The Mummy Smugglers of Crumblin Castle

by Pamela Rushby

  There were days when they passed sandbanks where crocodiles lay basking in the sun. Crocodiles! The great reptiles lay with eyes closed, jaws half open. Hattie could see rows of knife-sharp teeth on display. Small birds hopped in and out of the crocodiles’ jaws. “They clean the crocodiles’ teeth,” Great-uncle Sisyphus told her. “By removing small shreds of meat from between the teeth.”

  Hattie could not help thinking of Uncle Heracles as she observed the teeth. It would not, she thought, have been a pleasant way to go.

  Then a dahabiya going downstream passed them. The body of a huge crocodile hung suspended from the mast. The party on board, sitting out on their boat’s upper deck, puffed their chests out proudly. They had clearly been hunting. Fearsome as the crocodile they had shot had been, Hattie hoped the basking crocodiles they had just passed on the sandbank would have the sense to escape into the river, very quickly. She thought of the stuffed animals’ heads on the walls of Howling Hall. She preferred crocodiles in the river, she decided, rather than displayed on walls. As long as they stayed in the river, and she stayed well out of it.

  There were days when they were stuck on unseen and unexpected sandbanks themselves, but rather than stay there, basking in the sun like the crocodiles, the crew leaped overboard carrying long poles, which they used to punt the Hetepheres back into the main stream.

  Crocodiles were not the only animals they encountered. There were birds, many birds: pelicans fishing from sandbanks; wild geese drawing an arrow in the sky at sunset; vultures perched in a melancholy row along a rock ledge high above the water; herons standing on one long, delicate leg; black and white kingfishers flashing from the bank and returning with a fish grasped in their bills; paddy-birds, hundreds of them, turning the bank white and rising in a great flapping and confusion of wings as the dahabiya approached; and hawks, their thin calls dropping from the sky as they circled above.

  There was a day when they tied up at the bank beside a small village. The crew, Rais Abdallah said, had used up all the dried bread that was the basis of their meals. They needed more, and there was an excellent baker in this village where stocks could be replenished. Rais Abdallah was going to market.

  “Could I come?” Hattie asked eagerly.

  “Everyone can come,” said Rais Abdallah.

  Everyone decided to go. A gangplank was flung into place between dahabiya and bank and they stepped ashore.

  The village was very poor. The small houses, made of dried mud with tiny, glassless windows high in their walls, were set along a few streets of trodden earth. Dark eyes peered at them from doorways and small, naked children ran out to stare, but when Hattie tried to speak to them they backed away shyly.

  “They do not see many foreigners,” Amal said. She spoke to the children in their own language, but they were still reluctant to come nearer. Amal shrugged. “They do not see many strangers, either.”

  Rais Abdallah led them to the bazaar, where a few streets were roofed over with tattered palm leaf matting to keep the sun off the goods. Small shops, with fronts open to the street, sold rugs and camel saddles and pointed-toed shoes. One shop, larger, and with a door that closed its wares off from the dust and flies, sold more familiar goods: cheese, bottles of pickles and Worcester sauce, shoe polish, biscuits, medicines, tins of sardines with familiar names on the packaging. “It is run by Greeks,” said Omar Shaydi. “The villagers do not shop here. Only those from the dahabiyas.”

  The villagers shopped in a square. People sat on the ground with baskets in front of them, displaying fruit and vegetables, eggs, sticks of sugarcane, dried beans, wheat, cages of chickens, rabbits and pigeons. Dust rose, chickens screeched, flies gathered, shoppers bargained at the tops of their voices, the sun beat down, and everyone soon decided to return to the dahabiya. But Hattie stayed with Rais Abdallah and went to the bakery, where the distinctly unpleasant smells from the market were dispersed by the scent of good fresh bread. Amal sighed, and stayed as well. Perhaps, Hattie thought uncharitably, she feels it’s her obligation, as my companion.

  The ovens were low, beehive shaped, made of baked and polished clay, with fires smouldering inside them. Tissue-thin circles of dough were being thrown onto the outside of the ovens, where they cooked in seconds. They were whisked off and stacked up in great piles in baskets. Rais Abdallah bargained as loudly as anyone in the marketplace, and soon Hattie, Amal and Rais Abdallah were leading a procession of boys carrying baskets of bread back to the Hetepheres. There, the crew accepted the baskets, approved Rais Abdallah’s purchase, and laid the bread out in rows on the deck, to dry in the sun.

