The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [121]
I declined this thoughtful offer, but René helped Bertha mount one of the little beasts and walked beside her as we set out. It took about an hour for our caravan to cross the plain; unless it is beaten, which I never permit, a donkey’s pace is not much faster than that of a man. I kept a watchful eye on Emerson, some distance ahead. Abdullah and several of his sons were in close attendance, to Emerson’s audible annoyance. Sound carries quite a distance in the desert.
Mounting into the foothills, we reached the entrance to the wadi, where Emerson was waiting. He was rolling his eyes and tapping his foot and exhibiting other ostentatious signs of impatience, but even he, I think, was glad to rest and catch his breath for a moment. We were high enough to see a stretch of the river sparkling in the morning sunlight beyond the soft green of cultivated fields and palm trees. It was with a sense of impending doom—and a corresponding stiffening of nerve and sinew—that I turned to contemplate the dark opening in the cliffs.
The reality was grim enough, though of course it looked nothing like the fantasy that was to haunt my dreams for years to come. Sterile, bare and dead; not a blade of grass, not a trickle of moisture. The rocky faces on either side were cracked, horizontally and vertically, like crumbling ruins; the sloping detritus below them and the pebbles and boulders littering the Valley floor were ominous evidence of constant rockfalls, and of the rare but violent flash floods that had helped to shape the wadi.
When we passed into the Valley, only the heights of the left-hand cliffs shone with sunlight. The Valley floor was still deep in shadow. Gradually the light crept down the cliffs and moved toward us as we followed a path winding among the tumbled rocks, until at last the full force of the sun struck down like a blast from a furnace. The barren ground quivered with heat. The only sounds that broke the silence were the gasping breaths of men and donkeys, the crunch of rock under their feet, and the cheerful jingle of the accouterments dangling from my belt.
Never had I been so grateful for my comfortable new trousers and neat knee-high boots. Even the bloomer-rationals I had worn on my first visit to Egypt, improvement though they were over trailing skirts and bulky bustles, had not permitted such ease of movement. The only thing I envied the men was their ability to remove more clothing than I could properly do. Emerson, of course, had his coat off and his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow before we had gone a mile, and as the sunlight enveloped our perspiring forms even Cyrus, with an apologetic glance at me, removed his linen jacket and loosened his cravat. The cotton robes the Egyptians wore were better suited to the climate than European clothing. I had wondered at first how they managed to scramble around so easily without tripping over their skirts, but I soon realized they had no compunction about tucking them up or stripping off the robes altogether when this was expedient.
After approximately three miles the rocky walls began to close in and narrower canyons opened up to the right and left. Emerson stopped. “We will camp here.”
“The royal tomb is farther on,” Cyrus said, mopping his wet forehead. “Up that wadi to the north—”
“There is not enough level space for your confounded tents in the royal wadi itself. Furthermore, the other tombs I mentioned are nearby. There is at least one in that small valley to the south.”
Cyrus made no further objection. The word “tombs” had the same effect on him that the mention of “pyramids” has on me. From Emerson’s ironical expression I suspected he knew what I anticipated would be the case: that the other tombs would be even more ruined and empty of objects than the abandoned sepulcher of Akhenaton. However, hope springs eternal, as the saying goes, and I sympathized with Cyrus’s feelings. It is much more sensible to be an optimist instead of