The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [129]
Nefret grinned. “As Ramses has often said, you never cease to amaze me, Mother. Yes, I’m ready.”
It was not a difficult climb—there was even a path of sorts, winding back and forth across the slope. We were able to remain upright most of the time, without having to resort to four-limbed progress. When we reached the top we saw before us a baked, barren landscape that shimmered with sunlight; but the hot air dried the perspiration that had coated our bodies, and it was wonderful to be out of those layers of clothing.
Nefret peered down into the wadi. “Selim has backed the car up,” she said. “They see us—the Professor is waving us to get out of the way—they’re coming . . . Oh dear. I don’t think I can watch.”
It was impossible not to, though. Amid crashes and thumps and the groans of various bits of the machinery, the vehicle thundered up the slope. Even louder than the other noises were the enthusiastic whoops of Emerson, bouncing up and down and grinning from ear to ear. When Selim stopped, on a fairly level stretch of ground, Nefret and I ran toward the car.
“There, you see?” Emerson demanded. “I told you it would be all right.”
“One of the tires is flat,” I remarked.
Emerson waved this aside. “We’ll have it mended in a jiffy.”
Selim managed to mend the tire, despite Emerson’s attempts at advice and assistance. We passed round the water bottle, resumed our costumes, and started again.
I will draw a veil over the succeeding hours. I lost count of the number of times we got stuck in a sand dune. On several occasions Selim was able to back up and go at it again; at other times he had to lay the planks down and Emerson had to push from behind. He had removed all his extraneous garments, and shouted encouragement to Selim as the wheels spun and sent sand spraying over him. His head was bare, his fine linen shirt was torn and smeared with oil; in short, he was having a wonderful time.
As the sun sank westward, it became apparent that we were not going to make it back to the coastal road that day. Bathed in perspiration, muffled in fabric, I was considering methods of murdering Emerson, and perhaps Selim as well, when I saw ahead a few spindly palm trees.
“There it is,” Emerson said happily. “I thought I remembered the location.”
“You thought?” I repeated.
It was not much of an oasis, but there was water, brackish and muddy, but enough to allow us to sponge our faces and limbs. “Your little shortcut has only cost a day,” I remarked, as we sat round the small fire. “So far.”
“We’ll be back on the main road tomorrow,” Emerson said. “And in Khan Yunus by nightfall.”
“So you say.” I looked at Nefret, who was sitting cross-legged on the ground eating sardines out of a tin. “I will have to dye your skin again, Nefret. What with sand and perspiration, most of it is gone. And you, Emerson—”
“What’s wrong with my appearance?” Emerson demanded, running his hand through his beard and sprinkling his sardines with sand.
“Shall I have a disguise, Sitt Hakim?” Selim asked hopefully.
“You might shave your beard,” I said.
Selim went pale and clutched at his treasured beard. I repented my cruelty almost at once. “I was joking, Selim. You are not known in this region; I do not believe a disguise is necessary.”
One can easily comprehend how the Israelites felt when, after toiling through the arid wilderness, they beheld before them the green pastures and fertile fields of the Promised Land. (I did not mention this charming idea to Emerson, since he does not believe in the Exodus and would have given me a long boring lecture about it.)
All was fresh and emerald green, with the brilliant scarlet spots of poppies dotting the landscape. Winter was passing and summer was yet to come; the air was fresh and cool, the sky a cerulean cloudless vault; wildflowers grew in profusion: anemones and lilies, wild purple iris and sweet peas of all shades, from golden yellow to rosy mauve.
Yet the signs of war were