Daughter of Isis

by Belinda Grey

  ‘Are we ready then, ladies?’ Henry Bligh, white-suited as if he wished to emphasise his connection with Farida, came up to join them. ‘Ellen, my dear, Hecate is saddled up. The Fords are going directly to Wadi Amarna and returning with us afterwards.’

  ‘Neglecting their patients?’ Ellen queried lightly, moving away slightly.

  ‘Oh, at festival time you would be surprised at the rapid recovery of fellahin who are far too sick to work,’ Henry said.

  There was an unpleasantness in his smile. Ellen turned to accept Abdul’s help as she mounted the pony feeling a sudden friendliness towards the tall servant. There was no logical reason for it, but she had a growing conviction that the man whose life had been spent at Silver Moon would, in the last resort, stand between her and danger.

  ‘We’ll make a start, then!’ Henry mounted his own horse and clicked his fingers towards the porters. ‘Don’t wait up for us, Christopher. It’ll probably be near dawn before we come trailing home.’

  He raised his white, well-manicured hand in farewell and brought his pearl-handled whip down across his mount’s neck in a gesture that summed up his character to the watching Ellen.

  The track leading to the village was already crowded. The deserted fields at each side bore witness to the alacrity with which the fellahin had stopped work. Most of them seemed to be plodding along in the wake of their donkeys and camels with baskets of fruit and grain laden on the beasts, and several of them waved cheerfully as Farida’s litter swayed past.

  The sun was setting, the great ball sending out its last rays of crimson and gold and scarlet, splashing the colours across the sky, dyeing the corn in rainbow shades. Jogging along on Hecate’s broad back Ellen felt some of the tensions of the last few days drain away from her.

  They had been strange days, with so much to dread that the fear itself became a state of mind in which it was impossible to think clearly about anything. Farida had avoided her, and any opportunity that might have arisen to discuss matters would have been forestalled by Henry Bligh, who had devoted himself to Ellen with such attentiveness that he might have been held up to an observer as the model of a perfect guardian. And when he was not asking her about her life in Cwm Bedd or recounting anecdotes about her father, he was watching her, alert and suspicious under his polite smile.

  One hint from her that she had received a message from her father and she guessed he would have no compunction about forcing her to reveal it. Certainly she couldn’t hope for any help from either Farida or Christopher. There had been several moments when Ellen, glancing at her stepmother, had intercepted a look between her and the secretary that made her feel as if she had intruded on a very private moment.

  Worse than anything had been the constant ache of loneliness within her whenever she thought of Rami. His kisses had woken in her a consciousness of needs that grew stronger with each solitary night. Farida had been his first love and he had intimated that Ellen would be his last, but she could not help wondering how many women had come between.

  ‘The village is decorated,’ Henry broke into her musing to say.

  The flat-roofed houses were hung with coloured bunting and at the end of the street a platform had been erected with seats below it. Already the place was thronged with people, women in yashmaks rubbing shoulders with the men in their striped robes, small children darting like swallows between the legs of camels and horses.

  ‘Ellen, it’s good to see you again!’ Selina, neat in a grey riding-habit, came up to greet her. ‘Father and I have only just arrived! Let’s take our seats before they are snatched from under our noses.’

  Ellen allowed herself to be led away. A crowd of people had surrounded the litter where Farida was distributing the garlands the maids had fashioned earlier in the day. At the other side of the raised platform, joints of meat were turning slowly over beds of glowing charcoal.

  ‘There has been trouble since you left us,’ Selina remarked in a low voice as they seated themselves. ‘Some Berber tribesmen came to beg medical aid for some of their warriors. They had been practising rifle shooting out at the oasis, but some of their guns had exploded and injured them quite severely. My father said the rifles were obviously defective, and whoever sold them to the Berbers must have been aware of the fact.’

  ‘Do they know who it was?’ Ellen asked.

  Selina shook her head. ‘If they do know, then they’re keeping it to themselves,’ she said. ‘Many of the tribesmen have only used spears and swords before, so it was a terrible thing to give them defective guns. I wouldn’t like to be the man responsible when they catch up with him.’

  ‘No indeed,’ Ellen agreed, and felt herself shiver.

