Lucy tapped her notebook at her side. “We have some colorful characters to work from.”
I nodded my chin and replied, “Perhaps too colorful.”
Once through with breakfast, we returned to our rooms to change. Afterward, all kitted out for a desert trek, we found Sandy sitting in the hotel lobby, reading a newspaper.
Clad in rugged khaki attire, he jumped up and greeted us. “Mrs. Stayton, Ms. Wallace, may the goddesses of Egypt bless you on this fine morning.”
Lucy tittered, and I remarked, “I prefer the blessings of our own Lord and Savior, but thank you all the same.”
Sandy stifled a queer laugh and said, “Well, it is Sunday morning, isn’t it? Don’t worry, you’ll be receiving a blessing or two.”
I might have asked what he meant, but we were following him as he quickly crossed the lobby, and then we started down the curved staircase to the street level.
The morning sun was ever so bright, and I was momentarily blinded after gazing at the dazzling Nile River just a short distance away.
Locals in fine suits and crimson fez caps mingled with all manner of Europeans about the many kiosks on the street. Lucy and I spied the items for sale: fans made from feathers, flywhisks made from what looked to be horse tails, many trinkets that resembled Egyptian artifacts.
Sandy was just far enough ahead of us that, without warning, Lucy and I were swarmed by a group of young Egyptian children. Dressed in rags and with grubby hands held open, they started shouting out to us, “Baksheesh, baksheesh, baksheesh!”
Sandy rounded on them and started yelling and flinging his hands about. Several of the urchins scattered, but the braver remained.
Even without interpretation, I knew what they wanted. As I reached into the sturdy handbag I’d had made for the journey, the remaining children called out again, “Baksheesh, baksheesh, baksheesh.” And those Sandy had frightened off returned.
Our guide cleared his throat and said, somewhat condescendingly, “My dear Mrs. Stayton, if you give these ragamuffins money, you’ll never be rid of them.”
I nodded my chin at the fellow and proceeded to hand each child an American penny, from a little coin purse. Each child delightfully inspected the copper coin and then ran off satisfied.
Sandy chuckled after the last child scampered along, and he said, “American money, ah. I think I’d rather be paid in your pennies than by the Egyptian pound.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I remarked as we walked alongside the man toward the Nile’s bank.
Sandy gave a great laugh and shook his head.
Upon our approach toward a number of little skiffs along the river’s edge, a chorus of shouts began. I understood very little, other than some broken English insisting the other boats to be unsafe. Sandy ignored them all, and we went straightaway to a nice-sized river boat, whose owner had remained silent and rather smug.
I tapped Sandy’s shoulder and said, “This man wasn’t eager for our business, why not another?”
Sandy’s perpetual smile wavered, and he replied, “Professor Kinkaid keeps this boat on a sort of retainer, you might say; it is always available for the expedition’s use.”
So it seemed, my money was being well spent by Professor Kinkaid on a great many things beyond unearthing Pharaoh Kamose’s tomb.
“I see,” was my only reply.
Unlike the Mighty Mississippi River that flows to the south alongside my native Saint Louis, the Nile flows north. Our boatman, therefore, had to paddle against the steady current as we crossed the great river at an angle.
This was done quickly, and we were deposited on the West Bank with great ease. Here, I thought we would instantly be surrounded by desert sand, but instead, there was a long span of lush green crops of some sort. However, above the patch of green rose a series of lifeless, parched mountains. Sandy had pointed them out before— the Theban Hills, but they seemed far taller than hills to me.
My assumption that camels would be waiting to carry us toward the desert valley was incorrect. Another large black sedan, which was perfectly spotless, awaited us.
Sandy said some greeting to the driver, and then Lucy and I were politely ushered into the spacious backseat.
“Does Professor Kinkaid keep this automobile handy as well?”
Settling himself in the front seat beside the driver, Sandy replied in such a chipper tone that it was obvious he had not registered my displeasure. “Oh no, the expedition has an automobile of their own, but it is such a dinky thing. I arranged for this.”
“I thought we would have made the journey by camel, perhaps even donkey…” I started to say.
