Whispers in the Sand. Barbara Erskine
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to him he moved deferentially away. In the narrow doorway he remained where he was. ‘Without a candle there is nothing to see. I shall fetch one from the hamper –’
‘No.’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘No, Hassan. I can see it’s empty.’ For a moment they stayed where they were. He had turned from looking into the darkness and was gazing down at her with a look of such love and anguish that for a moment she found herself completely breathless. Then the moment had gone. ‘Hassan –’
‘I am sorry.’ He backed away from the door and bowed. ‘I am sorry, Sitt Louisa. Forgive me. There is much to see yet, and we have need of light for the inner sanctuary. Istanna shwaiyeh. Please, wait a little. And I will fetch it.’ He strode away from her, his face impassive once more, leaving her standing where she was in the doorway.
She glanced back into the darkness. Her heart was hammering under her ribs and she felt hot and strangely breathless. Turning slowly to follow him she found her fists clutched in the folds of her skirts. Firmly she unclenched them. She took a deep breath. This was nonsense. First she was having visions, imagining she saw him when he wasn’t there, then she was reacting to him as though … But her thoughts shied away even from the idea that she was attracted to him. This could not be.
He had not waited for her. She saw him stride once more into the shadows and then out into the sunlight of the great courtyard in the distance. This time he stayed clearly in sight, and now she could see too, the other group of visitors. She could see the woman in the green dress, gazing up at something their guide was pointing out to them in a frieze far above their heads. She was bored, even from so far away Louisa could see it. And she was hot and uncomfortable in her chic flounced gown with its fashionable slight train dragging in the dust behind her. She could see the dark patches of perspiration showing beneath the woman’s arms, the broad tell-tale stripe of dampness between her shoulderblades and suddenly she longed again for the loose clothing Hassan had promised or the soft cool fabric of the dresses folded beneath her nightgowns in the drawer on the boat. Wasn’t that what she had come to Egypt for? To be free. To be in charge of her own destiny. To be answerable to no one now except herself. Not to her husband’s family in London. Not to the Forresters. Not to their maid. With a sudden leap of excitement she picked up her skirts and ran after Hassan. ‘Wait for me!’ She smiled at the other woman pityingly as she whirled past and wondered with a gurgle of amusement what she thought of this vulgar, hurrying baggage who had emerged from the holy of holies in pursuit of a tall, handsome Egyptian.
Thy servant hath offered up for thee a sacrifice and the divine mighty ones tremble when they look upon the slaughtering knife …
I see and I have sight; I have my existence; I have done what hath been decreed; I hate slumber … and the god Set hath raised me up!
In the silence comes the sound of scraping, faint and far away. It is an intrusion, a sacrilege in the thick heat of the dark where no whisper of movement, no breath, no pulse sounds inside or outside the linen that wraps the bodies.
On the walls the sacred texts spin their legends into the firmament. For those two men the prayers were hasty, they were quickly copied. The net of prayers to speed them on their way, to protect their souls, to direct their spirit is written in pigment, not carved upon the rock. In the corner, hidden, powerful, commanding, written by an acolyte, one single prayer begs for their spirits, if they lie ill at ease, to reappear in the world they left so suddenly. ‘I hate slumber …’
Anna was awoken by a knocking on her cabin door. She stared up at the ceiling blankly for a moment, then squinted at her watch. It was eight-thirty.
‘Who is it? Wait a minute!’ Leaping out of bed she shook her hair out of her eyes, trying to defog her brain. ‘Serena? I’m so sorry. I should have set my alarm.’
Turning the key she pulled open the door. Andy stood there, wearing an open-necked shirt and chinos. He grinned at her. ‘I’m sorry. I thought I’d missed you at breakfast because you were an early riser.’ His gaze took in her wild unbrushed hair, her short nightshirt and the long, bare legs and his grin widened. ‘You were planning to come to Kom Ombo?’
‘Yes!’ Anna ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Oh God, yes! I’ve overslept! What time are they leaving?’
‘Ten minutes.’ He stepped away from the door. ‘I tell you what. Would you like me to fetch you some coffee from the dining room while you get dressed?’
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