The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [74]
After eons of searching, I found myself no longer running, but walking with dragging steps down a long, sloping passageway where walls and floor were of a flat dull gray. Far ahead a flicker of light appeared, and as I proceeded it strengthened to a golden glow. I began to hear voices. Laughter rippled through them, and the sounds of sweet music; but despite the welcome they promised, my steps dragged and I fought the force that drew me remorselessly forward. To no avail! At last the passageway ended in a beautiful chamber filled with flowers and fresh greenery and suffused with a brilliance brighter than sunlight. A throng of people awaited me. Foremost among them was a beautiful woman whose heavy black tresses were wreathed with roses. With arms outstretched she beckoned me to her embrace. Behind her I saw a face I knew—that of my dear old nanny, framed by the starched white frills of her cap. A venerable couple stood nearby, dressed in the antique styles of the early part of the century; I recognized them from the portraits that had hung in Papa’s study. The other faces were unfamiliar, yet I knew, with a certainty transcending mortal experience, that in past lives they had been as dear to me as I was to them. All faces were wreathed in smiles, all voices cried out in welcome. (My papa was not present, but then I had not expected he would be; no doubt he had become involved in some bit of fascinating research and forgot the appointment.)
There were children among them, but none had swarthy complexions and features a trifle too big for their faces. There were stalwart, handsome men—but none had eyes that blazed with blue brilliance, or dimples in their chin.
Summoning all my forces, I screamed that beloved name like an invocation. At last—at last! I was answered. “Peabody,” the well-known voice thundered, “come back from there this instant!”
The light vanished, the music and laughter faded into a long sigh, and I fell through limitless night into the peace of nothingness.
When I opened my eyes, the vision before them bore a distinct resemblance to the Christian version of heaven. A cloudlike veil of gauzy white formed a canopy over the couch on which I lay and hung in soft folds around it. The curtains stirred in a gentle breeze.
When I attempted to rise, I found I could do no more than raise my head, and that not for long; but the thud with which it struck the mattress convinced me that I was not dreaming, or even dead. I tried to call for Emerson. The sound that came from my throat was scarcely louder than a whimper, but it brought immediate results. The footsteps that approached were steps I knew; and when he thrust the draperies aside and bent over me I found the strength to fling myself into his arms.
I will draw a veil over the scene that followed, not because I am at all ashamed of the strength of the mutual devotion that unites me with Emerson, or the ways in which it is manifested, but because mere words cannot describe the intense emotion of that reunion. When my narrative resumes, then, you may picture me in the affectionate grasp of my husband, and in a state sufficiently composed to take note of my surroundings.
First, of course, I asked about Ramses. “Fully recovered and inquisitive as ever,” Emerson replied. “He is somewhere about.”
With ever increasing astonishment I gazed about the room. It was of considerable size, the walls painted with bright patterns in blue, green, and orange, and interrupted, at intervals, by woven hangings. A pair of columns supported the ceiling; they had been painted to imitate palm trees, with the fretted leaves forming the capitals. The bed stood on legs carved like those of lions. There was no headboard; the panel at the foot of the bed was gilded and inlaid with formalized flower shapes. Beside the bed was a low table with an assortment of bottles, bowls, and pots, some of translucent