Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [55]
“These camels look extremely clean,” said Emerson, in a last-ditch effort to stop me.
“Without wishing to be rude about a friend of yours, Emerson, I refuse to take on faith any object, animate or not, brought to us by Mustapha.”
“Curse it,” Emerson muttered. “Well, don’t expect me to help you. Bloody nonsense!”
It was only a token protest. Emerson would never mistreat an animal or allow it to be mistreated. Besides, he knew I would go ahead anyhow. On my first visit to Egypt I had discovered that most of the little donkeys bestrode by tourists suffered from sores and mistreatment, and I had made it a point ever since to wash and doctor all the animals we employed. I had to give Emerson credit; he had refrained from mentioning the dismal fate of the last batch of camels I had doctored. I have to give myself credit; it was not my fault that someone had put poison in my camel medicine.
“It won’t take long, Emerson. I believe I have the hang of it now.”
This proved to be a somewhat optimistic assessment. I have reached the conclusion that it is impossible for anyone to wash a camel quickly and easily. Camels have perfectly vile tempers and, I could almost believe, more joints than a normal quadruped. Ropes around the camel’s legs and around its neck were held by our men, two to each rope, but this did not prevent the creature from protesting in its mournful howl and kicking for all it was worth. I stood on a little mound with a bucket of soapy water and my brush, and scrubbed whatever part of the camel came within reach. Ramses and Nefret helped by rinsing the beast off while trying to avoid its flailing feet. They were both good with animals, but as Ramses remarked once the job was done, even Saint Francis would have come a cropper with a camel. It was a rather vulgar way of putting it, in my opinion, but since he was wet to the waist and rubbing his shin, I allowed him a little leeway.
We had been at our present camp, at the pyramid field of Nuri, for two days. It was across the river and several miles downstream from Gebel Barkal. Emerson had insisted we move on as soon as he identified the “confounded Egyptologist” (he had employed a more emphatic adjective). Fortunately he had been somewhat winded by his tumble off the horse, so I was able to get to him before he burst into a denunciation of the unfortunate man, who, I felt certain, was guilty of nothing more than being where Emerson did not want him to be. I stuck to that opinion even after Mr. MacFerguson, shaking hands all round and smiling broadly, mentioned that he had worked this past summer at the British Museum.
“Budge,” growled Emerson, this being the first word he had breath enough to utter.
“No, sir, MacFerguson,” said that gentleman in surprise. “May I say, sir, what an honor it is to meet you—and Mrs. Emerson—and young Mr. Emerson—and Miss Forth—”
“Selim and Daoud,” I said, indicating those two stalwarts. “Our reis and his able assistant.”
Mr. MacFerguson shook everybody’s hands again. He was a comical-looking man, with a round blob of a nose and a long chin, and ears that had spread out to remarkable dimensions as soon as he removed his pith helmet. “Dear me, this is an unexpected pleasure!” said he, in a prim little voice like that of someone’s maiden aunt. “I had heard you planned to work at Meroe.”
“Had you, indeed?” said Emerson, who had been in receipt of several sharp pokes from my parasol.
“Yes, yes, word of your plans gets about, even to such a remote spot as this. I received a communication from Mr. Reisner only last week.”
“Ah,” I said. “So you are connected with Mr. Reisner’s Nubian Survey, not with the British Museum.”
“No, no. That is—yes, yes, the Nubian Survey, under Mr. Reisner. But how rude I am to keep you standing here in the sun! Allow me to offer you a glass of tea while you tell me how I may assist you. This is a huge site, and I would be absolutely delighted to share it with individuals of such distinction.”
Emerson shook his head irritably. Then a new idea seemed to occur to him. His eyes moved from Mr. MacFerguson