When they were finished dancing, they all reseated themselves cheerfully around the fire, continuing their laughing banter in raucous voices. Listening to Howard’s strangely accented Arabic, they clapped him on the shoulder, and he returned the gesture. In the middle of the fire was a sooty tin kettle. One of the men picked it up by using a piece of bent wire, and from it he poured tea into small glasses, raising the kettle up high to make sure that each glass received its complement of bubbles. Howard drank, along with the rest of them, one glass after another, just as if he were on his own turf, with his own people. How did he manage it? How could he extend his own roots this way—he, a stranger in this land—when she herself had no roots in any place?
Tea was no longer being served, but the fire burned on. Aisha was seized by a sudden tremor when she caught a flash of light at the wall of the temple, which was deep in shadow: the glimmer of eyes she knew well, observing the group ranged around the fire, then slipping swiftly into hiding once more. It was the wolves. They had not yet given up the chase.
At last the men left. Howard made his way back to the house, still humming in time to the rhythm of the dance. When he saw Aisha sitting in the shadows, he exclaimed cheerfully, “Why hello, princess! I thought you were going to sleep until morning.” He lit a lantern and sat beside her. His face, still flushed, was bathed in perspiration.
“Why the festivities?” she asked.
“They’re celebrating my return and the fact that work will commence soon,” he replied. “Even more importantly, they think I’ve gotten married.”
She smiled wanly at him. How should she behave? She didn’t know. Would it be to her advantage to let them persist in their assumptions, or not? It didn’t matter—she was a stranger on unfamiliar terrain. From afar rose the voices of the wolves—they had all awoken. Howard noticed the fear in her face, yet even so he took her by the hand and drew her out onto the balcony. He pointed at the fire, which still burned, “This fire will stop the wolves from coming any closer—and it will keep off the insects, too.”
She tried retreat, crying, “But I’m so frightened!”
Not letting go of her arm, he said, “The wolves are my friends. They’ve followed me from the forests of Swaffham all the way to the tombs of Beni Hassan. They guarded my door when I was living in Deir al-Bahri. They are my shadows, never apart from me.”
The howling continued, and apparitions of their concealed bodies could be seen in the depths of the night. It seemed as if they were staring directly at Howard and Aisha, and she trembled more violently. When he held out his hand and drew her toward him, she did not protest—she needed a human touch. “You know the call of the wolves,” he said. “They are not angry or preparing to attack. They are rejoicing in the arrival of nighttime, their domain. And perhaps they are happy because you’re here. He encircled her waist with his arm—she was as close to him as she could be, feeling the heat of his body. She rested her head on his shoulder. Sparks flew up from the burning branches, and still the wolves stared fixedly at the two of them. She felt his lips upon her face as the bristles of his moustache crept across her skin. His lips found hers, and she shivered, struck by a wave of pain, the blood running cold in her veins. All at once she broke into tears, pushing him away despite her need for contact, crying, “Don’t touch me!”
He withdrew his hands from her. “Calm down,” he said. “Nothing will happen to you against your will.”
I’ve taken up digging once more. I had just about exhausted the area designated to me. I had divided it into squares and excavated every square with minute care, investigating each stone and every grain of sand. I came across many small things, which I gave to Lord Carnarvon to add to his collection. I tried to keep the flame of hope burning within me—I was racing against time, for this nobleman, with his ill health, could die at any moment; indeed, throughout the war years he had been on the brink of death. I never supposed he would revive, and I was certain that his exalted daughter, Lady Evelyn, would not carry on digging after him. I tried to get close to her, but she rejected me, never forgetting that I was her father’s employee. Perhaps she thought I was exploiting his passion for collecting artifacts to my own personal advantage. Be that as it may, time is not on my side. Arthur Weigall, who deprived me of my position as director of antiquities, is waiting for his chance to evict me from the valley. How would my luck have to turn to help me out of these difficulties? I would need a miracle.
