Daughter of Isis

by Belinda Grey

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him if her father had ever mentioned having sent anything to her, but the men from the boat were bringing out folding tables and chairs, and Abdul was escorting her to a spot where she could eat in comfort while the horse riding display was taking place.

  The silver had vanished from the river and long purple shadows fingered the hem of her long skirt. Flaring torches had been set up in a wide circle and into the cleared space horsemen in white robes rode, the rising moon gleaming on their spurs and long curved swords.

  ‘The men are of partly Turkish blood,’ Abdul told her as he served her with shish-kebabs. ‘Very fine riders who entertain the visitors.’

  Their riding was spectacular. They galloped in intricate patterns, the fine white sand flying up under the hoofs of their mounts, their slender swords twirling and flashing high above their heads.

  She watched, fascinated by the daring and brilliance of the performance. The other Europeans were laughing and applauding, throwing coins into the circle at each fresh display of skill. After each performer had completed his turn, boys ran in to sweep the sand smooth with large brushes made from bundles of twigs. Two men held a flaming hoop aloft on long poles and the riders began to jump through it, one after the other, crouched so low over their saddles that man and beast seemed welded into one composite being.

  It was an evening that held in it all the magic and glamour for which Ellen’s nature had craved, yet something in her remained curiously unsatisfied. On this night someone ought to be with her, sharing her pleasure in a much closer way than the other travellers whose language she couldn’t speak, or Abdul who escorted her simply because he had been ordered to do so.

  She rose and moved away, her feet sinking into the soft sand. From the deep shadow beyond the flaring lights another figure darted out to intercept her, a thin hand fastening on her arm. For a moment she thought it was the veiled woman with the emerald ring, but the face turned up to her was the face of a boy.

  ‘Miss Ellen?’ The boy kept his voice low.

  ‘Yes?’ She stepped back a pace, trying to see his features clearly.

  ‘Better you don’t go to Wadi Amarna,’ the voice whispered. ‘Better you turn back and go home.’

  ‘Who are you? Why are you telling me this?’ she began, but the grip on her arm was released and the figure melted away again into the shadows.

  It would have been useless to try to follow, and quite impossible to hope to identify the boy again out of the many youngsters milling about among the tourists and performers. Ellen walked back slowly to her seat, her thoughts confused. Two different people had warned her not to go to Wadi Amarna, and slipped away before she could question them. And a man on a white horse had stared at her intently on two occasions. Though there was no logical reason for it her mind connected the events.

  ‘Miss Ellen, are you ready to retire to your cabin?’ Abdul had approached and was giving the respectful little bow that fitted so well with his role of servant. Ellen frowned, wondering why the idea that he might be playing a role had come to her.

  ‘Miss Ellen?’ He was waiting for her answer, his hands loosely clasped, his head inclined.

  ‘I am rather tired,’ she said, forcing a suppressed yawn into her voice.

  ‘I will escort you down to the boat, then. This climate is often fatiguing for Europeans.’

  As they walked back along the river bank she enquired curiously, ‘Are there many Europeans at Wadi Amarna?’

  ‘Only Mr. Bligh and his secretary,’ Abdul informed her.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Mr. Christopher Tyrrell, Miss Ellen. He joined us three years ago. A very pleasant young gentleman.’

  ‘I’m surprised he didn’t come to Alexandria,’ Ellen said.

  ‘Mr. Tyrrell is confined to a wheelchair,’ Abdul informed her. ‘He suffered a hunting accident some years ago and came out to Egypt for his health. Mr. Bligh employs him as secretary and I understand he is most valuable in that capacity, is there anything more I can get you tonight?’

  ‘Nothing, thank you. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Miss Ellen.’

  She watched the tall figure move away, then went to her tiny cabin.

  Rather to her surprise she did sleep heavily and woke to the motion of the boat and a knock on the door.

  ‘Yes?’ Struggling to throw off the last vestiges of slumber, she leaned up on her elbow.

  ‘Breakfast is being served, Miss Ellen, and I have warm water for your toilet,’ came Abdul’s voice.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll be up directly,’ she called back.

