The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis

by Natasha Narayan

  “They used to have village scribes over here. In the olden days when no one could read,” said Isaac. “Perhaps the peasants in Egypt have scribes to write their letters because no one can read over there.”

  I glanced back at Ahmed. His eyes were black as beetles, glittering and impenetrable. “Scribe, scribe,” he said several times, nodding his head. I went back to reading.

  Our good fortune was about to change—all because of my very own nephew, Ali.

  One night Ali failed to return for dinner. We feared for his life. I went out with a search party. To my horror I found the secret burial place of Ptah Hotep—vizier to the great Pharaoh Isesi of the fifth dynasty—had been defiled. The door was wrenched off, and a foul stench came from within. Someone had dropped a dead donkey into the shaft hoping the stink would discourage investigation. Thieves had been through the tomb like a pack of jackals—plundering, smashing—in their lust for treasure.

  My head knew it was Ali—though my heart refused to believe it. He had been asking questions about the secret tomb and I had finally shown him where it was hidden.

  Worse was to come. The heart scarab that lay in Ptah Hotep’s bandages had gone! Worthless to all but us humble villagers whom it has protected down the flow of time. Legend has it that if the heart scarab leaves Memphis, tragedy will fall upon the village.

  The shame of it smote me. I fell to the earth, pain piercing me. From that day on I have been a marked man living under a suspended sentence of death.

  Our village is cursed.

  Crops failed, goats strayed, milk turned sour. The priest tells me that our family has brought evil. The only way to end the curse is to find Ptah Hotep’s scarab—the resting place of his Ba—his very soul—and bury it once more in his tomb.

  You are welcome to all other treasures—but please let the man’s soul rest in peace.

  Mustapha El Kassul

  p.s. Ptah Hotep’s coffin is richly gilt with gold and turquoise. On it is inscribed his name in the ancient script and the figures of Anubis, the jackal-headed one, Maat, feathered goddess of truth and Ptah creator of all. The malachite heart scarab is buried under the linen bandages of his mummy.

  We looked at each other, bewildered.

  “What’s a scarab?” Waldo asked.

  “A kind of Egyptian beetle,” Isaac replied

  Rachel hadn’t been paying attention. “We must help Ahmed,” she burst out.

  “Ye-es,” I agreed, but I was troubled. I was thinking over the story. I liked Ahmed. He had an honest face and there was something winning about his manner. I was disposed to trust him. Could we? Was it true that the scarab’s loss had smote down his father and cursed his village?

  “We must, Kit,” Rachel repeated.

  Ahmed was staring at me, as if trying to winkle into my mind. Wordlessly, his eyes begged for my help. He looked so forlorn. I made up my mind.

  “We will do everything we can to find the scarab and restore it to Memphis,” I announced.

  Rachel was overjoyed and hope flamed on Ahmed’s face. Only Waldo looked dubious. “Are you going to just take a native’s word for this?” he demanded.

  “Why ever not?”

  “Well … he’s a native!”

  “So?”

  “Natives are more likely to lie and cheat. They’re like children. They don’t know the difference between right and wrong.”

  “All the children I know understand the difference between right and wrong perfectly. Of course it may be different in America.”

  “He’s probably after the mummy’s treasure. Natives are just born greedy!”

  “For goodness’ sake …” I said and stopped, spluttering. Waldo’s attitude disgusted me, though I myself had felt a stab of caution at Ahmed’s story. It is contrary of me I know, but when Waldo becomes all superior I can’t help taking the very opposite point of view. I hate it when people look down on other races: folk whom they have never even met! I was, however, struggling to put my feelings into words when Rachel spoke in her quiet way.

  “People say the same thing about Jews. They say we’re born greedy.”

  Waldo blushed. “I didn’t mean anything of the sort—” he began when I cut in.

  “Look at him! He’s a poor, scared boy. Anyway, what treasure? We’re not talking of precious gold. A moldy old scarab!”

  “It could be worth something.”

  “Anyway, who has more right to it, Aunt Hilda, or the villagers?”

  Waldo had the decency to look a little less sure of himself.

  “We’ve got to help him,” I announced. “We’ve got to fight for justice.”

