The Shadow Lamp

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Darting back into the chamber, he moved to the far wall and, holding his torch close to the surface, quickly located a section of brickwork behind one of the mural paintings. Though it had been sealed with plaster, he could still make out the bricks beneath and, pointing to the wall, he said, “Take it down.”

  The labourers stared at him. Seizing a pick, he swung it against the wall—once . . . twice . . . three times. Paint and plaster crumbled away, revealing the brickwork beneath. “Take it down!” he repeated.

  The workers fell to, and the close air of the tomb was soon white with dust as the ancient painting disappeared in a pile of chips and chunks, revealing the shape of a door. Charles, his heart beating quicker, wasted not a moment ordering that to be taken down as well.

  He ran to the stairway. “Shakir! More torches!” he called, then darted back to the wreckage being performed on the sealed door. A few well-placed blows soon had the blocks tumbling. After the first few, all the rest came down in a rush and he was looking at the entrance to a hidden chamber.

  Shakir appeared with the torches and, in a rush of Arabic, tried to tell Charles something that Charles failed to comprehend. He dismissed the youth and ducked into the inner room. As revealed by the light of his torch, the chamber was smaller and spare, built to contain not one, but two sarcophagi. Only a few jars and wicker baskets lined the walls—but what walls! All four surfaces and the ceiling, too, were painted, and the artwork here was more colourful, more detailed, and much more lifelike than that in the first room. As magnificent as they were, Charles had eyes for only one: a scene in which a chubby, bald man—the priest Anen?—stood with one hand pointing to a star in the sky whilst the other held a flat object on which was rendered a collection of tiny blue symbols. Both the object and the symbols were known to Charles as the Skin Map.

  “Sekrey,” called Shakir, his voice urgent, plaintive. “You come.”

  Ignoring him, Charles moved to the first and largest of two burial vaults. It was red granite and richly carved with a stylised likeness of its occupant and decorated head to toe with hieroglyphs. Turning away, Charles moved to the smaller sarcophagus; it was white limestone and adorned with a single strip of glyphs down the centre. “Open it,” he ordered.

  “Sekrey!” shouted Shakir, his voice growing more shrill. “You come now!”

  “Open it!” commanded Charles.

  His five helpers moved to the vault with some reluctance. Using their picks and shovels, they succeeded in edging the heavy cover an inch or so to one side. “Open it now,” Charles repeated.

  His words were swallowed by the sudden roar and rattle of thunder that blasted through the stillness of the tomb. Shakir disappeared into the other room, but Charles stood his ground. “Open it!” he shouted, pointing at the great stone casket.

  The workers looked at one another and reluctantly applied their tools. They had succeeded in moving the lid another few inches when Charles felt an odd sensation: wet feet. He looked down. A questing snake of water was oozing through the door. It had already reached him and was flattening and spreading across the floor.

  “Hurry!” shouted Charles. “Get it open.”

  But the workers had seen the water. They threw down their tools and fled the tomb.

  Thrusting the torch into the crevice between the lid and side, Charles snatched up the nearest pick and began prying at the heavy top. He swiftly found the right leverage and managed to increase the gap another centimetre or so. Meanwhile, the water rose higher. By the time the crack was wide enough to thrust in his hand, the water covered the floor and was rising quickly to his ankles. Charles continued. Working with a desperate frenzy, he leaned on the pick handle, straining every nerve and sinew. Sweat ran down his face, stinging his eyes. The massive lid shifted—ever so slightly, but just enough.

  The water seeping into the chamber had now risen over the tops of his shoes.

  Charles shoved his hand inside the vault and discerned the stiff, dry outline of the linen-wrapped mummy. He held the torch close as he dared but could see little. Touch told him that there were no objects buried with his grandfather’s corpse. He felt along the chest and head—nothing there. He put his hand under the mummy and discovered a flattened, cloth-wrapped bundle at one end. His fingers closed on a corner of the parcel and pulled. A second pull freed the packet but sent the torch spinning to the floor where it expired with a sputter and hiss of steam. Darkness thick and deep descended instantly.

