"The mummy is gone," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Only scraps of the wrappings remain. Why would anyone steal such a poor specimen?"
"These people would steal their grandmothers and sell them if there were a market for decrepit old ladies," Emerson growled.
I had observed that his fits of rage, though violent, were soon over. Afterward he seemed greatly refreshed by the outburst and would, in fact, deny that he had ever lost his temper. He now spoke to me as if he had never made his outrageous accusations. "What about breakfast, Peabody?" I was meditating a suitably crushing retort when Walter spoke again.
"It is really incomprehensible. The men could have made off with the mummy when they first found it. And what has become of the bandages you removed?"
"That, at least, is easily explained," Emerson answered. "I could not unwrap the bandages. The perfumed resins in which the body was soaked had glued the wrappings into a solid mass. I had to make an incision and open the thorax. As you know, Walter, the body cavities often contain amulets and scraps of- Peabody! Miss Peabody, what is the matter?"
His voice faded into a dim insect buzzing, and the sunlight darkened. A ghastly vision had flashed upon my mind. If the moon had been higher- if I had seen the nocturnal visitor more distinctly- would I have beheld the violated body, gaping wide?
I am happy to say that this was the first and last time I succumbed to superstition. When I opened my eyes I realized that Emerson was supporting me, his alarmed face close to mine. I straightened, and saw a dark flush mantle his cheeks as I pushed his arms away.
"A momentary weakness," I said. "I think- I think perhaps I will sit down.
Walter quickly offered his arm, and I did not disdain it.
"You are wearing yourself out, Miss Peabody," he said warmly. "We cannot allow such sacrifices. Today you must rest; I insist upon it."
"Hmmm," said Emerson. His eyes expressed neither concern nor appreciation, but rather speculation as they examined my face.
As the day wore on I could not help recalling Evelyn's remark of the previous evening. I had discounted her mention of nervousness then; now I could not deny that the atmosphere was uneasy. I myself was unable to settle down to anything. After working on the pavement for a time I went to the site where Walter and Abdullah were directing the workers.
There were more than fifty people at work. The men were removing the sand that had covered the foundations of temples and houses, shoveling it into baskets which were then carried away by children, boys and girls both. It was necessary to dump the sand some distance away, lest it cover future excavations. The work was tedious, except when the men reached the floor level, where abandoned objects might be found; yet all the workers, children and adults alike, usually worked cheerfully and willingly. They are very musical people, the Egyptians, although their wailing, yodeling singing sounds odd to European ears; but today no brisk chorus speeded the work. The children who carried the baskets were slow and unsmiling.
I joined Abdullah, the foreman, where he stood on a little rise of sand watching the diggers. "They do not sing today," I said. "Why not, Abdullah?" Not a muscle moved in the dignified brown face; but I sensed an inner struggle.
"They are ignorant people," he said, after a time. "They fear many things."
"What things?"
"Afreets, demons- all strange things. They fear ghosts of the dead. The mummy- they ask where it has gone."
That was all he could, or would, say. I went back to my pavement in some perturbation of spirit. I could hardly sneer at the ignorance of the natives when I had experienced equally wild thoughts.
The reader may well ask why I had not spoken of my adventure. I asked myself the same question; but I knew the answer, and it did not reflect creditably on my character. I was afraid of being laughed at. I could almost hear Emerson's great guffaws echoing out across the valley when I told him of seeing his lost mummy out for a midnight stroll. And yet I felt I ought to speak. I knew I had not seen an animated mummy. My brain knew it, if my nervous system did not. I spent the rest of the day brushing tapioca and water over my lovely pavement and carrying on a vigorous internal debate – common sense against vanity.
When we gathered on the ledge for our customary evening meeting, I could see that the others were also distraught. Walter looked very tired; he dropped into a chair with a sigh and let his head fall back.
"What a wretched day! We seem to have accomplished nothing."
"I shall come down tomorrow," said Emerson. He looked at me. "With Peabody 's permission or without it." Walter sat upright.
