Path of Shadows lb-8
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He pointed to a broad sandy spot midway between the hills rising to either side and at least two hundred paces from the shadowy oasis. “Let’s camp there, where no man can come upon us out of the shadows.”
“I’ll stand watch,” Psuro said.
“Don’t watch from afar, but stay among us. To stand apart might be risking death-and we’ve already lost Rona.”
Nebre pointed toward a thick layer of ash lining a hollow dug in the ground, a jumble of footprints and the imprint of a woven reed sleeping mat, and traces of two hobbled donkeys.
“A man camped here for some time, sir.”
“His donkeys are ailing,” Psuro said, standing over a mound of fresh, loose manure buzzing with flies. “He’s not been gone for long. A few hours at most.”
Bak knelt beside the shallow stream that gave life to the palms and tamarisks, the tall rushes that grew along its banks, and the brush that grew among the trees. According to the guide, the water appeared from out of nowhere and vanished in an equally mysterious fashion. It had an odd smell and tasted brackish, but was not so salty that it discour aged the presence of wildlife. Birds, lizards, and insects abounded, and the prints of gazelle and other larger animals revealed occasional visits, probably to eat rather than to drink the disagreeable water.
Hoping to learn where Minnakht had gone, Psuro and the nomad guide walked upstream while Bak and Nebre fol lowed the slowly moving water in the opposite direction. As the guide had predicted, the stream trickled away, leaving be hind a few patches of damp sand and a row of tamarisks clinging to the bank of a dry channel cut through a wider bed of gravel over which long ago had flowed a substantial river.
Beyond the scrubby trees, Nebre found signs partially oblit erated by wind of the explorer’s arrival from the west, but no prints indicating that he had left.
“Did he bring so much water with him that he had no need to replenish his supply?” Bak asked.
“Could he have brought enough for himself and two don keys?” Nebre gave a disapproving grunt. “I’d wager not.”
Psuro and the guide met them at the abandoned campsite.
They had had better luck.
“He’s run away,” the sergeant said. “He took his donkeys and walked upstream. The lord Amon alone knows how far he’s gone.”
Bak’s smile was grim. “I suggest we go hunting.”
Leaving their donkeys in the care of the guide, Bak and his
Medjays walked up a wadi barren of water and life. The high walls to either side entrapped the sun’s heat and the carpet of gravel absorbed it, turning the wadi into an oven. Sweat poured from the men, and the water they drank failed to quench their thirst.
Armed with bows and arrows, they ranged the width of the wadi floor, looking for signs of a man’s passage. The gravel made footprints difficult to find, but swarming flies drew them to two disturbances of pebbles which, when dug into, covered piles of manure similar to the one they had found in the oasis. Bak wondered if Minnakht had allowed the donkeys to drink the brackish water. Whatever had caused their distress, he doubted they could go on for long without proper care.
Frequently, he called out, “Minnakht! We’ve parted from the caravan and are traveling alone. You can show yourself now.”
Sometimes he shouted, “Minnakht! Your donkeys are ail ing. If they should die, you’ll not survive a week alone.”
More than an hour after they set out, they rounded a bend and spotted ahead a man walking toward them. Two laden donkeys plodded along behind him, stumbling at times on the loose gravel. As he and the weary animals drew near, Bak and Nebre identified the man who had approached them in the Eastern Desert. Minnakht. His tunic and kilt were clean and bright, but he needed a shave, his hair was too long, and his face looked haggard. He carried a bow and arrows. A spear and shield and a harpoon were suspended from the load on one of the donkeys.
He walked slowly toward them, cautious, mistrustful. A dozen paces away, he offered a tentative smile.
Bak smiled in return. “You’ve been alone too long, Min nakht. You must learn anew that some men can be trusted.
My Medjays and I among them.”
With a sharp laugh, Minnakht dropped the rope leads of the donkeys and rushed forward. He greeted Bak like a long lost friend, clasping his shoulders and giving him a broad smile. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you, Lieutenant.
I feel as one with the Eastern Desert and don’t mind its soli tude, but here I’m like a bird with a broken wing, unable to fly or care for itself.”
“No more,” Bak said, laughing. “You’ll remain with us un til we see you home.”
Minnakht jerked back, startled. “I told you before. I can’t go home. If anyone were to learn that I still live, word would spread like fire in a stiff wind. Those who tried to slay me would search me out, beat me to learn a secret I don’t hold in my heart, and take my life without a qualm.”
“Your father longs to see you again. You must go to him.”
Minnakht glanced at Nebre, who had taken up the ropes, ready to lead the donkeys back to the oasis, and at Psuro, standing off to the side, bow in hand, waiting. “I’d never complete the journey across the Eastern Desert.”
Bak held out his hand, signaling that they must return to the oasis. “Why imprison yourself in the desert wastes? Do you not wish to bathe in a true river, to walk through lush fields, to lead the life of a man of ease, one free to go where he wishes in a land of plenty such as Kemet?”
Reluctantly, Minnakht fell in beside him and they strode together down the wadi, followed by the Medjays and don keys. “I’d like nothing better, but…”
“Do you not hold your father close within your heart?