  Even in Cwm Bedd, each new day had been a promise that something wonderful might happen. Resolving to put the sinister warnings she had received out of her mind, Ellen dressed and coiled her hair into its heavy chignon. Her pale blue travelling dress with its white collar and cuffs was limp and slightly creased, but it would have to suffice her until she had reached her destination.

  ‘There will be transport waiting to take us to Wadi Amarna,’ Abdul informed her. ‘I fear you will have to sit a horse, Miss Ellen, but I promise you it will be one suited to a lady.’

  ‘I’m sure I shall manage.’ Feeling much more brisk after her breakfast, Ellen smiled pleasantly and turned her attention to the river again. There were other craft skimming up and down it and in the long reeds at the edge of the water she glimpsed tall birds standing gravely on one leg, their heads bent as if they were in deep thought.

  ‘Ibis birds,’ Abdul said when she pointed them out to him. ‘In ancient times they were sacred to Thoth, the god of wisdom.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ She narrowed her eyes at a long shape humping itself from the shallows.

  ‘A crocodile, Miss Ellen. It’s not usual to find one so far downriver. Most of them have been driven upstream by the hunters. We will land at that bend just ahead of us. The porters will be there to meet us, so if you’ll excuse me I will see that your luggage is brought on deck.’

  He bowed and went soft-footed away, leaving her to watch the great, snouted creature as it sank below the water again.

  At the makeshift landing stage, whose wood creaked alarmingly even under Ellen’s slight weight, she was helped ashore by two heavily built men whose ebony skin and frizzy hair marked them as African. A third man, yellowish of skin and with an almost Oriental cast of features, waited with a group of saddled horses and a camel. The mixture of races in Egypt fascinated her almost as much as the country itself.

  ‘I will take the leading rein, Miss Ellen,’ Abdul said when she was mounted on the high sidesaddle. ‘It is only necessary for you to hold on.’

  She held on tightly, watching while her luggage was strapped to the camel, and others also mounted up. Some of the French tourists had come to the rail to wave to her and she waved back, feeling a sudden kinship with them though they had not exchanged a word.

  ‘They will turn soon and go back to Alexandria,’ Abdul said. ‘We ride inland for ten miles. It will be late this afternoon when we reach Silver Moon, for it is not good to hurry in the middle of the day.’

  They were moving away from the river along a narrow path that snaked between tall grass in which brilliant flowers nestled. There were fields here, separated by ditches, in which an occasional stooping figure could be seen.

  ‘Those are fellahin—peasants,’ Abdul turned in his saddle to tell her. ‘We ride towards the pass and Silver Moon is on the other side.’

  Soon they were leaving the fertile, cultivated land behind them as the landscape changed rapidly from green plants and sparkling river to pinkish brown rock and sand interspersed with gravel and thornbush.

  Ellen concentrated on staying in the saddle and trying to accustom her body to the movement of the horse beneath. It was much hotter now and she was relieved when they stopped for water which the black porters produced from big leather flasks.

  ‘At midday we eat and rest, and then continue, Abdul told her. .

  They passed
a cluster of small huts, their walls of dried mud, their roofs of thatched grass. A woman with a jug on her shoulder paused briefly to stare at them and then bent within the low doorway of the hut again.

  Ellen’s legs were aching and sweat was trickling down her neck under her collar when they dismounted at last at a group of sheltering rocks. The yellow-faced man, whom the others addressed as Fuad, was unpacking a hamper of cold chicken, melons and loaves of flat bread with tiny seeds scattered over the crisp surface.

  Eating and drinking more of the water, Ellen felt an inward amusement as she recalled Mary Faversham’s stricture on drinking water and unwashed fruit. Apart from a slight headache, brought on by the glare of the sun and the unaccustomed motion of the horse, she felt perfectly well and the alfresco food was delicious.

  Afterwards, following Abdul’s advice, she stretched out on a blanket in the shade, her head pillowed on a saddle, and her hat tilted over her eyes, and felt herself sink into a delicious numbness that was neither sleep nor wakefulness.