  What Hattie discovered, during those leisurely and dream-like days on the river, was that she was by no means inclined to venture into tombs again.

  They had arrived at a place called Beni Hasan. Great-uncle Sisyphus was eager to go ashore. There was a necropolis there, he told them, with several tombs of interest, containing unusual wall paintings.

  An uneasy feeling stirred in the back of Hattie’s mind. Tombs. Tomb paintings. Scenes, possibly, of a happy, never-ending life in the Fields of Yaru, the afterlife. No. She really didn’t want to see that.

  Amal gave her a sharp look. “You don’t want to go? I thought you liked tombs,” she challenged.

  Hattie was having none of that. “What sort of tombs, Great-uncle Sisyphus? And what sort of paintings?” she asked warily.

  “Well, there’s one with pictures of acrobats,” Great-uncle Sisyphus replied. “One with scenes of gazelles wrestling, and a hunt for unicorns and winged monsters. Most unusual.”

  Hattie sighed with relief. Monsters. Would they be like the Devourer of Souls, a combination of crocodile and hippopotamus – or something even more fearsome? And gazelles, wrestling? Interesting! How would gazelles wrestle? Unicorns. Acrobats. They should be no problem, no problem at all.

  The necropolis was on the east bank of the river. Hattie counted about thirty tombs, dark openings carved into a limestone cliff.

  “You are not proposing to visit all the tombs?” Edwina Raven asked.

  “Sadly, no, my dear,” sighed Great-uncle Sisyphus. “They are not all open for inspection, and some are quite inaccessible at the moment. You’ll see that there are steps cut into the cliff face, leading to some of them. We will visit only three, the tombs of provincial officials of the Middle Kingdom: Kheti, Khnumhotep and Baquet, all dating from around 1800 to 2000 BC. Baquet, in fact, is the father of Kheti.” Great-uncle Sisyphus looked wistful. “Someday, perhaps, all the tombs will be open to visitors. Then we can explore them all!”

  Amal looked appalled, and Hattie smiled to herself.

  “For the moment,” Great-uncle Sisyphus concluded, “we will see what we can.”

  Despite his walking stick, Great-uncle Sisyphus was able to climb nimbly enough up the steps carved into the cliffside, with Omar Shaydi offering his hand over the steeper sections. At the top, the caretaker of the tombs, a wizened old man in a dusty grey gallabiya, came to meet them and to conduct them into the tombs. Great-uncle Sisyphus waited patiently while the old man and Omar Shaydi exchanged courtesies and the man graciously accepted the coins Omar Shaydi handed him. Then, he led them to the first of the tombs.

  “And here we are!” said Great-uncle Sisyphus triumphantly. “The tomb of Baquet!”

  This, Great-uncle Sisyphus explained, was the tomb famous for scenes of gazelles wrestling, and the hunt for monsters and unicorns. Once inside, Great-uncle Sisyphus produced a large magnifying glass from his pocket and began to study the finer details. “Very curious, very curious indeed,” he said. “You must remember these, Hattie. They are unique. I’m very pleased to have seen them firsthand.”

  Hattie viewed them all with interest. She discovered that gazelles wrestled very awkwardly.

  They moved on to the tomb of Khnumhotep, to admire the scenes of acrobats in action.

  Hattie had found no difficulty in viewing Baquet’s gazelles, unicorns and monsters, nor Khnumhotep’s acrobats, b
ut acrobats, she found, were not all that this tomb contained. The walls also displayed colourful scenes of family life. Uncomfortable feelings stirred in Hattie. She turned her back firmly on a scene of Khnumhotep, his wife and his children sitting together in a garden and fixed her gaze on the acrobats.

  “What is disturbing you?” Amal had moved up beside her and was looking at her curiously. “You look – upset.”

  “Nothing!” Hattie snapped. “Nothing at all.” She turned away, and was extremely pleased when Great-uncle Sisyphus led the way out of the tomb.

  “And finally, Kheti,” he said happily. “The son of Baquet, you will recall. But by no means so interesting a tomb. Kheti seems to have lacked the imagination, the vision of his father. No battles or monsters. Kheti clearly preferred a peaceful, family life.”