  Clutching the bundle, Charles felt his way to the foot of the sarcophagus. Like a blind man, waving his hand before him, he fumbled his way to the ragged opening in the wall, breathing a sigh of relief when his fingers snagged the edge. He stepped through, lost his footing on the rubble littering the floor in front of the breach, and fell headlong into the next room and into the water that now covered the floor, barely managing to maintain his grip on his prize.

  Spluttering and wet, Charles hauled himself to his feet and glimpsed the dim outline of the outer doorway; he splashed his way to it, dodging grave furniture, knocking over jars, and scattering priceless objects in his wake. He reached the stairway, which had become a cascade of successive waterfalls, and scrambled up the steps and into the dim, lurid light.

  The sky was wine-coloured, virulent and angry; the wind whipped through the gorge, shrieking as it shredded itself on the rocks. The men and animals were gone. Charles started across the encampment to his tent to retrieve his leather bag—only to be intercepted by Shakir, who grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away, pointing down the main channel of the wadi where the last of the labourers were just then disappearing into the storm-darkened wadi. “You come now, Sekrey!”

  “My bag—I must have my bag!” insisted Charles.

  But Shakir did not release his grip. “No, Sekrey! No!” He pointed down the smaller branch of the Y-shaped junction where the stream of water now coursing along the valley floor was met by another coming from the opposite branch. The combined flow swirled, gathering force and volume as it entered the main channel. Fed by a multitude of runnels and rivulets off the surrounding hills and high places, the water level rose even as he watched. Alarmed by the speed with which the gully was filling, Charles stuffed the precious parcel into his shirt next to his skin and splashed after Shakir. Within three heartbeats, he was running for his life.

  Down through the undulating corridor of stone he fled, legs churning, arms pumping. The water and debris underfoot did not make for easy running; his feet dragged and skidded. Shakir, by contrast, flew. Younger and quicker, he seemed to skim the surface, barely touching the ground. The distance between them increased.

  Around the winding curves of the wadi they ran. The air temperature dropped and rain began to fall in large, round drops big as grapes, slowly at first and then faster. The wind gusted from the north, hurling rain in sheets with such force that the oversized drops seemed to bounce off the stony, hard-baked ground. Charles, soaked to the skin, dashed water out of his eyes and ran half-blind through the canyon. Shakir disappeared around a bend and Charles ran on alone. Meanwhile, the angry water gathered volume and force behind him. It was now an onrushing wall sweeping along the wadi, a churning mass of muck—dead acacia branches and dry brush ripped from the upper slopes of distant hills, desiccated weeds, rubble, and mud—racing ever nearer with the rumbling, grinding sound of a great millstone freewheeling down a cobbled road.

  The leading edge of this torrent caught Charles, and before he knew it he was running in water to his knees. A few more steps and he was in up to his thighs. He fought on, water swirling around him, slowing him, rising with every step. Above the roar of the water he heard a higher-pitched wail: the sound of savage wind ripping down through the empty heights. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he glimpsed the terrible wave-wall sluicing up either side of the canyon walls to a depth three times his own height.

  The mighty gush of air driven before the wave struck him, hurling him forward. Charles was thrown headfirst into
the water. An instant later the wave crashed over him, swamping him, submerging him, crushing him down against the rocky floor and holding him there.

  Caught in the ferocious current, unable to resist, Charles was spun up like a cork in a torrent. Twisting, tumbling, he bumped along the bottom of the ravine, careening into rocks, pummelled by stones. Vainly he tried to right himself, to fight his way to the surface. The gulp of air he had snatched before the wave took him was not enough. His lungs burned. Desperate to find the surface, he opened his eyes in the murk but could see nothing. He kicked his legs and flailed his arms in the forlorn hope of contacting something solid—to no avail.