  Farida, escorted by Henry Bligh and the doctor, was taking her place further along the row of seats. The last of the light was rapidly diminishing and torches flared at the four corners of the platform.

  The excited chattering of the people stilled to a murmur and in the silence a trumpet sounded, its solitary note dying into a breathless waiting.

  Somewhere in the crowd a woman began to sing in a high, harsh voice that soared up into the purpling air above the crackling of the roasting meat and the spluttering of the torches. The words were unintelligible, sounds strung together on a thread of melody.

  ‘It’s a very ancient song,’ Selina whispered. ‘Your father translated it for me once, but I can only remember the first line, “Silent her song beyond the loom of time”. Pretty isn’t it?’

  Ellen nodded, her mind framing the rest.

  ‘Lost is the cradle that rocked her to slumber,

  Dry dust her small playmates,

  Forgotten their number,

  All her small joys the centuries keep,

  The Silver Moon stole her and rocked her to sleep.’

  The voice died away, and a small group of men at the side of the platform began to play a livelier tune on a variety of pipes, drums and cymbals. On to the platform, draped in black veiling, moved a small figure holding on a leash a large black dog. The figure stood for a moment, poised on the edge of movement, and then, as the music continued, began to dance, dropping the leash and unwinding the black drapery from her own frame.

  Her slim-fitting gown was of silver, her black hair swung loose under a gold circlet from which a jewelled cobra reared, and on one hand the emerald ring glowed in the torchlight, green fire darting from its depths.

  The dance was an intricate one, involving little, running steps and a subtle rhythm of head and hands. The dog, muzzle on paws, waited quietly, its reddish eyes blinking.

  A small girl, dressed in a loose robe of blue-green silk, her long hair twined with flowers, was being lifted up to the platform where she stood for a moment, her face drained of colour by the torches, her finger to her lips. Then the woman in silver drew her into the dance, her hands reaching to clasp the child’s hands as the two whirled in the rhythmic, hypnotic beat of the throbbing drums.

  Ellen was not conscious of the crowd surrounding her. Only the two dancing figures had reality and with them her own being was lifted up into a condition that transcended time and space.

  The rhythm had changed and a little wind blew the flame of the torches sideways. The child stood, head drooping, panting a little, as the woman snapped her fingers and the great dog rose, his massive head pointed towards the thin silver of the rising moon. Slowly, with an infinite tenderness of gesture, the woman lifted the little girl and sat her upon the dog’s broad back, and veiled herself again as the singer’s voice repeated the harsh and wailing song.

  The music was ended, and for a split second past and future mated in a timeless present. Then the watching crowd broke ranks, cheering and shouting as they ran to the platform, throwing flowers and handfuls of grain. The dog was being petted by those who could reach, a woman with pride all over her face was lifting down the little girl, who rubbed her eyes and looked suddenly sleepy and bewildered.

  Ellen had risen with the rest and a jostling mass of people sepa
rated her from her companion. Platters of steaming rice and vegetables were being passed round, and the meat was being carved into succulent joints.

  The woman with the jewelled cobra on her head stood at a little distance, her black drapery wrapped about her. For a moment her eyes met Ellen’s, and then she raised her hand, made a quick, beckoning gesture, and was lost in the press of people again.

  Rami had told her to entrust her secret to the one who beckoned. Ellen cast a hasty glance around but could see no sign of Selina or the others. There was the confusion of merrymaking all about her and she slipped, unnoticed, into the shadows, hesitated for a moment to get her bearings, and then set off towards the house where the woman had watched her from behind the shutters.

  It was a larger building than its neighbours, set back a little from the rutted track, its narrow door and windows of carved wood. As Ellen approached the door opened and the woman who had danced appeared briefly against a background of lamplight.

  ‘Please to enter.’ Her low voice was clear and sweet.

  A narrow hall led into a large room out of which stairs led up, presumably to the roof garden. The room itself was shuttered and lamplit, furnished sparsely but with exquisite taste. Woven rugs covered the floor and hung against the whitewashed walls, a low table was set for two persons with wooden bowls and ivory-handled spoons. In one corner a covered stove glowed hospitably and on the broad sill a row of flowering plants cast sweetness into the air.