  Hoofbeats drummed across the sand and, as she sleepily pushed up her hat, there was a sharp, cracking sound and something glinted in the sun.

  ‘What on earth?’ She sat up in alarm, and there was another report, sending the sand a few yards away into a little flurry. Instinctively she threw herself flat, wriggling closer beneath the overhanging rock.

  Abdul was on his feet, yelling instructions in a language that sounded like spitting, and then a fusillade of shots peppered the air. Risking a glance, she saw one of the fuzzy-haired porters clutch at his shoulder and stagger.

  There were other horsemen, robed and turbaned, riding towards them and shooting as they came. Abdul was mounted, firing a pistol which he had produced apparently from thin air.

  ‘They’ll never believe me when I tell them this in Cwm Bedd,’ Ellen thought in hysterical amusement, trying to burrow more deeply under the rock.

  The thought that she might not survive to reach Wadi Amarna, let alone return to Cwm Bedd, did not, surprisingly, occur to her. The whole episode had about it the bizarre quality of a dream from which she would waken in her own room.

  Another bullet struck the face of a cliff opposite her and she let out a small squeal of terror. In another moment they would be overwhelmed by their attackers.

  There was an abrupt cessation of noise. For a moment she closed her eyes, praying without consciously using any words. Then, raising her head, she looked out across the trampled sand, past the moaning porter to the high rock, on the brink of which a rider sat motionless on a white horse.

  For an endless second his eyes stared at her across the intervening space, and then he raised his arm, wheeling his mount in a wide semi-circle and galloping away, followed by the half-dozen or so rifle-carrying tribesmen, their long robes streaming back over their saddles.

  ‘Miss Ellen, are you hurt?’ Abdul, pistol still in his hand ran across to her.

  ‘No. No, I don’t think so.’ She rolled from under the sheltering overhang and stood up, surprised to find her legs were trembling. ‘The other man—was shot.’

  ‘A flesh wound. Fuad and Hassan will see to him. You are certain you are not hurt?’

  ‘Certain.’ She dusted herself down and set her hat straight.

  ‘Mr. Bligh would never forgive me if any harm came to you,’ Abdul said. His olive skin had paled to a greyish white and his own hands were shaking.

  ‘Who were those men?’ she asked. ‘Why were they shooting at us?’

  ‘Berbers, Miss Ellen. Their camps are further south but they sometimes ride north to prey upon travellers. Such incidents are rare, however, I do assure you.’

  ‘They rode away,’ Ellen said.

  ‘We beat them off,’ Abdul amended, a tinge of pride creeping into his voice. ‘However, I think it would be wise if we moved on again in case they decide to return.

  ‘But they could have killed us all,’ Ellen thought in bewilderment. ‘They fell on us without any warning at all. It was the man on the white horse who called them off.’ It made no sense, unless they had been attacked by mistake, and somehow the arrival of the stranger on the white horse precluded that. Ellen was quite certain that the man knew by this time exactly who she was and where she was bound.

  ‘You are certain you are not hurt?’ Abdul enquired. ‘A little shaken, no more,’ she said firmly. ‘But the man who was shot—’

  ‘Will quickly recover. You need not trouble about him. Come, it’s best that we mount up at once.’

  He was obviously in a panic lest the tribesmen return, so she fell silent and allowed him to lead her to her horse. The others were also mounting, the wounded porter groaning loudly as he was hoisted to the saddle. Ellen cast a backward glance towards the high rock, but it was deserted again. The attackers had galloped into nothingness.

  ‘What are Berbers?’ she asked as they set off again.

  ‘Very savage tribesmen, Miss Ellen. They are very much against the English and French presence in Egypt.’

  ‘Do they attack Wadi Amarna?

  ‘Never in my experience, Miss Ellen. Indeed I cannot understand what they were doing in this area in the first place. You may rest assured that Mr. Bligh will make enquiries and set guard for the next few nights, but it’s not likely they would dare to go anywhere near Silver Moon.’

  ‘Did you see their leader?’ she asked. ‘The man on the white horse who was above the cliff?’

  ‘I didn’t see any particular leader, Miss Ellen, but then I was occupied in fending them off’

  ‘Very bravely,’ she said.