  His lungs ached to the point of bursting and he could feel his consciousness beginning to slip, his awareness growing muzzy. Then, just as he released the last of his spent air, his chest smacked against the wadi floor. Gathering his feet under him, he shoved with every ounce of his remaining strength and shot upward. He breached the surface just as his exhausted lungs inhaled.

  Water poured down his throat and he choked on it. But his head was above the surface now and he fought hard to stay atop the churning waves. Branches poked him, stones torn from their moorings pounded him—Charles ignored the bumps and thumps, flailing his arms and legs to keep his head above water, refusing to allow the current to drag him under again.

  This strategy came at a price. For as the flood hurtled around the sinuous bends of the wadi, slamming first into one side and then the other, Charles was tossed along with it. With every twist and turn, the wild water heaved him closer to the walls. There was no avoiding a collision.

  Charles slammed against the curtain of stone and the impact drove the breath from his body. He gulped and gagged and downed a mouthful of water before he could breathe again. The flood surged around the next bend and, as the raging water impelled him into the next bank, he tried to brace himself for the impact. He put out his hands to fend off the brunt of the blow, but the angle was too sharp and the wadi wall came up too fast. His left arm grazed the edge of a projecting slab and he was spun sideways into the wall, his right arm taking the full force. He felt the jolt through his entire frame and his arm snapped, the bones giving way like kindling.

  Pain shot through him and his head went under. Gritting his teeth, Charles fought to the surface once more, but without the use of his right arm he could only just keep his head above the lashing chaos of the waves. Pain consumed him. He could not see. He could not think. Dazed and confused, he felt a sense-dulling numbness creeping through him.

  He flailed with his good arm, trying to return to the centre of the channel. On one of his strokes, his hand made contact with something—a yielding mass that seemed to be covered in hair. Without thinking, he grabbed for it and pulled himself to it and found himself holding on to the carcass of a dead donkey.

  Charles wrapped his arms around the poor drowned creature’s neck and held on. Together the two of them were swept along, and Charles was able to remain afloat by clinging to the animal’s buoyant corpse. How long he could hold on, he did not know.

  Around one bend and another, the two were swept. Charles lost his grip on the donkey when it hurtled into a wall, but regained his hold, throwing his good arm around the animal’s neck. He felt himself slipping. He sensed darkness looming on the edge of his vision and knew he would not be able to remain conscious much longer.

  “Sekrey!”

  The shout was only barely audible above the sound of the crashing water. Charles thought he imagined it—until it came again.

  “Sekrey!”

  He craned his head around, scanning the walls of the gorge as they sped by him. And then he saw a hand sticking out from the wall; swirling swiftly closer, he caught a glimpse of a dark head of hair and Shakir’s face beneath it. The youth was leaning out of a crevice in the wall, leaning out and reaching for him.

  Charles released his hold on the donkey and flung himself at Shakir, willing himself across the gap. Their hands grabbed, snatched, and fingers scrabbled for a hold. With a tremendous cry, the young Egyptian seized him and held on, slowly dragging Charles to the side, out of the direct pull of the current. Shakir was not powerful enough to haul Charles bodily out of the water, and Charles could not fight free of the current. He felt his hand slipping and he was dragged from Shakir’s grasp.

  Charles saw the look of horror on the young face, his mouth round with the shout. “Sekrey!”

  Consigning himself to his fate, he floated now, not bothering to fight or swim, allowing the flood to have its way. He bumped against the donkey carcass again and flung his good arm around the dead creature’s neck, relaxed, and let the water take him.

  Sometime later and farther downstream, the fearsome intensity seemed to drain from the current; the level of the water began to fall. And with each successive drop in depth, the level fell faster—like a jar overturned, releasing the last of its substance in a rush. In this way, Charles was lowered to the ravine floor. Soon he was able to get his feet under him and to stand, bracing himself against the stream.