Would you not like to see him?”
“You know I would! But I fear you’d deliver nothing to him but the few small items I carry with me and news of my death.”
“I guarantee your safety.”
Minnakht’s mouth curled in a cynical smile. “Senna told me how many men were slain while you crossed the Eastern
Desert. As he also died in the end. And all the while, you and your men slept nearby.”
Bak bit back a sharp retort. The accusation had merit, but stung nonetheless. A hiss behind him told him what Psuro thought, or maybe Nebre. “My men and I will never let you out of our sight, that I vow. We’ll guard you day and night.”
“You tempt me with freedom,” Minnakht said with a bitter smile. “but you’d make me your prisoner.”
“I don’t deny that we’ll hold you close, but only for the time it takes to cross the sea and the Eastern Desert. When you reach Kemet, you can tell all the world that you found no gold and your life will no longer be at risk.”
Minnakht flashed a smile that failed to hide his irritation.
“All right, Lieutenant. I’ll come with you. But should I be in jured or slain, I pray your conscience doesn’t trouble you so much that never again will you rest easy.”
Chapter 18
Bak knelt beside Sergeant Psuro, who was skinning a hare he had trapped, and spoke softly so his voice would not carry.
“Will Minnakht’s donkeys survive the journey to the sea?”
“If the sickness was caused by the tainted water in the stream, as Nebre and I believe, and if we share our good wa ter with them, their illness should clear up and their strength return. We must also lighten their loads and not push them too hard. We’ve already tended the galls on their shoulders.”
Psuro spat on the ground, a sign of contempt he had copied from Troop Captain Nebwa. “That Minnakht. What kind of man is he to treat his animals so?”
“Fear can make a man push beyond endurance the crea tures he needs most. Not wise in a desert such as this, where one’s life is so dependent upon their well-being.”
Psuro eyed with tight-lipped disapproval the man of whom they spoke, who was kneeling at the edge of the stream, washing his face and arms. “And he professes to be a man of the desert.”
The wadi opened out onto the shore. After spending so many days in the barren desert, the clear blue waters lapping the sand drew them like ants to honey. Laughing like chil dren, in too much of a rush to remove their clothing, they raced into the water and indulged themselves in a long, re freshing swim. Later in the day, their guide led them south to the next oasis, which was located at the base of rounded grayish hills rising behind a narrow coastal plain. An open pool containing drinkable water supported a lush palm grove, grass, reeds, and tamarisk, and a tiny garden whose ancient caretaker dwelt in a palm-frond shack. From their camp, they could see the glittering expanse of water that merged with the sky on the horizon.
Early the following morning, Psuro and the guide led the donkeys south to the port. His mission was to take them to the paddocks where Lieutenant Nebamon kept his pack ani mals, to find the fisherman Nufer and tell him where Bak waited, and to purchase necessary supplies for the voyage across the sea and south to the trail that would take them home to Kemet.
Bak expected the Medjay to be away for no less than three days. Rather than remain at the oasis, where Minnakht grew irritable and furtive each time a nomad family came to water its flocks, they walked each day to the shore. They swam fully dressed to protect themselves from the hot sun. As had been the case throughout the journey down the wadi, they never let the explorer out of their sight. While Bak swam with him, Nebre remained on shore with their weapons.
While Nebre swam, Bak stood watch.
Minnakht made no comment until the second day after
Psuro’s departure. He flopped down on the sand and grinned.
“I know you vowed to keep me alive and well, Bak, but your scrupulous devotion to duty has begun to wear on my pa tience. Can I not at least walk alone along the water’s edge?
With no donkeys or supplies, I can go no great distance.”
“A man might well be hidden among the rocks on that hill side, waiting for you to go off alone.” Bak pointed toward a high rocky mound rising from the plain.
“No man, no matter how talented with the bow, could strike his prey from so far away.”
“If he carries an ordinary bow, I agree, but have you not seen how far an arrow can fly when delivered by a compos ite bow?”
“How many men in this wasted land would have such a weapon?” Even as Minnakht scoffed at the idea, his eyes darted toward the bows laying on the sand beside Bak, both of the composite variety.
“Where you go, we go,” Bak stated in a voice he hoped would conclude the argument. “You’ve told us time and again that you fear for your life. If you truly do, you’ll talk no more of how weary you’ve grown of our company.”
Minnakht drew a spiral in the warm sand in front of his crossed legs, then erased it with a brusque swipe of his hand.
“I should not have let Psuro take away my donkeys and water jars. You’ve admitted you don’t know the fishermen who’re to take us across the sea. How do you know you can trust them?”
“I trust the man who told me of them.”
Minnakht opened his mouth as if to pursue the argument, but Bak’s closed expression forbade further debate. So he drew another spiral and eradicated it as abruptly as he had the first. He no longer bothered to hide his irritation. “Four of us cooped up on a small boat with the lord Set only knows how many fishermen. I’ve had nightmares no worse than that.”
Bak stood up and brushed the sand from his buttocks and legs. “Do you or do you not wish to be safe?”
