Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [18]
“Bless me,” said Emerson in mild surprise. “I believe you are right, Ramses. Yes, this sticky substance on his fingers seems to be blood.”
“So long as you have hold of him, Emerson, you may as well drag him out into the moonlight,” I suggested. “Though a less painful hold, one that does not put such a strain on his presumed wound—”
“Hmmm, yes, quite right, my dear,” said Emerson. He transferred his grip to the man’s shoulders and with a heave of his mighty arms pulled him across the sand until the bright rays of the moon illumined his body.
A crowd of curiosity seekers had collected. The non-Arabs among them soon turned away in disgust upon seeing that the object of attention was only a ragged beggar. The Egyptians recognized Emerson and promptly squatted in a circle, waiting to see what would transpire, for, as one of them remarked to a friend, “The Father of Curses is a great magician. Perhaps he will bring this dead man to life.”
Some of the onlookers carried torches and lanterns. Among them was Sheikh Abu, who hastened to Emerson with ejaculations of relief and congratulation. “Your son has been restored. Praise Allah!”
“Yes, quite,” Emerson replied. “No thanks to the guides you assigned to us. See here, Abu—”
“First things first, Emerson,” I interrupted. “Abu, please bring the lantern closer. And lend me your knife.”
In the warm yellow glow of the lantern the inky stains on the man’s sleeve sprang to ominous life. I seized Abu’s knife and prepared to cut the cloth away. The crowd, which resembled nothing so much as an assortment of laundry bags fallen haphazardly from the back of a cart, squirmed closer, and the same commentator remarked, “It is the Sitt Hakim. No doubt she will cut off the man’s arm,” to which his companion replied eagerly, “Lean back so that I may see better.”
The knife wound was on the outside of the man’s arm, from just above the wrist almost to the elbow. Fortunately it had not touched any of the major muscles or blood vessels, but it was still oozing the roseate ichor of life, so I bound it up as best I could. My patient lay quiet, his eyes closed, but I suspected he had regained consciousness, and this suspicion was confirmed when, upon my again attempting to remove his turban, my hand was pushed away.
I repeated my reassurance, adding, “I must see your head, friend, to determine whether you suffer from . . . Curse it,” I added in English, “what is the Arabic for concussion?”
“If such a word exists, I am not acquainted with it,” said Ramses, squatting beside me with the same boneless ease Egyptians demonstrate in assuming that awkward position. “But you need not tax your knowledge of Arabic, Mama. The gentleman is English.”
“Courtesy is a quality I always commend, Ramses,” I said. “But the word ‘gentleman,’ when applied to this no doubt honest but somewhat disreputable . . . What did you say? English?”
“Unquestionably,” said Ramses. “I thought as much yesterday, when I saw him juggling the oranges the fruit vendor had let fall. There are certain idiosyncratic structures of face and body found only in the members of the Celtic subrace, and the stubble of beard on his face, though darkened by prolonged abstinence from the means of ablution, had a reddish tinge. Should there be any doubt in your mind, Mama, as to the extent of my anatomic expertise or the accuracy of my observations, let me add that I distinctly heard issue from his lips, when one of his assailants attacked, the word ‘Damn.’ ”
The word was repeated, just as distinctly, by the same lips. The closed eyes snapped open. The irises were a bright, fiery blue—not the deep sapphire of Emerson’s eyes, but the identical shade of the turquoise used so often in ancient Egyptian jewelry.
I sat back on my heels. “Nonsense,” I said. “You will find high cheekbones and blue eyes among the Berber tribesmen to the north. A splendid race of men, true sons of the desert; it is a pity to find one of them in such a state of degradation—”
“But it would be an even greater pity, would it not, to find a member of