Sandy chuckled. “I suppose we could, but why?”
I could not bring myself to reply, Because that is how I imagined we would.
As the sedan motored westward, the stark mountain range grew more ominous. Sandy saw the expression of awe that had registered both on mine and Lucy’s faces, and earning his keep, he began, “There, see the largest of the hills, the one shaped like a pyramid? That’s called al-Qurn, the ancients called it, The Peak. During the Eighteenth Dynasty, when the Egyptians took back control of the north from invaders, Thebes became the seat of their government, which meant no more pyramids in Cairo! The new kings wanted to hide their magnificent tombs, after seeing how the long-dead rulers’ tombs had been robbed, and even defaced.
“It was normal for a pharaoh to start the construction of his tomb when he became the ruler. This gave him, or so he hoped, enough time to build a magnificent tomb. Some of these tombs will have a long shaft and then an open chamber, then another long shaft and another chamber; you see, they did that because the tomb wasn’t finished until the old king was dead and ready to be sealed in.”
“How decadent,” said Lucy.
“How decadent indeed,” I remarked.
“A pharaoh’s life!” Sandy exclaimed. “Ah, but the purpose for these had nothing to do with his life, no, his concern was his afterlife. You see, they believed that their souls, or as they called it, their ka, would have to travel to the next world and be judged by forty-two gods before Osiris welcomed them to the afterlife …”
“Did Osiris have the head of a jackal?”
“Oh no, that is Anubis. Now this fellow, Anubis, he saw to it that the heart was weighed, and if it was in balance, you went on your journey; if you were wicked, then you’d be eaten by Ammit, a god with the head of a crocodile, the front legs of a lion, and the back quarter of a hippo!”
I gave a gasp and said, “Mr. Warner, you are going to give us nightmares.” I patted Lucy’s hand and said, “We prefer to hear more about the Valley of Kings rather than the bizarre beliefs of the ancients.”
Sandy couldn’t repress his chuckle, but he went on to say, “So sorry, ladies. Well, the workers cut these long shafts down into the limestone …”
As we listened to what turned out to be a rather dull lecture on rock cutting, punishment for forcing Sandy to abbreviate his tale of the Egyptian Afterlife, we crossed out of the lush flatland and onto the parched earth along the base of the Theban Hills.
The air grew warmer, and I wished we had bought two of the fans sold at the kiosks outside of the Winter Castle. We could only roll down the windows so far, because a gritty dust was kicked up by the sedan.
The road ended in a large car park atop a plain. All manner of vehicles were scattered about. While there were no camels, a great number of donkeys were led about. I patted down the pleats of my skirt, eager to see if our design was as functional as we hoped.
We had no sooner stepped out of the sedan before a flurry of movement took me off guard. When the dust settled, I saw that three men stood before us, each with a rickshaw behind him.
Pointing at the donkeys, I remarked, “I thought we’d be riding one of them?”
Sandy’s smile was growing less charming to me, as he replied, “Oh, blast to that. No, this is far more comfortable.”
Lucy did not share in my disappointment. “I t
hought they only had rickshaws in the Orient.”
“Oh no, now you find them everywhere,” Sandy replied as he ushered us each inside a small open carriage. A second later, I was tipped backward for an instant, and then we took off.
Sandy, in the lead contraption, called back, “Of course, these chaps can’t get us there the whole way; we will have to do a spot of climbing ourselves.”
I was pleased to hear that; luckily, Professor Kinkaid hadn’t used my funding to build his team an escalator.
Pointing to our right, Sandy said, “That’s where they are working on the remains of a very large temple; of all things, they think it was built by an Egyptian queen. The next king was none too pleased, seems he had her name and image chiseled off of the place.”
I called out, “The fate of Queen Hatshepsut is proof that chauvinism isn’t a new invention.”
Sandy had no chipper reply to my statement.
Up we went, and as our altitude increased, the air grew dry and warm. The path upward was bumpy, and I suspect we would have been more comfortable on a four-legged creature than atop large wheels that found the stray jagged stone unyielding.
