The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [2]
I seated myself upon the ground with my back against the camel. The sun was at the zenith; the only shade was cast by the body of the poor beast. Emerson paced back and forth, kicking up clouds of sand and swearing. His expertise in this latter exercise had earned him the admiring title of “Father of Curses” from our Egyptian workmen, and on this occasion he surpassed himself. I sympathized with his feelings, but duty compelled me to remonstrate.
“You forget yourself, Emerson,” I remarked, indicating our companions.
They stood side by side, watching me with grave concern, and I must say they made a ludicrous pair. Many of the native Nilotic peoples are unusually tall, and Kemit, the only servant remaining to us, was over six feet in height. He wore a turban and a loose robe of woven blue-and-white cotton. His face, with its clean-cut features and deeply bronzed skin, bore a striking resemblance to that of his companion, but the second individual was less than four feet tall. He was also my son, Walter Peabody Emerson, known as “Ramses,” who should not have been there.
Emerson cut off his expletive in mid-syllable, though the effort almost choked him. Still in need of a “went” for his boiling emotions, he focused them on me.
“Who selected these da these cursed camels?”
“You know perfectly well who selected them,” I replied. “I always select the animals for our expeditions, and doctor them too. The local people treat camels and donkeys so badly—”
“Don’t give me one of your lectures on veterinary medicine and kindness to animals,” Emerson bellowed. “I knew—I knew!—your delusions about your medical knowledge would lead us into disaster one day. You have been dosing these da——these confounded animals; what did you give them?”
“Emerson! Are you accusing me of poisoning the camels?” I struggled to overcome the indignation his outrageous accusation had provoked. “I believe you have taken leave of your senses.”
“Well, and if I have, there is some excuse for me,” Emerson said in a more moderate tone. He edged closer to me. “Our situation is desperate enough to disturb any man, even one as even-tempered as I. Er—I beg your pardon, my dear Peabody. Don’t cry.”
Emerson calls me Amelia only when he is annoyed with me. Peabody is my maiden name, and it was thus that Emerson, in one of his feeble attempts at sarcasm, addressed me during the early days of our acquaintance. Hallowed by fond memories, it has now become a private pet name, so to speak, indicative of affection and respect.
I lowered the handkerchief I had raised to my eyes and smiled at him. “A few grains of sand in my eye, Emerson, that is all. You will never find me succumbing to helpless tears when firmness is required. As you are well aware.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson.
“All the same, Mama,” said Ramses, “Papa has raised a point worthy of consideration. It is surely stretching coincidence to the point of impossibility to assume that all the camels should die, suddenly and with no symptoms of disease, within forty-eight hours of one another.”
“I assure you, Ramses, that consideration had already occurred to me. Run and fetch Papa’s hat, if you please. No, Emerson, I know your dislike of hats, but I insist that you put it on. We are in bad enough case without having you laid low by sunstroke.”
Emerson made no reply. His eyes were fixed on the small figure of his son, trotting obediently after the sun helmet, and his expression was so poignant that my eyes dimmed. It was not fear for himself that weakened my husband, nor even concern for me. We had faced death together not once but many times; he knew he could count on me to meet that grim adversary with a smile and a stiff upper lip. No; it was the probable fate of Ramses that brought the moisture to his keen blue eyes. So moved was I that I vowed not to remind Emerson that