Daughter of Isis

by Belinda Grey

  Dismounted, she went slowly down the sandy avenue between the cypress trees and elaborately carved stone. The tomb of the El Assur family was set in a prominent position, names inscribed on it in gold. Her father’s name was near the bottom of the obelisk and she bent to read it. ‘Hywel Parry 1835-1880’.

  The simple inscription had no real meaning for her, just as the father she had never known had no reality for her. She rose, stifling a sigh, and went back to where Abdul waited with the horses.

  ‘Your father is at peace,’ he said, bowing his head gravely towards her.

  ‘I hope so.’ She thought how ironic it was that her father, who had been so restless in Cwm Bedd, should finally settle in this distant place and not seek to travel further.

  Leaving the village behind they rode on into the bright morning. Ellen was becoming accustomed to the motion of the horse, and the air was fresh and clean, the strengthening sun glinting on the rock and sand.

  ‘The excavations are ahead of us, Miss Ellen.’ Abdul pointed to where reddish cliffs soared up into the blue sky. ‘Mr. Parry had no regular team, but he used to hire men from the village to come out here and dig from time to time.’

  ‘Do you believe in the legend?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not a scholar, Miss Ellen, but I think whether it’s true or not, the young lady should be left in peace.’ He talked of the ‘young lady’, Ellen realised, as if he thought of Amentisis as a real person and not simply an embalmed mummy to be dug out of a forgotten tomb.

  ‘Three thousand years is a long time,’ she ventured.

  ‘When I am gone, Miss Ellen, I hope nobody picks over my bones in three thousand years’ time,’ Abdul persisted stolidly.

  ‘But it would be interesting to find out about the past,’ she persisted.

  ‘Your father wished to do that,’ Abdul said, ‘but other men are interested only in the gold and jewels they can find. There is much greed in the world, Miss Ellen.’

  The diggings, as they approached them, presented an untidy, abandoned air. Ellen wished she had someone with her who could explain what significance lay in the levels still uncovered. She could make out the outlines of what had been a rectangular building with, at its farthest end, a pylon gate, its twin columns carved with the symbol of the crescent moon.

  ‘The temple was here, Miss Ellen. Much of it was destroyed long ago, but the foundations remain. The gateway led into the inner court, which was hollowed out of the surrounding rocks. If you go further you will see wall paintings in the first cave, and the staircase leading to the lower level.’

  ‘Can we take a look?’ Dismounting with his help, she set her broad-brimmed hat straight.

  ‘Yes, of course. There are only the cave paintings to see. Everything else was destroyed or stolen long ago.’ They picked their way among the rubble between the tall columns into the narrow gully which led to the hollowed caves. Secretly Ellen felt a trifle disappointed. It would require a tremendous leap of imagination to picture the outer court as it must have once been, with its columns of stone supporting a roof, its floor inlaid with mosaic patterns. She could just discern the spirals of some carved tile broken into large pieces and tossed among the earthworks of stone and sand.

  ‘There are two steps down into the cave,’ Abdul said at her shoulder. ‘The entrance was blocked, but Mr. Parry had it cleared. He was most excited about the paintings and wished to excavate further, but it would have been exceedingly expensive with little hope of finding anything.’

  The cave was large and quite light with the sunshine streaming through the wide mouth of the hollow on to the slightly concave walls. The paintings were on the walls, their bright colours fading to a more delicate tint now that they had been exposed to the light for several years.

  Ellen paused, looking up at the tableau drawn by some unknown artist two thousand years before Christ had preached in Galilee. A woman, her profile serene, her head surmounted by a crescent moon, held in her hand a small frame from which long threads of colour descended to three smaller figures below. These figures too were female, drawn in profile. A little girl threw a ball up into the air and waited, chin raised and hair streaming, to catch it again. Next to her a young woman, her hair coiled up, held a cup between her hands, and ahead of her a woman leaning on a stick bent over to look at a beetle crawling at her feet.

