The Eye of the Serpent

by Philip Caveney

Alec and Ethan exchanged puzzled looks.

  ‘Sonchis?’ echoed Alec. ‘I never heard of a pharaoh called Sonchis.’

  ‘That is because ’e was not a pharaoh. ’E was a ’igh priest of Akhenaten, a very powerful man, the leader of a religious sect who worshipped the great serpent, Apophis. According to this text, ’e ’ad many followers.’

  ‘That explains all those serpents in the tomb,’ said Alec thoughtfully. ‘But . . . I thought that Akhenaten stopped the worship of any god other than Aten.’

  Madeleine nodded. ‘That is correct. Sonchis and his followers met in secret against the pharaoh’s wishes. Sonchis told them that ’e knew where the great serpent slept in a chamber deep beneath the ground, and that ’e ’ad the necessary rituals to awaken ’im and bring ’im back to the surface, where ’e would take ’is place as the rightful ruler of the world.’

  Ethan let out a low whistle. ‘Guy must have been as nutty as a fruitcake,’ he said.

  Madeleine shrugged. ‘There were many people who believed ’im,’ she said. ‘Some’ow Akhenaten found out about ’is plans. ’E gave orders that Sonchis and his four most devoted lieutenants should be arrested in the dead of night. Akhenaten ’ad already ordered the tomb to be prepared for one of ’is wives, but decided instead to use it as a place of imprisonment.’

  Alec raised his eyebrows. ‘Imprisonment? Don’t you mean burial?’

  Madeleine shook her head. ‘Sonchis and ’is four lieutenants were brought to the tomb. They were given a powerful potion to make them sleep and then their bodies were wrapped in bandages and oils and they were sealed up alive. A wall was built between them and a protective talisman – something they call the serpent’s eye – was specially blessed and prepared by Akhenaten’s priests. This was placed upon the door as a means of keeping Sonchis’s ka – ’is spirit – contained within the tomb. Akhenaten must ’ave believed that this man’s spirit was so dangerous, it must never be allowed to escape, even after death.’

  Alec frowned. ‘That accounts for the copper-lined sarcophagus,’ he said. ‘And the manacles . . .’ He thought for a moment. ‘And it also explains the opening on the door of the tomb: that must have been where this serpent’s eye thing was placed!’

  ‘And yet we didn’t find anything like that in the antechamber,’ said Ethan. ‘So where did it go to? We know there haven’t been tomb robbers . . .’

  ‘We’ve already talked about this,’ said Alec. ‘I’m sure Uncle Will would never have taken it. Maybe Tom,’ he suggested. ‘Maybe taking the eye had something to do with his going missing. Maybe it . . . affected him in some way?’

  Ethan shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sounds crazy, but at this stage I’m prepared to consider just about any idea.’ He frowned. ‘Anything else we should know, Maddie?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, but you aren’t going to like it.’

  ‘Try me,’ suggested Ethan.

  ‘As Sonchis was being sealed in the tomb, ’e woke from the drug-induced sleep and cursed those who ’ad arrested ’im. ’E cursed Akhenaten and anybody else who entered the tomb . . .’

  ‘Oh, great,’ sighed Ethan. ‘Another curse. Perfect.’

  ‘’E also said that death could not keep ’im . . . that ’e would return one day to fulfil ’is destiny. ’E said ’e would walk the earth and ’e would go to the Gates of Apophis and awaken the great serpent from ’is sleep.’

  Ethan smiled. ‘The Gates of Apophis, huh? Well, that ain’t too far away.’

  Alec stared at him. ‘You’ve heard of it?

  ‘Sure. A big old cave system out in the desert, due west of here. One of the rocks above it does kind of resemble the head of a cobra. Some of the older locals still call it by that name and I remember one guy telling me he’d heard a story about it when he was a kid. Looking at the guy, that must have been like a hundred years ago. He said that under the cliffs, Apophis slept; and one day he would be called and return to the surface.’

  Alec looked at him. ‘Do you think there’s anything in it?’ he asked.

  Ethan gave a snort of derision. ‘Do I think there’s a giant snake asleep under the desert?’ he asked. ‘No, and I’m surprised at you for asking such a stupid question!’

  Alec felt his cheeks redden. ‘But I read somewhere that all legends start with a fact,’ he argued.

