The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [44]
“There was fighting, I believe, between Muslims and Christians?”
“Pagan and Christian, Muslim and Christian, Christian and Christian. It is curious how religion arouses the most ferocious violence of which mankind is capable. The Copts destroyed the heathen temples and persecuted the worshipers of the old gods, they also slaughtered co-religionists who disagreed over subtle differences of dogma. After the Muslim conquest, the Copts were treated leniently at first, but their own intolerance finally tried the patience of the conquerors and they endured the same persecution they had inflicted on others.”
“Well, it does not matter. This will make an admirable expedition house. For once we will have enough storage space.”
“There is no water.”
“It can be carried from the village.” I took my pencil and began making a list. “Repair the roof; mend the walls; insert new doors and window frames; sweep—”
Abdullah coughed. “Cast out the afreets,” he suggested.
“Yes, to be sure.” I made another note.
“Afreets?” Emerson repeated. “Peabody, what the devil—”
I drew him aside and explained. “I see,” he replied. “Well, I will perform any necessary rituals, but first perhaps we ought to go to the village and carry out the legal formalities.”
I was happy to acquiesce to this most sensible suggestion. “We should not have any difficulty obtaining a lease,” I said, as we walked side by side. “Since the place has been so long abandoned, it cannot be of importance to the villagers.”
“I only hope the local priest does not believe in demons,” said Emerson. “I don’t mind putting on a show for Abdullah and the men, but one exorcism per day is my limit.”
As soon as we were seen the villagers came pouring out of their houses. The usual cries of “Baksheesh!” were mingled with another adjuration—“Ana Christian, Oh
Hawadji—I am a Christian, noble sir!”
“And therefore entitled to additional baksheesh,” said Emerson, his lip curling. “Bah.”
Most of the houses were clustered around the well. The church, with its modest little dome, was not much larger than the house next to it. “The parsonage,” said Emerson, indicating this residence. “And there, if I am not mistaken, is the parson.”
He stood in the doorway of his house—a tall, muscular man wearing the dark-blue turban that distinguishes Egyptian Christians. Once a prescribed article of dress for a despised minority, it is now worn as a matter of pride.
Instead of coming to greet us, the priest folded his arms and stood with head held high like a king waiting to receive petitioners. His figure was splendid. His face was all but invisible, adorned by the most remarkable assemblage of facial hair I had ever seen. It began at ear level, swept in an ebon wave across cheeks and upper lip, and flowed like a sable waterfall almost to his waist. His eyebrows were equally remarkable for their hirsute extravagance. They were the only feature that gave any indication of the owner’s emotions, and at the moment their configuration was not encouraging, for a scowl darkened the pastoral brow.
At the priest’s appearance most of the other villagers faded quietly away. Half a dozen men remained, loitering near the priest. They wore the same indigo turbans and the same suspicious scowls as their spiritual leader.
“The deacons,” said Emerson with a grin.
He then launched into a speech of greeting in his most impeccable Arabic. I added a few well-chosen words. A long silence ensued. Then the priest’s bearded lips parted and a voice growled a curt “Sabakhum bil-kheir—good morning.”
In every Muslim household I had visited, the formal greeting was followed by an invitation to enter, for hospitality to strangers is enjoined by the Koran. We waited in vain for this courtesy from our co-religionist, if I may use that term loosely, and after an even longer silence the priest asked what we wanted.
This outraged Abdullah, who, though an admirable person in many ways, was not devoid of the Mussulman’s prejudice against his Christian