Brood of the Witch-Queen, Sax Rohmer [books to read for beginners txt] 📗
- Author: Sax Rohmer
Book online «Brood of the Witch-Queen, Sax Rohmer [books to read for beginners txt] 📗». Author Sax Rohmer
“From your description I am not anxious to make the acquaintance of khamsin!”
Sime shook his head, knocking out his pipe into the ashtray.
“This is a funny country,” he said reflectively. “The most weird ideas prevail here to this day—ideas which properly belong to the Middle Ages. For instance”—he began to recharge the hot bowl—“it is not really time for khamsin, consequently the natives feel called upon to hunt up some explanation of its unexpected appearance. Their ideas on the subject are interesting, if idiotic. One of our Arabs (we are excavating in the Fayûm, you know), solemnly assured me yesterday that the hot wind had been caused by an Efreet, a sort of Arabian Nights’ demon, who has arrived in Egypt!”
He laughed gruffly, but Cairn was staring at him with a curious expression. Sime continued:
“When I got to Cairo this evening I found news of the Efreet had preceded me. Honestly, Cairn, it is all over the town—the native town, I mean. All the shopkeepers in the Mûski are talking about it. If a puff of khamsin should come, I believe they would permanently shut up shop and hide in their cellars—if they have any! I am rather hazy on modern Egyptian architecture.”
Cairn nodded his head absently.
“You laugh,” he said, “but the active force of a superstition—what we call a superstition—is sometimes a terrible thing.”
Sime stared.
“Eh!” The medical man had suddenly come uppermost; he recollected that this class of discussion was probably taboo.
“You may doubt the existence of Efreets,” continued Cairn, “but neither you nor I can doubt the creative power of thought. If a trained hypnotist, by sheer concentration, can persuade his subject that the latter sits upon the brink of a river fishing when actually he sits upon a platform in a lecture-room, what result should you expect from a concentration of thousands of native minds upon the idea that an Efreet is visiting Egypt?”
Sime stared in a dull way peculiar to him.
“Rather a poser,” he said. “I have a glimmer of a notion what you mean.”
“Don’t you think—”
“If you mean don’t I think the result would be the creation of an Efreet, no, I don’t!”
“I hardly mean that, either,” replied Cairn, “but this wave of superstition cannot be entirely unproductive; all that thought energy directed to one point—”
Sime stood up.
“We shall get out of our depth,” he replied conclusively. He considered the ground of discussion an unhealthy one; this was the territory adjoining that of insanity.
A fortune-teller from India proffered his services incessantly.
“Imshi! imshi!” growled Sime.
“Hold on,” said Cairn smiling; “this chap is not an Egyptian; let us ask him if he has heard the rumour respecting the Efreet!”
Sime reseated himself rather unwillingly. The fortune-teller spread his little carpet and knelt down in order to read the palm of his hypothetical client, but Cairn waved him aside.
“I don’t want my fortune told!” he said; “but I will give you your fee,”—with a smile at Sime—“for a few minutes’ conversation.”
“Yes, sir, yes, sir!” The Indian was all attention.
“Why”—Cairn pointed forensically at the fortune-teller—“why is khamsin come so early this year?”
The Indian spread his hands, palms upward.
“How should I know?” he replied in his soft, melodious voice. “I am not of Egypt; I can only say what is told to me by the Egyptians.”
“And what is told to you?”
Sime rested his hands upon his knees, bending forward curiously. He was palpably anxious that Cairn should have confirmation of the Efreet story from the Indian.
“They tell me, sir,”—the man’s voice sank musically low—“that a thing very evil”—he tapped a long brown finger upon his breast—“not as I am”—he tapped Sime upon the knee—“not as he, your friend”—he thrust the long finger at Cairn—“not as you, sir; not a man at all, though something like a man! not having any father and mother—”
“You mean,” suggested Sime, “a spirit?”
The fortune-teller shook his head.
“They tell me, sir, not a spirit—a man, but not as other men; a very, very bad man; one that the great king, long, long ago, the king you call Wise—”
“Solomon?” suggested Cairn.
“Yes, yes, Suleyman!—one that he, when he banish all the tribe of the demons from earth—one that he not found.”
“One he overlooked?” jerked Sime.
“Yes, yes, overlook! A very evil man, my gentlemen. They tell me he has come to Egypt. He come not from the sea, but across the great desert—”
“The Libyan Desert?” suggested Sime.
The man shook, his head, seeking for words.
“The Arabian Desert?”
“No, no! Away beyond, far up in Africa”—he waved his long arms dramatically—“far, far up beyond the Sûdan.”
“The Sahara Desert?” proposed Sime.
“Yes, yes! it is Sahara Desert!—come across the Sahara Desert, and is come to Khartûm.”
“How did he get there?” asked Cairn.
The Indian shrugged his shoulders.
“I cannot say, but next he come to Wady Halfa, then he is in Assouan, and from Assouan he come down to Luxor! Yesterday an Egyptian friend told me khamsin is in the Fayûm. Therefore he is there—the man of evil—for he bring the hot wind with him.”
The Indian was growing impressive, and two American tourists stopped to listen to his words.
“Tonight—tomorrow,”—he spoke now almost in a whisper, glancing about him as if apprehensive of being overheard—“he may be here, in Cairo, bringing with him the scorching breath of the desert—the scorpion wind!”
He stood up, casting off the mystery with which he had invested his story, and smiling insinuatingly. His work was done; his fee was due. Sime rewarded him with five piastres, and he departed, bowing.
“You know, Sime—” Cairn began to speak, staring absently the while after the fortune-teller, as he descended the carpeted steps and rejoined the throng on the sidewalk below—“you know, if a man—anyone, could take advantage of such a wave of thought as this which is now sweeping through Egypt—if he could cause it to concentrate upon him, as it were, don’t you think that
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