The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [17]
“O’Connell didn’t mention it,” Emerson admitted grudgingly.
He had not mentioned it because I had threatened him with a number of unpleasant things if he did. “Nefret’s was not the only name to appear in Kevin’s story,” I said. “As I suggested … as I expected of a journalist of his ability, Kevin took for his theme the miracle of survival. Nefret’s story was only one of many; no one reading the article could possibly suspect that she was reared, not by kindly American missionaries, but by the pagan survivors of a lost civilization. Even if the Lost Oasis was not mentioned, the suggestion that she had been reared among naked savages—for that is how our enlightened fellow countrymen regard the members of all cultures except their own—would subject her to ridicule and rude speculation by society.”
“That’s what concerns you, is it? Nefret’s acceptance into society?”
“She has had trouble enough with narrow-minded fools as it is.”
The clouds on Emerson’s noble brow cleared. “Your kindly concern for the child does you credit, my dear. I think it is all a lot of nonsense, but no doubt the impertinent opinions of the vulgar affect a young girl more than they would ME. In any case we can’t explain her origins without giving away the secret we have sworn to keep. All in all, I find I am glad the children are safe at home in England.”
“So am I,” I said truthfully.
The first person I saw as the steamer nosed into the dock at Port Sa’id was our faithful foreman Abdullah, his snowy-white turban rising a good six inches over the heads of the crowd that surrounded him.
“Curse it,” I exclaimed involuntarily. I had hoped for a few more hours of Emerson’s undivided attention. Fortunately he did not hear me; raising his hands to his mouth, he let out a ululating call that made the nearby passengers jump, and brought a broad grin to Abdullah’s face. He had been our reis for years and was far too old and dignified to express his excitement in violent physical demonstrations, but his younger relatives were not; their turbans bobbed as they jumped up and down and shouted their welcome.
“How splendid of Abdullah to come all this way,” Emerson said, beaming.
“And Selim,” I said, spotting other familiar faces. “And Ali, and Daoud, and Feisal and—”
“They will be of great help getting our gear to the train,” Emerson said. “I can’t think why I didn’t suggest they meet us here. But it is like Abdullah to anticipate our slightest desire.”
The train from Port Sa’id to Cairo takes less than six hours. There was plenty of room in our compartment for Abdullah and his eldest son Feisal, since the other European passengers refused to share it with a “bunch of dirty natives,” as one pompous idiot put it. I heard him expostulating with the conductor. He got nowhere. The conductor knew Emerson.
So we settled down and had a refreshing gossip. Abdullah was distressed to learn that Ramses was not with us. At least he put on a good show of distress, but I thought I detected a certain gleam in his black eyes. His feelings were clear to me—did I not share them? His devotion to Emerson combined the reverence of an acolyte with the strong friendship of a man and a brother. He had not been with us the year before; now he could look forward to an entire season of his idol’s undivided attention. He would have disposed of ME as well had that been possible, I thought, without resentment. I felt the same about him. Not to mention Ali, Daoud, and Feisal.
We parted in Cairo, but only temporarily; before long we would visit the men at their village of Aziyeh, to recruit our crew for the winter’s excavations. Emerson was in such a good humor that he submitted gracefully to being embraced by all