The Buried Pyramid (60 page)

“It goes something like this:
I desire magic, so I have sought things of magic. I have sought them and collected them. I have gathered them unto myself from living and dead, from high places and low, and from all the middle places as well. From all things that creep, fly, and swim over the surface of the Earth, I have taken magic. As I have gathered it, so it is my own.”

Lady Cheshire nodded. “All right. Say it again a little more slowly and I’ll repeat it.”

“Me, too,” Stephen said, holding up another rope ankh. “That is, if you can spare me, Eddie. I’ll only let myself be distracted for a moment, I assure you.”

Jenny thought that Uncle Neville looked remarkably controlled, and she admired him for his poise.

It must be part of being British,
she thought.
Ra didn’t shoot down this crazy idea of Lady Cheshire’s. Maybe there’s something to it.

“Of course, Stephen,” Uncle Neville responded. “Go ahead. Ra usually has Thoth and Isis both. Doesn’t seem quite right we should do without at least two sorcerers.”

Jenny glanced at Eddie Bryce, wondering how the Englishman turned Mohammedan was taking this, but Eddie’s attention was for the side of the boat.

I’d better watch, too,
she reminded herself.

She did, directing her gaze resolutely forward, but listening as Stephen and Lady Cheshire repeated Mrs. Syms’s incantation.

Sounds vaguely biblical,
Jenny thought.
Especially that part about crawling, flying, and swimming things. I wonder which came first?

Stephen finished his recitation, then said almost diffidently, “I did manage to pack at least a few books along, Lady Cheshire. Until the next hoard of horrors comes along, perhaps you might want to look at them? Might give us some ideas what to try.”

“Wonderful idea, Mr. Holmboe,” Lady Cheshire agreed.

The Boat of Millions of Years sailed on in relative peace for a time, though the landscape altered several more times. Jenny was mulling over whether she should ask for an ankh and a chance to recite the spell when Captain Brentworth’s deep voice broke the quiet.

“Miss Benet, have we run aground? We seem to be slowing.”

“We have not run aground,” Ra said before Jenny could reply. “I have been dreading this. Apophis has stolen the wind from our sails.”

“Let me guess,” Stephen said with false heartiness. “This is one of those problems your associates—Thoth and Isis and the rest—would solve by means of a spell.”

“I admit this is so,” Ra replied.

“Then we must do the same,” Stephen said. “The Boat of the Sun travels west to east at night, right? So we need to summon the West Wind.”

“You are certainly full enough of hot air, Mr. Holmboe,” Captain Brentworth said mockingly. “Why not just get behind the sail and blow?”

“Robert!” Lady Cheshire snapped, her tone more rebuke than any words would have been. Then it softened. “Captain Brentworth may have a point, Mr. Holmboe, no matter how badly put. Sympathetic magic may work for us.”

“Sailors,” Eddie offered, “have all sorts of rituals to raise a wind, scratching backstays, I think, and whistling. Or is it not whistling?”

“Does this boat have backstays?” Mrs. Syms asked interestedly. “I suppose these lines holding the sail would do.”

She trotted over to one and gave it a good scratch, rather as one might a favorite horse.

Stephen meanwhile had moved to behind the sail and in the fashion of one who is quite aware he looks idiotic was puffing and blowing. Jenny half-expected some mockery from Lady Cheshire, but that elegant creature came to stand beside Stephen and spread her arms, flapping them gently like Leda turning into the swan. As she did so, she repeated over and over again,

“Blow wind, blow! We have places to go! Blow wind, blow!”

Jenny decided a little whistling couldn’t exactly hurt, and turning forward as if conscientiously minding her post she whistled a makeshift tune in time with Lady Cheshire’s words.

Whether any of this did anything, or whether the wind would have resumed in its own right, no one but Ra could say, and no one quite had the courage to ask him. What was certain is that the wind did resume, and within a few minutes of that resumption, they were once again sailing upriver at a fine clip.

More time passed, and once again it was Captain Brentworth, whose place at the rudder made him sensitive to even minor changes in the boat’s motion, who commented on a change.

“Miss Benet, the ship seems a little stiff responding to the rudder. Have we run onto a sandbar or something?”

“No,” Jenny called back, leaning over the rails for a better look and probing with her pole. “Not that I tell from here, but you’re right, we are slowing.”

“We seem to be riding a bit high,” Neville added, looking over the port side. “Maybe we hit a sandbar that was too far under to be seen from the surface.”

Ra meanwhile was giving orders for the sail to be slackened, so the bottom of the hull would not be torn out against this unseen obstacle.

Uncle Neville picked up one of the oars and leaned over the port side, probing for the bottom.

“Might be that the highest part of whatever we’ve hit is here where the hull is lowest . . .”

He stopped talking abruptly, probing gently, then with greater force.

“Odd. The oar has hit something, but it doesn’t feel like sand or mud. It rather bounces . . .”

A violent shock ran through the hull, and the Boat of Millions of Years began to rise.

Neville reeled back from the rail as the boat lifted up out of the river. Then he heard Jenny scream. He wheeled, trying to recapture his balance as he turned toward the bow.

Jenny was clinging to the rail, staring at something below.

“Hippopotamus!” she cried out. “It’s not a sandbank! We’ve run onto the back of an enormous hippopotamus!”

Neville didn’t question the accuracy of her statement. There amidst the clear blue waters of the Nile was a vast shining red bulk that was easily three-quarters the length of the Boat of Millions of Years and far more massive, extending to either side of the hull in an expanse of rubbery hide that bristled here and there with coarse black hair. In contrast to the hippo’s bulk, the slender curve of the boat’s stern and prow looked fragile and insignificant.

