by Karl Fish
As he passed the recently assaulted taxidermist triumph of a fully grown ostrich, a crunch came from beneath his foot. Peeling his immaculately polished, government issued, black ankle boots back from the stone floor, the blood and guts of a crushed arachnid revealed themselves. The pincers and unfurled sting were still intact but its abdomen now succumbed to the imprint from the toe end of his size ten.
‘What an abomination of a beast!’ the Major exclaimed, desperately trying to scrape intestines and blood from his sole.
‘Sir,’ one of the actuaries said, raising a hand and pointing into the rubble at the foot of the cordon.
The Major’s gaze, directed by the pointed pencil of the actuary, focused on the red ribbon, a protruding ember in the dust and debris surrounding it. Stepping over several rocks and squatting on his heels, Collingdale removed the straw boater from its crushed, stony grave, and dusted it down. Looking up at the red-and-white cordon tape, he noticed that it was covered in more dust than it had previously been covered in, and the pillar that had dissected the entrance by forty-five degrees and had acted as the remaining support to the Entomology department’s gateway was now broken and scattered into pieces around him. From the mouth of the opening rock, rubble and plaster had been spewed out from the guts of the Professor’s department.
‘Oh, Meredith. What on earth have you done?’ he whispered under his moustache before taken a moment before addressing his staff. ‘Gather round,’ Collingdale announced to the men and women he had mustered. ‘Approximately twenty-four hours ago, Professor Malcolm was last seen in this exact spot. This morning we found this!’ he exclaimed, holding up the battered straw boater.
Anyone who had spent more than a few days on duty at the Museum knew of the natty professor’s dress sense and the Penny Farthing he rode to work every day. The rich crimson ribbon of his straw boater was his trademark attire.
‘By the looks of that hat, he’s probably been crushed, sir,’ came a voice from the back.
‘“Probably” doesn’t cut the mustard here!’ the Major yelled back. ‘So, unless we find evidence to the contrary, our primary goal is to clear all this detritus and seek out our friend.’
Mumblings rippled around the staff who had never seen the Major or Professor exchange pleasantries, but as Boyd Collingdale stood there with the Peacekeeper eager to start thrashing, all staff began the arduous task of removing each rock and fallen joist of timber hand by hand.
‘Oh and just a polite warning,’ Collingdale announced, pulling up the end of his cane and placing the remains of the crushed Death-stalker on the end of it. ‘There may be more of these illustrious little beasties to contend with. Be cautious and be careful. Carry on!’
Immediately, everyone took a step back and started patting themselves down.
‘What on earth are you all playing at,’ came the booming Major’s voice. ‘You have just under four hours, by my calculations, to clear a path. That’s if you wish to have your Sunday Harvest lunch with your loved ones and not with the Professor’s pet monsters.’
The itching stopped and people cautiously, carefully, and with utmost efficiency began to remove the mountain of rubble in front of them. No way they were missing Sunday Harvest.
*****
Professor Malcolm Meredith awoke from a light slumber. His head was resting on Culpepper’s Everyday Medicinal Fauna, having fallen asleep at the huge desk. It was just one of many rare and exceptional scientific books and journals in the library that the mysterious Dr Mialora had created for him.
A subtle tap from the doorway, which was flanked by two full-length mirrors, announced the entrance of the politely accommodating Mr Louds.
‘Good morning, Professor,’ he said courteously, from beneath his ever-present surgical mask. ‘I trust you slept well.’
Meticulous Meredith Malcolm, who had managed forty winks with a book for a pillow, smiled back politely. Following Mr Louds were two large men who pushed trolleys covered in different fabrics. The first man wheeled his fare towards the Professor’s workbench. He smiled back with his golden tooth. Withdrawing the muslin cloth, he presented a slender swan-necked silver vessel that had steam escaping from the spout and accompanied with a rack of toasted bread and a jar of amber liquid.
‘Tea, with honey,’ Louds advised. ‘As requested. We also provided toast, in case you were hungry.’
