CHILDREN OF THE STORM.

by Elizabeth Peters.

CHAPTER ONE

The encrimsoned sun sank slowly toward the crest of the Theban mountains. Another glorious Egyptian sunset burned against the horizon like fire in the heavens.

In fact, I did not at that moment behold it, since I was facing east. I had seen hundreds of sunsets, however, and my excellent imagination supplied a suitable mental picture. As the sky over Luxor darkened, the shadows of the bars covering doors and windows lengthened and blurred, lying like a tiger's stripes across the two forms squatting on the floor. One of them said, "Spoceeva."

"Russian," Ramses muttered. scribbling on his notepad. "Yesterday it was Amharic. The day before it sounded like-"

"Gibberish," said his wife.

"No," Ramses insisted. "It has to mean something. They use root words from a dozen languages, and they obviously understand one another. See? He's nodding. They are standing up. They are going . . ." His voice rose. "Leave the cat alone!"

The Great Cat of Re, stretched out along the back of the settee behind him, rose in haste and climbed to the top of his head, from which position it launched itself onto a shelf. Ramses put his notepad aside and looked severely at the two figures who stood before him. "Die Katze ist ganz verboten. Kedi, hayir. Em nedjeroo pa meeoo."

The Great Cat of Re grumbled in agreement. He had been a small, miserable-looking kitten when we acquired him, but Sennia had insisted on giving him that resounding appellation and, against all my expectations, he had grown into his name. His appearance was quite different from those of our other cats: longhaired, with an enormous plume of a tail, and a coat of spotted black on gray. With characteristic feline obstinacy he insisted on joining us for tea, though he knew he would have to go to some lengths to elude his juvenile admirers, who now burst into a melodious babble of protest, or, perhaps, explanation.

"Darling, let's stick to one language, shall we?" Nefret said. She was smiling, but I thought there was a certain edge to her voice. "They'll never learn to talk if you address them in ancient Egyptian and Anglo-Saxon."

"They know how to talk," Ramses said loudly, over the duet. "Recognizable human speech, however-"

"Say Papa," Nefret coaxed. She leaned forward. "Say it for Mama."

"Bap," said the one whose eyes were the same shade of cornflower-blue.

"Perverse little beggars," said Ramses. The other child climbed onto his knee and buried her head against his chest. I suspected she was trying to get closer to the cat, but she made an engaging picture as she clung to her father. They were affectionate little creatures, much given to hugging and kissing, especially of each other.

"They're over two years old," Ramses went on, stroking the child's black curls. "I was speaking plainly long before that, wasn't I, Mother?"

"Dear me, yes," I said, with a somewhat sickly smile. To be honest-which I always endeavor to be in the pages of my private journal-I dreaded the moment when the twins began to articulate. Once Ramses learned to talk plainly, he never stopped talking except to eat or sleep, for over fifteen years, and the prolixity and pedantry of his speech patterns were extremely trying to my nerves. The idea of not one but two children following in the paternal footsteps chilled my blood.

Ever the optimist, I told myself there was no reason to antic.i.p.ate such a disaster. The little dears might take after their mother, or me.

"Children learn at different rates," I explained to my son. "And twins, according to the best authorities, are sometimes slower to speak because they communicate readily with one another."

"And because they get everything they want without having to ask for it," Ramses muttered. The children obviously understood English, though they declined to speak it; his little daughter raised her head and fluttered her long lashes flirtatiously. He fluttered his lashes back at her. Charla giggled and gave him a hug.

The question of suitable names had occupied us for months. I say "us," because I saw no reason why I should not offer a suggestion or two. (There is nothing wrong with making suggestions so long as the persons to whom they are offered are not obliged to accept them.) Not until the end of her pregnancy did I begin to suspect Nefret was carrying twins, but since we had already settled on names for a male or a female child, it worked out quite nicely. There was no debate about David John; no one quarreled with Ramses's desire to name his son after his best friend and his cousin who had died in France in 1915.

A girl's name was not so easy to find. Emerson declared (quite without malice, I am sure) that between our niece and myself there were already enough Amelias in the family. It was with some hesitation that I mentioned that my mother's name had been Charlotte, and I was secretly pleased when Nefret approved.

