Lion in the Valley (38 page)

"No,
it is my fault," Donald said. "He was my responsibility; but I—"
He looked at Enid.

Emerson
rounded on me and shook a finger under my nose. "Now you see, Amelia, what
comes of this love nonsense. People afflicted by that illness have no sense of
responsibility, no sense of duty—"

"Be
calm, Emerson," I implored. "Let Donald speak."

"He
is gone, that is all," Donald said, shrugging helplessly. "We noted
his absence about an hour ago, but precisely how long ago he left I cannot
say."

"Is
he on foot or on donkeyback?" I inquired.

"Neither,"
Donald said grimly. "The little—er—fellow borrowed a horse—not any horse,
but the cherished steed of the mayor, the same one you hired the other day. I
say borrow, but I ought to add that the mayor was unaware of the fact. He has
threatened to nail Ramses to the door of his house if anything happens to that
animal."

"He
cannot control such a large horse," Enid exclaimed, wringing her hands.
"How he managed to mount and get away without being seen—"

"Ramses
has a knack with animals," I said. "Never mind that. I assume no one
saw him leave and therefore we have no idea as to which direction he
took?"

"That
is correct," said Donald.

Emerson
clapped his hand to his brow. "How could he do this? He left no message,
no letter?"

"Oh
yes," Donald said. "He left a letter."

"Then
why have you not gone after him?" Emerson cried, snatching the grimy paper
Donald held out.

"Because,"
said Donald, "the letter is written in hieroglyphic."

And
indeed it was. I stood on tiptoe and read over Emerson's shoulder. Ramses'
hieroglyphic hand was extremely elegant, in striking contrast to his English
handwriting, which was practically illegible. I doubted, however, that it was
for that reason he had chosen to employ the former language.

"Mazghunah,"
Emerson exclaimed. "He has gone to Mazghunah! 'For the purpose of speaking
with the wab-priest....' That is a rather unorthodox use of the present
participle, I must say."

"You
may be sure Ramses can and will justify the usage if you are foolish enough to
ask him," I said. "Well, Emerson, shall we go after him?"

"How
can you ask, Amelia? Of course we will go after him, and as quickly as we can.
When I think of what may have befallen him, alone in the desert—a little child
on a horse he cannot handle, pursued by unknown villains.... Oh, good
Gad!" Emerson ran toward the stable.

A
lurid sunset glorified the west as our patient little donkeys trotted south
along the path we knew so well. Emerson was as incapable as I of whipping an
animal, but he urged his steed forward with impassioned pleas.

"So
far so good," I remarked, in the hope of comforting him. "Ramses
would have followed this same path; we have not seen his fallen body, so it is
probably safe to assume he managed to control the horse."

"Oh,
curse it," was Emerson's only response.

We
entered the village from the north, passing the ruins of the American mission,
which had been the scene of some of our most thrilling adventures the year
before. It was silent and abandoned; the makeshift steeple of the church had
collapsed and the surrounding houses were uninhabited. I had no doubt that the
villagers shunned the spot as haunted and accursed.

As
we approached the well, we saw a crowd of people. One and all stood in silent
fascination, facing the house of the priest, their heads tilted as they
listened. Faint and far away, yet distinctly audible, the wavering notes rose
and fell—the cry of the muezzin reciting the call to prayer. A strange sound in
a Christian village, with never a mosque in sight! Most curious of all was the
fact that the sound came from inside the house of the priest.

There
was a brief, waiting silence. Then the
adan
was repeated, but more
loudly, and in a different voice. The first had been tenor, this was a gruff
baritone. It broke off after a few words, to be followed immediately by yet a
third voice, distinguished by a perceptible lisp. It sounded as if the priest
of Dronkeh were entertaining, or interviewing, all the local muezzins.

The
crowd parted like the Red Sea before Emerson's impetuous rush. Without waiting
to knock, he flung the door open.

The
last rays of the dying sun cut like a flaming sword through the gloom within.
They fell full upon the form of Walter "Ramses" Peabody Emerson,
seated cross-legged on the divan, his head thrown back, his Adam's apple
bobbing up and down as from his parted lips came the wailing rise and fall of
the call to prayer.

The
priest, who had been sitting in the shadow, started up. Ramses—being
Ramses—finished all four of the initial statements of the ritual ("God is
most great, et cetera") before remarking, "Good evening, Mama. Good
evening, Papa. Did you have a productive day in Cairo?"

Emerson
accepted Father Todorus' offer of a cup of cognac. I declined. I required all
my wits to deal with Ramses.

"May
I ask," I inquired, taking a seat beside him, "what you are
doing?"

I
hated to ask, for I felt sure he would tell me, at tedious length; but I was so
bewildered by the uncanny performance I was not quite myself. It was obvious
that not only the last, but
all
the other muezzin calls had come from
the scrawny throat of my son. Emerson continued to sip his cognac, his bulging
eyes fixed on Ramses' Adam's apple.

Ramses
cleared his throat. "When you and Papa discussed the unfortunate captivity
of Father Todorus here, I found myself in complete agreement with your
conclusion that he had been imprisoned somewhere within the environs of Cairo.
Your further conclusion, that it would not be possible to narrow this down, was
one with which I was reluctantly forced to disagree. For in my opinion—"

"Ramses."

"Yes,
Mama?"

"I
would be indebted to you if you would endeavor to restrict your use of that
phrase."

"What
phrase, Mama?"

"
'In my opinion.' "

The
cognac had restored Emerson's powers of speech. He said hoarsely, "I am
inclined to agree with your mama, Ramses, but let us leave that for the moment.
Please proceed with your explanation."

"Yes,
Papa. For in my ... That is, I felt that although Father Todorus had been
unable to
see
out of the windows, he had probably been able to
hear
out
of them. Indeed, one of your own statements corroborated that assumption. Now
while the agglomerate of sounds that might be called the 'voice of the city' is
generally indistinctive—I refer to such sounds as the braying of donkeys, the
calls of water sellers and vendors, the whining pleas of beggars, the—"

"I
observe with concern, Ramses, that you seem to be developing a literary, not to
say poetic, turn of phrase. Writing verses and keeping a journal are excellent
methods of expurgating these tendencies. Incorporating them into an explanatory
narrative is not."

"Ah,"
said Ramses thoughtfully.

"Please
continue, Ramses," said his father. "And, my dearest son—be
brief!"

"Yes,
Papa. There is one variety of auditory phenomena that is, in contrast to those
I have mentioned (and others I was not allowed to mention), distinctive and
differentiated. I refer, of course, to the calls of the muezzins of the mosques
of Cairo. It occurred to me that Father Todorus, who had probably heard these
calls ad nauseam, so to speak, day after day, might be able to distinguish
between them and perhaps even recall their relative loudness and softness. I
came, therefore, to attempt the experiment. By reproducing—"

"Oh,
good Gad!" I cried out. "Ramses—have you been sitting here for over
three hours repeating the
adan
in different voices and different tones?
Emerson—as you know, I seldom succumb to weakness, but I must confess I feel—I
feel rather faint."

"Have
some cognac," said Emerson, handing me the cup. "Was the experiment a
success, my son?"

"To
some extent, Papa. I believe I have narrowed the area down to one approximately
a quarter of a mile square."

"I
cannot believe this," I murmured, half to myself— entirely to myself as it
turned out, for none of the others was listening.

"It
was very interesting," said Father Todorus, nodding like a wind-up toy.
"When I closed my eyes I could imagine myself in that house of Satan,
listening, as I had done so often, to the calling of the heathen."

"I
cannot believe this," I repeated. "Ramses. How did you learn to
differentiate these calls? There are three hundred mosques in Cairo!"

"But
only thirty or forty within the area I considered most likely," said
Ramses. "To wit, the old city, with its dark and secret byways and its
crumbling ancient mansions and its—" He caught my eye. "I became
interested in the matter last spring," he went on, more prosaically.
"When we were in Cairo before leaving for England. We were there for
several weeks, and I had ample opportunity to—"

"I
understand," said Emerson. "A most ingenious idea, upon my word.
Don't you agree, Peabody?"

My
cup was empty. I thought of asking for more, but my iron will rose triumphant
over distress and disbelief. "I believe we should go home now," I
said. "Father Todorus must be tired."

Father
Todorus made polite protestations, but it was evident he would be glad to see
the last of us. His manner toward Ramses as he bade him farewell was a blend of
respect and terror.

As
we emerged from the priest's house, one of the villagers came up leading the
mare and, with a deep salaam, handed the reins to Ramses.

Ramses'
excursion into grand theft had momentarily slipped my mind. I remembered
reading that in the American West, horse thieves were usually hanged.

Perhaps
Ramses remembered this too. In the act of mounting he hesitated and then turned
to me. With his most winning smile he said, "Would you like to ride
Mazeppa, Mama?"

"A
very proper thought, Ramses," said Emerson approvingly. "I am glad to
see you show your dear mama the consideration she deserves."

The
mayor shared the opinion of the American cowboy with regard to horse thieves. I
was obliged to propitiate him by hiring the horse, at a staggering fee, for the
duration of our stay at Dahshoor. Leaving the mare with her owner, for we had
no stabling facilities worthy of such a paragon, I returned to the house.

My
annoyance was not assuaged by the sight of Ramses and his father deep in
consultation over a map of Cairo that was spread across the table, on which our
evening meal had already been set out. One end of the map was in the gravy.
Ramses was jabbing at the paper with his forefinger and saying, "The most
audible of the muezzins was the gentleman from the mosque of Gamia 'Seiyidna
Hosein. By a process of elimination and repetition I feel we can eliminate
everything outside a region roughly seven hundred and fifty—"

Very
firmly and quietly I suggested that the map be removed and the dishes
rearranged. We sat down to the excellent (though tepid) meal Hamid had
prepared. A distinct air of constraint was to be felt, and for a time all ate
in silence. Then Emerson, whose motives are always admirable but whose notion
of tact is distinctly peculiar, said brightly, "I trust the matter of the
mare was settled to your satisfaction, Peabody."

"It
was settled to the satisfaction of the mayor, Emerson. We have hired the mare
for the season, at a price of one hundred shekels."

Emerson
choked on a mouthful of stew and had to retire behind his table napkin.
However, he did not complain about the price. Instead he suggested,
"Perhaps we should purchase the animal outright. For you, Pea-body, I
mean; wouldn't you like to have her for your own? She is a pretty
creature—"

"No,
thank you, Emerson. The next thing, Ramses would be demanding that we ship her
back to England with us."

"You
are quite mistaken, Mama; such an idea had not occurred to me. It would be more
convenient to keep Mazeppa here, so that I can ride her when we come out
each—"

The
sentence ended in a gasp and a start, as Emerson, who had realized that any
further reference to the mare, especially from his son, would not improve my
mood, kicked Ramses in the shin. No one spoke for a while. Donald had not said
a word the entire time; I attributed his silence to remorse at his failure to
carry out his duty, but as I was soon to learn, there was another reason. He
had been thinking. As Emerson says—somewhat unjustly, I believe—the process is
difficult for Englishmen, and requires all their concentration.

Not
until we had slaked the first pangs of hunger and
were nibbling on
slices of fruit did the young man rise from his chair and clear his throat.
"I have come to a decision," he announced. "That is, Enid and I
have come to a decision."

He
took the hand the girl offered him, squared his shoulders, and went on,
"We wish to be married at once. Professor, will you perform the service
this evening?"