The Professor thanked him and made an eager flit to the trolley. He didn’t think he’d eaten in the past twenty-four hours, and keenly tucked into the food and drink offered to him. Mr Louds directed the second trolley into the centre of the room and then ordered the two orderlies to leave.
They did so, dimming the lights down low as they departed.
‘I must apologise, Professor. Dr Mialora had hoped to be here to present this to you himself. But he remains in surgery,’ Louds said respectfully.
Meredith Malcolm, who had been busily gorging on the sustenance provided became increasingly attentive as Mr Louds unfurled the silk cloth covering the second trolley. Beneath it, bound each end in leather tubing topped off with golden domes, were three separate scrolls. Each scroll had two sets of tubing so in front of them sat six, golden-domed, tanned leather tubes. Two pairs of white cotton gloves lay beside them. Mr Louds donned the first pair and then passed the second to Professor Malcolm.
‘These scrolls are millennia old,’ Mr Louds explained. ‘They come from a recently discovered burial chamber of one of the most powerful Pharaoh’s that ever lived.’
‘Pharaoh?’ the Professor mumbled in excited amazement through a half-full mouth of food. Professor Malcolm accepted the white gloves and slowly put them on, ensuring a snug fit finger by finger. Approaching the trolley behind Mr Louds, his nervous excitement, though non-vocal, emitted tiny beads of sweat from his brow.
Mr Louds moved to the first scroll, which sat to the right-hand side of the trolley. With his right hand on the farthest tube, he steadied the scroll, and with his left, he gently brushed its partnering leather tube sideways, which helped them to slowly unwind counter-clockwise.
Inside the thick leather binding, which indeed looked old and well-handled, was a membrane of much older parchment. This membrane then housed flaps of soft vellum that were so thin and stretched, they were almost transparent. Beneath each swatch of vellum and protected by an ancient amber varnish were scraps of papyrus. Each scrap had been painstakingly put together from an initially shredded jigsaw of parts and was now bonded so as to form larger tableaux to these intricate puzzles. Where the amber bonding met the edges, between paper and animal skin, the darker veins emphasised the joins. The sepia hues of the brittle amber made everything look an aged orange but on closer inspection colours sat suppressed beneath it, amongst the darkly outlined hieroglyphics.
Professor Malcolm looked on in awe like anticipation.
Mr Louds then unfurled the second and third scrolls. The three scrolls were laid out in front of Meticulous Meredith Malcolm for him to examine. What immediately became apparent to the Professor was that each scroll was divided into three separate segments. Some of the frayed edges of papyri would join up and, therefore, they had been taken, or more realistically copied, from a single stone. Each of them was now separated to contain a detailed hieroglyphic for each element of that stone. Each of them, that is, if they had been complete. Of the supposed nine segments that they looked upon, in a matrix made up of three by three swatches, only one glyph existed in the centre of the first row. In the second row the middle and right-side segments were present and in the last row, the first and final segments remained. Of nine potential images, only five, just over half, were present. It resembled tic-tac-toe but with ancient messages, riddles, rather than noughts and crosses, filling the grid.
Professor Malcolm examined the five glyphs. In the centre, a large scarab dominated the central triptych and was accompanied to the right by female servants who knelt worshipping the beetle with an offering of some ancient plant or grass. Above the scarab, t
he symbol represented a half-crescent moon that ran horizontally with a sun dominating it from above. Below to the bottom left were three simple lines that traditionally depicted water and then following the gap and the final piece of this most ancient form of messaging, was the half-man, half-dog image of the ancient Egyptian lord of the underworld, Anubis.
‘Where did you get them?’ the Professor asked excitedly.
‘We purchased them from an unlucky tomb plunderer,’ Mr Louds responded. ‘People believe them cursed and, well, let’s put it this way, it didn’t end well for him.’ There was a sinister undertone from Mr Louds, part-threat and part-lesson to be learnt. Meticulous Meredith Malcolm chose not to react.
