The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [120]
“You appear a trifle hollow-eyed this morning, Peabody,” Emerson remarked. “Didn’t you sleep well? Something on your conscience, perhaps.”
We were alone on deck, waiting for the others to collect their gear. A considerable quantity of supplies would be required if we were to remain in the remote wadi for several days; Emerson had of course left the complex arrangements to Cyrus, and had already complained about the delay.
Ignoring the provocation (for it was nothing less and certainly nothing more), I said, “I want to change that bandage before we go. You have got it wet.”
He fussed and protested but I persisted, and at last he consented to follow me to my room. I left the door ostentatiously ajar.
“Are you sure you are willing to abandon your luxurious quarters for a tent among the rocks?” Emerson inquired, with a contemptuous survey of the elegant room. “You have my permission to return to the dahabeeyah at night if you prefer. It is only a three-hour walk each—ouch!”
This ejaculation was wrung from him by my brisk removal of the sticking plaster. “I thought you angels of mercy prided yourselves on the delicacy of your touch,” Emerson went on, between his teeth.
“Not at all. We pride ourselves on our efficiency. Stop squirming or you will get a mouthful of antiseptic. It is not meant to be taken internally.”
“It stings,” Emerson grumbled.
“There is some localized infection. I expected that. The healing process is proceeding nicely, however.” My voice was steady, I believe, though the sight of the ugly, inflamed wound made my heart contract.
“As for returning to the dahabeeyah every night, that would of course be the most sensible procedure,” I said, cutting strips of sticking plaster. “But if you are determined to perch in the wadi like a bird in the wilderness, the rest of us must—”
The voice of Cyrus calling my name interrupted me before Emerson could do so, as his expression indicated he fully intended. “There you are,” said Cyrus, in the doorway. “I was looking for you.”
“You have a positive genius for stating the obvious, Vandergelt,” said Emerson. He pushed my hand away. “That will do. Collect your bottles and paint and jars and other female flapdoodle and let’s be off.”
Brushing rudely past Cyrus, he went out. I packed away my medical supplies and tucked the box into my knapsack.
“Is that all you are taking?” Cyrus asked. “Someone can come back for anything you have forgotten, of course.”
“That will not be necessary. I have everything I need.” I tucked my parasol under my arm.
The donkeys were being loaded when we crossed over to the riverbank. Emerson had gone on, the cat riding on his shoulder. I stopped to talk to Feisal, who was supervising the donkey men.
“They have been washed, Sitt Hakim,” he assured me. He was referring to the donkeys, not the men, though their appearance certainly could have been improved by a little soap and water.
“Good.” I took a handful of dates from my pocket and fed them to the donkeys. One of the lean pariah dogs slunk toward us, its tail between its legs. I tossed it the scraps of meat I had saved from breakfast.
“Poor dumb creatures,” said Cyrus. “It’s a waste of time feeding them, though, my dear; there are too many of them, and all half-starved.”
“One scrap of food is better than none,” I replied. “At least that is my philosophy. But Cyrus, what is all this baggage? We are setting up a temporary camp, not a luxury hotel.”
“Lord only knows how long your bullheaded husband will want to stay in the wadi,” Cyrus replied. “You won’t leave the place so long as