  ‘Ellen Parry? It is good of you to visit me.’ The woman had stepped forward, touching her fingers to forehead and breast in a salutation that was both ancient and fitting.

  ‘You are—?’ Ellen hesitated, trying to remember the name.

  ‘Nephtari El Said. Will you sit down for a few minutes?’ She indicated a carved chair set near to the stove.

  ‘Thank you.’ Ellen seated herself and looked at the other curiously.

  The woman had the figure of a girl, but there were lines at the corners of her eyes and her mouth that placed her in her mid-thirties. There was no denying that she must once have been beautiful, but her beauty was muted now by time and a sorrow that lay like a veil across the clear darkness of her eyes.

  ‘You have been told something about me?’ She had seated herself in a chair opposite and was leaning forward slightly, her hands clasped loosely in her lap.

  ‘Not very much.’ Ellen felt colour flooding up into her cheeks, and the other laughed softly.

  ‘My reputation runs ahead of me,’ she said. ‘In Egypt women are expected to be modest and veil themselves from the eyes of strangers. I was born wanting to dance, and my parents were wise enough to let me follow my natural inclinations instead of pushing me into a marriage that might have stifled my talents. I wish sometimes they had lived to see me dance in public, in Cairo and Alexandria. But perhaps it’s as well they did not, for the world in which a dancer moves has many temptations—and I was always frail of flesh.’

  Ellen shifted uncomfortably, wondering why the other was telling her this.

  ‘Oh, my green days were wild ones,’ Nephtari said, ‘but age caught up with me. A dancer is finished when prettier girls come along who can lift their legs higher and delight the fickle crowd. So I came back to Wadi Amarna and settled here. I dance now only at the festival, when the daughter of Isis is chosen to ride the black dog.’

  ‘You wanted to see me,’ Ellen interposed.

  ‘Ah, you, being young, wish to leap to the heart of the matter,’ Nephtari said. ‘Hywel Parry’s daughter.’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘For many years. He was a good man, a lonely man with that silly young wife foisted on him by her father. Is it any wonder that he spent half of his time out at the diggings? He used to sit for hours in that outer courtyard, just sit there and think.’

  ‘You and my father?’ Ellen stared at her, possibilities flashing into her mind.

  ‘I was never his mistress,’ Nephtari said. ‘Hywel and I were friends, never lovers. Farida was his wife and he was loyal to her. But he could talk to me, confide in me. He trusted me.’

  ‘You were the one who sent me the parcel,’ Ellen said slowly.

  ‘Your father had found the tomb. Of that I’m certain,’ Nephtari said. ‘He came out here alone, to write to you, I suppose, for when I went over to the diggings I found him there. He was in the outer courtyard, leaning against the pylon gate, and when I went up to him he complained of feeling dizzy. He had the parcel in his hand and he asked me to send it for him. He said it was important, so I took it from him and ran back to the village for help. He’d had bouts of fever before, but this time—I was very sorry to hear of his death.’

  ‘And by then you’d sent the parcel?’

  Nephtari nodded. ‘Hywel must have said something before he died. Henry Bligh rode over to see me, to ask if anything had been entrusted to me. I denied it, but I don’t think he believed me. Then we heard that Hywel’s daughter was coming out here on a visit.’

  ‘And you tried to warn me away.’

  ‘We feared Henry Bligh’s motives. He’s a ruthless man, Miss Ellen. I know he wheedled his way into Silver Moon on the strength of his old friendship with Hywel, but I never liked him.’

  ‘You were right not to like him,’ Ellen said impulsively. ‘He has been selling defective rifles to the Berber tribesmen.’

  ‘Are you certain of that?’ Nephtari’s voice had sharpened.

  ‘When I was staying with the Fords at Tel-El-Aton I saw Henry Bligh, dressed as a native, in the market place. He was selling something, but I didn’t know what it was then.’

  ‘We had our suspicions,’ Nephtari said slowly, ‘but we were not completely certain. Rami and I talked about it.’

  ‘You and Rami both tried to protect me,’ Ellen acknowledged.

