Secrets of a Sun King

by Emma Carroll

  Tulip was also right about the other hotel guests. The reception area was jam-packed with men in suits, and what with the bare marble floors and the ceilings full of whirling fans the place echoed like it did at our school pool on swimming gala day. Everyone seemed to be talking about one thing: the dig.

  ‘… Carter’s got till the Americans start complaining …’

  ‘… the grave-robbers took all the gold …’

  ‘… there’s something about that valley – gives me the heebie-jeebies …’

  As Mrs Mendoza fought her way to the reception desk, we waited with our luggage. It was hard not to be excited, but I was tired, which made everything seem loud and too bright. Poor Oz was also drooping badly, though Tulip had enough bounce for the three of us.

  ‘Thrilling, isn’t it?’ Her eyes were everywhere. ‘Can’t see any women here, though.’

  ‘There’s one.’ I nodded at a young woman who was sitting alone at a table. She had fashionably bobbed hair like Mrs Mendoza’s.

  Tulip gasped in delight. ‘Do you know who that is?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘That’s Lady Evelyn.’ Tulip dropped her voice. ‘Lord Carnarvon’s daughter. She’s the one who had the canary.’

  Even before the canary incident, I’d read about her in the newspapers. Like her father, she collected old treasures and wasn’t afraid of getting her hands dirty if it meant finding good pieces.

  Standing here now, just feet away from such a key person in the Carter dig, didn’t exactly steady my nerves.

  Thankfully, at that moment Mrs Mendoza reappeared. Something was wrong. Fanning herself furiously with a piece of paper, she broke the news: ‘Would you believe it, we can’t stay here. Every single room is booked out.’

  ‘No, Mama, that can’t be right,’ Tulip insisted.

  I glared at her to shut up and not give the game away.

  She mouthed back: ‘I booked it, I swear!’ But at least she had the good sense to keep quiet.

  ‘Oh,’ Mrs Mendoza said, almost as an afterthought, ‘this came for you, Lil.’

  I looked down at the envelope she was handing me.

  And there it was: a telegram from London. It was signed by Mum, dated ten o’clock this morning. Nervous, I licked my lips. There was only one reason I could think of that my mum would send a telegram here: Grandad.

  I didn’t want to open it, but I couldn’t bear not to. The others were discussing where to get rooms, so I turned away, just long enough to prise open the telegram.

  ‘GRANDAD GLAD YOU’RE THERE – STOP – DOCTORS SAY FADING – STOP – SAYS GOODBYE.’

  I didn’t want to cry. Or collapse in a heap over this lovely marble floor. But right then I felt sure I was about to do both.

  ‘What is it, Lil?’ Tulip looked at me, concerned.

  ‘It’s not good news,’ I admitted.

  Tulip’s face fell. ‘Oh no! He hasn’t—?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I said quickly before she could say the word. ‘But he’s going to, so we absolutely have to go to the valley today.’

  She understood. ‘Mama? Can we find somewhere, pronto, please? Lil and I are rather exhausted.’

  ‘Mr Ahmed at reception knows a very nice place,’ said a voice behind us. ‘If you don’t mind staying along the river a little way.’

  We turned around.

  Whilst all the other men were in jackets, the one now addressing us was in shirtsleeves, his arms nut-brown, his teeth large and white in his weathered face. I recognised him instantly in one big hot-cold rush.

  Howard Carter.

  ‘Hullo, Madeleine!’ he boomed. It took me a moment to realise he was talking to Mrs Mendoza. ‘You don’t have to tell me what brings you here!’

  I felt my jaw drop – he knew Mrs Mendoza? She stretched out her arm. Most people I’d seen her do this to kissed her hand: Howard Carter shook it.

  ‘You haven’t enticed us all here for nothing, have you?’ she teased. ‘You have actually found something out in the desert?’

  Instinctively, I slipped my fingers through my suitcase handle. I didn’t dare look at Tulip or Oz. Nor could I believe their mother was on first-name terms with Howard Carter!

  Mr Carter glanced over his shoulder, then leaned in. ‘Oh yes. We’ve found something, all right.’

  ‘Howard!’ Lady Evelyn was on her feet. An older man who’d just joined her came over to us, holding out his hand.

