Splendid, More or Less Part 4/?

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimer and notes see part 1.

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I have been accused of many things in the course of a rather colorful life, but I think I can say without fear of accusation that I have never been considered anything but practical. Practicality insisted that, considering the distance of the wharves and the lateness of the hour, a hansom cab was necessary. And so, with great enthusiasm on the part of Mr. Gilbertson, we did hire a taxi to take us to the Philae's moorings. I was appeased that I should at least be spared another lecture on the dangerous nature of the Cairene streets and would soon partake of Emerson's much more agreeable company.

However, as with the best laid plans, things went decidedly awry. The driver was quite under the weather, influenced by a distasteful vice that had been his undoing, and thus the carriage had collided head-on with the side of a storefront. The impact was decidedly unpleasant, and I felt myself flung across the seat of the cab. Mr. Gilbertson suffered likewise and the back of his head struck the opposite seat so violently that he passed out.

After the dust had settled and I removed the wares of the shop keeper from my person, I wriggled out the side of the coach, in the process snagging my dress sleeve on a rather ragged piece of metal that had once been the door handle. Precariously balanced on the edge of the overturned taxi, I struggled to loose myself. Unfortunately, I lost my balance before I managed to free the sleeve and heard a loud rip as I fell over the side.

Rising unsteadily to my feet, I assessed the damages. My dress was torn and now soiled with something dark and sticky, the origins of which I could not determine. I probably did not want to know. Mr. Gilbertson remained unconscious and after making a small circuit of the cab, I found that so was the driver. He was fortuitously unharmed, and had landed face-first on a stack of carpets. He remained recumbent there, snoring and reeking of opium. I decided against waking him; it was a job best left to the shopkeeper himself when he came upon the culprit in the morning.

Unfortunately, I could not with a clear conscience leave Mr. Gilbertson in his present position. So, with extreme care, I climbed over the disengaged wheel back into the interior of the carriage, cursing at my inadequate footwear in the process. In all appearances he seemed fine; the skin of his head hadn't even been broken in its collision with the seat.

I slapped his face with little delicacy. He groaned and mumbled something intelligible so I repeated the action. His eyes flew open and I smiled down at him triumphantly.

"Good evening, Mr. Gilbertson. I trust you're not injured severely?"

He seemed a trifle disconcerted as he began to take in the disarray of his surroundings so I gave him a concise recount of the events that had transpired. As I spoke, he shakily drew himself into a sitting position within the carriage and delicately fingered his forehead.

"Well, this is a pretty mess, Miss Amelia," he said once I had finished.

"I confess I am not all that familiar with this part of town, especially at night," I admitted, hoping to bolster his confidence. Perhaps, just perhaps, he might recall something?

No, it was too much to hope for, unfortunately. In fact, Mr. Gilbertson instead of bursting out into heroics, seemed to want nothing more than to wait around to see if another carriage would pass by our way. I did not know if a comment about the incredible illogic of that suggestion would go over well, as he seemed on the verge of hysterics already, so I suppressed it.

"Mr. Gilbertson, you are not thinking clearly- that usually happens to those with trauma to the head," I said generously. "We can't stay here all night." I shivered, acutely aware of the gaping hole in my dress as the cold night air seeped into the carriage interior. "We must find our way back- or at the very least, to some sort of lodging for the night."

"How truly sensible you are, Miss Amelia! I am truly sorry oh, my head!" he clutched his forehead melodramatically as he tried to manuever his way to the door.

"Be careful, Mr. Gilbertson," I called out, as I had already climbed out of the carriage, this time mindful of the protruding parts of the taxi.

Somehow, by the grace of Providence, he extracted himself from the wreckage and alighted, or rather fell over, onto the ground without much further harm to his person. He was rather dusty however, and lamented this in great detail as we began to walk.

Between his hysterics over pain and dust and his clumsy attempts to flatter me for my "quick wits," my mood became fouler by the second. I had thought that I had been heading in the proper direction for the wharves but apparently, I was mistaken (Some evil-tongued individuals would say that this was a first, but I would remind them that we all are subject to minor errors and cannot be faulted for that. Especially when out of sorts, frustrate, cold and lost in the dark, twisting streets of another country.)