"It is such a nice, ordinary name," she said.

"Unlike Nefret," said her husband.

"Or Ramses." She chuckled and patted his cheek. "Not that you could ever be anything else."

Charla, as we called her, had the same curly black hair and dark eyes as her father. Her brother Davy, now perched on his mother's knee, was fair, with Nefret's blue eyes and Ramses's prominent nose and chin. They did not resemble each other except in height, and in their linguistic eccentricity. Davy was more easygoing than his sister, but he had a well-nigh supernatural ability to disappear from one spot and materialize in another some distance away. The bars had been installed in all the rooms they were wont to inhabit, including the veranda, where we now sat waiting for Fatima to serve tea, after one such incident: looking out through the open archway I had seen Davy-who had been quietly pilfering biscuits not ten seconds before-pursuing one of the fierce feral curs from the village, with cries that may or may not have meant "dog" in some obscure language. The dog was running as fast as it could go.

Our Luxor home was an unpretentious sprawling place, built of stone and mud brick and surrounded by the flora I had carefully cultivated. The plan was similar to that of most Egyptian houses, with rooms surrounding a series of courtyards, the only unusual feature being the veranda that ran along the front. Open (before the twins) arches provided a view across the desert to the green strip of cultivation bordering the river, and the eastern mountains beyond. A short distance away was the smaller house occupied by Ramses and Nefret and the twins. The arrangement had been somewhat haphazard, with wings and additional structures added as they were needed, but in my opinion the result-which I had designed-was both attractive and comfortable.

The s.p.a.ce would be needed, since the rest of our English family would be joining us in a few days for the first time since the beginning of the Great War. Hostilities had ended in November of 1918, but the shadow cast by that dreadful conflict was slow to pa.s.s. For those who had lost loved ones in the muddy trenches of France or on the bloodstained beaches of Gallipoli, the shadow would never entirely pa.s.s. Emerson's brother Walter and his wife, my dear friend Evelyn, would always mourn the death of their son Johnny, as would we all; but 1919 was the first full year of peace, and I was determined to make this Christmas a memorable one. How good it would be to have them with us again-Walter and Evelyn, their daughter Lia and her husband David, who was Ramses's best friend and an accomplished artist, not to mention their two dear little children.

That would make four dear little children. It would be a lively Christmas indeed.

As I bent my fond gaze upon the twins nestling in the arms of their handsome parents, I decided I would ask David to paint a group portrait. Photographs we had in plenty, but color was needed to capture their striking looks. Ramses's well-cut features and well-shaped form resembled those of his father, but he was brown as an Egyptian, with a crop of curly black hair and long-lashed dark eyes. Nefret's fair skin and gold-red locks were those of an English beauty, and the children combined the best features of both parents.

If we could get the little creatures to sit still long enough. Simultanously both children squirmed out of the arms of their parents and pelted toward the door that led into the house. It opened to admit their grandfather.

I have sometimes been accused of exaggeration, but when I say that my husband is the most famous and respected Egyptologist of all time I speak only the literal truth. After thirty-odd years in the field, he was still as straight and stalwart as he had been on the day we first met; his sapphirine orbs were as keen, his shoulders as broad, his ebon locks unmarked by silver except for snowy streaks at each temple.

"Good Gad!" he exclaimed, as the twins flung themselves at his lower limbs.

"Don't swear in front of the children, Emerson," I scolded.

"That was not swearing," said Emerson. "But I cannot have this sort of thing. An unprovoked attack, and by two against one! I claim the right to defend myself."

He scooped them up and settled into a chair with one on each knee. How much of his nonsense they had understood I would not be prepared to say, but they were both giggling wildly.

Fatima came out with the tea tray.

"Will you pour the tea, Sitt Hakim?" she asked.

Emerson twitched at the sound of my Egyptian sobriquet, "Lady Doctor." He always does, since he has no high opinion of my medical skills. I would be the first to admit they were not the equal of Nefret's-she had actually qualified as a surgeon, no small feat for a woman in those days-but during my early years in Egypt, when the Egyptian fellahin had almost no access to doctors or hospitals, my efforts had been deeply appreciated and-if I may say so-not inadequate.

