The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [45]
One of the “deacons” edged up to his leader and whispered in his ear. The priest’s turban bobbed in acknowledgment. “The Father of Curses,” he repeated, and then, slowly and deliberately, “I know you. I know your name.”
A chill ran through my limbs. The phrase meant nothing to the priest, but all unknowingly he had repeated an ominous formula used by the priest-magicians of ancient Egypt. To know the name of a man or a god was to have power over him.
Abdullah found the comment offensive, though probably for other reasons. “Know his name? Who is there who does not know that great name? From the cataracts of the south to the swamps of the Delta—”
“Enough,” Emerson said. His lips were twitching, but he kept a grave face, for laughter would have hurt Abdullah and offended the priest. “You know my name, Father? It is well. But I do not know yours.”
“Father Girgis, priest of the church of Sitt Miriam in Dronkeh. Are you truly Emerson, the digger-up of dead man’s bones? You are not a man of God?”
It was my turn to repress a smile. Emerson chose to ignore the second question. “I am that Emerson. I come here to dig, and I will hire men from the village. But if they do not want to work for me, I will go elsewhere.”
The villagers had begun edging out into the open as the conversation proceeded. A low murmur arose from them when they heard the offer to work. All the fellahin, Muslim and Copt alike, are pitifully poor. The chance to earn what they considered munificent wages was not an offer to be missed.
“Wait,” the priest said, as Emerson turned away. “If that is why you have come, we will talk.”
So at last we were invited into the “manse,” as Emerson called it. It was like all the other Egyptian houses we had seen, except that it was a trifle larger and slightly cleaner. The long divan that was the chief piece of furniture in the main room was covered with cheap, faded chintz, and the only ornament was a crucifix with a horribly lifelike image of Christ, smeared with red paint in lieu of blood.
At the priest’s suggestion we were joined by a timid little walnut-colored gentleman who was introduced as the sheikh el beled—the mayor of the village. It was obvious that he was a mere figurehead, for he only squeaked acquiescence to everything the priest said until, the matter of employment having been settled, Emerson mentioned that we wanted to occupy the abandoned monastery. Then the mayor turned as pale as a man of his complexion can turn and blurted, “But, effendi, that is not possible.”
“We will not profane the church,” Emerson assured him. “We only want to use the rooms that were once storerooms and cells.”
“But, great Lord, no one goes there,” the mayor insisted. “It is accursed—a place of evil, haunted by afreets and devils.”
“Accursed?” Emerson repeated incredulously. “The home of the holy monks?”
The mayor rolled his eyes. “Long ago all the holy men were foully murdered, O Father of Curses. Their spirits still haunt their house, hungry for revenge.”
“We do not fear devils or vengeful ghosts,” Emerson said courageously. “If that is your only objection, effendi, we will take possession immediately.”
The mayor shook his head but did not protest further. The priest had listened with a sardonic smile. Now he said, “The house is yours, Father of Curses. May the restless spirits of the holy men requite you as you deserve.”
iii
Abdullah followed us along the village street, radiating disapproval as only Abdullah can. It felt like a chilly breeze on the back of my neck.
“We are going the wrong way,” I said to Emerson. “We entered the village at the other end.”
“I want to see the rest of the