‘Where’s the rest of it?’ the Professor questioned.
Changing subjects hastily, Mr Louds reached inside his operating gown and presented a small silver pillbox. It must have been no bigger than one-inch square and half an inch deep.
‘We also purchased a relative quantity of this,’ Louds advised, opening the small container and revealing a powdery violet substance.
Walking towards the glass and mahogany cabinet teeming with scarabs that were being eagerly looked upon by their voracious scorpion neighbours, Mr Louds lifted the lid of the enclosure and removed a live scarab, its six legs writhing aggressively as it was lowered to its doom amongst the formidable arachnids. Placing it amongst the Death-stalkers it was a matter of moments before a swift lash of their venomous stings rendered a lethal paralysis and moments before they set about devouring their prey, limb by limb. It was both uncomfortable and fascinating for the Professor to watch, yet no real revelation to him.
‘Pass me that silk,’ Louds ordered Malcolm, pointing to the light fabric that had been used to cover the scrolls. Placing the silk over the scorpion enclosure, so that it was almost pitch black, Brian Louds then opened the tiny pillbox. He pinched a snuff-sized thumb and forefinger of the violet powder inside. He ordered Professor Malcolm back and to cover his nose and mouth. Turning his back on the Professor and being careful not to inhale the substance himself, he raised his surgical mask for a brief moment and blew gently, as if blowing the flowers of a dandelion into a gentle breeze, over the unsuspecting Death-stalkers. Waiting a short time he then repeated the process of removing a scarab and placing it within the scorpion’s tank. This time however he revealed a tiny pencil-sized torch that he then shone down on the insects. The luminous stripes of the nocturnal beasts lit them up like mini-dodgems on seaside illuminations, as they scurried throughout their enclosure bumping into one another. This scarab, unlike the specimen prized from the dead man’s hand, remained its dark blue-black metallic self. The beam, which was violet, not white, passed over the mini-monsters. Previously eager to devour the scarab, the beam drew the predators away. A small, tiny circle of violet light, directed in their paths and the scorpions were powerless to resist and followed it around the enclosure guided by Mr Louds hand.
‘Goodness me.’ Meticulous exhaled in complete surprise.
‘Centuries of human endeavour to domesticate lay animals such as the pig, cow or dog , Professor, but just look at what our ancients already knew. From this simple understanding, they could influence the most chaotic of creatures. The most primeval of instincts. No wonder they worshipped the humble scarab so much. The only problem is, the person who discovered this little trick is unfortunately dead, and with them, I believe, the ever-fading papyrus puzzle.’
Having been passed the pencil-thin torch from Mr Louds, Professor Malcolm studied the scorpions under the dark silk. Even when he pointed the beam directly onto the scarab the scorpions did not attack. They were entranced by the beam.
‘Professor, may I ask you, can you recall how you actually got here?’ Louds enquired.
Professor Malcolm stopped for a while, thought through his answer, and then responded as he shook his head from left to right. ‘Not fully,’ the entomologist said. ‘I remember the Museum. I recall waking up in a car, dappled light, and the bright horizon of the coast. I seem to remember arriving. But for the best part that’s about it.’
‘So, I think you understand what this tiny pinch of powder is capable of,’ Mr Louds responded. ‘It is very important to our organisation we find a way to replicate this discovery.’
Professor Malcolm began to make sense of what had happened to him but could not contemplate the enormity or potential of what he was being told. Just a pinch of this influential dust and you were the master of the inhalant. The possibilities were huge. The possibilities were both magnificent and terrifying.
What purpose was it that the mysterious Dr Mialora and his ever-pleasant man-servant Mr Louds were pursuing?
‘It is a complex conundrum, Professor. We have the words of a thief, a tomb robber, four parts of the story missing, and even then if we had all nine parts to look upon there are surely thousands of possible combinations. We need you to help us, Professor. We need you to replicate the possibilities of what I have just shown you.’