  Put like that even hoity-toity Waldo agreed. We would steal the scarab! Though it could scarcely be called theft to snatch it in order to return it to its rightful owners. Once we had the scarab, we would somehow find Ahmed safe passage on a steamer back to Egypt.

  How the best intentions can come undone! In our foolish hope, we imagined that righting Ahmed’s wrongs would be a simple matter. We are English, we thought, citizens of Queen Victoria—and children of the greatest empire the world has ever known. Our soldiers have conquered a tremendous portion of the globe—so vast “the sun never sets on the British Empire.” What use is our power if it is not tempered with mercy?

  Besides, in my secret heart I thought, how hard can it be to help a simple Egyptian boy? I imagined it would be short work to sneak off with the scarab. After all, my father trusted me in the museum.

  Sadly, it didn’t go quite according to plan. Over the next few weeks we experienced terror like never before—and came face to face with pure wickedness. All of us were to be sorely tested. As for your friend, Kit Salter, I was to face the hardest lesson of all. I learned that I am not always right. (Only, I will concede, 99 percent of the time.)

  Chapter Five

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance again, sir,” Papa said to Ahmed, between forkfuls of pheasant casserole. “I believe we met at the Royal Geographic Society last week.”

  I glared at Father. Surely even he could see that Ahmed was a boy and not one of his learned professors? Of course Father treats everyone exactly the same. Last week I found him asking the lad who comes around to sharpen the kitchen knives his opinion of the best system for reading hieroglyphics. Poor Ahmed was looking at Papa blankly. All the way through the first course—a rather watery turtle soup—Papa had utterly failed to notice him, even though the Egyptian was seated to his left. Ahmed must have thought he’d escaped his notice.

  “Do forgive me, sir. I believe I’ve been foolish enough to forget your name,” my father tried again.

  “I … is,” Ahmed stuttered.

  Ahmed, it turned out, could understand a few words of English, as long as one spoke very slowly and clearly. But Father’s courtesy was beyond him. The boy turned frantically to me for help. Luckily I was ready with a white lie:

  “Surely you remember Ahmed, Papa? Aunt Hilda asked us to give him lodging for a few weeks?”

  Papa’s brow cleared. “Of course. Silly of me.”

  Leaning a little over the table, I dropped my voice to a whisper. “You will have to be very patient with Ahmed; he speaks scarcely a word of English.” I was going to go on, with some nonsense about how Ahmed’s father was an expert on the pyramids, when I decided to stop. There was always a danger that if something actually interested Papa he would remember it.

  Ahmed was opposite me, his face partly hidden by our soup tureen. The half I could see shone with cleanliness. He was dressed in one of Isaac’s white shirts, which hung loosely on his skinny frame. We had given him a hot bath, as soon as we had smuggled him back from the museum, helping Dora the housemaid haul up steaming tubs of water. Ahmed’s tattered old clothes had gone straight into the rubbish heap. He had been scrubbed and polished to within an inch of his life. He seemed a new boy, smart and clean, the very pinnacle of respectability.

  Rachel and Isaac were having dinner with us this evening. It helped great
ly that Rachel was sitting next to Ahmed. How he adored her. He had attached himself to my kind friend like a lost puppy. His eyes followed her everywhere. Without her, he felt extremely anxious.

  After the pheasant stew came the highlight of the evening, a thick, rich, creamy trifle of stupendous gorgeousness. Layers of sponge, soaked in rich marsala wine, covered in jam and whipped cream. Ahmed had not eaten much of the savory courses. The Minchin would have considered his manners even worse than mine. He had started to eat his meat with his knife, till I gave him a kick under the table. Ahmed had looked as though he was eating sawdust with the main course. When the pudding arrived he had taken one tentative taste. Clearly he had low hopes of English cooking; it must have tasted sadly bland beside the spicy food of his homeland. But I’m glad to say that the trifle redeemed our national fare. It took but a nibble for a look of rapture to spread across his face. He gobbled up his whole bowl, and accepted three more helpings.

  Egyptian puddings are, obviously, not a patch on English ones!

  Rachel, Isaac, father and I enjoyed the trifle just as much as Ahmed. We were finishing our extra helpings, feeling stuffed to the point of sickness, when the doorbell rang. A minute later Dora the housemaid appeared, all flustered.