Somehow, by the backwards logic of the city plan, we ended up in the Khan el Khaleel, the bazaar of the metalworkers. I recalled visiting it with Evelyn weeks before, in search of a suitable tea kettle. Near one end was a large public fountain that during the daytime, had been overrun with chattering women filling up water jars; it was now completely deserted. And dearest Michael, who had been so helpful in escorting us to and from our shopping destinations, was bundled up in bed on the dahabeeyah.

I stopped there and decided to rest a moment on the platform on which the fountain rested. I needed to think- we must have been closer to Shepheard's again, having backtracked somehow.

Mr. Gilbertson, however, took this as a sign that I was beginning to tire. "Oh, Miss Amelia, you have held up admirably. A pillar of strength! We'll get back home, don't you fret your pretty little head about that!"

Grateful that he could not witness my sneer in the darkness, I was about to acquaint him with our surroundings as best I could when I saw a figure slip out of the shadows of one of the shops. My eyes had slowly accustomed themselves in the dark and I noticed a second figure. They were in hushed conversation, obviously oblivious to the presence of myself and Mr. Gilbertson.

Individuals prowling around at night are bound to be up to no good, but they were the only people we had beheld in hours. If Mr. Gilbertson had money in his wallet, I was sure we could manage to get directions out of the bazaar to someplace well-lit with English persons roaming about, who would most assuredly be willing to help out a fellow traveler in need.

"Do you know Arabic well?" I asked in a low voice.

"Er"

As has happened time and time again, I found that I was the one who needed to take matters in hand. Gathering up my skirts, I approached the men as noiselessly as I could, with Mr. Gilbertson at my heels.

As I got closer, I began to catch pieces of their conversation. Surprisingly, they did not speak Arabic, or at the very least, it was like no Arabic I had ever been privy to hear. In fact, it sounded a great deal more like Hebrew, a language I had studied with my dear departed Papa; it even contained some Hebrew words.

Puzzled but resolute, I held my hands out before myself and greeted the men. "Allah yimessîkum bil-kheir, effendis." I spoke tentatively, unsure of my meager understanding of Arabic.

They froze and fixed shocked faces upon mine, their countenances pale with horror, consternation and surprise. They shot one another worried looks and stared at me, and the cowering Mr. Gilbertson who was literally hiding behind my skirts while tugging insistently at my arm.

"We should go now," he hissed through clenched teeth.

I waved him off and smiled genially at the two men who still seemed suspicious of my motives. I could not blame them; I'm sure it wasn't an everyday occurrence for an Englishwoman to be wandering around that part of town in the dead of night. But I would be deceiving you, dear Reader, if I said that I was not fearful when they grinned back at me. One of them was especially sinister-looking, with a long white scar running the length of his cheek.

"We are lost," I said to the men, gesturing to our surroundings. "We need to get back to Shepheards. Shepheards," I repeated again, looking at one then the other. "English persons stay there."

"Inglizi, sitt, inglizi," they nodded their heads and leered at me again.

"Yes. English. Where are the English?" interrupted Mr. Gilbertson, suddenly deciding that he could handle the situation.

The men seemed taken aback by his sudden entrance into the conversation and took a step back, conferring between themselves once more. Again, they spoke in that bizarre language of theirs. From my studies, I found I could discern a few words. "Money," "woman," and a word unprintable and certainly unsuitable for my own ears. If Mr. Gilbertson could understand any of it, then he was putting on a very convincing blank face.

The men finished their conference and approached us again, smiling broadly. I did not like the look of their eyes, bright with avarice. I was beginning to think I should have listened to Mr. Gilbertson's suggestion beforehand. I gripped the handle of my parasol tightly, the handle becoming slippery with my own sweat.

It was too late to turn back now. Smiling not so assuredly back, I nodded at them. "Which way?" I asked, not sure if my Arabic was correct. "Which way?"

They did not answer but kept advancing on us, forcing us to walk backwards towards the sabil to maintain our personal space. "Which way?" I asked again, this time in Hebrew.

They stopped in their tracks. A look passed between them and then they pounced. The man with the scar grabbed me by the arm while covering my mouth. The other grappled with Mr. Gilbertson for a few tense seconds, before the latter fell to the ground- whether from receiving a blow or simply fainting, I did not know.

I writhed and kicked and tried in vain to swat at my attacker with my parasol. I confess I experienced a great deal of delight to hear him cry out in pain when I stabbed his foot with the sharp end. The other man soon came to his assistance and that was all I could remember before everything went black.

TBC.