"Yes, thank you," I replied. "Put the tray here, please."

Fatima lingered for a while, her plain but kindly face warm with affection as she watched the children close in on the plate of biscuits. Like the other members of what I may call our Egyptian family, she was more friend than servant. They were all close kin of our dear departed reis Abdullah, and through the marriage of his grandson David to our niece Lia, kin of ours as well.

We were soon joined by other members of the household: Sennia, our ward, and her two followers, her cat Horus and her self-appointed bodyguard, Gargery. Strictly speaking, Gargery was our butler, but he had taken on additional duties as he (not I) determined them to be necessary. These included eavesdropping, proffering unasked-for advice, and squabbling with Horus.

I must be fair to Gargery; Horus did not get on with anyone except Nefret and Sennia. He followed the child wherever she went, even into the dangerous proximity of the twins. He immediately got under the settee and hid behind my skirts.

Now nine years of age, Sennia was believed by some evil-minded persons to be Ramses's illegitimate daughter, which was not the case. She was living proof of the fact that proper rearing can overcome heredity, for hers could hardly have been worse: her mother an Egyptian prost.i.tute, her father my unprincipled and deservedly deceased nephew. Her coloring was Egyptian, her manners those of a well-brought-up little English girl, and her nature as sunny as that of any happy child. She was absolutely devoted to Ramses, who had rescued her from a life of poverty and shame, and I had been a trifle apprehensive as to how she would react to the babies. If she felt jealousy, she concealed it well; and if she was sometimes inclined to order the little ones around, that was only to be expected.

Having dispensed the genial beverage, I leaned back in my chair and watched the animated, cheerful group with a smile which was not without a touch of smugness. I believe I may be excused for feeling complacent. We had been through troubled times in the past; even before the war involved Ramses in several perilous secret missions, we had encountered a number of thieves, murderers, forgers, kidnappers, and even a Master Criminal. I could scarcely remember a season when we had not faced danger in one form or another. For the first time in many years, no cloud hung over us, no old foe threatened vengeance.

I will not claim that I had not enjoyed some of these encounters. Matching wits with experienced criminals and persons intent on doing one harm lends a certain spice to existence. However, facing danger oneself is not at all the same as having loved ones in peril. A number of my gray hairs (concealed periodically by the application of a certain harmless concoction) had been put there by Ramses. It had been bad enough when he was a child, getting into one sc.r.a.pe after another. Maturity had not made him more cautious, and after Nefret and David joined the family, they were usually up to their necks in trouble too.

But it was different now, I told myself. Ramses and Nefret were parents, and the welfare of those precious little beings (who were trying to climb the back of the settee in order to get at the Great Cat of Re) would surely restrain their recklessness.

FROM Ma.n.u.sCRIPT H.

"Something rather odd happened today," Ramses said.

He and Nefret were dressing for dinner-not in formal evening attire, since his father only permitted that annoyance on rare occasions. However, a change of clothing was usually necessary after an hour with his offspring, since various substances, from chocolate to mud, somehow got transferred from them to any surface they came in contact with.

Nefret didn't answer. Her head was tilted, her expression abstracted. She was listening to the shrieks of laughter and meaningless chatter that floated in through their open window from the window of the children's room farther along the corridor. They were supposed to be asleep, but of course they weren't. Ramses was used to the sounds, but he forgot what he had been about to say as his eyes moved over the figure of his wife, seated before her dressing table. She hadn't put on her frock yet; her white arms were raised, her slim fingers coiled the long golden locks into a knot at the back of her neck. He went to her and replaced her hands with his, running his fingers through her hair. It felt like silk.

She smiled at him, her eyes seeking the reflection of his face in the mirror. "I'm sorry, darling; did you say something?"

"I can't remember."

"Hurry and dress. I want to look in on the children before we go to dinner."

He took his hands away. "All right."