  ‘Because of our friendship for your father,’ Nephtari said. ‘He was a man with a dream. A disappointed man, but a kindly one. Our friendship would not have been understood.’

  ‘I have what was in the parcel.’ Ellen unclasped the chain and drew the pendant from beneath her bodice.

  ‘It looks very old.’ Nephtari took it from her and studied it closely, turning it over in her fingers. ‘I am not an expert on such matters, but I did learn a little from what your father talked about when he was at the diggings. The heart bears the symbol of Isis. I would guess that he took it from the tomb.’

  ‘There was something else.’ Ellen fumbled in her bag and brought out the card.

  ‘The words of the festival song,’ Nephtari said. ‘And the God of Silence upon the back.’

  ‘If only he’d written me a proper letter,’ Ellen exclaimed.

  ‘Sometimes a man feels the approach of death before he sees his face,’ the other said. ‘Your father may have feared that the parcel would be intercepted.’

  ‘Weil you have it now,’ Ellen said, rising. ‘I hope I’ve done right to trust you.’

  ‘It is Rami whom we both trust,’ Nephtari said.

  ‘He tells me nothing.’

  ‘Ah, that is my brother’s way,’ Nephtari said.

  ‘Brother!’

  ‘He did not even tell you that? He wished to protect me, I suppose, lest you babbled about the Hawk and the authorities came to question me.’

  ‘Then you support this uprising too?’

  ‘I am a woman and know nothing of political matters,’ Nephtari shrugged. ‘My brother comes-and goes as he pleases.’

  ‘Is he here tonight?’ She could not keep the eagerness out of her voice.

  ‘I have not seen him yet, but he will be near if he is needed.’

  ‘And I must go back to the others.’ Ellen rose, ‘They may have missed me by now.’

  ‘I will give these to Rami when he comes. Nephtari rose, bowing in her graceful, traditional manner. ‘You liked the dance?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘It is so old that the meaning has been lost, Nephtari said, ‘and even the song makes little sense. But the lo
cal people believe the festival will bring a good harvest. We will meet again, Ellen Parry.’

  She ushered the younger girl to the door, closing it swiftly as Ellen stepped into the darkness. Further up the street the crowds were beginning to dance in and out of the flaring torches. Others were eating the food that had been brought, and the chattering and the laughter rose arid fell as Ellen made her way towards it.

  She saw Farida, her white cloak billowing, as she moved to a less crowded spot, and the doctor following with two piled bowls of the rice and meat. Then her arm was gripped and she was swung around to face Henry Bligh.

  ‘Just where have you been?’ he demanded softly.

  ‘For a walk.’ The lie came readily enough to her lips but the colour had risen in her face.

  ‘For a walk, in the middle of the festival? You seem very fond of taking walks,’ Henry said.

  ‘It was rather crowded in the square,’ she began.

  ‘And crowded at Silver Moon when you took a walk beyond the walls? You were seen by one of the porters, dear Ellen.’

  ‘Who tittle-tattled to you, I suppose?’ She tried to pull free, but his grip was like a vice.

  ‘I take an interest in my ward,’ he countered. ‘I want to know the name of the man whom she steals out to meet.’

  ‘You’ll get no answers from me.’ There was defiance in her voice, and his lip curled unpleasantly as he looked down at her.

  ‘Oh, you will tell me in the end. I am as much master at Silver Moon as if I’d already married Farida.’

  ‘You’ll have to take time off from your other activities then,’ Ellen gibed. ‘Selling defective rifles to the Berber tribesmen is not the most honourable way of increasing the profits of the estate. I wonder when my father began to distrust you.’

  ‘How do you know?’ he demanded, and for a split second his grip on her arm loosened. The next instant she had wrenched herself free and ran, stumbling over the uneven surface of the road.

  She was swallowed up in the crowd, borne along by them, her hat tipping over one eye as she struggled through and ran again, her heart hammering against her side. She had left the flaring torchlight behind her and was running blindly in and out of patches of moonlight. It would be dangerous to return to Silver Moon or even to seek refuge with Nephtari. Henry Bligh had removed his mask, and there was no way of knowing how deeply the Fords were involved, or how powerless Farida might be against the schemes of a man she feared.