The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [77]
“Would that it would,” I murmured—a seemingly enigmatic statement that produced a puzzled look from Jack and a faint smile from the individual referred to.
The Reynoldses finally left, without Ramses. Nefret and Geoffrey went off to the darkroom—with Ramses—and Emerson and Karl settled down with their pipes to discuss Fourth Dynasty mastabas. Why Emerson should have selected this subject I did not know; our mastaba was obviously much earlier and far less interesting than the fine tombs the Germans and Americans had found at Giza. I left them to it, for I was strangely restless that evening. As I paced up and down along the arched colonnades that lined the courtyard I heard Emerson invite Karl to come round next day and have a look at our mastaba, for all the world as if he had found something worth looking at. Karl accepted, of course. Poor lonely chap, he would have accepted an invitation to a hanging if he could be with us.
As I passed the door of the darkroom I stumbled over something that turned out to be Horus. He had been lying or crouching on the threshold, sulking, one presumed, because he had not been allowed in.
When I went down to breakfast next morning Nefret told me Geoffrey had asked if he might come by to see our mastaba.
“That makes two,” I said. “Emerson has also invited Karl. Will Mr. and Miss Reynolds also be dropping by? I will tell Fatima to pack extra food and perhaps a bottle of wine.”
Emerson looked up from his plate. “Dear me, Peabody, I believe you are being sarcastic. What’s wrong with you this morning?”
“I did not sleep well.”
“Oh?” Emerson reached for the marmalade.
“I lay awake for hours. I am so glad you were not disturbed.”
Emerson pushed the marmalade jar away, mumbled something and left the room rather precipitately. It was probably the wisest thing he could have done, but it left me without an object for my (admittedly unreasonable) annoyance. I looked at Ramses. He jumped up, mumbled something and left the room so precipitately that he stumbled over Horus. They swore at one another, and Horus came, limping, to Nefret for sympathy.
“He isn’t injured,” I said. “I think he deliberately puts himself in people’s way so he can complain.”
Nefret supported her chin on her hands and looked gravely at me. “I am sorry you did not sleep well. Did you have one of your famous premonitions?”
“No,” I admitted. “Nor a bad dream, like the ones you used to have.”
I had dreamed of Abdullah, as I did from time to time. The setting of those visions was always the same. We were standing at sunrise atop the cliffs at Deir el Bahri, on our way to the Valley of the Kings. Over the years Abdullah and I had got in the habit of stopping there after we had climbed the steep path, to catch our breaths and enjoy the view, which he loved, I think, as much as I. Re-Harakhte, the falcon of the morning, lifted over the eastern cliffs and spread the light of his wings across river and fields and sandy waste, and over the features of the man who stood at my side.
When we first met, Abdullah’s beard had been grizzled. In the dreams hair and beard were black without a trace of gray; his face was unlined, his tall frame erect and vigorous. Dreams carry their own internal logic; I was never surprised to see him looking as I had never seen him in life, I was only glad to be with him once more.
“The wedding was very lovely,” I said, as one reports the news to a friend one has not seen for a time. “We were sorry you could not be there.”
“How do you know I was not?” Abdullah’s black eyes twinkled as they did when he was teasing me. Then he grew sober. “It is well for them, Sitt; but there are stormy waters ahead.”
“What do you know of stormy waters, Abdullah, who never sailed the ocean?”
“Does not your faith teach you that those who have passed the Portal know all? I know of storms, at any rate, and I have seen the sky darken over your path.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so cursed literary, Abdullah. If you mean to warn me of danger, you might be more