  Each stiff figure was drawn so precisely that it looked as if it had been frozen in a split second of time. Ellen had the uncanny feeling that, if she glanced away for a moment, the little girl would catch the ball, the young woman drink from the cup, and the old one poke at the beetle with her stick.

  ‘The woman above is the goddess, I suppose?’ she said aloud.

  ‘Your father explained it,’ Abdul agreed. ‘Isis was a very great goddess. Mother of all the lesser goddesses. It was she who held all the fates of men in her hands, weaving their lives from childhood to old age on her sacred loom.’

  ‘Silent her song beyond the loom of time.’ Ellen felt the words enter her mind like a physical shock. It was surely no coincidence that her father had written those words in the poem he had sent to her.

  ‘Silent her song beyond the loom of time,

  Lost is the cradle that rocked her to slumber.’

  ‘All the other paintings mean something too,’ Abdul said, gesturing about them.

  She had not paid particular attention to the multiplicity of small pictures painted over the remaining surfaces. Now she turned to look at the little animal-headed figures, some carrying tiny jars and emblems. She made out a cross with a circle at the top, another beetle, a cup with a serpent twining about it, a heart.

  ‘They look so bright and gay,’ she said.

  ‘The ancient people were very fond of their pleasures, Miss Ellen,’ Abdul said. ‘They believed such pleasures would continue after death, so they furnished their tombs with symbols of everything they might need. The more important they were the richer were their tombs, and so those who were very poor used to break in and steal all their treasures.’

  ‘I thought there was supposed to be a curse on Egyptian tombs,’ Ellen said.

  ‘So it is said, but when people are very hungry they care little for curses.’

  ‘Where does this cave lead?’ She looked about her. ‘There is a stone staircase in the recess there, Miss Ellen. It led to another cave, but the entrance is blocked by slabs of stone.’

  ‘Then the tomb of Amentisis might be in the lower cave!’ She went eagerly to look down the flight of shallow, crumbling steps. There were more figures painted on the rock walls, but the light was not good enough for her to distinguish them clearly.

  ‘Mr. Parry thought it might be, Miss Ellen, but to move those stones would have needed heavy lifting equipment and a team of experts. It would have been most expensive, and your father was not sure if it would be right to use profits from Silver Moon for such a purpose. After all, there was no indication of a tomb being here at all, and the outer court of the temple had already been found. But he rode out here often to look at the paintings and to walk among the diggings.’

  ‘Did Farida—my stepmother, believe that the tomb existed?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘Madam took no interest in the diggings,’ Abdul said.

  There was no change in the tone of his voice, but she sensed a withdrawal in his attitude towards her as if he had taken a step away from her. No doubt old loyalties prevented him from discussing his mistress with her, and she would be very wrong to persist.

  ‘There is not very much left to be seen,’ Abdul said. ‘There were some clay vases found, but they were from a later period than the temple. Oh, and a well was discovered too. That was very old, but it was long since dried up.’

  ‘Did my father come out here shortly before he died?’ she enquired.

  ‘Yes, Miss Ellen. He often rode out here, as I said. Did you wish to see anything more?’

  ‘No. No, it’s all very interesting, but we’d better ride back,’ she said. ‘My gua
rdian will be expecting me for lunch.’

  ‘It is usually a buffet meal, Miss Ellen. The household meets for the evening meal,’ the servant told her.

  ‘We’ll ride back anyway.’ She took another glance at the huge painting with its gay colours and formal poses. One day she would come back for a closer look, but instinct warned her not to appear too interested in the excavations. Abdul, for all his attentive politeness, was still employed by Henry Bligh who was now virtual master of Silver Moon, and her father had evidently contrived to send the parcel to her without telling anyone who lived on the estate. She would wait until she was a more expert horsewoman, capable of riding alone. Then she would ride out here by herself in order to look—for what? Had her father really discovered the tomb of a priestess who had lived three thousand years before? Or were the heart pendant and the poem no more than the outpourings of a man already suffering from the fever that would kill him a few days later?