At noontime, after I had distributed the workers around the excavation site, I saw him coming from deep in the valley, carrying a basket on his shoulder. The sun was behind him, and I couldn’t distinguish his features clearly, so I took him for one of the fellahin who come to the site in search of work. But he stopped in front of me and said, “I’ve got something important to tell you.” I brought him into the tent I use to take shelter from the sun. He closed the tent flap so that no one would see him there. I knew his name was Ali Hassaan, like so many of the fellahin from al-Qurna Village. He wanted me to buy the basket from him: a bunch of worthless stones, some of them with inscriptions that were incomplete or indecipherable—their pickaxes always strike the wrong spot. There were fragments of pottery, a broken marble vessel, a crushed scarab—all evidence that these were grave goods, and that they had not merely been plundered, but had been brutally destroyed. But then I began turning over the stones in perplexity—it seemed as though I recognized in them symbols from a partial cartouche. I couldn’t believe my eyes—they referred specifically to Amenhotep IV, the old name of the heretic Pharaoh, Akhenaten. My head felt suddenly clouded—I could not connect these artifacts to the valley in which we were digging. Times and places had got muddled all in an instant.
“Where did you get these pieces?” I asked him.
“That’s none of your concern,” he replied. “I came to sell this basket, and if you don’t buy it, I’ll find some other foreigner who will.”
“I’ll pay more for it if you’ll show me where these articles came from.”
“You’ll be wasting your money. If there’d been anything else I’d have brought it to you.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“Why do you insist? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Perhaps I can see what you can’t.”
He was silent for a moment, rubbing his chin. There was a shrewd gleam in his eye. Finally he said, “I’ll take the two donkeys and ten pounds.”
The man was greedy, and his demands exorbitant—the pair of donkeys and the canary were the only animals I owned. But he knew I was desperate, and so, reluctantly, I agreed. He held out his hand, and I gave him the money as an advance: a single note bearing the image of the new king, Fouad I, with his twisted moustaches. An astonished Abdel Aal brought us the donkeys, and the fellah permitted me to ride one of them, while he mounted the other. Abdel Aal attempted to follow us, but I ordered him to stay and oversee the excavations.
We proceeded across the valley, leaving behind Dar Abu al-Naja and entering a “trackless” valley. The columns of Deir al-Bahri appeared in the distance. I know this region like the back of my hand—I gave it the best years of my life, but now here was this fellah leading me into a maze of rock and sand I had never seen before. He spurred his donkey on confidently. He turned aside before we reached Deir al-Bahri, but entered a narrow, rocky passage that ran parallel to its wall. How could I not have known about the existence of this passage before?
We came to a stop before a huge rock that looked as though it was suspended in midair and about to fall on us. Pointing to a spot underneath it he said, “This is the place.”
I reckoned he was making fun of me, but I dismounted and, after a moment’s hesitation, passed beneath the rock. I heard the wind keening shrilly, as if it had made up its mind to bring the rock down. I shivered, seeing a long crack in the middle of the rock face. There was an opening there, stuffed with fallen rocks—just a crack in a heap of stones, but it had been opened by means of chisels and pick
axes. I knew I was standing before the opening to a tomb I had not seen before, and it was clear that this fellah had not entered it, either. He had satisfied himself with gathering a little heap of things into the basket he had brought me. This was a tomb that had been far from my speculations, and a long way from where I was excavating. I had no right to set to work on it—but who was to know? Perhaps this was the dream I had been awaiting for so long.
Howard did not sleep that night. Aisha stayed up with him as he paced distractedly around the main room of the house. He got out a number of old drawings he had done of the region while living at Deir al-Bahri, and traced the perimeter of the valley, the jagged rock formations, and the undulations of the hills, trying to discover where the unfamiliar tomb began and ended. At daybreak he had dark circles around his eyes. Aisha heard the racket made by the men, who arrived at an early hour. Fog still shrouded the surface of the river and surrounded the ancient city. The men were standing ready, in front of the house, holding pickaxes and other implements, Abdel Aal at the head of them. Howard had put on his khakis early in the morning, and donned a felt hat. “You’ll come with us,” he told her.
