Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [17]
“Watch your diphthongs, Ramses.” His adversary appeared to have been rendered unconscious, for he lay quite still. I kept a watchful eye on him, parasol raised, while Ramses went on with his explanation.
“Yes, Mama. This man was not my abductor but my rescuer. It was he who saved me from the persons who carried me off from the top of, and down the side of, the pyramid, with, I might add, some risk to himself, for both my assailants were armed, one with the long knife that is locally known as a sikkineh, and the other—”
“Never mind all that. Hmmm. Are you certain that . . . But I suppose you could hardly be mistaken. Why were you struggling then? I would not have been so precipitate had I not feared for your safety, since it certainly appeared you were attempting to free yourself from a captor’s grasp.”
“I wanted him to put me down,” said Ramses.
“I see. Well, that makes sense.” I stopped to look more closely at the recumbent man. I could make little of his features in the dark, but my nostrils caught traces of an odd smell, sweet and cloying. I stepped back in instinctive disgust. “Opium! The man is a drug addict!”
“One might reasonably draw that conclusion,” said Ramses judiciously. “Is he dead?”
“Certainly not.”
“I am glad of that,” Ramses remarked. “It would be a poor return for his services to me; and his personal habits are not a matter of concern to us, particularly in view of—”
“Do hush for a moment, Ramses. I hear your father approaching. He certainly sets a rapid pace! Call out to him, if you please, or he will go on circumnavigating the pyramid indefinitely.”
Ramses obeyed. The far-off wails of Emerson, repeating Ramses’ name in mournful accents, took on new poignancy. Ramses called again. The two of them exchanged outcries until Emerson burst upon the scene and flung himself at his son. I heard the breath go out of Ramses’ lungs in an explosive whoosh as his father seized him, and knowing that Emerson would be incapable of reasoned speech for several moments, I turned my attention back to Ramses’ presumed rescuer.
The sickening smell of opium again assailed my nostrils as I bent over him, but I conquered my repugnance and reached down to remove his turban that I might better ascertain the extent of the damage I had done the fellow’s head. As my hand went out, the man started convulsively, flinging his arms over his face.
“Mâtekhâfsh, habîb,” I said reassuringly. “Do not be afraid. It was in error that I struck; the child has told me of your courage.”
At first there was no reply. Then from under the ragged folds of cloth came a muffled voice. “Let me go, sitt. I did nothing. I want nothing, only to be left alone.”
“Wallahi-el âzîm, by God the great, I mean you no harm. Indeed, I wish to reward you. Come out into the moonlight that I may see if you are injured.” The man did not move and I went on impatiently, “Come, you are safe with us. This is the great, the famous Emerson Effendi, Father of Curses, and I am his wife, sometimes called the Sitt Hakim.”
“I know you, sitt,” came the reply.
“Then what are you cowering there for? If you know my name, you know its meaning; I am somewhat skilled in the art of medicine—”
As I might have expected, this statement caught the ear of Emerson, who seldom misses an opportunity of jeering at my medical qualifications. However, on this occasion he refrained from his customary caustic comment; Ramses had evidently explained the situation, and gratitude prevailed over irony. Seizing the fallen man by the arm, he hauled him vigorously to his feet and began wringing his hand. “A father’s blessing be upon you,” he began in sonorous Arabic, but before he had got any further, the savior distracted him by dropping to his knees, his head bowed.
“You need not kneel, my good fellow,” Emerson said graciously.
“I believe, Papa, he is not paying his respects but fainting,” said Ramses coolly. “As I informed you, one of the men had a knife,