The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [62]
Emerson did not reply, for he was occupied in nibbling gently on my fingers. The sensations thus produced were quite remarkable, and indicated how effectively a talented and imaginative individual can overcome the limitations posed by the presence of a small, unsleeping child.
“Yes, indeed, Ramses,” I replied somewhat abstractedly. “Mr. Forthright has sworn to turn back immediately if he does not find the first of the landmarks indicated on the map, and his camels are the best… !”
“Is something wrong, Mama?” Ramses asked in alarm.
I will not describe what Emerson was doing; it has no part in this narrative. “No, Ramses,” I said. “Quite the contrary. That is… stop worrying, and go to sleep.”
But of course he did not, and after Emerson had gone as far as he could go without attracting Ramses’s attention, he had to leave off. Long after his steady breathing betokened his surrender to Morpheus, I lay awake staring up at the dark canopy of canvas above me and asking myself the same question Ramses had asked. Had every possible precaution been taken? Only time would tell.
The caravan was supposed to set forth at dawn, but nothing ever happens on schedule in the East; it was nearer midday when Reggie at last mounted his camel. It lurched to its feet in the awkward way these beasts have; Reggie swayed and clutched the pommel with both hands. Emerson, standing beside me, let out a sigh. “He’ll fall off before he has gone a mile.”
“Hush,” I murmured. “Don’t discourage him.”
At least the camel was in good condition. It was one of the prized white racing meharis beloved of the Beduin, and how Emerson had persuaded its owner to part with it I dared not ask. The other beasts were the best of the ones I had been tending. The military authorities had flatly refused to lend any of theirs, but after seeing how effective my medications had proved, several of the local sheikhs had brought their animals to me for attention, and exorbitant payments had induced them to hire the beasts out to Reggie. Four of them were loaded with food and water. The latter, of course, was the most vital commodity; it was carried in goatskins, each containing slightly over two gallons. Four servants accompanied Reggie. Three were local men; the fourth was Daoud, one of Reggie’s Nubian servants. He was a singularly unprepossessing fellow, with a huge dirty black beard and a cast in one eye, but I could forgive him his looks because of his loyalty to his master. The other servants had flatly refused to go.
Reggie carefully took one hand from the saddle and lifted his hat. The sunlight cast his features into strong relief and woke golden highlights from the smooth, oiled surface of his auburn hair. “Farewell, Mrs. Emerson—Professor—my young friend Ramses. If we do not meet again—”
I let out a cry of distress. “Don’t harbor such thoughts, Reggie! Keep a stout heart, and faith in the Presence that protects the valiant. I will remember you in my prayers—”
“Fat lot of good that will do,” growled Emerson. “Don’t forget what you promised, Forthright. If the cursed map is accurate, you should find the first landmark—the twin towers—at the end of your third day of travel. You can give it another day if you like—you have food and water enough for at least ten days—but then you must turn back. Failure to find the first landmark will prove the map isn’t to be trusted. If you do find it—you won’t, but if you do—you will send a messenger back to us at once.”
“Yes, Professor,” Reggie said. “We’ve been over that a number of times. I gave you my word, and even if I were inclined to break it, which I would never do, I hope I am sensible enough to know the risks attendant upon—”
“He has been with us too long,” said Emerson to me. “He is beginning to sound like Ramses. Very well, Forthright; if you are determined to go, why the devil don’t you go?”
This speech rather spoiled the emotional tone of our leave-taking, and a further pall was cast upon the occasion by Reggie’s Egyptian servant, who broke into a weird keening wail, like a paid mourner