  ‘I wish I had contrived to hit one,’ he said, a shade of regret in his voice.

  ‘It’s fortunate that you were armed.’ Her gaze dropped to the pistol, now tucked into his belt.

  ‘It is wise to be armed when one travels any distance in these regions,’ he remarked.

  They rode on into the hills, out of the sunshine that blistered the leather of the saddles and dried up the tiny streams that eddied in the hollows and channels of the scrubland. It was as deserted as the landscape of the moon, with nothing living in view save for an occasional lizard, darting shyly under a stone, or the black shadow of a hawk as it hovered beneath the blue basin of the sky.

  ‘This is the pass,’ Abdul said, breaking a long silence as he pointed ahead. ‘We ride through it and you will see Wadi Amarna beyond, about a mile from Silver Moon. We will ride directly to the house. Mr. Bligh will be anxious to greet you, and very relieved to do so when he learns what occurred.’

  ‘I wonder if those—Berbers wished to prevent me from reaching Silver Moon,’ she wondered aloud.

  ‘Why should they wish to do that?’ He gave her a puzzled look. ‘They could have no possible way of knowing who you are, nor where you are going. Mr. Bligh’s servants are not encouraged to gossip about the affairs of Silver Moon.’

  ‘Not even to me?’ she asked lightly.

  ‘Miss Ellen?’ He gave her another politely questioning stare.

  ‘You’ve told me nothing about my guardian.’

  ‘I didn’t feel it was my place to do so, Miss Ellen,’ he countered blandly. ‘Mr. Bligh has always been a most considerate employer.’

  Is he an elderly man? He was the same age as my father, I believe.’

  ‘He is in his mid-forties, Miss Ellen, but it is difficult to gauge such matters with Europeans. We have to go single file here, Miss Ellen.’

  He rode ahead, slackening the rein and the sunlight was cut out by the high walls of the pass as they rode into the icy shadows. Involuntarily Ellen shivered, feeling an unaccustomed heaviness weigh down her spirits. The journey had been full of interest and excitement, but very soon she would arrive at her destination and meet her guardian, the man who had been her father’s friend. Already steps had been taken to try to prevent her from reaching Wadi Amarna, and she had no idea why she had been warned nor from where the warning came.

  ‘We are nearly there. Miss Ellen. Abdul said, glancing over hi
s shoulder as they came out into the sunshine ahead.

  Below’ them were trees and bushes hanging their leafy branches over the white walls of a building built around a central courtyard. From where she sat. Ellen could see a deep pool glinting like a jewel and beyond, fields of corn, the golden spears thrusting up into the air. ‘It’s a palace,’ she whispered.

  ‘A very fine house. Miss Ellen, but not a palace, Abdul said, looking faintly amused.

  ‘And this belonged to my father?’ She looked at him questioningly, but he was leading her horse down the stony track into the beauty of the valley.

  The other porters were riding ahead raising their voices shrilly as other figures emerged from the shelter of the wide gateway beyond which a broad drive led up to the main wing of the wide spreading house.

  Ellen gripped the reins tightly, aware that her palms were wet with nervousness as much as heat. They rode through the open gates past young cypress trees and Abdul was helping her dismount as the double doors opened and a tall, distinguished-looking man, his hair flecked with silver, came down the shallow steps, his hand outstretched.

  ‘So Ellen is arrived!’ He had a clipped, cool, English voice. ‘My dear, permit me to welcome you to Silver Moon! I cannot begin to tell you how eagerly we have looked forward to your coming.’

  ‘You’re very kind, Mr. Bligh.’ She gave him her hand.

  ‘I hope you will call me Henry.’ He pressed her hand between both of his. ‘Then I will feel that we are friends, as well as guardian and ward.’

  ‘My father would have liked that,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Yes, your father would have liked that. I wish you had known him for he was a very fine person.’

  ‘I was—sorry to hear of his death,’ she said awkwardly.

  ‘It was a bitter blow. We had discussed the probability of your visiting us here. You will be happy to know that everything was done for him as he would have wished.’