Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [79]
Abdullah gestured helplessly and rolled his eyes, finding speech impossible because of the constriction of the cloth around his throat.
“If you will forgive me, Emerson, that was a foolish question,” I said. “You know how difficult it is to determine the origin of a faint, muffled cry in this barren region. I have, I believe, more pertinent information which I will produce as soon as you are calm enough to hear it. Look there, Emerson. Look at the small pyramid.”
One glance was all that trained eye required. His hand fell in nerveless horror from the throat of our devoted reis; his eyes moved with mingled dread and deliberation over the new-fallen debris at the base of the small structure. None knew better than he the dangers of a careless attack on the unstable mass.
It was young Selim who gave a heartbreaking cry and flung himself onto the debris, where he began digging frantically. Emerson dodged a perfect rain of broken stone and lifted Selim up by the scruff of his neck. “That won’t do, my lad,” he said in a kindly voice. “You will bring the rest of the heap down on your head if you aren’t careful.”
Contrary to popular opinion, Arabs are very soft-hearted people and feel no shame in displaying emotion. Selim’s face was wet with tears, which mingled horribly with the sand to form a muddy mask. I patted him on the shoulder and offered him my handkerchief. “I don’t think he is under there, Selim,” I said. “Emerson, do you call again. Just once, my dear, and then wait for an answer.”
No sooner had the echoes of Emerson’s poignant cry died into silence than there was an answer, high and faint and far away, quite easily mistaken by superstitious persons for the wailing of a lost spirit. Abdullah started. “That was it, O Father of Curses. That was the voice we heard!”
“Ramses,” I said, sighing. “He has found the entrance, curse—I mean, bless him. Emerson, do you see that shadow ten feet above the debris and slightly to the right of center?”
A brief and, on my part, rational discussion of the situation resulted in the conclusion that the opening might indeed be the long-concealed entrance, and that it would be possible for us to reach it if we exhibited a reasonable amount of care. Emerson kept interrupting me with whoops of “Ramses!” and Ramses kept answering, in that uncanny wail. I finally put an end to the procedure by reminding Emerson that shouting used oxygen, a commodity of which Ramses might be in short supply if indeed, as one could only assume, he was shut into a place from which he could not extricate himself unaided. Emerson at once agreed, and I must say I found it much easier to cogitate without him bellowing.
Like the larger stone pyramids, this smaller version had been built of blocks that ascended like a giant, four-sided staircase. However, this structure was—as we had evidence—much less stable than its neighbor; it would be necessary to ascend with extreme caution, testing each block before putting one’s weight upon it. Emerson insisted upon leading the way. As he correctly (but, I thought, depressingly) pointed out, if the block would not hold his weight, I would know it was not safe to step on it.
At last we reached the level of the opening and discovered that it was indeed the entrance—or, at least, an entrance—to the interior. Nothing but blackness showed within. Emerson took a deep breath. I stopped him with a soft reminder. “Even the vibrations of a loud shout . . .”
“Hmmm,” said Emerson. “True, Peabody. Do you think he is in there?”
“I am certain of it.”
“Then I am going in.”
But he could not. The narrow opening would not admit the breadth of his shoulders, twist and turn them as he might. I waited until he had exhausted himself before I mentioned the obvious. “My turn, Emerson.”
“Bah,” said Emerson; but he said no more. An exclamation of distress came from quite another quarter. Donald had followed us; I had observed the skill with which he moved on the uneven surface, and deduced that he must have done some climbing. Now he said softly, “Professor,