“But what can I do in the midst of all those men?” she protested.
He pointed to some khaki garments, similar to the ones he had on, which were piled on a little table. “You can put on these clothes,” he said. “Abdel Aal purchased them in Luxor last night, specially for you.”
She looked at him wonderingly—he wasn’t joking. He returned her gaze, resolute. “But why?” she insisted. “All these years you’ve been digging on your own.”
“Today is different,” he replied. “I’m at the threshold of a new discovery, and it could be the tomb of which I’ve been dreaming. I want you by my side—I want to ensure that luck won’t abandon me this time.”
She had no way of putting on a veil to hide her face, although at least the trousers were fairly long. Still, she gathered her hair on top of her head and pressed the felt hat down over it. There was no donkey, so everyone went on foot. The men, amazed, lagged behind, following her the whole way, but they ducked their heads each time she looked at any of them—none dared venture any questions. They made good headway on the dew-moistened sand. As the waters of the river took on a reddish hue, Aisha filled her lungs with the morning air. She walked beside Howard, having regained her self-possession—from now on, there would be no need for her to hide.
The columns of Deir al-Bahri came into view, congregating sleepily in the lap of the mountain. The group turned aside and proceeded into the rocky passage, which was not wide enough to accommodate two men walking abreast. Howard took hold of Aisha’s hand to help her across the slippery stones. The party came to a halt before the hanging rock.
The men divided themselves up at once, some to dig and others to haul away the rocks. The two youngest, meanwhile, were charged with carrying flasks of water. The men went in beneath the hanging rock and without further ado began to dig. The sounds rose of pickaxes striking stone, with no voices raised in song this time. The task demanded steadiness and efficiency—such was Howard’s agreement with the men. Looking at the hanging rock, Aisha felt deeply uneasy; no one else seemed concerned about it. One of the boys offered her a cup of water, but although her throat was dry she couldn’t take it. She whispered to Howard, “Is this the tomb you were looking for?”
“I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “It seems too easy to be real.”
The men worked on tirelessly, racing against sunrise, when the custodian of antiquities at Deir al-Bahri might discover what was going on, and Weigall come and accuse Carter of violating the terms of the permit he’d been granted. No one stopped even to ask for food or water, while Howard remained rigid at the opening of the tomb as it began to manifest itself, freed of rocky protrusions.
Only when the sun had reached its zenith was the cleanup of the passageway leading to the interior of the tomb complete. Then the men, exhausted, threw themselves down in the shade of the rock, which still hung in its place. Now it was Howard’s turn to bestir himself. He picked up a small electric torch—a flashlight—sent to him specially by Lord Carnarvon from England; it was no longer necessary to use burning torches. He took Aisha’s hand and they began the descent. They were accompanied by al-Raïs Gregor, the workers’ foreman, who undertook to move aside the remaining stones from the passageway. Aisha felt the air grow heavy and stagnant. She could not catch her breath, but Howard kept pulling her farther inside, sweeping in all directions with the flashlight. To his surprise, the walls were smooth and unembellished with reliefs or paintings. They had been washed, smoothed down, and coated with a layer of plaster and lime, but the operation had stopped short of the artist’s placing his first stroke on the wall—the magic touch that would animate a gloomy void with the pulse of life. He swung the flashlight, looking for some kind of sign, anything that would guide him through this unknown corridor. There was nothing but more rocks. Panting, the workers carried these outside—there was no air, and the smell of their sweat was stifling. Aisha leaned against the wall to rest a little, and then the corridor opened before them onto a fairly spacious room, strewn with piles of nothing but ruined objects—pots, figurines, wooden boats, and sarcophagi—everything ruthlessly demolished. No one had tried to steal these things or to profit by them. They looked like the remains of a great fire—the plaster walls were begrimed with a layer of soot, and there were charred remnants of wooden figurines and statues, as if a battle had taken place in this confined space.