Reaching the summit of the path, between a narrow crease in the hills, we had a moment to gaze across the golden brown labyrinth of narrow chasms below.
After a second spent in awe of God’s beautiful world, I was jerked forward and nearly tumbled out of the little carriage.
“Well, ladies, we aren’t far now. Of course, there is an easier way to get to Kamose’s tomb, but this is the quickest.” He reached an arm out, keeping Lucy and me a step behind him. “Now, mind you, there is a cliff just up ahead.”
Indeed, just a few feet ahead, the stony ledge we stood upon came to a dramatic end. A series of crude steps had been carved into the face of the ridge; they led down to a landing and then to another set of steps. Below these was just a small and narrow gully.
“I thought the Valley of Kings was larger,” said Lucy.
Sandy gave a chuckle and retorted, “Think of this as the Valley of Kings adjacent. You see, there isn’t just one valley; the tombs really dot all of the Theban Hillside. Thus far, only Kamose’s crypt has been discovered in this area, but there might be more.”
Sandy walked before us, setting a very slow pace as we made our way downward. I took two missteps, causing butterflies in my stomach. When we reached the bottom of the valley, I took a deep breath of warm, dry air.
The magazine photos that I had studied captured the images of a large rectangular opening cut into the ground, with the earth cleared away, and a fine stone proscenium marked the entrance to the long lost tomb. Tents and tables holding rare and valuable objects were scattered before the tomb, and a throng of natives worked, while archeologists posed beside some grand find.
Well, we found a dig site very much like this; however, along the narrow way of the small, isolated valley, we came across a church service.
A dozen or so locals sat in little mismatched folding chairs and looked on toward a wooden pulpit, where Mrs. Smith stood, waving a leather-bound Bible in the air.
Dr. Smith sat on a little chair behind his wife; otherwise, I didn’t see any of the expedition members.
“What is taking place?” I asked Sandy.
“Mrs. Smith’s church service; as I said, it is Sunday.”
“All of the workmen are Christian?” asked Lucy, as surprised as I was.
Sandy gave a guttural laugh. “Hardly. They are all Muslims. They don’t care, really; none of them understand a word of what she is saying, and it’s an hour they don’t have to work.”
We stood some distance away and listened to much talk of fire and brimstone. Honestly, the god that Mrs. Smith spoke of was as fearsome as the animal-headed gods of Egypt.
The fiery sermon was concluded with the singing of a hymn. Mrs. Smith sang loudly, her voice echoing in the valley. The workmen warbled the words that they had been taught with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
Once the peculiar rendition of “Gabriel’s Message” came to an end, Mrs. Smith’s blissful smile turned into a frown. She pointed at the members of her ragged congregation and started warning them of the dangers of sin.
The typical offenses were well defined: lying, stealing, blasphemes and all, and then she went on a colorful tangent listing unsightly behavior and bad manners as lesser sins. Her husband came to his feet and placed a hand on her round shoulder when she described the practice of using one’s sleeve as a handkerchief as an affront to the Lord.
Dr. Smith thanked his wife for her stirring service in English and then made a remark in Arabic that surely translated to, She’s done, and you may return to work.
The men all raised their own little Bibles into the air and waved them, shouting “Al-hamdu lillah!”
Sandy gave a great laugh, but he did not translate the statement.
Noticing us, amongst the scattering workman, Mrs. Smith quickly beckoned me to her. “What did you think of my sermon, Mrs. Stayton?”
I have told my share of white lies, but I did hate to spin another in conjunction with the Sabbath. “Most unexpected.”
This fragment of words pleased her. “They may be savages, but there’s no reason they can’t try to better themselves.”
Dr. Smith stepped very near his wife, and once more, placed a hand firmly on her shoulder. “Wilma, what have I told you about calling the locals savages?”
The plump woman sighed and said, “It will get us lynched and buried in shallow graves in the wadi.”
Dr. Smith’s dark eyes bugged out a little, and he retorted, “I have never said that.”
“Well, it’s what you think,” Wilma responded. She then startled me by grabbing my hand and tugging me closer to her. “None of us trust them; they’re vultures with sticky fingers.”
