The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [170]
As we walked side by side, Tarek spoke in an urgent whisper. “You must be far distant from this place, Lady, before tomorrow’s sun greets the day. The caravan gathers; it will guide you to the oasis and set you safely on your way. I will not ask for a vow of secrecy from you, for I know your word is stronger than another man’s oath; I only ask that you keep our secret until I have had time to prepare my people for the inevitable time when the wolves of the outside world fall upon us. You may take what you will—gold, treasure—”
“I don’t want your gold, Tarek, I only want my husband—and the girl for whose sake you have endured so much.”
“Yes, Lady, that was why I brought you here, and although her leaving will extinguish a light that brightens my life, the white does not mate with the—”
“Tarek, don’t talk nonsense. You are babbling like a nervous actor. What is wrong with you?”
Tarek stopped. The air of the tunnels was chill and clammy, but his face glistened with perspiration. “Lady, I beg you. Do not go on. I will—I will go, and bring the Father of Curses back to you.”
My reply was curt and pungent. Tarek looked despairingly from me to Murtek.
“The gods decree this,” said the old hypocrite. “How can you stop the wind from blowing, or a woman from having her way?”
“Especially this woman,” I said, taking a firmer grip on my parasol. “Hurry, Tarek.”
Tarek made no further protest. At first his pace was so quick, Ramses had to run to keep up. Gradually it slowed; and as we entered an antechamber, richly furnished with embroidered hangings and cushions, he came to a stop. Lamps burned in alcoves, but there was no one present. Silently Tarek gestured toward the curtains at the far end of the room. Shifting my parasol to my left hand, I drew my pistol and plunged through them.
In this secret and secluded chamber had been gathered the richest treasures of the kingdom. Every surface of every article of furniture was covered with beaten gold and set with gems and enamel. Embroidered hangings hid the stone walls. The vessels on the tables were all of solid gold and heaped with food of every variety. Animal skins covered the floor. In a curtained alcove stood a low couch. Emerson lay there, his eyes closed, his face ruddily lit by a lamp that burned in a niche above. And over him bent the veiled form of a woman.
I had beheld such a scene before, through the eyes of imagination, but this was a grotesque parody of the original. My husband’s ruggedly masculine features bore no resemblance to those of the golden-haired hero of the classic novel, and the shape that hovered over him would have made four of the immortal She. It was as squat and square as a huge toad.
As I stood gaping, Emerson opened his eyes. The most extraordinary grimace of horror and surprise passed over his face, and he promptly fainted again.
My parasol fell from my nerveless hand. Soft as it was, the sound of its fall alerted the creature to my presence. Moving with the ponderous deliberation of a giant slug, she straightened and started to turn.
I heard the rustle of draperies behind me and knew Tarek had entered the room, but I could not take my eyes off the sight before them. I had been wrong; this monstrous thing could not be the queen. It must be something indescribably horrible to have caused the bravest of men to lose his senses. The living image of one of the beast-gods of ancient Egypt? The wizened, mummified countenance of a woman thousands of years old?
What I saw was infinitely worse, and in that moment of revelation I understood Emerson’s shock and Tarek’s warning. The face was only that of a very fat woman, her features dwarfed by ballooning cheeks. But it was white—the pallid dead-white of a stiffening corpse. The hair that streamed over her shoulders almost to the floor was silvery gold; the eyes squinting at me through folds of flesh were the soft blue of cornflowers in an English meadow.
Remote as the sky whose color they had