  Family life. Hattie, already bending low inside the entrance to the tomb, stopped dead. She tried to back out, but Edwina and Edgar Raven, close behind her, obliged her to continue. “Move on, Hattie,” said Edgar Raven impatiently. “You can’t stop there! I’m bent right over as it is.”

  Hattie still hesitated. Amal, beside her, poked a finger into her ribs. “You must go on.”

  Hattie unwillingly proceeded into the tomb. She straightened up and risked a quick glance at the wall paintings. It was just as she had feared. The walls were covered with scenes of happy, peaceful, prosperous everyday life. Feasting, dancing, hunting, celebrating. Just the way people wanted to live, and to continue living, for eternity.

  But they mightn’t get that chance, might they? The thought slithered, unbidden and unwanted, from the back of Hattie’s mind. Like a snake, it coiled on the floor beside her feet, ugly and hissing. It could not be ignored.

  They might, Hattie thought very unwillingly, be wandering, lost, in darkness . . .

  It was too much. Hattie gasped. She had to get out of here! She turned and fled through the entrance, hitting her head on the low-hanging roof. Once outside she stood, shaking, her arms covered in goosebumps, despite the hot sun. Amal followed her closely.

  The caretaker and Omar Shaydi, waiting outside, looked at Hattie sharply. The old man frowned, bent towards Omar Shaydi, and whispered something.

  “W-what did he say?” Hattie shivered.

  “He said an afrit,” said Omar Shaydi.

  Amal, behind Hattie, stopped dead. “An – an afrit?”

  “An afrit? What is an afrit?” Hattie asked. She looked at their faces and shivered again. It was obviously nothing good.

  Omar Shaydi hesitated, while the old man backed off a few steps and shook his head.

  “An afrit is a jinn. A spirit, an evil spirit, that lives in tombs and ruins,” Omar Shaydi finally responded.

  Hattie stood open-mouthed. “You mean that he thinks a – a jinn followed me, scared me –”

  “Hattie?” Great-aunt Iphigenia and the Ravens had followed her out. Great-aunt Iphigenia cast the old man and Omar Shaydi a very disapproving look. “I really don’t think we need to be discussing superstitions like that, do we! Hattie? Are you all right, dear?”

  Hattie gulped. “Yes. Yes, quite all right. It was just a bit – I needed some air –”

  “It was a little close in there,” agreed Great-aunt Iphigenia. “I think we should go back to the boat.” She smiled indulgently. “Sisyphus does get a little carried away. It’s just that he’s waited so long to see these things, you know.”

  Edgar Raven looked at Hattie speculatively. “You rushed out in a great hurry. I wonder what affected you so?”

  “What was that talk about afrits?” Edwina Raven asked. “And jinns?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all,” Great-aunt Iphigenia said shortly, still displeased with the caretaker and Omar Shaydi.

  The Ravens glanced at each other.

  “That’s quite a bump you’ve got on your forehead, Hattie,” Edgar Raven observed.

  “Is it?” Hattie brushed her hair aside and felt her forehead. There was indeed a large bump there. She scowled at Edgar Raven. “I’m fine, truly I am,” she said.

  She was fine. Now. She didn’t believe in afrits for one moment. And she had managed to push the unwelcome thoughts to the back of her mind again.

  Amal moved up beside her. “What – what did you see?” she quavered.

  “See?” Hattie said, confused. “I saw nothing.”

  “But something frightened you. You were terrified. You must have seen something.”

  “No. It was – it was –”

  Amal watched her with a cold eye. “Well?”

  “Well, if you must know, it was the thought of the Egyptians’ souls, lost, wandering in darkness. Because their bodies have been destroyed.”

  Amal laughed. “Truly? That old belief? It is a legend, a tale, nobody believes in that any more. It is superstition only.”

  “So.” Hattie turned on Amal. “You are a modern girl. You don’t believe in souls, or spirits, or old tales.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Yet it seems you believe in afrits.”

  Amal looked down, suddenly disconcerted. “Oh, but that is different –”

  “Is it? Is it so different?”

  Amal hesitated, lifted her head and looked Hattie in the eye. “Well, perhaps not so different.”

  After a moment, they managed to smile at each other, and then to laugh a little. Maybe they could be, if not exactly friends, at least companions.