  ‘I don’t believe we’ve met,’ he said, greeting Mrs Mendoza. ‘Lord Carnarvon. A pleasure, I’m sure.’

  I nudged Tulip: she nudged me back. Both of us stared at the small, slightly built man standing before us. His money was paying for the dig. His love of old artefacts had brought him all this way, which was funny, because he didn’t seem that excited. If anything, he looked completely exhausted.

  ‘Papa, we don’t need to speak to every reporter crossing our path,’ Lady Evelyn insisted, bringing a swift end to Lord Carnarvon’s introduction before it had really got going. ‘That new chap from the Washington Post hasn’t even arrived yet and he’s already cabled here, pestering for an interview.’

  Mrs Mendoza’s mouth hardened, just like Tulip’s did when she was cross. True to his word, the editor’s replacement was on his way. At least we’d got here first.

  The conversation quickly changed tack, as if news reporters were something of a sore point. Lord Carnarvon, whose gracious smile was a match for Mrs Mendoza’s, bid us farewell before disappearing off with his daughter.

  ‘If you’ve nowhere else to stay, Madeleine, the offer’s there,’ Mr Carter said, all jovial again. ‘It’s a short way down the river. Mr Ahmed at reception will take you.’

  *

  The ferry took us back across the river. All the way, Mrs Mendoza gushed to Mr Ahmed about how grateful she was to him for finding us somewhere to stay.

  ‘And,’ Mr Ahmed told us proudly, ‘it’s very close to the Valley of the Kings, see?’

  He pointed inland, away from the lush green riverbanks to where the landscape turned dusty and bare. In amongst it was a house where the motorcars parked outside glinted in the sun.

  ‘How do you reach it?’ I asked, trying to sound casual.

  ‘Follow the path all the way past Castle Carter,’ Mr Ahmed explained. ‘On the main road, keep walking for two, maybe three miles. Valley is left of the road.’

  I took careful note of all this, but had to ask: ‘Castle Carter? Is that the house’s name?’

  ‘It’s Mr Carter’s home,’ Mr Ahmed said. ‘See how close he lives to where you’ll be staying! How wonderful for you!’

  ‘He’s keeping an eye on us,’ I muttered under my breath, as we lagged behind the grown-ups. ‘That’s why he recommended it.’

  ‘Then we’ll keep an eye on him too, won’t we?’ Tulip insisted.

  Which was exactly what the young man on the train had said. I also kept in mind Grandad’s point about how Mr Carter dazzled people like a sun king. Yet not everyone was suspicious of him. It seemed he’d already cast his spell on Mr Ahmed.

  On the other side of the river, we had to go along the bank, past fishermen and boat-menders, with stray dogs sniffing at our heels. We were walking for what felt like ages. It was awfully hot. On a day like this in London we’d be sitting in the park, eating ices. Here, the local men wore their galabiya – the long shirt-like gowns – with jackets over the top, jumpers, knitted waistcoats. A few had on hats and scarves.

  ‘An Egyptian winter,’ Tulip said, lifting her hair off the back of her neck. ‘Imagine what it’s like in summer.’

  We passed a boy about our age, barefoot in a galabiya, with a huge, woolly scarf around his throat. He was tending a pair of grumpy-looking camels; when he saw us he beamed, and despite how grim I felt, I managed a smile back.

  ‘Don’t encourage him!’ Tulip warned. ‘He’ll think you want to buy his camels.’

  ‘Are the camels for sale, then?’ Oz asked.

  ‘They could be for hire.
’ I pointed to the squares of carpet on their humps. On top of each was a wooden rack that might’ve been for clinging on to: I couldn’t imagine how you’d actually sit on it.

  Tulip fell about laughing at the camel nearest us. ‘Ha! That one looks like you, Oz!’

  Oz didn’t see the funny side.

  *

  Shortly after the camels, the path got fainter, the palm trees thicker. My feet were dragging. Much more of this walking and we’d be back in Cairo again. At last, up ahead, I saw a jetty where a boat was moored, the sort of boat people lived on. Like a barge.

  ‘Dahabiyeh.’ Mr Ahmed gestured to the boat. ‘Yours, my friends, for as long as you wish.’

  I gasped out loud: I couldn’t help it, because it was, without doubt, a splendid place to stay. The boat was long and low in the water, with a beautiful white balcony that gleamed in the sun. On deck there were hammocks and armchairs for lounging in, and from inside came herby, meaty smells of something delicious being cooked.