  ‘Yeah, maybe somebody did get bitten by a snake there, down the centuries – but just an ordinary-sized one. Then, over the years, it got exaggerated. Heck, Alec, you know how these things work!’ He turned back to Madeleine. ‘Good job, Maddie. OK, so now we know who we’re dealing with. It ain’t Akhenaten, but it’s a pretty amazing find all the same and we shouldn’t lose sight of that.’

  ‘And the curse?’ murmured Madeleine.

  ‘Don’t even give it a second thought.’

  ‘No, but wait,’ persisted Alec. ‘Just think for a moment. You heard what Madeleine said. A serpent’s eye was placed in the door to keep this high priest’s spirit locked up. But the eye is gone . . . and the sarcophagus was smashed open by an earthquake, who knows how many centuries ago? There have been some very rum things happening around here. Tom Hinton’s disappearance. Hyenas in a place where you don’t normally find hyenas. Fruit bats that attack people. Now nobody knows what happened to Wilfred Llewellyn. I know it sounds crazy, but . . . suppose something did get out of the tomb? Suppose Sonchis’s spirit is already out here, causing bad things to happen?’

  Ethan stared at Alec for a moment in silence. Then he threw back his head and began to laugh.

  Sonchis lifted his head at the unexpected sound of laughter coming from one of the tents. Yes, laugh, he thought, while you still have something to laugh about!

  He waited for a moment in the darkness until the sound had died down, and then he carried on, moving the still unfamiliar shape of Doc Hopper into the dark hills beyond the road. The hessian bag he carried over his shoulder bumped against his back with a dry, rattling sound. He reached a spot on the edge of the darkness and paused, listening intently. After a short while he was rewarded with a low growl and he saw the glint of a pair of feral eyes regarding him from the shadows. A moment later, another pair appeared, and then there were more, as a whole pack of hyenas came creeping out from their hiding places.

  They had always been his loyal servants – and these ones had travelled hundreds of miles to carry out his bidding. Such loyalty deserved to be rewarded occasionally. He lifted the sack from his shoulder and upended it at the edge of the road, sending a grisly collection of bones and tattered clothing tumbling down to where the hyenas waited. The mortal remains of a fat detective called Wilfred Llewellyn would soon be nothing more than a memory. Sonchis could not allow his plan to be disrupted by somebody stumbling upon the sack that he had temporarily stored under Doc Hopper’s bed.

  He listened for a while as the hyenas began to snap ravenously at the bones and then he flung the bloodstained sack into the darkness too, knowing that not a trace of it would remain by morning. Hyenas were not particular about what they ate. He returned to his tent, impatient to begin the next part of his task – to inhabit his own body once more; but he was all too aware that he could not start until everyone in the camp was asleep.

  Then it would begin, the process that he had waited thousands of years to complete. He slipped a hand inside his shirt and felt each of his talismans sending fresh power through his spirit, and he told himself that he would not have to tolerate this artificial body for very much longer . . .

  With an expression of disgust, Biff Corcoran pulled the sheet of paper from his typewriter, balled it up and threw it at the waste bin on the other side of the hotel room; it glanced off the edge and rolled away to join half a dozen other similarly discarded attempts that littered the floor.

  Not for the first time, he asked himself what was he doing here. The room was intolerably hot, despite the clattering ceiling fan, which was vainly trying to stir the humid air around. Meanwhile his attempts to scare up some kind of a grippin
g travel article seemed equally doomed to failure. He thought again about the Devlin kid: what a great little story that would have been – but no, that interfering flunky had made sure that it just wasn’t going to happen. Typical uptight Englishman – the kid could have been in the Saturday Evening Post!

  Trouble was, what other angle did he have? It was no good sending his editor a bunch of hooey about mummies and tombs and ancient artefacts. That wouldn’t wash for the average Post reader. No, he needed to find ‘the human angle’ but it just wasn’t coming and time was fast running out.

  To make matters worse, Biff’s supply of whisky was fast running out too, and Mohammed Hansa, the best contact for the stuff in these parts, had been hard to get hold of since he’d started chauffeuring that Welsh professor around. Biff poured himself a small shot and savoured the feel of it on his tongue, telling himself that if things didn’t pick up soon, he’d have to start thinking about another line of work.

  A furious hammering on his door made him jump and he almost spilled the precious contents of his glass.