"Radcliffe, why do you address Miss Peabody so disrespectfully? After all she has done for us…"
It was unusual for Walter to speak so sharply-another indication, if I had needed one, of the strained atmosphere.
"Oh, I don't mind," I said calmly. "Sticks and stones may break my bones, you know. As for your returning to work tomorrow…"
I looked Emerson up and down. The clinical appraisal annoyed him, as I had known it would; he squirmed like a guilty schoolboy, and exclaimed. "What is your diagnosis, Sitt Hakim?"
Truthfully, I was not pleased with his appearance. He had lost considerable flesh. The bones in his face were too prominent, and his eyes were still sunken in their sockets.
"I disapprove," I said. "You are not strong enough yet to be out in the sun. Have you taken your medicine today?"
Emerson's reply was not suitable for the pages of a respectable book. Walter sprang to his feet with a hot reproof. Only the appearance of Michael, with the first course of our dinner, prevented an argument. We went early to bed. I could see that Emerson fully intended to return to the excavations next day, so he needed his sleep, and after my disturbed night I too was weary.
Yet I did not sleep well. I had disturbing dreams. I awoke from one such dream in the late hours of the night, and as my sleep-fogged eyes focused, I saw a slim white form standing by the doorway. My heart gave such a leap I thought it would choke me. When I recognized Evelyn, I almost fainted with relief.
She turned, hearing my gasp.
"Amelia," she whispered.
"What is it? Why are you awake at this hour? Good Gad, child, you almost frightened me to death!"
She looked ghostly as she glided toward me, her bare feet making no sound, her white nightdress floating out behind her. I lighted a lamp; Evelyn's face was as pale as her gown. She sank down on the edge of my bed, and I saw that she was shivering.
"I heard a sound," she said. "Such an eerie sound, Amelia, like a long, desolate sigh. I don't know how long it had been going on. It woke me; I am surprised it didn't waken you too."
"I heard it, and it became part of my dream," I answered. "I dreamed of death, and someone weeping over a grave… Then what happened?"
"I didn't want to wake you; you had worked so hard today. But the sound went on and on, until I thought I should the; it was so dreary, so unutterably sad. I had to know what was making it. So I went and drew the curtain aside and looked out." She paused, and went even paler.
"Go on," I urged. "You need not fear my skepticism, Evelyn. I have reasons, which you will hear in due course, for believing the wildest possible tale."
"You cannot mean that you too- "
"Tell me what you saw."
"A tall, pale form, featureless and stark. It stood in shadow, but… Amelia, it had no face! There was no sign of nose or mouth or eyes, only a flat, white oval; no hair, only a smooth-fitting covering. The limbs were stiff- "
"Enough of this equivocation," I cried impatiently. "What you saw resembled… was like… seemed to be… in short – a Mummy!" Evelyn stared at me.
"You saw it too! You must have done, or you could not accept this so readily. When? How?"
"One might add, 'why?'" I said wryly. "Yes, I saw such a form last night. This morning I found scraps of rotted wrappings on the ledge outside our chamber."
"And you said nothing of this to Walter- or to me?"
; "It sounded too ridiculous," I admitted, "particularly after I learned that the mummy we discovered had mysteriously disappeared in the night."
"Ridiculous, Amelia? I wish I could think so. What are we to do?"
"I will have the courage to speak now that I have you to support me. But I shudder to think what Emerson will say. I can hear him now: "A walking mummy, Peabody? Quite so! No wonder the poor fellow wants exercise, after lying stiff for two thousand years!"
"Nevertheless, we must speak."
"Yes. In the morning. That will be time enough for my humiliation."
But the morning brought a new sensation, and new troubles.
I was up betimes. Emerson, another early riser, was already pacing about near the cook tent. A pith helmet, set at a defiant angle, proclaimed his intentions for the day. I glanced at it, and at his haggard face, and sniffed meaningfully; but I made no comment. Breakfast was prepared; we returned to our table on the ledge, where Evelyn and Walter joined us; and the meal was almost finished when Emerson exploded.
"Where are the men? Good God, they should have been here an hour ago!"
