Lion in the Valley by Elizabeth Peters Read Free Book Online Page B

Ramses' presumed rescuer.
    The
sickening smell of opium again assailed my nostrils as I bent over him, but I
conquered my repugnance and reached down to remove his turban that I might
better ascertain the extent of the damage I had done the fellow's head. As my
hand went out, the man started convulsively, flinging his arms over his face.
    "Matekhafsh,
habib," I said
reassuringly. "Do not be afraid. It was in error that I struck; the child
has told me of your courage."
    At
first there was no reply. Then from under the ragged folds of cloth came a
muffled voice. "Let me go, sitt. I did nothing. I want nothing, only to be
left alone."
    "Wallahi-el
azim, by God the great, I
mean you no harm. Indeed, I wish to reward you. Come out into the moonlight
that I may see if you are injured." The man did not move and I went on
impatiently, "Come, you are safe with us. This is the great, the famous
Emerson Effendi, Father of Curses, and I am his wife, sometimes called the Sitt
Hakim."
    "I
know you, sitt," came the reply.
    "Then
what are you cowering there for? If you know my name, you know its meaning; I
am somewhat skilled in the art of medicine—"
    As
I might have expected, this statement caught the ear of Emerson, who seldom
misses an opportunity of jeering at my medical qualifications. However, on this
occasion he refrained from his customary caustic comment; Ramses had evidently
explained the situation, and gratitude prevailed over irony. Seizing the fallen
man by the arm, he hauled him vigorously to his feet and began wringing his hand.
"A father's blessing be upon you," he began in sonorous Arabic, but
before he had got any further, the savior distracted him by dropping to his
knees, his head bowed.
    "You
need not kneel, my good fellow," Emerson said graciously.
    "I
believe, Papa, he is not paying his respects but fainting," said Ramses
coolly. "As I informed you, one of the men had a knife, the type that is
known as—"
    "Bless
me," said Emerson in mild surprise. "I believe you are right, Ramses.
Yes, this sticky substance on his fingers seems to be blood."
    "So
long as you have hold of him, Emerson, you may as well drag him out into the
moonlight," I suggested. "Though a less painful hold, one that does
not put such a strain on his presumed wound—"
    "Hmmm,
yes, quite right, my dear," said Emerson. He transferred his grip to the
man's shoulders and with a heave of his mighty arms pulled him across the sand
until the bright rays of the moon illumined his body.
    A
crowd of curiosity seekers had collected. The non-Arabs among them soon turned
away in disgust upon seeing that the object of attention was only a ragged
beggar. The Egyptians recognized Emerson and promptly squatted in a circle,
waiting to see what would transpire, for, as one of them remarked to a friend,
"The Father of Curses is a great magician. Perhaps he will bring this dead
man to life."
    Some
of the onlookers carried torches and lanterns. Among them was Sheikh Abu, who
hastened to Emerson with ejaculations of relief and congratulation. "Your
son has been restored. Praise Allah!"
    "Yes,
quite," Emerson replied. "No thanks to the guides you assigned to us.
See here, Abu—"
    "First
things first, Emerson," I interrupted. "Abu, please bring the lantern
closer. And lend me your knife."
    In
the warm yellow glow of the lantern the inky stains on the man's sleeve sprang
to ominous life. I seized Abu's knife and prepared to cut the cloth away. The
crowd, which resembled nothing so much as an assortment of laundry bags fallen
haphazardly from the back of a cart, squirmed closer, and the same commentator
remarked, "It is the Sitt Hakim. No doubt she will cut off the man's
arm," to which his companion replied eagerly, "Lean back so
that I may see better."
    The
knife wound was on the outside of the man's arm, from just above the wrist
almost to the elbow. Fortunately it had not touched any of the major muscles or