  ‘Come in!’ he growled. The door opened and Charlie swept into the room, carrying a photograph. The last time Biff had seen her she’d been heading for the improvised darkroom she had set up in one of the Winter Palace’s linen cupboards, but now her face was ashen and for once in her life she looked anything but bored.

  ‘Biff, there’s something screwy going on,’ she announced.

  ‘You’re telling me,’ he said. ‘It’s called Egypt. The whole place is screwy. You know, I watched The Sheik three times and at no point did you ever see Valentino pulling sand out of his duds – but I swear every item of clothing I brought with me is full of the stuff.’

  ‘Never mind about that! I want you to look at a photograph I took.’

  ‘That’s above and beyond the call of duty, kid. You know I do the words; I leave the images to you.’

  ‘Yeah, but you know the English guy, Llewellyn?’

  ‘The Welsh guy. That’s why he talks the way he does.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever you say. I took this photograph of him and it’s hideous!’

  Biff sniggered. ‘Oh, you only just noticed? I could’ve told you he’s no oil painting. The British Museum clearly doesn’t employ professors on the basis of their looks. He’s got the kind of puss you’d put on the mantel to keep the kids away from the fire.’

  ‘No, look, will ya! What do you make of this? I did an enlargement, just to be sure I wasn’t hallucinating or something.’

  Charlie thrust a sheet of photographic paper into his hands and he gave it a cursory glance; then looked again as he registered what he was looking at.

  ‘Holy moly!’ he said.

  A face stared up at him from the print. The eyes were covered by a pair of dark glasses, but they were the only normal-looking things in the picture. They hung from a face that was a fright mask made up of what appeared to be hundreds of fat black insects.

  ‘Is this some kind of joke?’ gasped Biff.

  ‘If it is, nobody’s laughing,’ Charlie assured him.

  ‘It’s a little early for Halloween, wouldn’t you say? Aw, come on, Charlie. He must have put on some kind of a mask.’

  She shook her head. ‘Uh-uh. You were there when I took it – he was sat in the back of Mohammed Hansa’s automobile and he looked completely normal. Well, as normal as a guy like that ever looks. But I remember he wasn’t too pleased about having his picture taken. He kicked up about it. Say, maybe he knew it would come out like this.’

  Biff felt a sense of excitement stirring within him. Charlie had chanced on something here. He didn’t know exactly what it was yet, but he was pretty sure it would make more exciting reading than some dry old stuff about digging up relics. Not so much human interest as inhuman interest – but what the heck. It would transfix readers from Hoboken to Colorado.

  He slammed down his glass of whisky and stared at Charlie. ‘Great day in the morning!’ he shouted excitedly. ‘This is incredible. This has to be the story of the century!’

  ‘You figure?’

  ‘Yes, I figure. This is gonna be bigger than the Titanic!’ Biff thought for a moment. ‘Say, what room is the professor staying in? We’ll get some hired muscle and go and have a little word with him.’

  Charlie shook her head. ‘He ain’t there,’ she said. ‘I bumped into the desk clerk a little while ago and he asked me if I’d seen anything of Professor Llewellyn. Seems he went out early this morning and never came back. Told the clerk he was headed for Ethan Wade’s dig.’

  ‘You’re kidding me! Well, don’t just stand there, go and find us some transport!’ he cried. ‘Get Mohammed Hansa if you can. We’re going up to the dig.’

  Charlie stared at him. ‘At this time of night?’ she cried.

  ‘Yeah, shake the lead out of your boots! I can see it now . . .’ He lifted a hand to frame an imaginary caption. ‘ANCIENT TOMBS HAUNTED BY INSECT–MAN HORROR,’ he said. ‘Exclusive feature by Biff Corcoran.’

  ‘Photographs by Charlie Connors,’ added Charlie.

  ‘Yeah, sure. Now skedaddle! I want to get up there before that weirdo professor disappears on us.’

  She turned and ran for the door. It was the first time Biff had seen her hurry over anything. He turned back to his glass of whisky and gulped it down in one before looking around for his jacket and boots.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Return of Sonchis

  SONCHIS PACED ANXIOUSLY up and down, telling himself that he had waited long enough. He had returned from feeding Llewellyn’s bones to the hyenas some time ago and had made himself sit quietly in the doctor’s tent. It was late now and he was pretty sure that everyone in the camp must be asleep. He stooped, picked up a hurricane lamp and the heavy bolt cutters he had set aside earlier, but he did not light the lamp yet. He went over to pull aside the mosquito netting and peered outside. Not a soul in sight, but from a couple of tents he heard loud snores. He wondered how the whole camp had not been awakened by it.