Walter withdrew his watch from his pocket and glanced at it.
"Half an hour. It appears they are late this morning."
"Do you see any signs of activity in the direction of the village?" Emerson demanded, shading his eyes and peering out across the sand. "I tell you, Walter, something is amiss. Find Abdullah."
The foreman, who slept in a tent nearby, was nowhere to be found. Finally we made out a small white figure crossing me sand. It was Abdullah; he had apparently been to the village in search of his tardy work force. We were all at the bottom of the path waiting when he came up to us. He spread out his hands in an eloquent gesture and looked at Emerson.
"They will not come."
"What do you mean, they won't come?" Emerson demanded.
"They will not work today."
"Is there some holiday, perhaps?" Evelyn asked. "Some Moslem holy day?"
"No," Emerson answered. "Abdullah would not make such an error, even if I did. I would think the men are holding out for higher pay, but… Sit down, Abdullah, and tell me. Come, come, my friend, let's not stand on ceremony. Sit down, I say, and talk."
Thus abjured, Abdullah squatted on the bare ground, in that very same posture in which his ancestors are so often depicted. His English was not very good, so I shall take the liberty of abridging his remarks.
A conscientious man, he had set out for the village when the workmen failed to appear on time. The squalid little huddle of huts presented a disquieting appearance. It was as deserted and silent as if plague had struck. No children played in the dusty streets; even the mangy curs had taken themselves off.
Alarmed, Abdullah had gone to the house of the mayor- who was, I learned for the first time, the father of Mohammed. He had to pound on the barred door before he was finally admitted, and it took him some time to extract the facts from the mayor. At first he said only that the men would not come. Upon being pressed, he said they would not come the next day either- or any other day. His son was with him; and it was from Mohammed that Abdullah finally received a statement. As Abdullah repeated this, his face retained its well-bred impassivity, but his eyes watched Emerson uneasily.
The workers had been disturbed by the mummy Mohammed had found. The man repeated his absurd claim- that the mummy was that of a princely priest-magician, a servant of the great god Amon whom Pharaoh Khuenaten had toppled from his spiritual throne. The deposed god's wrath found a vessel in his priest; through him, Amon had cursed the heretic city and anyone who set foot on its soil to resurrect it, forever. The villagers knew that none of them had made off with the mummy. Its disappearance could be accounted for in only one way; restored to the light of day, and animated by its discovery that new heretics were at work to uncover the accursed city, it had taken to its feet and left the camp. But it had not left the city-no, indeed. It walked by night, and on the previous midnight it had visited the village. Its moans had awakened the sleepers, and a dozen men had seen its ghostly form pacing the streets. The villagers were too wise not to heed the warning, which Mohammed helpfully interpreted: no more work for the infidels. They must leave Khuenaten's unholy city to the desolation of the sands, and take themselves off. Unless they did so, the curse would be visited on them and all those who assisted them in the slightest way.
Emerson listened to mis bizarre hodgepodge without the slightest change of expression.
"Do you believe this, Abdullah?" he asked.
"No." But the foreman's voice lacked conviction.
"Nor do I. We are educated men, Abdullah, not like these poor peasants. Amon-Ra is a dead god; if he could once curse a city, he lost that power centuries go. The mosques of your faith stand on the ruins of the temples, and the muezzin calls the faithful to prayer. I do not believe in curses; but if I did, I would know that our god- call him Jehovah or Allah, he is One- has the power to protect his worshipers against demons of the night. I think you believe that too."
I had never admired Emerson more. He had taken precisely the right tone with his servant, and as Abdullah looked up at the tall form of his employer, there was a glint of amused respect in his dark eyes.
"Emerson speaks well. But he does not say what has become of the mummy."
"Stolen." Emerson squatted on his lean haunches, so that he and Abdullah were eye to eye. "Stolen by a man who wishes to cause dissension in the camp, and who has invented this story to support his aim. I do not name this man; but you remember that Mohammed was angry because I brought you in to be foreman instead of giving him the position. His doting father has not disciplined him properly; even the men of the village resent him."