  ‘I expect Lil’s had enough of boats, haven’t you?’ Tulip grinned, reminding me of what a lousy sailor I’d been on the journey from Athens.

  ‘I love it,’ I admitted, and from the glint in her eye I knew she did too.

  It struck me again how clever she was – not bookishly like Oz, or Alex, but in how she reached out to people. I’d needed her help and she’d given it in spade-loads. She’d booked our train tickets, tried to get the best hotel rooms – all without batting an eyelid. But for her, and her family, I’d still be in London, waiting for Grandad to die. At least here we had a fighting chance.

  ‘Thanks, Tulip,’ I said. ‘For everything.’

  She looked at me with that confident, lopsided smile I’d come to love. ‘Don’t thank me yet. There’s plenty that still could go wrong.’

  She was right about that too, as it turned out.

  16

  If I’d had my way, I’d have set off into the desert the moment we’d put down our bags. But the others were tired – we all were – so I agreed reluctantly to at least have something to eat. It was early afternoon by now. The heat up on deck was bearable as we sat on giant cushions, eating fish wrapped in bread. It was served with tomatoes and red onions and something that looked like parsley but tasted soapy, and was absolutely delicious.

  All the while, I kept an eye on Mrs Mendoza. She was bound to disappear sooner or later to write. And when she did, we’d be able to sneak off to the Valley of the Kings. At least, that was the plan.

  Instead, I fell asleep. When I woke up it was mid-afternoon. I scrambled to my feet, dry-mouthed and bleary-eyed.

  ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ I said to Tulip, who was lounging nearby with her feet up, drinking iced tea. I was annoyed we’d wasted so much time.

  ‘You needed the rest,’ she replied.

  Mrs Mendoza was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Mama’s gone to a cocktail party tonight at the hotel,’ Tulip told me.

  ‘In which case …’ I caught her eye.

  Tulip nodded. She drained the rest of her drink. It was time to go.

  Down in the cabin I was sharing with Tulip, I rummaged through my unpacked suitcase for my satchel and the jar, trying not to dwell on how nervous I was. Back up on deck, Oz was settling down in a hammock with an armful of books. I felt guilty for shattering his peace.

  ‘What, now?’ Oz huffed a bit when I told him we were going straight away.

  ‘Yes, now!’ Tulip replied irritably.

  ‘If we go now there might still be a bit of daylight left.’ I said. ‘Especially as we don’t completely know the way.’

  ‘And we’ve got to climb a rock face when we get there,’ Tulip added with a grimace.

  I squeezed her shoulder; I wasn’t looking forward to that part, either.

  *

  The walk wasn’t particularly difficult at first. It’d got cooler in the last hour or so, and the path which Mr Ahmed had shown us was flat and well marked. Though deep down I was tired out, I couldn’t have rested even if I’d wanted to: Mum’s telegram had put paid to that.

  Leading us away from the river, the path dropped between two stone walls, then, as the ground rose up again, Castle Carter came into full view. The house looked formidable, square and stern. All the blinds were down at the windows, though someone was obviously at home because you could hear jazz playing on a gramophone. The motorcars were still parked outside.

  ‘There’s something about that man,’ Tulip said, wrinkling her nose. ‘I don’t trust him.’

  ‘Me neither,’ I agreed.

  A few hundred yards beyond Castle Carter we came to the main road. It was busy with motorcars, carts, camels, all churning up dust.

  ‘Two miles this way, I think,’ I said, pointing ahead.

  In fact, we’d only gone about a mile when to our left, the road suddenly dipped.

  And there, laid out before us like a painting on a wall was the most spectacular view. The whole valley was bare rock. No trees, no grass, not even a bush. Everything was the same pale, golden colour, stretching on for as far as you could see under the setting sun.

  Oz, who’d been looking rather droopy, sprang to life. ‘I should’ve brought my sketchbook! I want to draw it – all of it! From every angle!’

  ‘And you can,’ Tulip reassured him. ‘Later.’

  ‘Down there, look.’ I pointed to where the road disappeared round a rock that jutted out. ‘I bet that’s where the Carter dig is.’ There wasn’t an actual opening to see – just a few white tents pitched up, some tethered donkeys, local men carrying baskets on their heads. There were power cables running across the dirt. A man was taking photographs, though the young boys carrying water kept getting in the way.

