Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [51]
“Sorry, Peabody,” he said, as I tipped over sideways. “I did not realize you were asleep. We’re almost there, so get your gear together.”
I sat up and stared out the window. There was nothing to be seen but sand, rock, and a few spindly palm trees. “What do you mean, we are almost there? Almost where? Not Meroe, it is at least—”
“Abu Hamed,” said Emerson. “Or, to be more precise, Station Number Ten, just outside Abu Hamed, where we connect with the branch line to Kareima.”
“Kareima,” I muttered, being still somewhat befuddled by drowsiness. “What? Why?”
Nefret handed me a dampened napkin. Though somewhat rumpled and glowing with perspiration, she was as bright-eyed as…as I was not. “Wipe your face, Aunt Amelia. So we are going straight to Napata and Gebel Barkal instead of on to Meroe? Very clever, Professor!”
“Well, I thought so,” said Emerson modestly. “Throw any pursuers off the track, you see. They will be expecting us in Meroe, and by the time they realize we aren’t there, we will be on our way. And if any of our fellow travelers get off here, we will know them for what they are.”
The dampened napkin was most refreshing. I looked from Emerson, who was smirking in a particularly annoying fashion, to Ramses, whose thin brown face, for once, betrayed his feelings. They were not those of surprise. Amusement, rather. As a rule I like seeing Ramses’s imperturbable countenance soften. Not on this occasion, however.
“You took Ramses into your confidence,” I cried accusingly. “But not me. How could you, Emerson?”
“No, Mother,” Ramses protested. “Honestly. Father said nothing to me. It was, however, a predictable and logical course of action—er—as you no doubt—um. I’ll go and alert Selim and Daoud and the other fellows, shall I?”
The train was slowing. I looked longingly at the seat, which opened into a nice comfortable bed, a bed which I was destined not to enjoy; and put on my hat. “Give Merasen a poke, will you, Nefret? Goodness, I believe that boy could sleep through a sandstorm.”
Since the railway to Abu Hamed cut across the arid desert, miles from the river, a series of wells had been sunk to supply needed water. Station Number Ten marked one of these. It merited no worthier name. There was nothing there except the station itself, a gray wooden building from which any paint had long since been scoured away by sand and sun. The train to Kareima was certainly not a train deluxe—in addition to the aged engine, there were only half a dozen carriages and a baggage car—but at least it was there, waiting for passengers, when we drew to a stop. The inevitable small merchants hawked fruit and water and sand-sprinkled bread. At my suggestion Ramses bought a supply of food and Nefret persuaded the dining-car steward to fill our water bottles with cold tea.
The transfer of our by now mountainous heap of baggage took some time. A few of the other passengers took advantage of the delay to get off and stretch their limbs. Among them were the Germans, who strode up and down, swinging their arms as if they were running a footrace. Several men in native garb bargained with the food sellers. They were the only ones who boarded the Kareima train.
While we waited, I saw a horse and rider, motionless atop a low dune some distance away. They were the most interesting objects in that dismal scene, and well worth looking at—figures of pure romance, the noble steed poised as if ready to break into a gallop, the rider straight in the saddle. He was too far away for me to make out his features, but the sun, now past the zenith, shone on his long robes and the folds of the white khafiya that covered his head. In one hand he carried a long lance. As I stared, raising my hands to shield my eyes from the glare of the sun, the man raised the lance and shook it in greeting or—which seemed more likely—menace.
“Emerson,” I said, tugging at his sleeve. “Look there.”
“Not now, Peabody, not now. Quickly, my lads, get those boxes aboard. Be careful with that one, Selim, it has the camera and plates. Well,