The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [45]
But enough of philosophical musings. Suffice it to say I dreamed that night: a vision of such horror that for many years thereafter the mere thought of it set me to shuddering uncontrollably.
I huddled in musty darkness, fearing I knew not what. A cold stone wall was at my back, cold stone pressed the soles of my bare feet. At first there was utter silence. Then, so dim with distance that it might have been no more than the murmur of my own pulsating blood, came a sound. Gradually it strengthened. It became a deep and solemn chanting. And then – then the aforementioned blood turned to ice in my veins, for I knew that evil music.
Light accompanied the chanting and grew with it. The lights came from torches, visible at first only as distant specks of flame moving in slow procession. They came nearer; the darkness yielded to their ghastly illumination.
I stood, or crouched, on a ledge high above a vast chamber carved from the living rock. The polished walls, smooth as satin, reflected and multiplied the lights of the torches. They were carried by figures robed in white and crowned by monstrous masks – crocodile and hawk, lion and ibis, carved with the appearance of life. The chamber brightened as the torchbearers moved to their positions, surrounding a low altar presided over by a monumental statue. It was Osiris, ruler of the dead, divine judge; his body tightly swathed in mummy wrappings, his arms crossed over his breast, his hands holding the twin sceptres. His tall white crown and snowy alabaster shoulders shone pale in contrast to the flat black of face and hands (for so the pagan Egyptians depicted their divinities – an interesting and as yet unexplained phenomenon).
Pacing slowly behind the light-bearers came the high priest. Unlike his shaven-headed subordinates he wore a great curled wig, with row upon row of ringlets. The mask that concealed his face had human features, rigid as the face of death. Beyond a gasp of horrified recognition I paid this apparition little heed; for behind him, borne aloft on a litter carried by naked slaves, was a form I knew.
They had loaded him with chains, against which his mighty sinews strove in vain. His bare arms and breast gleamed like polished bronze from the oil of anointing and the perspiration of struggle; his teeth were bared and his eyes blazed. But even courage such as his could not avail; as the deep voices rose and fell in hideous invocation, rough hands dragged him from the litter and flung him upon the altar. The high priest advanced, the sacrificial knife in his hand. And then – oh, then – my heart fails me even now when I remember – the doomed man’s sapphirine eyes turned to where I stood frozen, finding me even in the darkness; and his lips shaped a word . . .
‘Peabody! Peeeeea-body . . .’
‘Emerson!’ I shrieked.
‘What the devil is the matter with you?’ Emerson demanded. ‘You were grunting and squirming like a hungry piglet.’
The soft light of a spring sunrise illumined his beloved, unshaven face and tumbled hair, his sleep-heavy eyes and familiar scowl.
‘Oh, Emerson . . .’ I flung my arms around him.
‘Hmmmm,’ said Emerson in a pleased voice. ‘Not that I object to a warm, soft, squirming little . . .’ But the remainder of the conversation has no bearing on the present narrative, and indeed I fear that I have already said too much.
I did not think it wise to describe my dream to Emerson. For one thing, it would have reminded him of that other vision whose ghastly fulfilment he had beheld with his own eyes,2 and the recollection of which still had a deleterious effect on his blood pressure. For another thing, it would have provoked rude jeers and remarks about meddling. Emerson never ordered me to do, or refrain from doing, anything; he knew the futility of that. But he had pleaded with me to avoid involvement in yet another criminal case. He had a great deal of work to do that summer, he remarked pathetically; and he absolutely refused to be distracted again.
Of course it would end as it always did, with