The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [43]
Abdullah followed me onto the hill. His face had the remote, meditative expression it wore when he was expecting a reprimand.
We were not far from the cultivation. A cluster of palms some half-mile distant betokened the presence of water, and among the palms I could see the low roofs of a village. Nearer at hand was the object I sought. I had caught a glimpse of it as we rode—the ruinous remains of a building of some sort. I pointed. “What is that, Abdullah?”
“It is a building, Sitt,” said Abdullah, in tones of amazement. One would suppose he had never noticed the place before.
“Is it occupied, Abdullah?”
“I do not think it is, Sitt.”
“Who owns it, Abdullah?”
Abdullah replied with an ineffable Arabic shrug. As I prepared to descend the far side of the ridge, he said quickly, “That is not a good place, Sitt Hakim.”
“It has walls and part of a roof,” I replied. “That is good enough for me.”
“But, Sitt—”
“Abdullah, you know how your Muslim reticence annoys me. Speak out. What is wrong with the place?”
“It is filled with devils,” said Abdullah.
“I see. Well, don’t concern yourself about that. Emerson will cast the devils out.”
I hailed the others and directed them to follow me. The closer we approached, the more pleased I was with my discovery, and the more puzzled by it. It was not an ordinary house; the extent of the walls, some tumbled, some still intact, suggested a structure of considerable size and complexity. There were no signs of recent habitation. The barren waste stretched all around, with never a tree or blade of grass.
The building materials were an odd mixture. Some of the walls were of mud brick, some of stone. A few blocks were as large as packing cases. “Stolen from our pyramids,” Emerson grumbled. He pushed through a gap in the nearest wall. I need not say I was close behind.
The area within had been a courtyard, with rooms on three sides and a stout wall on the fourth. The wall and the southern range of rooms had fallen into ruin, but the remaining sections had survived, though most gaped open to the sky. A few pillars supported a roofed walkway along one side.
Emerson snapped his fingers. “It was a monastery, Peabody. Those were the monks’ cells, and that ruin in the far corner must have been the church.”
“How curious,” I exclaimed.
“Not at all. There are many such abandoned sanctuaries in Egypt. This country was the home of monasticism, after all, and religious communities existed as early as the second century A.D. The nearest village, Dronkeh, is a Coptic settlement.”
“You never told me that, Emerson.”
“You never asked me, Peabody.”
As we continued our tour of inspection I became conscious of a strange feeling of uneasiness. It was wholly unaccountable; the sun beamed down from a cloudless sky and, except for the occasional agitated rustle when we disturbed a lizard or scorpion from its peaceful nest, there was no sign of danger. Yet an air of brooding desolation lay over the place. Abdullah sensed it; he stayed close on Emerson’s heels and his eyes kept darting from side to side.
“Why do you suppose it was abandoned?” I asked.
Emerson stroked his chin. Even his iron nerves seemed affected by the atmosphere; his brow was slightly furrowed as he replied, “It may be that the water supply failed. This structure is old, Peabody—a thousand years, perhaps more. Long enough for the river to change its course, and for a deserted building to fall into ruin. Yet I think some of the destruction