The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [126]
“What the devil do you think I am doing?” was the reply. “It is hard to get a grip on the cursed thing…. Ah, there. I believe—”
His speech was interrupted by a shower of sand, some of which sprinkled my upturned face. The bulk of it, unfortunately, fell full on Emerson’s head. I have seldom heard such a rich wealth of invective, even from Emerson. “You should have kept your mouth closed, my dear,” I said. “———,” said Emerson.
“I had to spread sand on de stone,” Ramses explained, “in order to conceal de location of de—”
A positive avalanche of sand and pebbles put an end to this inapropos remark. Emerson continued to curse inventively as he put his back into his task; no doubt mental irritability and physical discomfort gave him additional strength. At last the downpour slowed to a trickle. “Look out below,” Emerson cried grittily. “I am coming down.”
He descended with a rush and a thud. The candle flame quivered in my hand as I contemplated him; sand coated every inch of his body, sticking to the perspiration and slimy water. From the stony mask of his face two redrimmed eyes blazed blue sparks.
“Oh, my dear,” I said sympathetically. “Let me bathe your eyes. This little flask of water, which I always carry with me…”
Emerson’s tightly pressed lips parted. He spat out a mouthful of mud and remarked, “Not now, Peabody. I feel my usually equable temper beginning to fray. You first. Let me give you a hand up.”
He assisted me into the mouth of the shaft. It was not the first time in our adventures I had ascended a narrow fissure in such a fashion, but for a moment I was unable to move. A few feet above me was a square of deep-blue velvet strewn with sparkling gems. It looked so close I felt I could reach up and touch it. My shaken mind refused to recognize it for what it was—the night sky, which I had wondered if I would ever see again.
Then a querulous question from Emerson, below, reminded me of my objective, and I began my final labor. Not until I lay at full length upon the hard desert floor, with the night breeze cooling my flushed face, did I fully realize our dreadful ordeal was over.
I raised my head. Three feet away, silent in the moonlight, an amber statue sat motionless, staring at me with slitted eyes. So might the ancient goddess of love and beauty welcome a devotee after his journey through the perilous paths of the underworld.
The cat Bastet and I communed in silence. There was considerable criticism in my mind, mild curiosity in hers, to judge by the placidity of her expression. She tilted her head inquiringly. I snapped, “He will be with you in a moment.”
Ramses soon emerged. His fingers and toes found purchases in the stones of the shaft I had not even seen. When I dragged him out, the cat Bastet mewed and trotted to him. She began busily licking his head, spitting irritably between licks. After Emerson had pulled himself from the shaft he shook himself like a large dog. Sand flew in all directions.
The ruined mound of the Black Pyramid rose up beside us. We were on its north side. To the west, calm in the starlight, stood the silver slopes of the Bent Pyramid, with its more conventional neighbor visible farther north. Silence and peace brooded over the scene. Eastward, where the village of Menyat Dahshoor lay amid the palm groves and tilled fields, there was not a light to be seen. It must be late; but not so late as I had feared, for the eastern sky still waited in darkness for the coming of dawn.
The cat Bastet had given up her attempt to clean Ramses. She was an intelligent animal and had no doubt realized that only prolonged immersion would have the desired effect. The same had to be said about Ramses’ parents. Emerson looked like a crumbling sandstone statue, and as for myself…I decided not to think about it.
I reached for the cat. A ragged scrap of paper was still attached