  He stepped out into the open and, aware of how the slightest sound carried at night, began to creep towards the road, moving the doctor’s clumsy feet as quietly as he could. He crossed the road and picked his way carefully between the rocks in the pale moonlight. Once he was a good distance from the tents, he walked more quickly, climbing down into the gully and crossing the intervening space.

  Ahead of him, beside the entrance to the tomb, he saw Hassan, the arab worker who had alerted Llewellyn to the presence of Tom Hinton, dozing fitfully beside a small campfire. As he moved closer, the man snapped awake and directed a lazy smile at the approaching figure.

  ‘Dr Hopper,’ he said in his poor English. ‘You up late.’

  Sonchis arranged the doctor’s features into a reciprocal smile. ‘Something I needed to check on,’ he said. ‘How long before somebody comes to take your place?’

  ‘Hours,’ said Hassan glumly. ‘I just come on watch.’ He stood up. ‘Hassan go inside with you?’ he asked.

  ‘No need,’ said Sonchis. ‘In fact, now I come to think of it, I have no further need of you at all.’ He flung out a hand to seize Hassan by the throat and the Arab’s dark eyes bulged in surprise. He opened his mouth to cry out but all that emerged was a brief hiss of expelled air. Sonchis exerted all his supernatural strength and felt the bones in Hassan’s neck snap beneath his fingers like dry twigs. Hassan’s eyes became vacant and he went limp, his life extinguished. Sonchis regarded him for a moment, not wanting to make any mistakes; he couldn’t allow Hassan to recover and go shouting for help while he was inside the tomb. But the man’s eyes were already glazing over. Sonchis stepped over the body and, taking a box of matches from the doctor’s pocket, stooped to light the hurricane lamp. Then, holding it aloft, he went quickly down the steps into the tomb.

  Alec was running for his life. It was night and he could see very little, but he knew that behind him in the dark shadows something ancient and evil was following him on silent feet.


  Ahead of him lay a vast expanse of desert, pale and unwelcoming in the moonlight. The sand seemed to cling to his feet as though it was damp; he could feel it sucking at his ankles and feared that if he slowed his pace, he would sink to his knees and be held there, a helpless captive. He tried to cry out for help, but his voice seemed to have gone and he could manage nothing more than a dry rattle of despair. From behind him a pair of skeletal arms were reaching out to grab at his shoulders—

  He woke with a start and lay sweating on the camp bed, trying to get his breathing back to normal. At first he was surprised to find that he was dressed, but then he remembered he had been so tired when he finally turned in, he could do no more than pull off his boots. The dream had been so real, he could still feel the unspeakable touch of those dried fingers clawing at his flesh. He shivered, despite the heat, and gazed around the gloom of the tent, reassured by the sound of Coates snoring loudly nearby. But then he realized that something else had woken him: the sound of footsteps passing by.

  He got up and went to peer outside. The campsite looked deserted in the eerie wash of moonlight. For a moment he thought he saw a shadowy shape moving amidst the jagged rocks on the far side of the road – it looked like the tall shape of Doc Hopper; but then it was gone and he decided he must have been mistaken.

  Whatever the answer, he could feel sleep plucking at him again and he was too tired to resist for long. He stumbled back to his bed and lay down, listening to Coates – an infernal racket that was somehow oddly comforting. Eerily, from Archie’s tent across the way he could hear more snores, the deeper tones seeming to provide some kind of answer to Coates’s more high-pitched ones. If he had been more awake it would have seemed funny, but he was so tired and sleep was pulling at him with irresistible power. He closed his eyes and was asleep again in moments. This time there were no dreams to trouble him.

  Sonchis approached his own mummified corpse, drinking in the wonder of this moment, one he had anticipated for so many years. At last the time of his rebirth was at hand. He set down the lantern and pushed aside the remains of the wooden lid. Then, turning back, he took the powerful bolt cutters and sliced through the clasps that secured the copper manacles. Pointless to return to his own body only to find himself once more a prisoner of that despised metal. He picked up the manacles and flung them aside.