Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [114]
“Very nice,” I said. Emerson chewed vigorously on his lower lip, repressing the rude comment that would have hurt Fatima’s feelings; and David said gently, “Yes, Fatima. What about us, though?”
“You are not in danger,” said Fatima with perfect composure, and finished serving the stuffed lamb.
It was very good, but my appetite was not at its best. Was Sethos so complacent that he failed to realize his reasoning pointed the finger of guilt straight at him? Every point he had made could be applied to him. He might even have shot himself. As he had once said to me, he was violently averse to pain, but the wound was not serious in itself. I could visualize him, eyes screwed shut and hand shaking, as he aimed and squeezed the trigger.
It had been a while since I dreamed of Abdullah; when I saw him coming toward me from the Valley of the Kings, looking from side to side as if enjoying the view, I was sufficiently vexed to say something silly.
“Where have you been?”
“Here,” said Abdullah, stroking his silky black beard.
It was not such a bad place to spend eternity. Bleak as a lunar landscape, the rocky plateau stretched out behind him, but the wind blew fresh from the river and the valley below lay unrolled like a woven carpet—silvery sand bordered by emerald-green fields and sparkling water, patterned with little villages and the tumbled stones of the ruined temples along the cultivation. We always met there, where we had so often stood together in life.
“Hmph,” I said.
Abdullah chuckled. “As Emerson would say. Have you ever wondered, Sitt, why I come to you and not to him, who was as close as a brother?”
“No.”
There was no need to say more. We stood in silence for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes.
“I didn’t mean to reproach you,” I said. “But I am in desperate need of advice. We have had our share of trouble, heaven knows, but never have I been in such a state of confusion. I don’t know whom to trust or what to do.”
“You want ME to tell YOU what to do?” Abdullah asked in exaggerated astonishment.
The moment had passed. It was just as well; such spiritual intimacy cannot be sustained.
I sat down on the ground and tucked my feet under me, hoping I would be able to rise without awkwardness. I didn’t want any more pointed remarks about my age and infirmities from Abdullah.
“I will tell you, then,” said Abdullah, dropping easily to a sitting position near me. “Celebrate your Christmas and make the little ones happy. But do not give Charla a bow and arrow.”
“As if I would. But—”
“Bring them to visit my tomb on Issa’s Day. They may each leave an offering,” said Abdullah smugly. “A portrait of me by the little artist, a silver bangle from Charla—she is becoming too fond of possessions—and from Sennia, one of the pretty bows she wears in her hair. And money for the poor, in my name.”
I looked at him in surprised disapproval. “Your sainthood has gone to your head, Abdullah. Or are you trying to get me off the track?”
“It is important to please the little ones, Sitt, and also to teach them charity and love. The Holy Koran and your own Holy Book tell us that we must share with those who have not our good fortune.”
He looked so sanctimonious, lips pursed and eyes raised, that I was tempted to laugh. He had been a worldly man, following the precepts of his faith but not allowing them—how shall I put it—to interfere with his enjoyment of life. Perhaps becoming a saint had enlightened him.
“That is very true, Abdullah, and I will see that your wishes are carried out. Now what about some practical advice?”
“You are meddling in matters that do not concern you, Sitt. Leave them be.”
“That has a familiar ring,” I said dryly. “Perhaps you would care to be more specific. What matters should concern me?”
“Two matters only. The happiness of the little ones and the tomb of the pharaoh.