The Soul Scarab

by C J Turner

  When he found the scarab talisman on the floor by Amunet’s bed, he did not even try to question what impulse moved him to pick it up and fasten it around the unconscious girl’s neck, carefully not probing why he should experience a feeling of considerable relief when he had done so. Ever since Luxor, she had always worn it, he wondered why she had taken the necklace off tonight.

  Momentarily, when he had first glimpsed her kneeling in the shadowy golden light, the cloud of dark hair tumbling over her white gown, the purity of her profile had transported him back to a memorably beautiful Egyptian wall painting which he had once seen gracing the tomb of a long dead queen - now magically transformed into living, breathing life.

  Tonight, she had appeared to him as an ethereal being, entirely divorced from this mundane world, and in the context of the sinister scene he had just witnessed, Blake was desperately worried.

  For the first time in his life, he felt out of his depth and could be sure of only one thing. The dagger was obviously a source of great danger to Amunet and should be kept hidden from her at all costs. On the thought, he acted and had only just finished concealing it, when he heard Alice come in through the front door. He was very tempted to go down and tell her what had happened, but he fought the impulse and quietly returned to his own room. After a few minutes, Alice came upstairs and knocked softly on Amunet’s bedroom door. Hearing no response, she continued along the landing to her own room at the back of the house. Blake was relieved that he did not have to face her; at that moment he needed someone to say he was drunk, crazy or had dreamt the whole thing. Unfortunately, he knew that Alice would tell him none of those things.

  On the other hand, perhaps he was wrong not to alert her to this evening events, she believed a lot of strange stuff which he had always taken care never to get drawn into, accepting her need for comfort and hope when Brendan had been killed. Abruptly, he savagely interrupted this line of speculation, stubborn as always, he refused to contemplate the possibility that there was not a sound practical explanation for Amunet’s erratic behaviour. If he could not think of one at the moment, it was purely because he did not have enough information at his disposal. On balance, he decided that telling Alice might do more harm than good, especially as they were leaving for Egypt in the next few days.

  Beset by troubled thoughts, Blake sat by the bed, glancing from time to time at the now peaceful figure of the girl beside him and marked the transition from unconsciousness to natural sleep. Her breathing was regular and her cheeks had lost their fiery heat. Gradually he felt the tension slipping away, his eyes closed and his head nodded and he was very nearly asleep himself when he felt a small hand creep into his.

  Sometime later, an indignant Max rudely shook Blake awake. Well, that was putting it too mildly, to call Max indignant was like calling a ferocious man-eating tiger, kitty. The fact that he was trying to shout very quietly at Blake, so as not to disturb Amunet, was making the fraught situation even worse.

  Somewhat blearily, Blake found that at sometime in the night, he had moved from the chair to the bed and Amunet was now lying with her head on his shoulder, one arm thrown over his chest. He tried to remember what had happened exactly, she had asked him something, he thought, but Max was hissing and spluttering with rage, driving all means of coherent thought out of his head.

  Reluctantly, he gently disengaged himself and slid off the bed, before turning to gather up the still peacefully sleeping girl and quietly returning her to her own room. She hardly stirred as he pulled the covers gently over her shoulders, and catching Max’s fulminating eye, he shepherded him out of the room and downstairs to the kitchen.

  Alice was nowhere in sight, but a note on the kitchen table told them that, today being Sunday, she had gone to early service. Blake filled the kettle and slumped at the kitchen table while he waited for it to boil, allowing Max to work off his spleen before attempting to defend himself. He made them both coffee, crossed his arms over his chest and gazed defiantly at Max until the furious tirade ran down and finally stopped altogether.

  ‘Will you take it easy?’ Blake sighed with exhaustion, ‘Of course I damn well didn’t take advantage of her – fine friend you must take me for, waiting till you are out of the house before making my move on your fiancé. Huh! Fiancé! If it wasn’t so pathetic, it would be laughable and you have the nerve to accuse me of double dealing!’

  ‘I do not know what you mean,’ replied Max stiffly, ‘What am I supposed to think when I discover you in bed with my – yes, my fiancé! And please don’t try to change the subject.’

  ‘I’m not, and I was on the bed, on – not in – there’s a big difference, Max! Look, I know you are acting with the best of intentions but it is not working, so you can put your cute little bow and arrow away - it ain’t gonna happen, not between Amunet and myself anyway! What you do is your own business!’

  ‘It is precisely my own business that I am endeavouring to protect!’ exclaimed Max angrily.

  ‘What, you’re not still trying to tell me that this pseudo engagement is for real, are you?’ Blake gasped incredulously.

  ‘Not as far as Amunet is concerned, there is something more important troubling her at the moment and until that is resolved, she just needs a friend, not an importunate lover! When this business, whatever it is, is over however, that is another matter! And you still have not explained to me why Amunet was in your bed!’

  ‘I can do so, though, if you give me a few minutes without blowing a fuse. Ready? Then listen!’

  Max heard with unconcealed horror Blake’s description of the events of the previous night.

  It spoke volumes for the strength of the friendship between the two men – despite of everything – that it did not occur to Max to doubt a word of Blake’s story. At one stage, Max found he was gaping in astonishment and bemusedly tried to pull himself together.

  ‘But Blake, this is appalling – just think what might have happened if you had not been there. I had no idea that things had reached such a pass. I knew she was depressed but this is dreadful, simply dreadful. Poor child! What on earth do we do now?’

  Distracted, Blake had paused to search for his handkerchief and as he tugged it free, a small brow papery sliver fell out of his pocket and spiraled lightly to the floor. Both men stopped and looked down.

  ‘Now where did that come from, I wonder?’ Blake murmured, picking it up and turning the fragile thing over between his fingers. He had forgotten putting it into his pocket last night, but now he looked at it more closely. It was a dried up sycamore bract.