“Wilma Smith!” said Dr. Smith quite sternly.
Pulling my hand from hers, I winked and whispered, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Do just that,” Wilma replied, pleased with herself.
Dr. Smith pointed toward the nearby opening in the ground and said, “I suppose you’d like to take a gander.”
“Oh, yes, Lucy and I would like that very much.”
We started to walk toward the tomb’s opening when Sandy cleared his throat and said, “Righto, if it is all the same to you, Mrs. Stayton, I will be just right out here.”
Noting that there had not been a chuckle on either side of Sandy’s statement, Lucy asked, “Are you fearful of the mummy’s curse?”
Sandy gave a little laugh, and responded, “Truth be told, Ms. Wallace, I am a tad bit claustrophobic.”
Wilma suggested to our guide, “Don’t stay in the sun for too long.”
“Come along,” said Dr. Smith as he took a lantern and handed another to me. “Mind your step; these are steep.”
Just down eight roughly cut steps, we came to the entrance, which was perhaps eight feet high and four feet wide.
Stepping into the shadow of the past, a strange scent assaulted my senses. Spices unknown to me, stale perspiration, and burning oil caused me a bit of nausea.
Lucy noticed that I clapped a white-gloved hand to my mouth and asked, “Are you all right?”
“I am fine.”
Dr. Smith, leading the way into the shaft, called back, “The air isn’t good for you down here, but at least this time of year you don’t have to worry with the heat.”
Well, it felt warm to me. I removed my hand from my mouth and took a slow inhalation through my nose and exhaled slowly through my mouth.
Mrs. Smith remarked, “That’s it, dear, you don’t want to get sick like Arthur did.”
Lucy asked, “Mr. Fox was ill from being in the tomb?”
“I don’t know if it was the tomb, or when he was staying aboard that damn—” Dr. Smith started to say.
“William, not on the Lord’s day!” Mrs. Smith’s piercing voice echoed through the shaft with such intensity, I nearly dropped my lantern.
“Pardon me. What was I saying, uh, yes, on that dahabiya.”
I wished for just a moment of silence so that I could study the paintings of the tomb. The vivid colors, painted more than three thousand years ago, were fantastic. Hieroglyphics covered the nearly smooth surfaces of the stone all around me. Images of bare-chested maidens toiling for their king caused me to blush, and the image of Anubis welcoming a figure that must have been King Kamose nearly gave me a fright.
The light from the opening was dissipating as the shaft narrowed and descended. When we came to a little chamber, Dr. Smith pointed toward the ceiling. The stone above us was covered in a dazzling blue lacquer, and against this were simple gold stars, depicting the night’s sky.
“Looks like our Heaven and their Heaven weren’t too far off,” said the doctor.
Wilma scoffed, but said nothing more.
My moment of awe was brief, as a noise from the next shaft startled me. A second later I saw a bit of light, and then I heard Professor Kinkaid’s voice.
“Welcome to Kamose’s tomb, Mrs. Stayton,” said Kinkaid with little sincerity.
“Thank you, Professor,” I replied. I had mixed feelings about the gentleman, but standing inside the tomb he had discovered, I was able to put aside my prejudices in regards to his handling of my funds.
“What do you think?” asked the Egyptologist.
“Amazing, simply amazing,” I told him.
Mrs. Smith gave a harrumph and said, “Well, you’ve seen the best of it.”
“How is that?” asked Lucy.
Professor Kinkaid explained, “Kamose was an old man when he came to power, and there was little time for his tomb to be prepared. While artists painted the opening shaft and the first chamber, the rock cutters started on the next shaft and then another anteroom. Kamose died sometime during this phase.”
Kinkaid swung his lantern toward the next shaft and concluded, “There was not time to paint the rest of the tomb. His mummy was laid to rest in just one outer sarcophagus that had been carved from alabaster. Sadly, the weight of the lid was too much for it, and much of it shattered sometime after the tomb was sealed.”
Murder Most Egyptological (A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery Book 3) Page 5
