They reached the village of Ain Musa where the cars were to be left. Here horses were waiting for them—sorry-looking thin beasts. The inadequacy of her striped washing-frock disturbed Miss Pierce greatly. Lady Westholme was sensibly attired in riding breeches, not perhaps a particularly becoming style to her type of figure
, but certainly practical.
The horses were led out of the village along a slippery path with loose stones. The ground fell away and the horses zig-zagged down. The sun was close on setting.
Sarah was very tired with the long, hot journey in the car. Her senses felt dazed. The ride was like a dream. It seemed to her afterwards that it was like the pit of Hell opening at one’s feet. The way wound down—down into the ground. The shapes of rock rose up round them—down, down into the bowels of the earth, through a labyrinth of red cliffs. They towered now on either side. Sarah felt stifled—menaced by the ever-narrowing gorge.
She thought confusedly to herself: ‘Down into the valley of death—down into the valley of death…’
On and on. It grew dark—the vivid red of the walls faded—and still on, winding in and out, imprisoned, lost in the bowels of the earth.
She thought: ‘It’s fantastic and unbelievable…a dead city.’
And again like a refrain came the words: ‘The valley of death…’
Lanterns were lit now. The horses wound along through the narrow ways. Suddenly they came out into a wide space—the cliffs receded. Far ahead of them was a cluster of lights.
‘That is camp!’ said the guide.
The horses quickened their pace a little—not very much—they were too starved and dispirited for that, but they showed just a shade of enthusiasm. Now the way ran along a gravelly water-bed. The lights grew nearer.
They could see a cluster of tents, a higher row up against the face of a cliff. Caves, too, hollowed out in the rock.
They were arriving. Bedouin servants came running out.
Sarah stared up at one of the caves. It held a sitting figure. What was it? An idol? A gigantic squatting image?
No, that was the flickering lights that made it loom so large. But it must be an idol of some kind, sitting there immovable, brooding over the place…
And then, suddenly her heart gave a leap of recognition.
Gone was the feeling of peace—of escape—that the desert had given her. She had been led from freedom back into captivity. She had ridden down into this dark winding valley and here, like an archpriestess of some forgotten cult, like a monstrous swollen female Buddha, sat Mrs Boynton…
Chapter 11
Mrs Boynton was here, at Petra!
Sarah answered mechanically questions that were addressed to her. Would she have dinner straight away—it was ready—or would she like to wash first? Would she prefer to sleep in a tent or a cave?
Her answer to that came quickly. A tent. She flinched at the thought of a cave, the vision of that monstrous squatting figure recurred to her. (Why was it that something about the woman seemed hardly human?)
Finally she followed one of the native servants. He wore khaki breeches, much patched, and untidy puttees and a ragged coat very much the worse for wear. On his head the native headdress, the cheffiyah, its long folds protecting the neck and secured in place with a black silk twist fitting tightly to the crown of his head. Sarah admired the easy swing with which he walked—the careless proud carriage of his head. Only the European part of his costume seemed tawdry and wrong. She thought: ‘Civilization is all wrong—all wrong! But for civilization there wouldn’t be a Mrs Boynton! In savage tribes they’d probably have killed and eaten her years ago!’
She realized, half-humorously, that she was over-tired and on edge. A wash in hot water and a dusting of powder over her face and she felt herself again—cool, poised, and ashamed of her recent panic.
She passed a comb through her thick black hair, squinting sideways at her reflection in the wavering light of a small oil-lamp in a very inadequate glass.
Then she pushed aside the tent-flap and came out into the night prepared to descend to the big marquee below.
‘You—here?’
It was a low cry—dazed, incredulous.
She turned to look straight into Raymond Boynton’s eyes. So amazed they were! And something in them held her silent and almost afraid. Such an unbelievable joy…It was as though he had seen a vision of Paradise—wondering, dazed, thankful, humble! Never, in all her life, was Sarah to forget that look. So might the damned look up and see Paradise…
He said again: ‘You…’
It did something to her—that low, vibrant tone. It made her heart turn over in her breast. It made her feel shy, afraid, humble and yet suddenly arrogantly glad. She said quite simply: ‘Yes.’