The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [113]
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She hurried us through the house, talking all the while. “It was the medicine you gave him. At first he was better, but this morning . . .” She flung open the door of the old man’s room. “See for yourself. He has been like this all day.”
The lamp she carried showed the form on the bed. Yusuf was twisting and twitching and talking to himself—or rather, to Someone else—repeating the same words over and over. “Lead us in the right way of those to whom you have shown mercy . . .”
“He’s delirious,” Nefret whispered, her eyes shining with pity. “What did you give him, Mother?”
“Sugar water. It is not delirium, but nervous excitability. Speak to him, Emerson.”
Emerson hesitated for only a moment. Like another, he is not above quoting Scripture for his own purposes. His sonorous voice rolled out in the words of the fathah, the first sureh of the Koran, from which Yusuf had quoted. “In the name of God, the merciful and gracious. Praise be to God, the Lord of the Worlds.”
Yusuf sat up with a galvanic start. His wild eyes gleamed like those of an animal. “So,” he said. “It is you, Father of Curses. Have you come to punish me because my silence might have caused your death and that of the Sitt Hakim?”
“Good Gad, no,” exclaimed Emerson, shocked into English.
“The Father of Curses is also merciful and gracious,” I explained, hoping this did not sound blasphemous. “We are here to help you—and Jamil, if we can. Where is he?”
“Is it the truth? It is the truth, you do not lie. You do not seek his life?”
We had to listen to quite a lot of this sort of thing and repeat the same reassurances several times. In psychological terms it was quite therapeutic for Yusuf, though rather tiresome for us. My diagnosis had been correct; his indisposition was not physical but mental, and the news of Jamil’s latest assault on us, which he had undoubtedly heard that morning, had left him torn between loyalty and affection, unable to decide what to do.
“I will take you to him,” Yusuf quavered. “We meet, at different times, in the cemetery near the mosque. He will be there tonight, when the moon rises.”
“Abdullah’s tomb,” I said. “Praying at that holy place was an excuse for meeting your son?”
My resentment must have shown in my voice. The old man shrank back. “It was not an excuse. I prayed there. That my cousin Abdullah would forgive me and ask God to forgive me.”
He had ignored Jumana as if she were invisible. This did not seem the proper time for a little lecture on the subject of forgiving one’s daughter.
The cemetery was on the north side of the hill, on a space of level ground. Over the cliff floated a silver orb, flooding the landscape with light. Abdullah’s monument shone like snow.
On the edge of the cemetery, still in the shadow of the hill, Yusuf stopped. “Let me go ahead. Let me talk to him. I will tell him he must give himself up.”
“Go on then,” said Emerson.
He waited until the old man was out of earshot before muttering, “I don’t share Yusuf’s confidence in his power of persuasion. Peabody, give me that pistol of yours—I know you have it, so don’t pretend you don’t.”
I did not hesitate to do so. I had been practicing with the confounded weapon for years without attaining the degree of skill Emerson possesses.
“No,” Jumana whispered. “Please, you said you would not kill him.”
“Couldn’t kill a rabbit with this thing,” said Emerson contemptuously. “If he bolts, a few warning shots should stop him. Worst comes to worst, I’ll shoot him in the leg.”
Yusuf made no attempt to conceal himself. Standing full in the moonlight several yards from the tomb, he called out, “It is I, Jamil, your father. Come out and speak with me.”
Though he spoke softly, we heard every word. The cemetery was silent and deserted. Few people came there at any time, and none came after nightfall. It was one of the safest places Jamil could have chosen.
After a moment the boy emerged from the entrance to the tomb. “Are you afraid to come closer, my father? The spirits of the dead do