Professor Meticulous Meredith Malcolm felt the crushing anxiety of the task ahead of him. No doubt the scarab and influence of the fauna presented in the glyphs were part of this ancient recipe for influence. His doctorate in entomology and Botany were surely why they had chosen him in the first place. But how on earth could he start to understand the relationship and missing elements of such a puzzle? Let alone why they wanted him to replicate it. For surely, if their intentions were noble, why were they so secretive in the first place? They could have just sent a car.
‘What is your master’s purpose, Mr Louds?’ Professor Malcolm asked nervously. ‘And what if I refuse?’
Brian Louds remained effortlessly calm through the conversation. No emotions visible, just facts provided to his captive. ‘I can see you require convincing, Professor. I can see the manner in which we whisked you away has no doubt cast considerable doubt in your mind. And I apologise for the nature of that escapade. However, there are factions at work that would move to steal our secrets. We live in a time where ‘loose lips may sink ships’, as you might say, but as for this specific secret, there are forces at work that would use such power for their own evil pursuits. So, please, follow me so I can convince you otherwise, and to allow you the courtesy to see for yourself the real purpose of our ambitions here at the Silvera Institute. Please, after you.’
Brian Louds directed Professor Malcolm towards the large doorway flanked by two mirrors. As they approached the door, it opened and the two huge orderlies stood like footmen on either side. Ahead of them was a dimly lit stone tunnel, stretching into darkness.
The stone corridor, lit from wax and wick, was more temple-like and in complete contrast to the illustrious laboratory Dr Mialora had provided to his guest. Professor Malcolm followed Mr Louds, flanked by the two burly guards. He couldn’t see what threat he posed to such men but having just witnessed the extraordinary potential of the violet drug he fully understood what was at stake.
As the narrow perspective of light gathered into view and each spot of small, flickering flame passed them by, the passageway drew to an end. Mr Louds removed a full set of gaoler keys and unlocked a stone door entrance. One of the orderlies, muscle-bound and with strength in depth, pushed with his might to grind the door open. The immediacy and brightness of light pierced straight through and in contrast to the subterranean thoroughfare that joined the laboratory, Professor Malcolm was now greeted by the glare of white concrete, steel and glass. What’s more, the perfectly framed view of the English Channel, albeit with its overcast autumnal day, provided infinite views of tempestuous seas that were silenced by the protective glass of the Institute.
‘Please, this way, Professor,’ Mr Louds said as he guided them onwards and down a sloping walkway.
The building was built on an ever-decreasing helix. The subtle gradient allowing nurses and their invalid patients a stair-less means of mobility. It had originally been intended as a gracious ascent to study modern masters and observe symphonies agains
t the backdrop of seasonal skies. Now, however, it served a greater purpose to provide ground-breaking medical convalescence for the unfortunate forces injured overseas. The gilded frames of the previous pictures remained, but alas, the paintings did not.
As the smell of iodine wafted through his impressive moustache, the Professor felt a sense of calm come over him. There was a busyness of more people as they descended to the next level down. Nurses wheeled combat-weary soldiers around. Bandages covered a great part of many of their faces, and some had lost limbs. But in such extraordinary cases, they were going about their business. Playing card games, listening eagerly to the wireless for any combat updates but most importantly being nursed back to fuller lives.
‘Professor, have you ever been inside an operating theatre before?’ Mr Louds asked.
Meredith Malcolm took that to mean two very different things and cautiously frowned back.
‘As an observer, of course,’ Louds continued, sensing the Professor’s next set of questions.
‘No,’ came the short reply.
‘It can seem somewhat disorientating,’ Brian Louds confirmed. ‘But do not fear. Your two bodyguards will catch you if you faint.’
‘Faint?’ Malcolm questioned.
‘I’m sure you won’t, sir,’ Louds concluded, before guiding them all through yet another set of locked doors with a large green light illuminated above.
The corridor to the operating theatre was clinically spotless. Large ceramic sinks sat at the entrance. Hanging up in uniformed order were clinicians’ pristine white overalls, surgical masks, and hats.