  “I tried telling her you were in the middle of dinner, sir,” Dora explained “The lady wouldn’t wait.”

  “Out of my way, girl.” Aunt Hilda elbowed Dora aside. “Theo, I have had an inspiration!”

  “Er … very well, dear,” Papa bleated, while Dora, defeated, retreated back to the kitchen.

  “A stroke of genius, some might call it.”

  As soon as I saw her my heart began to pound. This could be awkward. Might she unmask Ahmed?

  I needn’t have worried. Aunt Hilda was so full of her latest idea she scarcely glanced at the rest of us. She had changed into a more ordinary dress, though she still wore her mannish shoes and was lugging a large sackcloth bag. Clumping on the wooden floor, she strode up and began talking, banging on the table to emphasize her words.

  “This will get Monsieur Champlon’s goat! Why even the New York papers will sit up and take notice. I expect an international sensation!”

  “What are you—” Father began but Hilda cut him off.

  “You know how much interest my collection has caused. I’ve had The Times, the Manchester Guardian …” Aunt Hilda began ticking off newspapers on her fingers. “Fully a dozen papers and magazines would like to attend the unveiling of the Hilda Salter Bequest. You know me,” Aunt Hilda embraced us all in her glance. “I don’t do half measures. I can’t be bothered with mayors making tedious speeches. Let’s treat the newspapers to something special, I thought. So I had my inspiration! It is a wonderful idea.”

  “Ye-es,” Father said, dubiously.

  Abruptly, Aunt Hilda noticed us: “Not in front of the children, Theo.”

  “Pardon?” Father asked.

  “We will discuss this in private. I’m sorry, Kit, my dear, but this is a delicate matter. As they say, walls have ears. Come along, Theo.”

  Father trotted along after Aunt Hilda, as she marched to the drawing room, slamming the door shut. “I’ll be back in a moment,” I whispered to the others and tiptoed after them. I stood outside, my ear pressed to the door. Unfortunately all I could hear was a dull murmur. I was just about to give up when suddenly, the voices rose.

  “Theo!” Aunt Hilda barked.

  “I will not,” my father’s bleat came through the door.

  “I can’t have explained myself properly, Theo.”

  “I won’t change my mind.”

  “That is your last word on the subject?”

  “It is.”

  There was the sound of stomping feet. In panic I pressed myself against the wall but Hilda didn’t notice me as she flung the door open, though I was an inch away from her.

  “I will have to take the Hilda Salter Bequest elsewhere,” she shouted at my father over her shoulder. “The mummies will go tomorrow to a museum where they are properly appreciated.”

  “So be it,” Father replied. “You will never get me to change my mind.”

  Chapter Six

  “Why did I let Hilda persuade me to do this?” Father wailed. He was backstage at the museum, looking a little comical dressed up in a flowing costume as the Egyptian god Anubis. Of course poor Papa had given in to every single one of his sister’s demands and now he was gazing at the audience assembling for his entrance. Such was his horror, he could have been watching his executioners gather, rather than a perfectly respectable Oxford crowd.

  “You have to learn to stand up for yourself, Papa.”

  “How? How am I to stand up for myself?”

  “You must learn to say no.”

  “I said no a thousand times.”

  “Say it once and mean it. Let your NO be the end of the matter.”

  Father wasn’t listening.

  “I am undone,” he moaned. He had recognized someone in the crowd. My eyes followed his finger, which was pointing to a white-bearded old gentleman in the middle of the front row. The gentleman was accompanied by a lady in purple sateen, carrying a black parasol. They looked distinguished and, well, rather nice, if a bit grumpy.

  “It is Charles Darwin, Kit. Oh, I am ruined.”

  Poor, poor Father. The great naturalist was his hero. Mr. Darwin’s theory that men are descended from apes caused huge controversy, but Father reckoned him the “greatest mind of the age” and was proud to count him a friend. It was wicked of Aunt Hilda to have invited Mr. Darwin. Not to mention the newspapermen. What could I do to help Father? I was forced to put a brave face on it.

  “Shush, Papa, think of the fabulous mummies aunt Hilda has brought you. The Pitt will have the finest collection in Europe!”