THE SOUNDS OF THE CHILDREN'S voices had died into silence by the time they left the house. It was several hundred yards from the main house, hidden from it by the trees and shrubs his mother had forced to defy the sandy soil and lack of rain. Lanterns lit the winding path that led through the greenery, and the scent of roses filled the night with sweetness.

"I love this place," Nefret said softly. "I didn't expect to, you know. I had originally hoped we could be just a wee bit farther removed from the family."

"It was just like Mother to have the house built without consulting us, but she's stuck to her word to respect our privacy. Even Father doesn't drop in without asking permission first."

Nefret chuckled, a sound that always reminded her infatuated husband of flowing, sunlit water. "Not since the time he popped in and caught us in bed at five in the afternoon."

"He's in no position to criticize. I've lost track of how many times I've sat twiddling my thumbs waiting for him while he and Mother were up to the same thing."

They weren't too late after all. Emerson had just entered the parlor, delayed this time not by dalliance but because he had got involved in his notes.

"Where is your copy of the inscription we found on the wall of that house?" he demanded of his son.

"You might at least say 'Good evening' before you begin badgering him," his wife remarked.

"Good evening," said Emerson. "Ramses, where is-"

Thanks to the interruption, Ramses had been able to recall the inscription to which his father presumably referred. He hadn't thought of it for several months. "If you mean the inscription of Amennakhte, it's in my notes. Didn't I give them to you? I was under the impression that I had."

He knew he had. No doubt Emerson had misplaced it. His desk was always a disorganized, overflowing heap of material. He could usually lay his hand on any given doc.u.ment at any given moment, but if it didn't turn up immediately he lost his temper and began throwing papers around.

"Hmph," said Emerson.

"Have you lost it?" Nefret asked. "It must be there somewhere, Father. I'll help you look, if you like."

"Bah." Emerson reached for his pipe. "Thank you, my dear, but that won't be necessary. I-er-don't need it just now."

"Yes, you do," said his wife, somewhat acerbically. "Emerson, you promised that article to the Journal weeks ago. You haven't finished it, have you?"

Emerson fixed her with a formidable glare and she abandoned the subject. Ramses was pretty sure she had not put it out of her mind, though. She had her own ways of managing her husband.

"Ah well, enough shop talk," she said cheerfully. "We need to discuss the arrangements for our guests."

"It's all settled, isn't it?" Nefret asked. "Sennia has kindly consented to give up her little suite to David and Lia and their brood, and Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Walter can stay with us or on the dahabeeyah, whichever they prefer."

"If I were in their shoes I'd choose the dahabeeyah," Ramses said lazily. "With four children under the age of six in residence, this place is going to be a zoo. I wonder how Dolly and Evvie will get on with our two."

"Badly, I should think," said his mother. "Yours are accustomed to our full attention, and Dolly will be hurt if Emerson neglects him."

"What nonsense!" Emerson exclaimed. "As if I would neglect little Abdullah!"

"You have only two knees, Emerson, and mark my words, they will all want to occupy them simultaneously."

"There you go again, borrowing trouble," Emerson grumbled.

"Antic.i.p.ating difficulties," his wife corrected. "Ah well, I am sure it will all work out. Your Uncle Walter will be delighted with the inscribed material we have found, Ramses."

"There's no better philologist in the business," Ramses agreed.

"And I mean to ask David to paint a group picture of you and Nefret and the children," his mother continued. "Or perhaps Evelyn; it has been a good many years since she practiced her skills, but I feel sure she will-"

"Now just a b.l.o.o.d.y minute, Peabody," Emerson exclaimed. "I won't have you a.s.signing extra duties to my staff even before they arrive. I will need them on the dig."

His use of his wife's maiden name indicated that he was in a more agreeable state of mind than the speech might have suggested. The family had learned to interpret those signals: Amelia when he was genuinely annoyed; Peabody when he was in a good humor, in fond recollection of the days of their courtship, when he had paid her the high compliment of addressing her as he would have done a man.

Ramses exchanged glances with his wife. The argument wasn't over; his mother would go right ahead with her plans, and his father would continue to complain. His parents enjoyed those "little differences of opinion," as his mother called them-though "shouting matches" might be a more descriptive term. She was smiling to herself; her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled.

