The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [105]
“He is awake,” Mary cried. “Do you know me, Mr….I mean, Lord Baskerville?”
But there was no awareness in the dazed blue orbs. If they focused at all, it was on some object high in midair, invisible to the rest of us.
I have always held that the various states of semiconsciousness, even deep coma, do not necessarily involve the complete cessation of sensation. The means of communication may be interrupted, but who is to say that the brain does not function or the ears do not hear? I therefore seated myself by the bed and approached my mouth close to the ear of the injured man.
“Arthur,” I said. “It is Amelia Emerson who speaks to you. You have been struck down by an assailant as yet unknown. Have no fear; I am watching over you. But if you could possibly answer a question or two—”
“How the devil do you expect him to do that?” Emerson demanded, in the muted roar that passes, with him, for a whisper. “The poor chap has all he can do to continue breathing. Ignore her, Milverton—er—Baskerville.”
Arthur paid no attention to either speech. He continued to stare raptly into space.
“He seems calmer now,” I said to the nun, in French. “But I fear a repetition of this; should we tie him to the bed, do you think?”
The sister replied that Dr. Dubois had predicted the possibility of such a violent awakening and had given her medicine to administer should it occur. “I was taken by surprise,” she added apologetically. “It happened so suddenly; but do not fear, madame, I can deal with him.”
Mary had collapsed into a chair, pale as… I was about to say “snow” or “paper” or one of the common comparatives; however, in strict accuracy I must say that a complexion as brown as hers could never turn ashy white. Her pallor was in reality a delicate shade of coffee well laced with milk; three quarters milk to one quarter coffee, let us say.
Suddenly we were all electrified at hearing a strange voice. It was young Arthur’s; but I identified it only because I knew it could belong to no one else. The soft, droning tone was totally unlike his normal speaking voice.
“The beautiful one has come….Sweet of hands, beautiful of face; at hearing her voice one rejoices….”
“Good Gad,” Emerson exclaimed.
“Ssssh!” I said.
“Lady of joy, his beloved….Bearing the two sistrums in her two beautiful hands….”
We waited, after that, until my chest ached with holding my breath, but Arthur Baskerville spoke no more that day. His darkly stained lids closed over his staring eyes.
“He will sleep now,” the nun said. “I give you felicitations, madame; the young man will live, I believe.”
Her calm struck me as inhuman until I realized that she was the only one who had not understood a word. To her the patient had simply been babbling nonsense syllables, in his delirium.
Mary’s reaction was inclined more toward confusion than the awestruck disbelief that had effected Emerson and me.
“What was he talking about?” she asked.
“Don’t ask,” Emerson said, with a groan.
“He was delirious,” I said. “Mary, once again I am going to ask that you go to your room. It is ridiculous for you to sit here hour after hour. Touching, but ridiculous. Go and take a nap, or a walk, or talk to the cat.”
“I second the motion,” Emerson added. “Get some rest, Miss Mary; I may want you later this evening.”
We escorted the girl to her room and then confronted one another with identical expressions of disbelief.
“You heard, Peabody,” Emerson said. “At least I hope you did; if not, I was experiencing auditory hallucinations.”
“I heard. They were the titles of Queen Nefertiti, were they not?”
“They were.”
“Such tender phrases… I am convinced, Emerson, that they were the compliments of Khuenaten—excuse me, Akhenaton—to his adored wife.”
“Amelia, you have an absolutely unparalleled talent for straying from the point. How the devil did that ignorant young man know those words? He told us himself that he was untrained in Egyptology.”
“There must be a logical explanation.