  Directly ahead of him he saw daylight through the gap between the walls. A few dozen yards later Charles walked out of the wadi and into the desert. The torrent had cut deep gashes in the soft desert earth—a spread of finger channels that still ran full, draining water away into the dry emptiness of the empty flatlands beyond the hills. The storm howled away across the desert, spending its fury on the desolate wastes. Charles waded out onto one of the little sandbars in this delta and collapsed, cradling his broken arm. “Thank God,” he whispered with every pulse of blood through his veins. He felt the cloth-wrapped bundle beneath his shirt. “Thank God.”

  Shakir found him a short while later and helped Charles to his feet; the two started off on the long road back to the river. They had not gone far when they heard a shout, and three of the workmen came running to meet them; four others stood with the remaining donkeys.

  His relief soon gave way to regret, however; two men were missing and would not be seen again. The walk gave Charles ample time to reflect on what had happened and his part in it; with every step his guilt and shame burned hotter. Two men drowned because of his stubbornness. Remorse overwhelmed him.

  Three days later, his arm set and bandaged, he sat on the riverbank waiting for the boat, penitent, consumed with guilt. He had achieved the object of his quest—the map was undamaged and safely tucked away—but he had failed. With the crystal clarity of hindsight, he could see it now: arrogance, stupidity, pride, ignorance had all played their nefarious part in this disaster. But the chief culprit surely was pride. Charles the Great had swanned into Egypt expecting the lowly natives to come running to his beck and call, serve his every whim, bend their backs to boost him to his glory as he collected his prize. Yet he knew no language other than mammon, knew no culture other than that of the marketplace. In his heart he had trumpeted: I am a Flinders-Petrie! What more was needed?

  The shame of those ludicrous assumptions made his face burn, which was only a dim outward reflection of the fire of humiliation raging in his soul. He had been a pompous, haughty fool; a rude, stubborn, unthinking ninny; an utterly self-absorbed, self-obsessed, self-determined, selfish yob—and he had the broken arm, and broken spirit, to prove it. In the circumstances, Charles decided, he was lucky to have escaped with a mere injury, painful as it might be. Bones could heal. He was not sure there was a cure for hubris, for the blind, arrogant pride that leads inexorably to destruction of its human vessels.

  He was sunk in the slough of shame when an unexpected thought occurred to him: perhaps his narrow escape had been granted by an All-Wise Providence in order to allow him a second chance, to put matters right, to make amends, to change. Very well. If amends could be made, he would make them. He would humble himself and learn what was needed, whatever that might be. The language and culture of the people? The geography of land and climate? He would take time to study them, master them. Whatever the cost of obtaining this knowledge—or, as he saw i
t, this new humility—he would cheerfully pay it.

  Over the next few days, as he visited the families of the men who had lost their lives and made offerings of money to the widows—with promises of more to come—the conviction hardened in Charles that not only could he change, but the necessary change had already begun. It had started with the realisation that a new and contrite heart was needed. And, having made a beginning, he would now devote himself to this revolution in his soul. He would become the leader of the insurgency. Moreover, he would earn the right to the title Sekrey.

  The next time he mounted an expedition, wherever the Skin Map might lead him, he would be captain indeed.

  CHAPTER 35

  In Which Confession Is Good for the Quest

  The problem as I see it is a matter of redressing the balance.” Brendan Hanno paused to judge the mood of his gathered listeners. Hollow-eyed, haggard, their expressions tight, they met his declaration without a crumb of enthusiasm. The day had not gone well, and everyone was tired and out of sorts. “It is as simple as that,” he added, instantly wishing he had not.

  Tony Clarke was quick to reply. “If it is that simple, what are we doing here?”

  “Simple it may be,” answered Brendan, his tone weary, “I did not say it would be easy. God knows it won’t be easy.”

  “You have put it most succinctly, my friends,” offered Gianni, trying to soothe frayed tempers. “The next step must be to discover what has caused this imbalance. Once we know that, we will be able to judge what may be done to put things right.”

  “That could be a complete waste of precious time,” snapped Tony, irritation making his voice sharp. “We end up in a futile search for a cause that may turn out to be totally irrelevant, when what we really need is to pursue a remedy.”