  But, Hattie thought, I will not go into a tomb again, if I can help it. Temples, yes. But not tombs, tombs with those disturbing scenes of happy afterlives in them. No. Not tombs.

  Her resolution seemed to work.

  When they visited the temple of Hathor at Dendara, Hattie was undisturbed by unpleasant thoughts and wonderings. The temple was an unusual and interesting one, Great-uncle Sisyphus said. They had yet to come across a temple that Great-uncle Sisyphus didn’t consider to be unusual and interesting, Hattie mused. But he was quite right.

  “This temple is from a much later period than some we’ve been visiting,” Great-uncle Sisyphus said as they stood regarding it. “You will remember, Hattie, that Hathor is the goddess of pleasure and love, and a special protector of mothers and families. She can be depicted as a cow, or a woman with the head of a cow, or as a woman wearing a headdress of the sun, held between the horns of a cow.”

  Hattie nodded. She remembered seeing such pictures in Great-uncle Sisyphus’ great books.

  “Now,” Great-uncle Sisyphus went on, “you can see her face on the capitals of all these columns supporting the temple’s outer wall. Giant sized, forming the tops of the columns. Remarkable. Quite remarkable.”

  The serene face of the goddess gazed down at them. A giant face on the top of every column. Hattie counted them; there were twenty-four of them. It was quite remarkable.

  “We should go up to the roof,” said Great-aunt Iphigenia. “The view, I believe, is quite spectacular.”

  They climbed crumbling stairs to the temple roof, where the view was, indeed, spectacular. The shining river stretched as far as the horizon in both directions, edged by the narrow strips of green cultivated land that it watered. Beyond lay the desert, brown and arid under the burning sun.

  Omar Shaydi gazed off into the distance. “That way lies Luxor,” he said. “We will reach it in two days, if the winds are favourable. The halfway point of our journey to Aswan.”

  Great-uncle Sisyphus looked disappointed. “Halfway?” he said. “Already? My, my. The time passes so quickly. Still,” he brightened. “Still, there is much to see, a long way yet to go.”

  Amal’s shoulders slumped.

  The Ravens sighed.

  The wind blew steadily, and favourably, and on the third morning after leaving Dendara, Hattie awoke to hear unusual sounds of activity on deck. When she had dressed, she went out and found the crew, all in newly laundered shirts and turbans, busily decorating the Hetepheres with freshly cut palm branches, tying them to masts and any upright posts they could find. Br
ightly coloured flags were already fluttering bravely in the breeze.

  “We reach Luxor today!” Rais Abdallah announced.

  Luxor was widely accepted as being the halfway point on a journey towards Aswan, and reaching it meant a celebration.

  At around 10 o’clock, the light mist that had blurred the banks began to burn off under the power of the rapidly rising sun. The mist lifted reluctantly from the river in spider webs of shining white, and then dissolved. Everyone, crew included, crowded to the deck in anticipation. On the left, a plain covered in palm groves stretched to the horizon of red and brown desert. On the right, green fields bordered a closer range of hills. Then, as the last of the mist floated away, a massive structure, huge blocks of stone, appeared over the tops of the palm trees on the left, dwarfing them.

  “Karnak,” murmured Great-uncle Sisyphus. “The great temple of Karnak!”

  The temple slid behind them, and whitewashed huts now lined the bank. Many masts began to appear, a forest of them.

  “Luxor! Luxor!”

  The crew grabbed their musical instruments and struck up an urgent, triumphant tune, grinning and swaying to the music, playing the Hetepheres into Luxor.

  Now another great pile of stones appeared, then the top of an obelisk slid into view, then a colonnade of enormous columns half-buried in the sand. Large white houses, the homes of government officials and consuls, stood in green gardens, flying bright flags. Officials in crisp uniforms saluted the Hetepheres as she swept by, and the dahabiyas already moored greeted them with gunfire and cheers. Queen Victoria herself, Hattie thought, would surely not have been displeased by such a welcome.

  As soon as the Hetepheres had tied up at a dock, a great rush of guides, beggars, donkey-owners and excited children crowded at the end of the gangplank. The crew shouted and threatened, largely in vain, trying to send them on their way. “Tomorrow,” they promised vaguely. “Tomorrow.”