  “For all my hard work to come to this. Mr. Darwin is here! He will see me playing the lead role in a foolish pantomime.” An ancient Egyptian mask of the jackal god Anubis, covered in crackled gold, trembled in father’s hands. “I am a serious man, Kit. My reputation will be ruined. My museum will become a joke.”

  “He will not recognize you when you put on the mask. Remember, Papa, do not take the mask off, whatever happens.”

  I could not afford to pamper Father for too long. Waldo, Ahmed, Rachel and Isaac were waiting for me. This was our chance. We had to get to the mummy now before my aunt’s great show began. With a reassuring squeeze of Father’s arm, I slipped off into the wings where I hoped the coffin was kept. It was a badly lit, dusty space but there it was, lying on the floor. My heart began to beat as I saw the sarcophagus: a beautiful thing, covered in hieroglyphics and paintings of the ancient gods—Maat, feathered goddess of truth, Ptah, creator of all, Anubis, the jackal-headed one.

  “Help me open it,” I hissed, straining to lift the heavy wooden lid. Waldo came up and assisted me. The wood gave a loud creak. We strained again and it gave another creak. It was going to be very difficult to open.

  “Good heavens!” a voice rang out. Aunt Hilda stood in front of us, swathed in white robes that made her look like a rather hefty mummy. “What on earth?” By her side stood two of her Egyptian workers.

  “We were just curious,” I blurted. “We wanted to see the mummy.”

  “Out of the question. This sarcophagus has not been opened for thousands of years. I want to be the one to do it! Scoot now. We have to prepare for my grand mummy unwrapping.”

  I was thoroughly annoyed with myself as we made our way into the theater. We had blown our chance to find the scarab. Of course, Aunt Hilda was planning to unwrap the mummy as part of the show. Why had I hung about listening to Father’s moaning? As we shoved our way through the packed benches I cursed myself for not acting sooner. If they unraveled the mummy’s bandages surely they would find the scarab and our task would become much harder?

  No sooner had we found a place to stand in the corner than a blanket of darkness descended on the hall; so deep we became shadows against the velvet night. At the bac
k of the hall a woman screamed. Somewhere a plaintive bell wailed. A strange smell swept through the room, musky and rich, redolent of desert tombs and rotting flesh. Rachel felt her way to me and gripped my arm in the darkness. The wailing grew and two yellowy gaslights flared at the front of the stage as the curtains slowly pulled back. Perched in all its splendor on a rough oak table was the coffin of Ptah Hotep. How its wonderful hieroglyphs shone, glowing turquoise, scarlet and gold. Those eerie paintings of ancient gods had come back to haunt modern man.

  Two of Aunt Hilda’s workers, dressed in pale robes, stood on each side of the coffin. They carried ancient Egyptian instruments called sistrums, which are a bit like babies’ rattles. As they shook their sistrums, a gruesome figure emerged out of the murk. Pointed ears, a long doggy snout, red eyes gleaming out of the grotesque shadows of its face. A golden headdress flowed down its back. The jackal god, Anubis, lolloped to the front of the stage on his spindly legs. Around me I could hear the deliciously fearful oooohs and aaaahs of the ladies. Even though I knew it was dear papa under that mask, I shivered. This was something feral, an ancient and malicious beast.

  “What is the life of a man, but a single heartbeat in the endless circle of time?” the voice, rasping out from behind the mask was hoarse and ugly, not like Father at all. “What are your miserable pleasures? What are your pains? All will become dust under the merciless gaze of Ra the invincible.” The jackal held out a paw. In the sickly yellow light a fine stream fell to the floor, where it formed a small pyramid of powder.

  “Observe the coffin of Ptah Hotep. Four thousand years ago he was high and mighty. As vizier to the great Pharaoh Isesi he ruled over the lives of all about him. Lords shook at his approach, fine ladies quailed at his shadow. Slaves leapt to his bidding.

  “Now what is he? All his power has crumbled, his riches come to naught but a handful of sand. In the afterlife kings and viziers are nothing. In the world of the dead you answer to me, Anubis, guide to the underworld, judge of your sins.”

  I could imagine this monster snuffling around in cemeteries, rooting out rotting corpses. It made me shudder. I would run a mile from such a thing. Poor Father, trapped inside that costume. Still, I must admit I was rather impressed with his performance. He had learned his lines well.