The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [73]
I turned to Selim, who always had the seat of honor on my right. “Well? What happens now?”
Selim proudly inspected his new wristwatch, which had been a present from us. “In ten minutes, Sitt Hakim, you will lead the way to the veranda.”
“So it’s to take place in front of the house?”
“We had meant to have it in the courtyard, but too many people wanted to come.”
There certainly were too many people for the courtyard. Half the West Bank seemed to be there—men, women, children, and babes in arms, forming a dark and squirming mass approximately twenty feet from the door of the veranda. In front of them and a little to one side was a smaller group, taking the choicer position with the arrogance of their class—tourists, “white” residents of Luxor and a few of the inevitable journalists, pens poised. I recognized some of the faces, but not the one I had rather hoped to see.
The lamps on the veranda had not been lighted. As I took the seat of honor (the settee, moved to a position facing the crowd), curiosity had overcome my vexation. I had seen a number of Emerson’s exorcisms, the most memorable being the one in which he had seemingly produced the cat Bastet from an ancient feline mummy case. The cat Bastet had not liked it at all, but the effect had been very fine. I hoped Emerson had no designs on the Great Cat of Re.
A tongue of flame shot up from the wood piled before the door. It rose to a column of shimmering fire that dazzled the eyes—and conveniently left the audience just outside the radius of the light. A voice beside me said, “Shift over a bit, will you, Peabody?”
To the audience outside, it must have seemed that he emerged from the fire. The flames licking at the tail of his robe added to the illusion and indicated, to his wife, that he had gone a little too close to the fire. Cursing under his breath, Emerson beat the flames out. I think his costume was intended to be that of an ancient sem priest—long white skirts and full sleeves, and an imitation leopard skin draped over one shoulder. He stood still, his arms raised. In the awed silence that followed I heard a snicker from Mr. Lansing.
Having got everyone’s attention, Emerson began to speak. He has no trouble at all making himself heard at a distance and the audience hung on his every word.
The black afrit had had the audacity to challenge him, the Father of Curses. Now the time had come to make an end of the wretched being. “No one defeats the Father of Curses!” Emerson bellowed, and a roar of agreement rose from the crowd. Emerson’s voice rose to an even louder pitch. “Come forth, evil one, and face your master!”
“Excuse me, Mother,” said Ramses. He was almost invisible in the darkness, enveloped in a long black robe. While Emerson, pointing and gesticulating, directed the audience’s attention toward the area behind it, Ramses slipped out the door and made his entrance, letting out a piercing shriek. The crowd screamed in unison, including the babies. Emerson whirled. He flung himself at Ramses, who fell to the ground, kicking and struggling. They rolled back and forth, edging ever closer to the shadows at the edge of the firelight. Since I was one of the few people watching for it, I saw an occasional black-clad leg (Ramses’s best evening trousers, I supposed, since he had no others of that shade) and glimpses of a black face with grotesquely flattened features (one of Nefret’s black silk stockings?).
With a mighty effort Emerson flung his opponent into outer darkness and staggered back into the light carrying the limp black garment over his arms. He moved so fast no one could have got a good