and I refuse to deliver him to the hospital until I have seen what it’s like.”
Wadi Halfa marks the border between Egypt and the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan; once a bustling military depot, it was now a pleasant, placid little town, capital of the mudiria (province) of the same name. We left the German tourists arguing with the station master and proceeded on foot toward the center of town, which boasted a hospital and several government buildings. Over one of them, a low structure of whitewashed mud brick shaded by trees, flew the British and Egyptian flags. My spirits rose at the sight.
“Is the mudir an old friend, Emerson?” I inquired hopefully.
“Good Gad, no,” said Emerson, as shocked as if I had implied he was well acquainted with Satan. “The mudirs are all British officials. The local ma’mur is Nur ed Din, splendid fellow, met him while he was running guns to Kordofan. His place is down this way.”
We were expected and were greeted with flattering enthusiasm by the ma’mur himself. The Nubians are a very clean people; the only exceptions I have known happened to be friends of Emerson’s, which says more about my husband’s notions of sanitation than about his friends. The ma’mur’s house was spacious and tidy enough to suit even me, with thick walls of mud brick, some of which were adorned with elegant painted designs. His servants led us to a pleasant little suite of rooms reserved for guests, which included an actual bath chamber and several sleeping chambers. We got Hassan settled in one of them; he was full of morphine and only vaguely aware of his surroundings.
“There,” said Emerson. “Isn’t this better than the cursed government house? Plenty of privacy, you see.” He gave