The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [171]
“Mrs. Forth,” I gasped. “Is it—can it be—you?”
The vast white expanse of her brow rippled. “I know that name,” she said in strongly accented Meroitic. “It is the name of one I hate. Go away, woman, and do not speak that name again.”
The truth, the pitiful, painful truth, was clear to me now. She had died after the birth of her child, in all but body. From such cases come the old legends of demonic possession, when a man or woman unable to endure the pain of existence retreats from reality into a new identity. She was not Mrs. Willoughby Forth. She was the God’s Wife of Amon. She had forgotten her daughter, her husband, the world from which she had come.
Could I restore her? I could but try. And of course it was unthinkable that I should not make the attempt.
I addressed her in the strongest terms. I assured her that I felt only the tenderest compassion for her (despite her unlicensed attraction to a married man). Moved as I was by intense emotion, I believe I have never risen to greater oratorical heights. Emerson’s eyes remained tightly closed, but I knew he had regained consciousness. He had wisely decided to refrain from joining in the conversation.
Her face remained unmoved until I made what, in the light of later developments, I must confess to be an error in judgment. “We will take you away with us, Mrs. Forth. A home awaits you, where you will be tenderly cherished— your husband’s father lives only to clasp you again in his arms—”
She let out a shriek. “Away? From my temple, my servants? You speak when I have told you to be silent. You remain when I have told you to leave me. I would have been merciful, but you try my patience, woman! Kill them! Kill the blasphemers!”
From the shadows at the far end of the room came the Hand, his spear poised and ready, his face set in a hideous smile. Emerson rolled off the couch and bounced to his feet.
“Get out of the line of fire, my dear,” I called, leveling my pistol.
“Oh, good Gad, Peabody—no—don’t—”
He made certain I would not by dashing impetuously at the Hand. Light streaked along the blade of the spear as it plunged toward Emerson’s breast. With catlike grace he ducked aside and caught hold of the haft of the weapon, just above the blade. Clutching the other end of the haft, the Hand strove to pull it from Emerson’s grasp. Back and forth they swayed, matched in strength, the wooden shaft between them like a rope stretched taut by a titanic tug of war.
I pushed Ramses into Tarek’s arms. “Hold on to him,” I ordered, and began to circle around, trying for a clear shot.
Murtek had retreated behind the curtains but no farther; his eyeballs rolled as he watched in fascinated horror. The God’s Wife (for so, alas, I must call her) shook so violently, her draperies flapped up and down; she was screaming curses and orders. She reached out a mammoth arm as I edged past her, but her movements were so slow I easily evaded her.
Emerson appeared to be winning the tug-of-war. Fighting every inch of the way, his face twisted with effort and disbelief, the Hand was being pulled slowly toward his mighty opponent. What Emerson meant to do with him when he had got him within arm’s reach I did not know, but evidently the Hand feared the worst; suddenly he let go of the spear and reached for the long knife at his belt. Emerson staggered back, recovered, and drove the butt end of the spear into the midsection of his opponent with such force that the Hand flew backward like a stone shot from a catapult. He hit the wall with a crash and fell to the floor.
“Oh, well struck, Papa,” called Ramses.
“Is he dead?” Tarek asked hopefully.
“I trust not.” Emerson