  Max peered over his shoulder.

  ‘Blew in through the window, old chap, not a problem surely, there are plenty of trees out there! We have more important things to worry about than trivialities!’

  Blake lifted his head and stared out of the window at the tree-lined avenue. As Max said, lots of trees. Lots of green trees, it was spring after all. But not a sycamore tree in sight.

  With an effort, he made himself concentrate on what Max was saying but he was not so sure that his old friend was right to dismiss the little seed-case as trivial. He wished he could concentrate but Max was still sounding off and he could not remember what the connection was. Carefully, he laid the little propeller shaped bract on the top shelf of the dresser out of harm’s way.

  The events of last night and the possible consequences had shaken him, and Blake held himself wholly to blame. Alice had warned him that the dagger was an evil thing, blood tainted and should be handled as little as possible, and he had laughed at her fears. Now he remembered holding a soft and trembling body in his arms last night, and a whispered promise.

  Turning to face a startled Max, he ruthlessly cut him off in mid sentence.

  ‘The sooner we get back to Egypt the better. I am certain that’s where we will find the answers to all this - we came back the first time too soon!’

  Chapter 21

  Amunet had woken heavy headed and drowsy much later that same morning and unchar
acteristically had been content to stay where she was while Alice fussed over her. She obviously had no recollection of the events of the previous night and accepted Max’s suggestion without demur that she could be sickening for something when she complained of a headache and a sore face. Neither she nor Max was amused, however (but for different reasons) when Blake suggested helpfully that she might be coming down with mumps. Nothing was going to stop her from going home, she assured them, come hell, high water or bubonic plague, and indeed the next day she was up and about and in much better spirits than she had been for a long time - apart from a slight bruise on her jawbone.

  In soothing Max, Blake had managed to convinced himself that Amunet was suffering from delayed reaction at her young cousin’s death, which had culminated in the scene the other night. The unaccountable details he firmly put down to too much alcohol on his part. He blamed himself squarely for leaving Amunet by herself that night and he said nothing to Alice as he was acutely aware that she would put a very different interpretation on what had happened and frankly, he did not want to hear it.

  Their return to Luxor was uneventful, Blake was courteous, if restrained, and watchful on the journey; Amunet was excited and Max, his fears allayed, started to relax.

  It was perhaps highly unfortunate then for this new cordiality, that the first person they should meet when they arrived at their hotel was a triumphantly smiling Lalage Meredith!

  Whether Amunet had not caught the significance of the Doctor’s name when Blake had first made his introductions back in London, or had chosen to ignore it at the time, was a moot point. Now at this second meeting, the knowledge that the Professor had allowed her to be named after his former mistress, struck home with full force!

  ‘How could he? How could he let them name me after that loathsome woman, that b…!’ (an extremely uncomplimentary Arabic name for a certain type of woman .)

  She was striding up and down in the confined space of her balcony venting her fury on poor Max, who was placidly sitting back in a comfortable basket chair. He was attempting unsuccessfully to calm her down, while he peeled an apple selected from a bowl of fruit heaped on the table beside him. Baulked of her real prey, she turned on the innocent but conveniently handy victim beside her.

  ‘And you! You must have known of her and you still allowed it – a fine joke obviously, but one I do not share!’

  Max’s faint protestations of blamelessness went largely unheard and unheeded; Amunet had looked down at that moment and seen Blake and Lalage walking along below her, obviously in deep conversation as they led two fine looking horses by their halters.

  Lalage was looking very striking, her lean elegant shape admirably suiting the plain silk shirt and taupe cord slacks that she was wearing for her ride. It struck Amunet forcibly that she had not seen Blake looking so relaxed and at ease since their night in the cave. He was laughing at something Lalage had just said and Amunet saw him fling an affectionate arm round her shoulders and draw her close.

  The sight of Lalage hanging on Blake’s arm, lifting her face for his kiss and the obvious intimacy of their shared recollections brought Amunet from seething red-hot rage to ice-cold fury and her emotional pot boiled over. Whipping the sharp little silver-handled fruit knife out of Max’s hand, she threw it with unerring accuracy at the exact spot where Lalage had stood just seconds before!

  Unbelievingly, Max stared down at the tiny sliver of silver still quivering in the dust below them and slowly turned to Amunet in astonishment. Mercifully, completely oblivious to the imminent threat behind them, Lalage and Blake had turned round a corner of the hotel and disappeared from view.

  Amunet caught Max’s eye as she coolly took out a handkerchief and fastidiously wiped her fingers.

  ‘Don’t worry – I meant to miss!’ The chilling statement was a simple matter of fact and obviously meant to reassure. It failed in its objective.

  ‘I will go and get the knife back for you,’ she offered obligingly.

  ‘No! No, it’s quite all right, I’ll get it,’ Max said slowly.

  He got to his feet, still doubting what he had actually seen with his own eyes, aware that he was feeling all his years and more. This was a side of Amunet he had never seen before, and as he made his way downstairs, he was thinking that his somewhat romantic perception of her as a beautiful, but fragile waif in need of protection, obviously needed revising.

  Meanwhile, Amunet desperately wanted to see her Aunt. Only pride made her stay at the hotel and bide her time and she was rewarded when Hameeda arrived the next day and taking one look at her niece’s face, whisked her off to her room and bade Amunet tell her all.

  She did so with a frankness that would have brought a startled blush to the cheeks of most western women in similar circumstances. At the end, Hameeda announced judiciously that her niece was being really very foolish and then made a suggestion that was so deliciously wicked that Amunet perked up at once and hugged her Aunt delightedly.

  ‘That is better! Where is your self-respect, my child and your pride? