The Buried Pyramid (3 page)

Alphonse placed his hand on a slim volume bound in faded and cracking leather.

“The package contained this journal, written by an explorer who calls himself Chad Spice. Much of the contents are of little interest—at least from an archeological standpoint, though as an account of a wandering life it holds some amusement value. Let me read to you directly from the salient portions.”

Neville nodded, fighting an impulse to lean forward like a child anticipating a treat.

“Please do.”

Again the German’s voice shifted, this time becoming not so much sing-song as clipped and terse.

I was a fool beyond mortal knowing when I attempted to win the favor of Sheik Azul’s daughter. In the dark of night, warning came to me that the sheik would have my life. I stole a horse and fled. At the rising of the sun, I saw that I had compounded my crimes. The horse I had chosen at random in the darkness proved to be the second favorite among the sheik’s mares.

Terrified, I fled and with God’s help managed to elude my pursuers. Yet I feared their wrath would follow me even into neighboring villages, and so I turned my course into the desert, for Sheik Azul rules a riverside town. In this way I thought I might bypass him and his allies. In the desert I came into an area where cliffs and broken ground barred me from returning on a straight line to the river. Thus I was forced to push deeper and deeper into the sandy wastes.

After some days, the lovely mare I had stolen died from the harsh conditions. Without her blood to sustain me, I nearly perished from lack of water and the punishing force of the sun. On what surely would have been my final day on Earth, I glimpsed a towering rock jutting solitary from the sand. Spending my fading strength mercilessly, I stumbled into its shade and there slept until the cool of the night.

When I awoke, my tongue had swollen to fill my mouth. My eyes and lips were encrusted with sand. Maddeningly, I imagined I heard the musical trickle of falling water. Staggering to my feet—though I believed myself insane—I followed the sound. Moving as in dream or delirium, I descended the slope until I came upon a tiny spring welling from the rock. I drank my fill and slept, waking only to drink again. When dawn came I saw I had come to an oasis populated only by goats and lizards.

I stayed in this oasis while I regained my strength. As my senses returned to me, I realized that I had stumbled into what must have been a holy place to the people of this land. Four gigantic statues—one of which had been the “rock” under which I had first sheltered from the sun—flanked the gentle vale, and picture writing, marvelously fresh, adorned the rocks.

Although the sun’s passage made clear which way east (and the Nile) must be, I feared to depart the oasis. Yet as I grew stronger I became both restless and fearful. Goats are not common in the heart of the desert. Who had put them here? When might the goats’ owners return?

One exceptionally clear day, I saw to the south and east a shape like unto the head of a monstrous hawk crested in green. Further study revealed it to be a vast rock. The greenery seemed to promise water, so I resolved to make this Hawk Rock my new goal.

After killing several goats—for they were as tame as pets and offered no struggle—and making bags for water from their innards, a rough cap for my head and slippers for my feet from their hides, I ventured across the sands to the Hawk Rock. The distance was greater than I had imagined, but once there I again found water and so recovered my strength. While I recuperated, I noticed inscriptions like unto those I had seen at the oasis. From the Hawk Rock I made my final push to the Nile.

Worn and near mad, I stumbled at last from the sandy wastes. Joyfully, I plunged my head into the silty waters. The natives of that place looked at me as if I were insane. I fear I did not help myself to gain their regard, for as soon as I recovered enough to stand, I stood and saluted the Hawk Rock and, invisible beyond it, the Oasis of Statues that had saved my life.

Alphonse closed the journal.

“Chad Spice records that as soon as he recovered from his ordeal—and the villagers treated him with the kindness that all Muslims are enjoined to offer beggars and madmen—he made his way to Luxor. There he found European allies who, hearing of his ordeals, took pity on him. Initially, Spice relaxed, but then he began to feel uneasy—as if he were being watched. At this point, he decided to depart for Cairo. As far as I can tell, Chad Spice never arrived. If he did, then he lost this journal along the way.”

Neville frowned. “You mean his account ends?”

“That is correct, my friend. The last entry tells that he has signed as deck hand on some vessel and planned to depart the next morning. He was in high spirits.”

“Odd.”

“Very.” Alphonse put the journal aside. “However, what happened to Chad Spice does not interest me. What does interest me is this Oasis of Statues he describes. It could well be the Valley of Dust. It is isolated from the usual burial grounds—as Neferankhotep wished to be. It is guarded by four statues, as legend says the Valley of Dust was guarded.”

Neville couldn’t quite accept this leap in reasoning. Egypt was riddled with burial grounds, temples, and other ruins. He sought for something encouraging to say.

“Even if it isn’t the Valley of Dust, Alphonse, you certainly seem to be onto something. Are we hoping to find this Hawk Rock? Spice’s journal seems to indicate that it can be seen from the banks of the Nile, and it must be in the vicinity of Luxor if he went there as soon as he recovered his strength.”

Alphonse’s eyebrows shot up. He looked both amused and smug.

“Neville, I have already located the Hawk Rock—at least I believe I have. Using Luxor as a starting point, I have spent the last two winters traveling up and down the Nile shores, venturing into the fringes of the desert. Last winter, using the most powerful telescope I could transport with me, I sighted a feature that could well be the Hawk Rock. Summer was too close to wisely venture into the desert, but now . . .”

Neville Hawthorne raised his snifter in a toast.

“To the Hawk Rock!”

“I had a devil of a time getting camels,” Eddie Bryce reported. “Seems like everyone had promised their beasts to someone else. Finally managed by catching up with a dealer before he reached Luxor. Camels and drivers will be waiting for us when we get off the boat.”

Lean and sun-browned, handsome in a rough and ready way, Edward Bryce did not seem old enough to have fifteen years of honorable—if not always distinguished—service behind him. However, at age eight Eddie had run away to become a drummer boy, thus escaping a life of drudgery as a younger son in the great brood of a Sussex farmer.

In those fifteen years, Eddie had seen much of the British Empire. Early on he had discovered a liking for both languages and people. The first interest had thrown him and Neville together. Then Neville had learned that though Eddie spoke over a dozen languages quite well, he could hardly read, even in his mother tongue. Neville’s determination to teach Eddie to read—over the younger man’s initial protests—had cemented the friendship.

“The reis,” Eddie continued, using the Arab term for a ship’s captain, “says he is prepared to sail whenever Herr Liebermann is ready.”

“Tell the reis tomorrow morning,” Neville replied. “Herr Liebermann is impatient to be off.”

The voyage up the Nile was—except for crocodiles and hippopotami in the waters, and aggressive merchant fellahin along the shores—uneventful, restful, and lovely.

Neville drowsed beneath the on-deck canopy and engaged in long discussions about archeology with Alphonse. The four Europeans played whist almost every night. After hearing about the fight in which Eddie had acquired the bruises that, though faded, were still greenly visible, Alphonse took a liking to the sergeant.

“You are a knight errant,” Alphonse announced, greatly amused. “Like Parsifal or, since you are English, maybe Galahad, yes?”

Bryce, who was about as far from a virgin knight as was possible, grinned, but he didn’t disabuse the German of his illusions.

Camels and drovers were indeed waiting for them at the appointed spot, but Neville could tell from the storm cloud that settled over Eddie’s features as the dahabeeyah came into shore that something wasn’t right.

“Problem?”

“Too few camels. Looks like about half—and the worst half—of what I ordered. Can’t tell about drovers.”

Neville frowned.

“Find out. I’ll keep Herr Liebermann busy unloading gear.”

“Right, Captain.”

Later, Neville headed to where Alphonse and Derek were checking items off a list.

“Bad news, Alphonse,” Neville reported bluntly. “Seems that we have about half the camels for which Eddie contracted. The man who stayed—along with his son and daughter—claims that his partner left after the local sheik started telling stories about some curse out in the desert.”

“How many camels do we have?” Alphonse asked.

“Seven,” Neville replied. “Solid beasts. I’ll say that for them. All are trained to take either riders or gear.”

“Seven is enough,” Alphonse said. “My gear is not so much. This will make carrying out artifacts difficult, but then we have no assurance we will find any. If you are willing, Captain Hawthorne, I will still go on.”

“Your gear may not be ‘so much,’ ” Neville reminded him, “but we’ll still need additional camels to carry water and fodder.”

“But there is water at the Hawk Rock!” Alphonse protested.

“So that old journal said,” Neville replied. “Things might have changed. That might not even be the right rock. No sane man goes into the desert without water.”

Alphonse nodded, then turned to his assistant.

“Derek, how we may repack? You are a very magician at this.”

Schmidt looked thoughtful. “I’ll have a word with the drovers, sir. See just what weights the camels will carry and repack accordingly.”

Neville surrendered.

“Sergeant Bryce is with the drovers,” he said to Derek. “Ask him to translate for you.”

Dawn was barely pinking the horizon when they set out. In addition to the four Europeans, their party had been augmented by three Bedouin: Ali, Ali’s son, Ishmael, and Ali’s daughter, Miriam. Miriam rode the camel which carried the water, riding lightly despite her enshrouding robes.

“She weighs hardly more than a feather,” Eddie confided to Neville, his eyes bright with interest as he glanced back at the graceful figure. “She’s the reason her father stayed when his partner left.”

“I suppose,” Neville said, thinking of his own sister, “Ali needs a dowry if he wants a good marriage for her.”

“I don’t know about that,” Eddie said, “but from what I overheard, Miriam’s got more pluck and character than the men. She won’t run off from nothing. Won’t let them run off neither.”

It would turn out that Eddie was wrong about this, but when the time came, no one blamed Miriam at all.

As Chad Spice’s journal had noted, distances across the open, featureless desert were very hard to judge. After one day’s steady travel the only reason Neville felt certain they hadn’t been marching in place was that the village along the Nile had diminished into tiny shapes that vanished from sight as the ground over which they traveled became more and more uneven.

By end of the second day’s travel, however, Neville began to entertain a quiet certainty that Alphonse Liebermann had been correct in his assumption that the distant shape he had glimpsed from the Nile was the Hawk Rock. By the end of the third day’s march, Neville—and everyone else—was certain.

They began their marches at dawn and continued until the heat of the sun became unbearable. Then they would pitch pavilions, rest until the heat began to lose intensity, and resume. Had their goal been larger or more certain, they might have navigated by the stars at night. As it was, even the eager Alphonse preferred to have their goal visible before them. Then, too, pitching tents and tending to camels by starlight were tasks that none of them cared to undertake.

On the night following the third day’s march, Neville had wandered a short distance from the camp, seeking peace and quiet to cool his mind as the darkness cooled his body. No one would ever say that Alphonse Liebermann was a dull traveling companion, but his intensity scorched nearly as much as did the sun.