A River in the Sky

Obviously her caravan had only just arrived. She might have arrived before it-he could see several horses tethered near the stream-but she had gone straight to the tell, without stopping to rest or freshen up. Why the hurry? Why come at all, for that matter?

His mother claimed that idle curiosity was his besetting sin. She’d be right in this case; it was none of his business what the lady and her party were doing, or why. But he stood watching while a pair of veiled women emerged from her tent to greet her with bowed heads and hands raised in a gesture of respect. They must be her personal servants. A well-bred lady wouldn’t travel without them.

When he turned to go back, he saw a crumpled shape of pristine white on the ground just behind him. It was a handkerchief unadorned by lace or embroidery, but it certainly wasn’t one of his-too small, too clean, of fine linen fabric. Looking back, he was in time to see the tent flap close.

With a shrug, Ramses put the handkerchief into his pocket.

He went back by way of the village. As he passed the mosque he saw a tall white-clad form slip into the door. None of the villagers was that tall. The man was Mme von Eine’s taciturn fellow traveler. He must have slipped away while Ramses was spying on the lady.

Stop looking for mysteries, Ramses told himself. Why shouldn’t the fellow take advantage of the opportunity for formal prayers? It was almost midday, and Madame obviously had no intention of moving on that day.

The thin voice of the muezzin came to his ears as he reached the tower. The men had been dismissed and Reisner and Fisher were seated in the shade, eating a frugal lunch. It was the same every day, unleavened bread, cheese, grapes and figs and olives.

“Did you get rid of the lady?” Reisner asked, offering the basket of food.

“I walked her back to her camp. What the devil was she doing here?”

“Damned if I know,” Reisner said placidly. “People do drop in for a variety of inexplicable reasons.”

“Is she really an archaeologist?”

“Damned if I know.”

“Her name is familiar,” Fisher said, digging into the basket. “One of the Germans mentioned it, I think-Winckler or Schumacher.”

The name of his predecessor at Samaria brought a scowl to Reisner’s face. He had been horrified at Schumacher’s sloppy excavation methods, and his vehement criticism had led to Schumacher’s dismissal from the site.

“She did seem to be interested in the Hebrew ostraca,” Ramses offered.

“Maybe she’s a philologist,” Fisher said.

“Modesty prevents me from mentioning that if that were her field I would have recognized her name,” Ramses said.

“Forget the damned woman,” Reisner said irritably. “I couldn’t care less who or what she is; we’ll never set eyes on her again. Unless,” he added, with a sidelong look at Ramses, “she invited you to call on her?”

“Why should she?”

Reisner chuckled. “That little byplay, pretending not to recognize you? She knew, all right. She asked for you.”

“You’re joking.”

“Well, not by name. But she asked if my ‘youthful assistant’ could show her around. How would she know I had one if she didn’t know who it was?”

“Don’t distinguished archaeologists always have youthful assistants hanging about?” Ramses inquired.

“Hmm. Well, back to work. You can start the men on that next section.”

Ramses went back to the dig in a thoughtful mood. Reisner had enjoyed teasing him, but his syllogism made a certain amount of sense. And Madame had known who his parents were.

Later that afternoon, Ramses took a short stroll toward the stream. He didn’t venture close to the camp, but from what he could see from a distance there was no indication that a move next day was contemplated. There was no sign of the lady. The tent flap was still closed.

The sun was setting as he went back. Passing the mosque on his way to the village, he was moved by a sudden impulse. He stopped and looked into the courtyard. It was almost time for evening prayers, but the number of worshippers who were assembling was larger than the usual crowd. As far as he could remember, this was not a particular holy day; it wasn’t even Friday.

When he reached the dig house he found the others already there. He expected a reprimand-he’d been ordered not to wander off alone-but Reisner greeted him with a cheerful announcement. “The mail’s just come. Several for you.”

The arrival of mail was a cause for celebration, since its delivery was spasmodic at best. After arriving at Jaffa, the nearest port, it sat around until someone, for reasons known only to himself, decided to send it on. Ramses’s pleasure was muted by the recollection that he hadn’t responded to the last batch of letters. In fact, he couldn’t even remember what he had done with them. Anticipating a forcible rebuke, he was about to open the first of several from Nefret when Reisner let out a loud groan. The envelope he had just ripped open was directed in a hand with which Ramses was only too familiar.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, expecting the worst.