The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [61]
“The Holy Mountain,” said Ramses. “But that is what Gebel Barkal means. That is where we are now. From the Holy Mountain to the Holy Mountain—”
“You interrupted me, Ramses,” I said. “And what is more—”
“I beg your pardon, Mama. Excitement overcame me.”
“But why hieroglyphs?” I demanded. “Not only for the Holy Mountain, but here—this is ancient Egyptian for water—and here again, the sign for… obelisks, are they? Or towers, perhaps.”
“Or pillars,” said Ramses. “They are not very expertly drawn. I believe Mr. Forth had some knowledge of the hieroglyphs; he may have chosen to employ signs known only to a few, in case his map fell into the wrong hands.”
Emerson brooded over the paper. His pipe had gone out; Reggie took his own from his pocket, filled it, and offered Emerson a match. “Thank you,” Emerson said abstractedly. “This is a much clearer copy than the original. You are certain of these Arabic numbers, Forthright? For they appear to be compass readings, and any error in transcribing them could be literally deadly.”
Reggie assured him he had copied the numbers exactly. I will admit to the Reader in confidence that I had not realized the numbers might be compass readings. The excitement that had set my heart pounding earlier was nothing to the thrill I felt at this announcement, for those numbers meant that the map was more than an idle fantasy. Someone had followed that trail; someone had inscribed those numerals. And where one had gone, others could follow.
It took three days to assemble Reggie’s expedition. This was a remarkable achievement, and it would have taken much longer had it not been for Emerson’s energetic help—and the fact that at the end of that time we had hired every willing man and every healthy camel. The group was small, dangerously small for such a trip, but there were simply no more beasts to be had. Emerson mentioned this depressing fact more than once, but his warnings had no effect on Reggie.
The young man’s dedication and courage moved me greatly—and surprised me too, if I must be candid. Evidently it took him a while to make up his mind, but once he had made a decision, he stuck to it. Though Emerson never said so to Reggie, he was also favorably impressed. He admitted as much to me, the night before Reggie’s scheduled departure, as we reclined in our tent engaged in conversation. (Conversation being the only thing in which we could engage, since Ramses now shared our sleeping accommodations. Emerson had reacted to this situation more calmly than I had expected; the only sign of perturbation he displayed was to smoke his wretched pipe incessantly.)
“I never thought he’d stick to it” were Emerson’s precise words. “Blasted young idiot! I am tempted to cripple him a little, to keep him from carrying out this harebrained scheme.”
“Is it really very dangerous, Emerson?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions, Peabody; you know how it maddens me when you pretend to be an ordinary empty-headed female. Of course it is dangerous.”
A fit of coughing prevented me from replying. Emerson was smoking, and the atmosphere in the tent was rather thick. After a moment Emerson went on, “Forgive me, Peabody. My temper is a trifle short these days.”
“I know, my dear. I too feel the pangs of remorse. For if we had not forgotten ourselves in the heat of enthusiasm, and had maintained our original skepticism about Mr. Forth’s quest for the lost civilization, Reggie might not have decided as he did. One might even say that he is taking this step to prevent us from risking our lives in the attempt. There could be no nobler—”
“Oh, do be quiet, Peabody,” Emerson shouted. “How dare you say I feel remorse? I feel none. I did everything I could to dissuade him.”
I put my hand over his lips. “You will wake Ramses.”
“Ramses is not asleep,” Emerson mumbled. “I don’t think he ever sleeps. Are you asleep, Ramses?”
“No, Papa. The event of the morrow must induce in any thoughtful person the most serious reflections of wonder, doubt, and inquiry. Yet every possible precaution against disaster