  ‘I can’t believe this is actually it!’ Oz gasped. ‘The Valley of the Kings!’

  Bizarrely, I could believe it. I felt it too. That strange sense of dread had come over me again, and a chill slithered down my neck.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to be buried here,’ Tulip said.

  I knew what she meant: there was so much rock, so much sky, that the whole valley made you feel tiny in a way that was almost menacing. It was the sort of place you’d perish in, if you weren’t already dead. And somewhere in it, away from all the fuss, the water boys, the electric cables, was the place where Maya meant his best friend to lie at peace.

  The next big question for us was how to find it – and to do so without Howard Carter noticing. If we stuck to this side of the valley, we’d at least stay out of sight as we descended. Not that there was a path, as such. From up here the hillside looked alarmingly steep. And there was a general feeling that I’d be the one to lead the way. ‘Go slowly,’ I called over my shoulder as I took my first steps. ‘Don’t look down, either,’ I added, as a quick glance at the valley floor made my head swim.

  Once we’d got going, it wasn’t too bad. We were almost a quarter of the way down the hillside when I heard Oz call out behind me. I turned around to see him pointing at the sky.

  Something had happened to the sky. One moment it was low and red, the next it dimmed like it had gone behind a cloud. Only there were no clouds, just a huge, billowing wall of dust coming towards us at alarming speed. Within seconds we were in the middle of a yellow fog. It wasn’t like a London pea-souper: it was hot and gritty. It made my eyes sting, my mouth go powder-dry. Now I really couldn’t see anything but swirling, churning sand. We froze on the hillside. One wrong move might send any one of us plummeting to the valley floor.

  ‘Yikes, this is horrible!’ Tulip yelled. I was so glad to hear her voice. Even more glad when I felt an arm, then another arm, and Tulip wrapped herself tightly around me, burying her face between my shoulder blades.

  ‘Oz!’ I cried. ‘Are you there?’ I didn’t hear him reply.

  ‘We’ll have to sit it out,’ I said, praying that Oz was nearby too, and being sensible. I’d read about sandstorms but that didn’t prepare me for what it was like to suddenly be in the middle of one. The
whole sky had gone thunderstorm-dark. The wind picked up too, whipping around our heads, blowing sand everywhere. I clamped my hands over my mouth. Shut my eyes. Behind me, Tulip groaned. ‘It’s vile!’

  ‘Stop talking!’ I told her.

  I’d no idea how close we were to the edge of the hillside. There was nothing to cling on to. Everywhere was sand. It was in the air. On the ground. In my ears, up my nose, crunching between my teeth. Even when I did open my eyes just a sliver, I couldn’t see further than my hand.

  I’d an eerie feeling that this sandstorm wasn’t a coincidence. Perhaps they were common in these parts; I didn’t think so, somehow. A sandstorm had happened on the day Kyky died. A young man, caught out in bad weather, had perished.

  I stood bolt upright, frantic: ‘Oz? Where are you? Answer me if you can hear me!’

  From somewhere above us came a little bleat of a cry. Tulip was on her feet now as well.

  ‘Hang on! We’re coming!’ I yelled. My heart was thumping. I couldn’t breathe or find my bearings. All I knew was Oz was on his own on the hillside, and we had to get to him.

  ‘Just stay where you are!’ Tulip shrieked.

  Whether he heard, I’d no idea. Wind and sand kept swirling around us. I inched along, half a step at a time, terrified of being too close to the edge of the hill. Tulip crouched behind me. I had to trust the ground beneath my feet. Oz must be nearby. And when I saw a glimmer of blue sky, and the wind began to drop, I almost started to run.

  If I had I’d have gone slap-bang into him – not Oz, who was sitting quite sensibly on the ground, looking dusty but unharmed, but the back of someone wearing a grey-striped galabiya.

  The man was shouting and waving his arms. ‘You’re crazy to try and walk in a storm! What were you thinking?’

  Tulip rushed over to Oz, which left me facing the arm-waving man. As the storm quickly cleared, I saw it wasn’t a man, but the boy from earlier who’d had the camels, and who definitely wasn’t smiling now.