"And fear him," Abdullah said. He rose to his feet in a single effortless movement, bis white robes falling in graceful folds. "We are of one mind, Emerson. But what shall we do?"
"I will go down to the village and talk to the mayor," Emerson said, rising. "Now go and eat, Abdullah. You have done well, and I am grateful."
The tall foreman walked away, not without an uneasy look at Emerson. Evelyn glanced at me. I nodded. I had not wished to speak in front of Abdullah, but the time had come to tell my story. Before I could start, Walter burst out.
"What an incredible tale! You would think I should be accustomed to the superstitious folly of these people, but I am constantly amazed at their credulity. They are like children. A mummy, walking the village streets- could mere by anything more absurd?"
I cleared my throat self-consciously. This was not a good prelude to the tale I was about to tell.
"It is absurd, Walter, but it is not imagination. The villagers are not the only ones to see the Mummy. Evelyn and I both saw such a shape here in the camp."
"I knew you were hiding something," Emerson said, with grim satisfaction. "Very well, Peabody, we are listening."
I told all. I did not tell the story well, being only too conscious of Emerson's sneer. When I had finished, Walter was speechless. My support came, unexpectedly, from Emerson himself.
"This proves nothing, except that our villain-and we have a good notion as to his identity, have we not?-has gone to the trouble of dressing up in rags and wandering around in order to frighten people. I confess I am surprised; I had not thought Mohammed would be so energetic, or so imaginative."
As he spoke the last word, a memory popped into my mind. In the hotel in Cairo another imaginative miscreant had penetrated my room, dressed as an ancient Egyptian. I started to speak and then changed my mind; there surely could be no connection between the two events.
"I am off to the village," Emerson said. "I have dealt with these people before; I think I can persuade the mayor. Walter?"
The distance to the village was several miles. I am sure I need not say that I made part of the expedition. Evelyn remained behind, feeling herself unequal to the exertion; with Abdullah and Michael in camp, she was amply protected. Emerson, who had opposed my coming with his customa
ry temper tantrum, was annoyed that I kept up with him easily. Of course I could not have done so if he had been at his normal strength, and I was increasingly concerned for him as he plodded through the sand.
The brooding silence of the village was most disturbing. I thought at first we would not be admitted to the slightly more pretentious hovel that housed the mayor of the village, but Emerson's repeated blows on the rickety door finally produced a response. The door opened a mere crack; the sharply pointed nose and wrinkle-wrapped eyes of the old sheikh peered out. Emerson gave the door a shove. He caught the old gentleman as he staggered back and politely set him on his feet. We were in the house.
I wished immediately that I was out. The stench of the place was indescribable. Chickens, goats, and people crowded the dark little room; their eyes shone like stars in the shadows. We were not invited to sit down, and indeed there was no surface in the place on which I would have cared to sit. Obviously the chickens roosted on the long divan that was the room's most conspicuous piece of furniture.
Emerson, arms folded and chin jutting, carried on the discussion in Arabic. I could not understand what was being said, but it was easy to follow the course of the conversation. The mayor, a wrinkled little old man whose pointed nose almost met his bony chin, mumbled his responses. He was not insolent or defiant; this attitude would have been easier to combat than his obvious terror.
Gradually the other human inhabitants of the place slipped away; only the goats and the chickens remained. One friendly goat was particularly intrigued with the sleeve of my dress. I pushed him away absentmindedly, trying to keep track of what was transpiring between the speakers, and slowly the truth dawned on me. The mayor could hardly bear to be in the same room with us. He kept retreating until his back was up against the wall.
Then someone slipped through the narrow aperture that gave entry into the back room-the only other chamber this mayoral palace contained. I recognized Mohammed. With his appearance the conversation took a new turn. His father turned to him with pathetic pleasure, and Mohammed took over his role in the argument. He was insolent; his very tone was an offense. Emerson's fists clenched and his lips set tightly as he listened. Then Mohammed glanced at me and broke into English.
Crocodile On The Sandbank Page 12