  ‘Miss Ellen?’ Abdul was looking at her in mild enquiry.

  ‘Yes. I’m coming.’ Emerging into the sunshine again, she shaded her eyes as she looked up the sloping face of the cliff. A figure was poised blackly against the sky and she cried out in startled alarm.

  ‘What is it?’ Abdul whirled about, hand to his pistol.

  From above them a shower of tiny stones cascaded down and there was the sound of retreating hoofbeats.

  ‘Someone was there,’ Ellen said faintly.

  ‘Many people ride horses in these parts,’ Abdul said.

  ‘Watching us?’ She shivered, though the sun was warm.

  ‘Your coming was already known in the district,’ Abdul reminded her. ‘Many people will wish to see Mr. Parry’s daughter.’

  ‘Then why not ride up and make themselves known?’ she demanded.

  ‘Out of respect, Miss Ellen. They would not wish to intrude upon your grief.’

  It sounded reasonable enough, but she had glimpsed the white horse and the flowing robes of the man who sat it. It was the man she had seen three times before. She was quite certain of that, and her pulses leapt with a sensation that was part panic, part pleasure. One day that rider would come near, and she both dreaded and anticipated the moment when she would see his face revealed and hear his voice for the first time.

  The two horses stood with drooping heads, their reins looped about the branches of a small tree. Something white peeped out from beneath the mare’s high saddle. Ellen put up her hand to cover it and spoke quickly. ‘I must have dropped my handkerchief in the cave. Could you get it for me?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Miss Ellen.’ Abdul gave his little bow and strode away.

  As soon as his back was turned she pulled out the paper and read the few words scrawled across it in a bold, black hand. ‘Miss Parry. Go back to your home. Don’t stay at Wadi Amarna.’

  The note was unsigned. She read it twice, then crumpled it up in her hand. So the mysterious watcher had left her a written warning now! It was very clear that someone was not happy to have her staying at Silver Moon. The attack on the previous day had obviously been an attempt to scare her, not a genuine attempt to hurt their small party at all.

  A new emotion rose up in her. Anger, which seldom disturbed her usually tranquil nature, bubbled up. If anyone wanted her to leave then they would have to come in person and explain the reasons why. Unsigned notes deserved only to be ignored. She thrust this particular one deep into her pocket and turned as Abdul came back towards her.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I found my handkerchief after all,’ she announced. ‘It was tucked into my sleeve.’

  ‘That’s all right, Miss Ellen.’ He helped her up into the saddle. ‘We will have a pleasant ride back and be in time to greet Madam when she rises.’

  ‘Mr. Bligh told me that my father was planning to write a book,’ Ellen remarked as they moved away from the diggings on to the track that wound towards Wadi Amarna.

  ‘I believe that is correct,’ Abdul said.

  ‘What was the book going to be about?’ she asked.

  ‘About his life here and the researches he had undertaken. Unhappily he got no further than compiling some notes, with the help of Mr. Tyrrell. If you will excuse my saying so, Miss Ellen, your father was the best of men, but he was something of a dreamer. Many Europeans who settle out here are like that. It is my view that the climate affects them.’

  Ellen was silent. In her mind a much clearer picture of her father was beginning to take shape. The clever but impoverished boy, marrying the local girl, coming to a strange land in the hope of making his name, marrying a rich young woman but still dreaming of academic glory. Had he found what he sought and tried to tell the daughter he had never known? At the last had his conscience troubled him, and had he attempted to leave for Ellen’s benefit some clue as to the whereabouts of the legendary tomb?

  It seemed that he had confided in nobody, which could only mean that he trusted neither his wife nor his old friend, nor that friend’s secretary. Ellen tried to make pictures of them in her mind too. Her guardian with his charming manner, Farida so plumply enticing, Christopher Tyrrell with his shock of red hair. They all seemed anxious for her to stay for a long visit at Silver Moon. Yet someone was equally anxious for her to go back.

