The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [119]
“And now,” Hassan concluded sadly, “Mohammed has run away. One of your bullets struck him, Sitt, for he bled as he ran, and I think he will not come back. I would be glad if he would.”
I assured him the reward was still in effect, offered lesser amounts for any additional information, and sent him on his way—not rejoicing, but in a more cheerful frame of mind.
Twilight crept along the ground like a woman trailing long gray veils. Golden flowers of lamplight blossomed in the windows of the houses. “If I were not in the company of a lady,” said Cyrus, “I would spit. I have a bad taste in my mouth.”
I took his arm. “For that affliction I usually prescribe a whiskey and soda. And if you pressed me to join you, Cyrus, I would not say no.”
“Don’t give way to discouragement, my dear.” Cyrus squeezed my hand. “You handled that rascal just right. If Mohammed hasn’t already skipped the country his pals will be hot on his trail. I don’t think we have to worry about him bothering us again.”
“But who will be next?” We had reached the shore; warm, welcoming lights glowed from the dahabeeyah and the aroma of roasting mutton wafted to our nostrils. Across the river the western cliffs were crowned with a single brilliant star.
I stopped. “Will you think me foolish, Cyrus, if I confess a weakness I scarcely dare admit to myself? May I confide in you? For I feel the need of unburdening myself to a listener who is sensitive to my feelings and will not reproach me for them.”
In a voice gruff with emotion, Cyrus assured me he would be honored by my confidence. Darkness, I have found, assists confession; the softness of the night, the silent attention of a friend lent eloquence to my tongue, and I told him of my selfish, contemptible yearning to return to the past.
“Can you blame me,” I demanded passionately, “for feeling as if some evil genie intercepted the prayer I had the temerity to address to a benevolent Creator? Legends and myths tell us how such selfish wishes are twisted to harm instead of help the wisher. You remember Midas and the golden touch. The past has come back, not to help but to haunt me. Old enemies and old friends—”
“Right,” Cyrus interrupted. “Amelia, dear, you’re too sensible a lady to believe that stuff. I figure what you want from me isn’t so much sympathy as a jolt of common sense. These people haven’t been lying around in some eternal museum waiting to be wound up and set on your trail all at once; you’ve seen Karl off and on over the years, and me, and Carter, and a lot of other folks. Old enemies are bound to turn up too—along with plenty of new ones, considering how you and Emerson operate. It’s impossible to go back, Amelia. This is now, not then, and the only direction you can go is forward.”
I drew a deep, steadying breath. “Thank you, Cyrus. I needed that.”
His warm, firm fingers tightened around mine. He leaned toward me.
“That whiskey and soda you mentioned will complete the cure,” I said. “We had better go on; the others will be wondering what has become of us.”
That evening Emerson informed us we would begin work next day in the royal wadi, and that he intended to remain there for several days and nights. The rest of us could do as we pleased; if we preferred to return to the dahabeeyah each evening, he would allow us to stop work early.
Cyrus looked at me. I smiled. Cyrus rolled his eyes heavenward and went off to make the necessary arrangements.
CHAPTER 11
“All is fair in love, war, and journalism.”
I dreamed last night I returned to the royal wadi again. Moonlight transformed the ragged cliffs to icy silver sculptures of ruined palaces and crumbled colossi. The silence was absolute, unbroken even by the sound of my footsteps as I glided on, disembodied as the spirit I felt myself to be. Shadows sharp-limned as ink stains reached out and then retreated as I moved on. Darkness filled