Hers was, her son thought, a rather forbidding countenance, even in repose; when she was annoyed about something, her prominent chin jutted out and her dark-gray eyes took on a steely shine. The years had not changed her appearance much; her carriage was as erect and the new lines in her face were those of laughter. The thick black hair was, according to Nefret, no longer the original shade. Nefret had made him promise he wouldn't say a word, to his mother or father. In fact, he had found that evidence of feminine vanity rather touching.

Catching his eye, she broke off in the middle of a sentence. "What are you smiling at, Ramses? Have I a smudge on my nose?"

"No. I was just thinking how well you look this evening."

WHEN RAMSES AND EMERSON ARRIVED at the site next morning the sun had just lifted over the eastern cliffs and the little valley of Deir el Medina lay in shadow. High barren hills framed it on the east and west. The main entrance was to the north, where the walls of the Ptolemaic temple enclosed some of the earlier shrines to various G.o.ds. The tumbled ruins of other older temples surrounded it. And on the valley floor were the remains of the workman's village that had occupied the site for-at Emerson's latest estimate-at least three hundred years. Evidence of earlier occupation was yet to be found; if it existed, it would lie under the foundations of the later structures.

At first glance there seemed very little to show for over two years of work. When they had first taken over the excavation, the ruins of the village lay under millennia of acc.u.mulated debris and blown sand. In the past century it had suffered from random digging, by archaeologists and by local villagers searching for artifacts to sell. On the slopes of the eastern hill were the tombs of the workers, crowned in some cases by small crumbling pyramids. These too had been looted and their contents dispersed. In the recent past a few Egyptologists had conducted relatively scholarly excavations of a few tombs, but the museums of Europe contained ma.s.ses of papyri and miscellaneous objects that had been bought on the antiquities market during the nineteenth century A.D., many of which had probably come from Deir el Medina, without any record of their origin or location having been made. In short, the site offered a daunting challenge, and Emerson was one of the few men in the field who could do the job right. Ramses drew a deep breath of satisfaction as he gazed out at the unimposing scene. His father preferred temples and tombs, but ma.s.ses of inscribed material were turning up, ostraca and papyri, awaiting decipherment-the job he enjoyed most. If only his father would let him concentrate on them instead of demanding his presence on the site every day . . .

In fact, considerable progress had been made, under difficult conditions. It had taken a long time to remove the debris down to the top of the remaining walls, and to sift (as his mother had once remarked, in a rare fit of profanity) every b.l.o.o.d.y square inch of the cursed stuff. The task had been worthwhile; they had come across a lot of material early excavators had missed or discarded. They had also discovered that the village consisted of two sections, divided by a narrow main street and enclosed by a wall. They were working along the north side of this street, clearing each house in turn.

A number of distractions had delayed or interrupted their work. In the late summer of 1917, when it became apparent to Ramses's eagle-eyed mother that Nefret's long-desired pregnancy might have unantic.i.p.ated complications, she had taken her daughter-in-law off to Cairo and installed them both at Shepheard's, under the close supervision of the two female physicians in charge of the hospital for women Nefret had founded. Despite almost daily bulletins of rea.s.surance, it had proved impossible for Ramses to give his full attention to the job. His father was no more able to concentrate than he, and his temper became so explosive that even their a.s.sistant foreman, Daoud, whose placidity very little could disturb, went into hiding. After a week of futile activity Emerson had taken the unprecedented step of shutting down the dig. They had both headed for Cairo, where Emerson proceeded to "carry on like a maniac," to quote his exasperated wife. He spent half his time at the hospital inspecting the facilities and hara.s.sing the doctors and the other half staring in alarm at Nefret's increasing bulk.

Only the knowledge that expressing his worry would increase Nefret's kept Ramses from behaving even more erratically. For once his mother's know-it-all manner was a comfort; he felt as helpless as a child who keeps demanding, "Will it be all right?"

"Nefret is a physician, after all," his mother reminded him.

"But she's never had a baby before." He couldn't stop himself. "Will it be all right?"