Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [82]
As usual, Har and his men left us to ourselves, settling down in their blankets a little distance away. This vexed Daoud, who was a sociable soul and wanted to make friends. “They are strange people,” he announced.
“They are people like us, Daoud,” Ramses said. “They speak a different language and their customs are not like ours, but they are good men.”
“They do not pray,” said Daoud, who had punctiliously observed the times of fatah when it was practicable.
“They pray to their own gods,” Nefret explained.
“They are not gods, but false idols,” declared Daoud.
“No doubt that is true, Daoud,” said Emerson. “But do not say so to these men.”
“That would be discourteous,” said Daoud. “If Allah wishes to show them the right path, he will do so in his own way.”
“The world would be a better place if everyone thought as you do, Daoud,” I said, patting his arm. “Now what about a language lesson?”
At my insistence we had tried to do this every evening, and I had beguiled some of the long hours of riding by speaking Meroitic with Nefret. I should add that although I have used the word for convenience, strictly speaking, the language of the Holy City was neither Egyptian nor Meroitic, though it contained elements of both. It had once been Nefret’s native tongue, but I confess I was surprised at how quickly she had regained her former fluency. Ramses’s gift for languages stood him in good stead; I realized he must have begun studying Meroitic even before we left England, and he became even more proficient as the days passed. His father did not. However, as I have said, Emerson generally gets his point across in one way or another.
Next day we passed through a region of heavy sand dunes. It was hard going for men and camels, and very boring. Squatting uncomfortably in the bassourab, I had fallen into a half-doze when an outcry from Emerson awoke me. I put my head out.
“You must see this, Peabody,” he exclaimed. “Let me help you down.”
We were nearing the top of one of the higher dunes. The sun was setting. At first I saw nothing except more cursed sand, but as we plodded onward and upward, a fantastic vision seemed to rise up out of the ground ahead: towers and battlements, black against the crimson sunset, like the ramparts of a medieval castle.
“There it is,” said Emerson. “The Holy Mountain.”
We stood staring in fascinated silence until we were joined by Ramses and Selim. The sight was magical, and a trifle ominous. Daoud, slightly behind the others, gave voice to my feelings. “Surely it is the castle of the King of the Afrits. We are going there?”
“Yes,” said Emerson.
“Ah,” said Daoud. And down he went, onto his knees to rub face and hands with sand in lieu of water. It was the proper time for prayer, but I suspected he would have done it anyhow. After a sidelong glance at Emerson, Selim joined him. We waited in silence, while the patient camels plodded past; and when our friends had finished their prayers Emerson said, “We had better catch them up now. Take my arm, Peabody, it’s all downhill from here.”
Though the mountains had appeared so close, we were still a full day’s journey away, and I began to suspect that Har was in no hurry to get there. He camped at the foot of the last large dune and allowed everyone a full night’s sleep. His men were in a more cheerful mood now that home was in sight; there was laughter and even some song round their fire that evening. Our own assemblage was not so merry, despite Daoud’s efforts to cheer us up. With full confidence in Allah and, if I may say so, in us, he had decided afrits presented no threat and related several stories about how evil demons had been routed by devout and clever people. Nefret was quiet and thoughtful, and Daria stayed close to her. Ramses avoided both of them. He appeared to be brooding about something, but when I asked he