Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [122]
I let Emerson rant, which he did, scarcely pausing to draw breath, until we had reached our tent. I stopped to call a pleasant good night to the two shadowy forms behind us. Emerson took my hand and pulled me inside. For a long time thereafter, the only sounds that broke the stillness were the far-off cries of jackals.
When I woke in the pre-dawn darkness, it was not, for once, a burglar or an assassin who had disturbed my slumber. I had dreamed again—a dream so vivid and distinct that I had to stretch out my hand to Emerson in order to reassure myself that I was really in the tent with my husband at my side. The contours of those familiar features under my groping fingers brought a great sense of relief. Emerson snorted and mumbled but did not wake up.
I could have wished just then that he did not sleep so soundly. I felt a ridiculous need for consultation—even, though I am reluctant to confess it, for comforting. It was not so much the scenario of the dream that made me tremble in the darkness, but, if I may so express it, the psychic atmosphere that had prevailed. Anyone who has wakened shrieking from a nightmare will know what I mean, for in dreams the most innocuous objects can arouse extraordinary sensations of apprehension. I yearned to discuss my sensations with Emerson and hear his reassuring “Balderdash, Peabody!”
My better nature prevailed, as I hope it always does, and, creeping closer to his side, I sought once again to woo Morpheus. The fickle god would not be seduced, though I tried a variety of sleeping positions. Through all my tossing and turning Emerson lay like a log, his arms folded across his breast.
At last I abandoned the attempt. As yet no light penetrated the heavy canvas of the walls, but an indefinable freshness in the air told me that dawn could not be far off. Rising, I lighted a lamp and got dressed. As those who have attempted to perform this feat in the narrow confines of a tent can testify, it is impossible to do it gracefully or quietly, yet Emerson continued to sleep, undisturbed by the light or by my inadvertent stumbles over his limbs, or even by the jingling of my tool belt as I buckled it on. I had to pound gently on his chest and apply a variety of tactile stimuli to his face and form before his regular breathing changed its rhythm. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Without opening his eyes he put out his arm and pulled me down upon him.
As I believe I have mentioned, Emerson dislikes the encumbrance of sleeping garments. The vigor of his movement brought my belt and its fringe of hard, sharp-edged objects in sudden contact with a vulnerable portion of his anatomy, and the benevolent aspect of his countenance underwent a dreadful change. I clapped my hand over his mouth before the shriek bubbling in his throat could emerge.
“Don’t cry out, Emerson. You will waken Enid and frighten the poor girl out of her wits.”
After a while the rigidity of Emerson’s muscular chest subsided, and his bulging eyes resumed their normal aspect. I deemed it safe to remove my hand.
“Peabody,” he said.
“Yes, my dear Emerson?”
“Are we surrounded by hostile Bedouin on the verge of a murderous attack?”
“Why no, Emerson, I don’t think so.”
“Did a shadowy figure creep into the tent, brandishing a knife?”
“No.”
“A mummified hand, perhaps? Slipping through the gap between the tent wall and the canvas floor, groping for your throat?”
“Emerson, you are particularly annoying when you try to be sarcastic. There is nothing wrong. At least nothing of the sort you mention. It is almost morning, and I . . . I could not sleep.”
I removed my elbows from his chest and sat up. I said no more; but Emerson then demonstrated the sterling qualities that have won him the wholehearted affection of a woman who, I venture to assert, insists