“Jenny! Brentworth! Get down!”

Neville shouted his warning only in time. The irate hippo sank into the water, ridding itself of its burden, then swam ponderously forward to attack the boat’s prow. The projecting curve snapped at the impact, the break bisecting Jenny’s platform. The darker red flesh of the hippo’s mouth, set with huge, square ivory-white teeth, was all too visible before it closed, chewing the dry wood with what Neville thought was more confusion than malice.

“Maybe it thinks we’re some peculiar breed of crocodile,” Eddie said, his voice taut with excitement. “If it doesn’t change it’s mind we’re dead. A hippo’s jaw can crush a croc like we would an egg.”

Captain Brentworth was checking the action on his rifle, but Neville could tell he was dubious about its effectiveness against such a foe.

“Even a usual hippopotamus,” the captain said, “is armored in fat. Unless we hit this one just right, we’re more likely to anger it than kill it.”

“We’ve got to do something,” Jenny protested. “You can take out a charging buffalo with a good shot. I’ll give it a try. Just tell me where to aim.”

Captain Brentworth might have replied, but Lady Cheshire overrode him.

“We can’t shoot it, Miss Benet. Even if you made your shot, its death struggles would overturn the boat.”

“We have to do something!” Jenny retorted, “or it’s going to overturn us anyhow.”

Eddie grabbed her arm. “Hush, Jenny. Lady Cheshire’s right—and so are you. It’s pretty much finished tasting the bow, and is trying to figure out if we might taste better on a second try.”

“Taste!” Stephen exclaimed in the tone of one who has had a sudden idea. “Let’s distract it with food.”

“Where would we get that much fodder?” Neville said, watching the hippopotamus lumber around to begin its return attack. It’s all desert here. Even the water’s shy of plants.”

“Magic!” Stephen said brightly, taking Mrs. Syms by one arm, Lady Cheshire by the other. “Come on, ladies. We have to try.”

Neville wasn’t at all certain that shooting wasn’t the thing to do, but Ra was silent beneath his canopy, so he figured it only made sense to give it a try. There was no harm in waiting. The rifles would have a better chance of penetrating the hippo’s fat from close in.

Stephen was talking very quickly, as if to convince himself.

“There are at least a few plants here,” he said. “As I see it, all we need to do is make them grow faster and more thickly.”

“Won’t they tangle the boat?” Lady Cheshire asked.

“Not if we work on the space between us and the hippo,” Stephen said. “Lotus and lily were both sacred to Ra, as I recall . . .”

Neville didn’t listen any further. Maybe he could make some sort of spear from one of the oars. If he sharpened the tip . . .

Eddie guessed what he was about, and pulled out a large knife, and began feverishly shaving away at the oar handle while Neville braced it firm, two one-armed men collaborating at carpentry.

“We’re all mad. Aren’t we, Sir Neville?” Eddie said with forced cheerfulness. “If we’re not, I’m going to have stories to rival the ones Miriam’s mother tells of Sinbad and Ali Baba.”

Neville grunted. He, for one, didn’t want to remember any of this, much less tell tales of it to his—as yet nonexistent—children. He glanced over to the port side where Stephen and Lady Cheshire were trading impromptu verses, enthusiastically echoed by Mrs. Syms and Jenny who were acting as chorus.

There was a note of desperation in their voices—all but that of Mrs. Syms, who seemed to think it all a rather wonderful game. Ra sat silent, his hawk’s head stern and dignified.

Is that the dignity of one who wishes to face death well, or the assurance of one who knows he’ll pull through?
Neville thought.

Eddie signalled that the oar handle was as sharp as he could make it, and Neville carried the makeshift spear over to the side. He stopped in mid-step, astonished at what he saw.

The water, dominated by the angry hippopotamus when last he had looked, was now crammed with greenery. Water lilies and lotus spread their pads side by side, more of the plants emerging from beneath the waters at every moment. Their flowers dotted the water, giving the scene a weirdly festive appearance.

In the midst of this stood the red hippo, shoulder deep in the waters, his massive jaws moving to tear at this unexpected feast. Bits of gilded and painted wood floated near him, testimony to his now forgotten fury.

Ra called out, “Rashid, ready the sail. Captain Brentworth, can you tend the rudder?”

The big man hastened back to his post, still craning his neck to look at the grazing hippopotamus. Neville glanced over at Eddie as they separated to their posts.

“Guess I didn’t need a spear after all,” he said, ruefully.

Ra—not Eddie—replied, “I wouldn’t say that, Neville. You have done well so far, but we have not yet passed Apophis.”

The minute she succumbed to Mrs. Syms’s joyful invitation to “sing along, Miss Benet. It’s such fun!” Jenny had given up on logic or reason. She’d sung for all she was worth, not even giggling when a particular verse of the spell recalled a nursery tune or a popular song. She left logic behind her—and with it, strangely, fear.

When the hippo had splintered not only the bow platform, but also the entire prow of the ship, Jenny had been all too aware that the break neatly cut in half her spray-splashed footmarks. It had been that close. If she hadn’t listened to Uncle Neville, if she’d paused to do more than to grab her rifle, she’d be in the hippo’s belly—along with a huge salad.

When they broke free, Jenny insisted on moving to the prow again.

“I can’t stand up high,” she said, “but we still need someone to watch.”

Though she almost wished someone would, no one protested.