“Did thieves do all this?” asked Aisha fearfully.
“Thieves don’t wreck things this way,” said Howard miserably. “They know that these remains are the source of their livelihood. Whatever happens, they don’t destroy them or try to burn them. There’s something here that I don’t understand.”
Not wanting to leave empty-handed, he ordered the workers to take along such objects as might be useful. The fellah had been right, though: he had warned him, before depriving him of his donkeys. But he had clung to the obstinate hope of a desperate man.
The men all went out; only Aisha was left, standing before him, gazing at him in sympathy. He kept pointing the torch in every direction, until it began to grow dim. Its light faded gradually, and the darkness closed in. It seemed as though he had no intention of going back outside, of leaving this spot. Aisha also stayed where she was, scarcely breathing. She had not provided him with the touch of good fortune he’d been hoping for, any more than she had been able to do for herself.
She heard his voice, as if he were thinking out loud. “It’s an unfinished tomb,” he said. “They dug it in the heart of the mountain, then abandoned it. They tried to desecrate it as well. They set about burning it, and they left unseemly rubbish in it. Thieves didn’t do this—rather the builders of the tomb did it all . . . but why?”
There was nothing she could say. There was no air for her to breathe. She felt the sweat soaking her face and body. At last she heard him say, “It’s no use staying here. Let us go . . .”
In the forecourt of the house the workers assembled what they had gleaned from the piles in the tomb, then took their leave. Night began to descend upon the valley, and Howard sat silent on the balcony. The news of his failed venture would spread in the morning. The employees at the Antiquities Service would mock him, as would the traders in artifacts, the occupants of the great dahabeahs, the international consuls, and the delegates from the museums. Davies would laugh at him, Weigall would gloat, and it would be disastrous when the news reached Carnarvon. A day lost, another dream laid waste—ought he to give up?
He ordered Abdel Aal to light a fire. He went into the forecourt and Aisha sat with him there, where she was conscious of the heat from the flames touching them. They tried to separate the piles and sort their contents: bits of marble in one heap, fragmentary cartouches in another, remains of plates and pieces of pottery and wood in a third. Howard rearranged pieces in the hope of being able to assemble
a complete inscription or chance upon a name. It was a long night, with the wolves keeping vigil on the other side of the expanse of level ground, staring at them. He got up to fetch the basket the fellah had sold him the day before, and rearranged its contents once more, assembling them in an attempt to make something out of nothing. He fingered the engravings, then suddenly exclaimed, with what sounded like inspiration, “It’s his tomb! They were preparing it for him before he rebelled against it all and slipped their grasp!”
“Who is it you’re talking about?” she asked.
“Amenhotep IV,” he replied. The heretic Pharaoh Akhenaten, when he was a youth, and reigned over Thebes. They were readying this tomb for him, but when he rebelled against them and left their city they destroyed it and tried to burn it. They desecrated it and put bits of stuff from other tombs in it. This is the inscription that bears his name and his device, but in fact he is buried somewhere else, in a place no one knows anything about.”
He was up and prancing around her, irrepressible. At last he located some similar pieces, bits of black basalt, and he knew that this discovery was worthless, nothing more than manifestations of unconfirmed historical accounts.
The night grew colder. On hands and knees, Aisha gathered for him a larger collection of stones, so that he could see whether they contained any of the missing inscriptions. He went quickly to the house, then came back carrying a large magnifying glass. He brought some of the stone fragments close together and examined them. “It’s a tablet,” he said. “Before the tomb was destroyed, the tablet was meant to be hung upon its door. The phrases are broken up—‘he who is most righteous . . . shall be interred here . . . the victorious one . . . Amun . . .’ It’s certain the tomb was made ready for him before they changed their minds about him—my God! Here is Akhenaten, emerging before me once again, like a nightmare I can’t get free of.”
A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore Page 35