“You know I do.” The explorer rose to his feet and formed a bitter smile. “I’ve no choice but to trust your judgment, but
I don’t have to like it, do I?”
Bak grinned. “You’ll one day look upon this journey as a memory to treasure.”
Minnakht’s incredulous look melted into a rueful laugh.
“Will we cross the sea to the Eastern Desert and sail south along its shore? Or will we follow the coastline of this wretched land before crossing over?”
That, Bak suspected, was the question the explorer had been edging toward all along. “I’ll let the fishermen make that decision.”
Psuro returned with the fishing boat, which its crew an chored a dozen or so paces off the beach. The sergeant dropped into the water, waded ashore, and, while he and Bak walked south along the water’s edge, reported the success of his mission. As Amonmose had promised, the vessel was larger than most fishing boats that plied the waters of the
Eastern Sea. In addition to its master Nufer, it had a crew of three. It offered plenty of space for four passengers and, in addition to the supplies needed for an extended fishing expe dition, enough for Bak and his party during a journey that could take as long as three weeks. Satisfied with all Psuro had accomplished, Bak waded out and hauled himself on board, where he spoke at length with Nufer.
They sailed early the following morning.
“What a life this is.” Minnakht placed his fishing pole be tween his knees to hold it steady, spread his arms wide, and stretched luxuriously. “If I didn’t prefer to roam a larger world, I’d remain with these men forever.”
Bak chuckled. “Not a day has passed that you haven’t re minded me that you’re a man of the desert, not the sea. Why this sudden affection for this vessel and the fishing?”
“Can I not enjoy the moment while at the same time I long to be free, to go where I please?” Laughing, the explorer took up his pole and dabbed the line up and down, making the wooden float bob on the water’s surface. “I like you, Bak, and I know you mean well, but your constant companionship is burdensome. Yours and that of everyone else in this small space we inhabit.”
“Thus far, we’ve made good time. These islands mark the halfway point in our voyage.”
Bak swept his hand in an arc encompassing a multitude of brownish or grayish rocky outcrops rising from the water over which they were sailing. Some were islets barely large enough to support the nest of an osprey. Others were consid erably more spacious, with sandy beaches that offered a safe haven to thousands of sea birds and their young. In the water below, a multitude of bright fish swam among plants that rose from the depths, waving long colorful arms in the sea’s currents.
“Once we pass through them, we’ll follow the shore of the
Eastern Desert.”
“At long last! You’ve no idea how much I long to sleep on the land I hold so close within my heart.”
Nufer was a cautious man, one unwilling to sail through the brightest of nights. During the several days’ voyage down the eastern shore of the sea, they had anchored at the water’s edge and camped on the sand. The coastal plain had been bare and uninviting, the mountains to the east high and for bidding. Bak knew their task would be more difficult when they reached the Eastern Desert, but he was glad to leave be hind that wasted landscape.
A smile spread across his face; his eyes twinkled with good humor. “You think we’ve held you close thus far, but what you’ve faced in the past is nothing like the way we’ll guard you when you set foot on the land where your life is most at risk.”
Minnakht rolled his eyes skyward. “Can I not breathe without taking in air you’ve expelled?”
For the next three nights, Nufer anchored his vessel in the shallow waters off small barren islands, lumps of rock and sand that rose in the sea off the coast of the mainland. Min nakht jested about the choice of camping places, asking Bak if he feared he would slip away. Bak had a feeling he was merely going through the motions of complaining.
On the fourth night, rather than camp on an unusually large island lying offshore, they anchored off the mouth o
f a wadi that cut deep into the Eastern Desert. For the first time since crossing the sea, they slept on the mainland. Minnakht displayed nothing more than a casual interest in what Bak had assumed would be a tantalizing route into the interior.
Had he decided at last to place his trust in them? Or was he biding his time?
Late the following evening, they camped on a narrow spit of jagged black rocks edged with sand that arced around a pool of mirror-calm blue-green water. A ridge rose gradually from the tip of the tiny peninsula to merge into a low cliff that had roughly paralleled the shoreline throughout the day.
Armed with harpoons, Psuro and two fishermen walked north in search of a quiet backwater where they might spear fish for the evening meal. Bak, Nebre, and Minnakht swam among a school of fingerlings that had sought shelter in the cove. Gulls wheeled overhead, squawking at the interlopers, while three white pelicans sat on crags, grooming their feath ers. Nufer, who feared the water as no sailor should, sat on shore with the third member of his crew, trading ribald jokes.
Darkness descended and the night grew chilly. The moon and stars shone above, a slice of white among chips of light as bright as highly polished rock crystal. The gulls flew off to their nesting places and their raucous calls were replaced by the lonely song of a night bird. Nufer nursed a fire in the ex 280
Lauren Haney pectation that Psuro and the sailors would shortly return with fish. Minnakht waded out of the pool, silencing the bird.
Shivering in his wet tunic, he wrapped his arms around him self and hastened to the camp. He trotted past the fire, head ing toward his meager belongings, and merged into the night.
Bak and Nebre exchanged a glance none but they could see.
The time dragged. The waiting seemed endless.
A long, shrill whistle shattered the silence.