Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [117]
“What the devil,” Emerson began.
“It is Ramses, of course,” I said. “I expect he has gone off again.”
As soon as we appeared, the entire assemblage rushed toward us and a dozen voices strove to be the first to tell the news. Emerson bellowed, “Silence!” Silence duly ensued. “Well?” said Emerson, looking at Donald.
“It is my fault,” Enid cried. “The poor dear little boy wanted to give me a lesson in Egyptian; but I—” She gave Donald a betraying glance.
“No, it is my fault,” Donald said. “He was my responsibility; but I—” He looked at Enid.
Emerson rounded on me and shook a finger under my nose. “Now you see, Amelia, what comes of this love nonsense. People afflicted by that illness have no sense of responsibility, no sense of duty—”
“Be calm, Emerson,” I implored. “Let Donald speak.”
“He is gone, that is all,” Donald said, shrugging helplessly. “We noted his absence about an hour ago, but precisely how long ago he left I cannot say.”
“Is he on foot or on donkeyback?” I inquired.
“Neither,” Donald said grimly. “The little—er—fellow borrowed a horse—not any horse, but the cherished steed of the mayor, the same one you hired the other day. I say borrow, but I ought to add that the mayor was unaware of the fact. He has threatened to nail Ramses to the door of his house if anything happens to that animal.”
“He cannot control such a large horse,” Enid exclaimed, wringing her hands. “How he managed to mount and get away without being seen—”
“Ramses has a knack with animals,” I said. “Never mind that. I assume no one saw him leave and therefore we have no idea as to which direction he took?”
“That is correct,” said Donald.
Emerson clapped his hand to his brow. “How could he do this? He left no message, no letter?”
“Oh yes,” Donald said. “He left a letter.”
“Then why have you not gone after him?” Emerson cried, snatching the grimy paper Donald held out.
“Because,” said Donald, “the letter is written in hieroglyphic.”
And indeed it was. I stood on tiptoe and read over Emerson’s shoulder. Ramses’ hieroglyphic hand was extremely elegant, in striking contrast to his English handwriting, which was practically illegible. I doubted, however, that it was for that reason he had chosen to employ the former language.
“Mazghunah,” Emerson exclaimed. “He has gone to Mazghunah! ‘For the purpose of speaking with the wab-priest. . . .’ That is a rather unorthodox use of the present participle, I must say.”
“You may be sure Ramses can and will justify the usage if you are foolish enough to ask him,” I said. “Well, Emerson, shall we go after him?”
“How can you ask, Amelia? Of course we will go after him, and as quickly as we can. When I think of what may have befallen him, alone in the desert—a little child on a horse he cannot handle, pursued by unknown villains. . . . Oh, good Gad!” Emerson ran toward the stable.
* * *
A lurid sunset glorified the west as our patient little donkeys trotted south along the path we knew so well. Emerson was as incapable as I of whipping an animal, but he urged his steed forward with impassioned pleas.
“So far so good,” I remarked, in the hope of comforting him. “Ramses would have followed this same path; we have not seen his fallen body, so it is probably safe to assume he managed to control the horse.”
“Oh, curse it,” was Emerson’s only response.
We entered the village from the north, passing the ruins of the American mission, which had been the scene of some of our most thrilling adventures the year before. It was silent and abandoned; the makeshift steeple of the church had collapsed and the surrounding houses were uninhabited. I had no doubt that the villagers shunned the spot as haunted and accursed.
As we approached the well, we saw a crowd of people. One and all stood in silent fascination, facing the house of the priest, their heads tilted as they listened. Faint and far away, yet distinctly audible, the wavering notes rose and fell—the cry of the muezzin reciting the call to prayer. A strange