The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [137]
“Not a pretty sight, I’m afraid,” he said to Lia as he unfolded the oiled paper. “Falcons like their food fresh and bloody. I hope I can coax him to eat.
He’s—”
He broke off, and I turned, following the direction of his gaze, to see Nefret standing in the doorway.
“Good morning,” she said. “How is he?”
“As you see. Would you care to do it?” Ramses held out his hand. The nasty objects, now fully exposed, reeked with the smell of fresh blood.
They faced one another across the cage, and I could not help thinking (for I am a connoisseur of the fine arts) that the tableau would have made a splendid subject for one of the pre-Raphaelite painters like Holman Hunt, or the great Dante Gabriel Rossetti. On one side the maiden, crowned with the coils of her golden hair; on the other the tall, dark-haired youth, his outstretched hand crimson with the blood of sacrifice; between them the god, the falcon of the dawn, caged in darkness. What rich symbolism, what evocative hints of myth and legend! Sunlight framed the figures like the gold gesso so lavishly employed by the school of painting to which I have referred. Rossetti would probably give the maiden robes of forest-green velvet …
Then the maiden said, “Throw the filthy stuff away.”
“It would be a pity to waste it,” Ramses murmured. He returned the mess to the paper and put it down on the table.
“Don’t wipe your hand on your trousers, Ramses,” I said, a moment too late.
The others had come to see what was going on. “Stay out,” Nefret ordered.
Geoffrey, in the lead, gave her a look of hurt surprise. “What are you doing, sweetheart? Can I help?”
“I’m going to free him. Get out of my way. Ramses, open the back door.”
He caught hold of her hands as she reached for the cage. “Not without the gloves.”
The heavy gauntlets had seen hard usage and were streaked with droppings. She took them from him and drew them on. Once in the stableyard, she lifted the bird onto her forearm. He was not full grown and she was no fragile blossom of civilized leisure, but I did not see how she could manage the muscular effort necessary for what she contemplated doing. I thought for a moment that Ramses was going to offer to do it for her, or perhaps suggest a more practical, if less theatrical, method; but she turned her head to look at him and his parted lips closed.
She stood motionless for a moment, her free hand hovering over the feathered head, and I could have sworn she whispered to the creature. When she moved, the bird moved, at the same instant and with the same splendid strength. Its wings spread as she flung it up; it rose under its own power and soared, circling and climbing. She stood watching it, her head thrown back, until a great scream of triumph and release floated down from the morning sky. Then she turned and went back into the shed.
Geoffrey was standing next to me. “Magnificent,” he whispered, his eyes shining. “She is like a goddess! What have I done to deserve a woman like that?”
“I am sure I have no idea,” I replied, and then smiled as he bent a reproachful look on me. “Just one of my little jokes, Geoffrey. You will become accustomed to them in time. No, don’t follow her yet. It always hurts her to let them go.”
We left shortly thereafter, and since everyone was keen on trying the horses anyhow, I could see no objection to visiting the site. The fine animals made nothing of the short distance.
The men were not at work that day. Daoud and Selim were preparing for the fantasia, which they had assured us would be the most magnificent ever held in Egypt, and the site lay barren and deserted