Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [91]
Although I would have liked to explore the Black Pyramid again, and visit the ruined monastery we had occupied the year before, we had no time for nostalgia that day. We went directly to the village.
By comparison to Mazghunah, Menyat Dahshoor is a veritable metropolis. The former village is primarily inhabited by Copts (Egyptian Christians), but except for the characteristic indigo turbans, the inhabitants are indistinguishable in appearance from other Egyptians, and the wretched little houses are like those of any Moslem village. Ancient Coptic, the last remnant of the tongue of the pharaohs, is no longer spoken except in a few remote hamlets to the south, but it survives in the ritual of the Coptic Church.
The village looked deserted. Even the dogs had sought shelter from the sun, and nothing moved except a few chickens pecking at bugs. Strangers are such a rarity in these primitive places, however, that our advent was soon acknowledged, and people began trickling out of their houses. We drew up near the well, which is the center of communal activity. Facing us was the church, with the house of the priest next to it.
The men gathered around Emerson, calling out greetings and inquiries. The women approached me, many carrying sickly babies. I had expected this and had come prepared; opening my medical kit, I began dispensing ipecacuanha and eyewash.
The Sheikh El Beled (mayor of the village) had of course noted our arrival as soon as the others, but dignity demanded that he delay awhile before presenting himself. Eventually, he made his appearance; when Emerson informed him that the lost communion vessels were about to be restored to him, tears filled the little man’s eyes, and he dropped to his knees, kissing Emerson’s feet and babbling thanks.
“Humph,” said Emerson, not looking at me. Honesty demanded that we decline to take credit for something we had not achieved; but on the other hand, there was no need to explain a situation that was inexplicable even to us.
As the news spread through the crowd, a scene of utter pandemonium broke out. People wept, shouted, sang, and embraced one another. They also embraced Emerson, a favor he endured without enthusiasm. “Ridiculous,” he grunted at me over the head of a very fat lady, whose veiled face was pressed against his chest. She was, I believe, raining kisses on that region, while holding him in a grip he could not escape.
“You see, Peabody,” he went on, “the degrading effect of superstition. These people are carrying on as if we had conferred health and immortality upon them instead of fetching back a few tarnished pots. I will never understand—er—awk—” He broke off, sputtering, as the lady raised herself on tiptoe and planted a fervent kiss upon his chin.
Eventually we quieted the crowd and, escorted by the mayor, proceeded to the church. On the step, hands raised in thanksgiving, was the priest, and very odd it seemed to behold his stout figure and genial face in the place of the great (in all but the moral sense) Father Girgis. Everybody trooped into the church, including the donkeys, and when the precious vessels had been restored to the altar, such a shout broke out that the very rafters shook—which was not surprising, since they were extremely old and brittle. Tears of joy streaming down his face, the priest announced there would be a service of thanks the following day. He then invited us and the mayor to join him in his house.
So again we entered the edifice where once we had been welcomed by the Master Criminal himself. So pervasive were the presence and the memory of that great and evil man that I half-expected to see him in the shadows, stroking his enormous black beard and smiling his enigmatic smile. It is a strange and disquieting fact that