  They were riding through the village now. She slowed Hecate to an amble and smiled at a small girl who, with an air of grave responsibility, was leading a goat across the track. The child glanced up and giggled, a grubby hand flying to her mouth.

  The shutters of one house were ajar and someone stood within, their face in the shadow, watching her. It was impossible to tell who it might be, but Ellen gave a little intake of breath as the unknown watcher raised a hand to pull the shutters close. On the middle finger glowed an emerald ring, the light flashing from its square cut surface.

  ‘Abdul!’ She dug in her heels, earning a look of surprised reproach from Hecate.

  ‘Yes, Miss Ellen?’ The tall servant inclined his head respectfully.

  ‘That house? To whom does it belong?’

  There are many houses, Miss Ellen. Many people live at Wadi Amarna.’

  ‘The one set back a little, larger than the rest. Who lives there?’

  ‘A—woman, I believe.’ Abdul spoke reluctantly.

  ‘Which woman? Does she have a name? I glimpsed her just now within the shutters, staring at me.’

  ‘Even in Egypt there are people with no manners,’ Abdul said. ‘Shall we ride a little faster, to be on time for lunch?’

  ‘You said it was a buffet,’ she reminded him. ‘Who was that woman?’

  ‘I saw no woman,’ he said blandly. ‘People come and go at Wadi Amarna. Even I cannot be expected to know them all.’

  Defeated, Ellen glared at his unresponsive back as he hastened his mount to the walls of Silver Moon.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  ‘My dear, it is a very great pleasure to meet Hywel Parry’s daughter.’

  Dr. Ford, who in face and figure resembled pictures she had seen of the Prince of Wales, shook hands enthusiastically. At his side his own daughter, Selina, stood with her blue eyes modestly lowered, her silvery fair hair plaited demurely over her ears.

  ‘How do you do?’ Ellen bobbed a small curtsey, remembering what Christopher Tyrrell had told her about their dinner guests.

  ‘Dr. Ford is even,’ hypochondriac’s dream of what a medical man should be like. He has a marvellously soothing bedside manner, and a lot of skill to back it up. His wife died some years back and his daughter came out from England to help him in a small clinic. Selina is in her mid-twenties, a very competent nurse but very retiring in company.’

  ‘I was so pleased to receive the invitation to dinner,’ the doctor was saying. ‘It is some months since we were at Silver Moon, under much sadder circumstances.’

  ‘You were here when my father died?’

  ‘We sent for Dr. Ford as soon as Hywel complained of feeling unwell,’ Henry Bligh put in. ‘Of course Hywel had been subject
to attacks of fever for many years. This attack proved too much for him.’

  ‘Selina and I both took turns in sitting up with him,’ Dr. Ford said. ‘He had periods of lucidity when he wished most earnestly that you would come out to visit him as soon as he was well.’

  ‘Yet for eighteen years he had ignored my existence,’ Ellen couldn’t resist pointing out.

  ‘In my experience those on the point of death often revert, in their minds, to earlier scenes and associations,’ the doctor said. ‘This is very common, my dear. I can assure you, however, that he did feel very strongly the need to communicate with you.’

  ‘It was such a pity that he was not able to do so,’ Selina said.

  ‘But Ellen is with us now, and we hope she will favour us with her company for several months,’ Henry said, smiling at her.

  ‘You must visit our clinic,’ Dr. Ford suggested. ‘We are engaged in research into the causes of eye disease among the local natives. Blindness is unfortunately endemic, especially among the desert tribes, and few people display sufficient concern.’

  ‘Dr. Ford is a man with a mission,’ Christopher said.

  ‘But it is not a subject for a dinner party, Papa,’ Selina said gently.

  ‘My daughter reminds me that the most heinous crime in society is that of boring one’s companions,’ Dr. Ford said ruefully. ‘Tell me, Miss Ellen, how long do you intend to stay with us?’

  ‘I’ve not made any definite plans,’ she said hesitatingly.

  ‘Ellen has only been here for three days, so she can barely claim to have seen anything yet,’ Henry said.