Barbara Erskine - Whispers in the Sand

‘That is a good name. I shall call mine, Antony. And this our beast of burden shall be Cleopatra.’

Louisa laughed in delight. ‘Then we shall be such an intelligent party.’ He was a good-looking man, of middle height, slim, dressed in loose blue trousers and a striped robe. He had large dark eyes, fringed with long lashes. Looking across at him surreptitiously she wondered how old he was. It was hard to tell. His hair was hidden completely by his red turban. There were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and laughter creases from nose to mouth, but apart from that his skin was smooth.

‘How far must we ride to the valley, Hassan?’ In spite of herself she glanced over her shoulder.

He shrugged. ‘We will know when we get there. We have all day.’ His smile was warm and without guile.

Louisa laughed. In Egypt, she had discovered, things happened when they happened. That was the will of God. With a contented sigh she settled onto the felt saddle and concentrated instead on trying to accommodate herself to her donkey’s pace.

The track through the fields of berseem and wheat and barley was cool in the dawn light beneath the eucalyptus trees and the tall graceful date palms and she relaxed, enjoying the scented air, the greetings of the fellaheen they passed making their way out to the fields. It was all too soon that they reached the edge of the cultivated land which bordered the River Nile and struck out into the desert. In front of them rose the long red shoulder of the Theban hills, so visible, and so mysteriously close that they could be seen from the deck of the boat and yet now, shrouded in the misty distance.

They stopped briefly for a breakfast of slices of watermelon and cheese and bread before the sun was too high, then they rode on. Ahead the hills at last drew closer. Louisa stared up, fanning herself beneath the shade of her broad-brimmed hat. A kite circled overhead, a dark speck against the brilliant blue of the sky.

‘Soon there. Very soon.’ Hassan reined back his little donkey. ‘You are going to draw pictures of the mountains?’

Louisa nodded. ‘I want to see the mountains and the tombs of the pharaohs.’

‘Of course. What else?’ Hassan smiled. ‘I have brought candles and flares for us to see them.’ He gestured towards the pack animal. ‘Not far. Then you can rest.’

She nodded again. Perspiration was trickling down her back and between her breasts. Her clothes felt heavy and stifling. ‘I expected to see a lot of visitors along this road,’ she called across to him. The loneliness was beginning to unnerve her.

‘There are lots of visitors.’ He shrugged. ‘The steamer has not been here for several days. When it comes they will arrive again.’

‘I see.’ She smiled uncertainly. The barely distinguishable road was empty of other riders. There were no tracks.

‘There are no footmarks, no signs of anyone else.’ She gestured nervously.

He shook his head. ‘Last night the wind blew. Poof!’ He blew out his cheeks, gesturing with his hands. ‘The sand comes and all things disappear.’

Louisa smiled. That was a phrase for her diary. She must remember it. The sand comes and all things disappear. The epitaph of a civilisation.

The road grew steeper as they made their way into the hills and eventually they turned into the hidden valley where she could clearly make out the square doorways cut in the brilliant limestone cliffs. Drawing to a standstill Hassan slid off his donkey and came to help her dismount. As she stood staring round, listening to the moan of the strange hot wind and the cries of the circling kites he unloaded her sketchbooks and paints and a Persian rug which he spread nearby on the sand. He also produced some poles over which he draped a length of green and blue striped cloth to make her a shelter, like a Bedouin tent, to give her some privacy in the barren valley. The donkeys and he remained in the sun, seemingly oblivious to the heat.

‘I expected to see people digging. Excavating. Why is it all so empty?’ She was staring round, still overwhelmed by the desolation of the valley.

He shrugged. ‘Sometimes there are a lot. Sometimes none. The money stops.’ He raised his shoulders again eloquently. ‘They have to go away to find more. Then they return. Then you will see the wadi full of people. The local men are always here. We will see them, I expect. They dig in the night. If they find a new tomb they dig in the early morning, even in the heat of the day. They are supposed to take what they find to the authorities at Boulak, but …’ Again the shrug of the shoulders she was beginning to know so well.

Digging into the donkey’s pannier he produced two candles and a small flare. Flourishing them he bowed. ‘You would like to see inside one of the tombs now?’

She nodded. The tombs would be blessedly cool after the endless sun. She reached for a bottle of water and Hassan hastened to pour some out for her. The water was warm and brackish but she drank gratefully, then she dipped her handkerchief in the cup and wiped her face with it.

When she turned to follow Hassan towards one of the square doorways in the cliff, there was a sketchbook under her arm.

‘We will start here,’ he waved at one of the entrances. ‘It is the tomb of Rameses VI. This has been open since the days of the ancients.’

‘You have brought other people here before. You know them all as well as a local guide?’ she asked as she made to follow him.

‘Of course.’ He nodded. ‘I have heard the guides from the villages a thousand times. I no longer need them.’

As they entered the passageway Louisa stared into the darkness completely blinded after the brilliant light outside. Then slowly her eyes began to acclimatise. The flickering light of Hassan’s candle barely lit the walls of the long passage in which they found themselves, but from its pale glow she could see the breathtaking riot of figures and colours stretching into the distance. Then he lit the flare and in the streaming flame and smoke she could see hieroglyphs and gods and kings covering the walls and ceiling in rich colours. Standing still on the steep sandy floor of the passage she stared round in amazement and delight. ‘I had no idea,’ she gasped. ‘No idea at all that it could be so …’ she fumbled for words, ‘… so wonderful!’

‘Nice?’ Hassan was watching her.

‘Very, very nice.’ She took a few paces forward, her shoes slipping on the steeply sloping passage. ‘Hassan, it is more wonderful than I had ever dreamt.’

The intense silence of the place was overwhelming but far from being cooler in the darkness the tomb was hot and airless as an oven. She moved across to the wall and rested a hand for a moment on the paint-covered stone. ‘It would be very hard to copy this. Even to convey this wonder. This mystery. I could never do it. My sketches will have to be so impressionistic, so inadequate.’ She shrugged helplessly.

‘Your pictures are very good.’ He raised the flare higher so the light shone a little further into the darkness.

‘How do you know? You haven’t seen any,’ she retorted over her shoulder.

‘I saw. When I was loading the donkey the wind blew open the book.’ He followed her with a grin. ‘I could not help but see. Here. Be careful. There are steps now going down a long way.’

Behind them the small square of daylight at the entrance to the passage abruptly disappeared as they began to descend a long flight of roughly excavated steps. The candlelight condensed on the multi-coloured walls, then as they reached the pillared chamber at the bottom it spread and faded again, mixing and losing itself in the vast darkness. A further series of passages led deeper and deeper into the dark, then at last they reached the burial chamber at the bottom. Louisa stopped with a gasp. Soaring overhead in the flickering shadows two huge strangely elongated figures spanned the ceiling above her head.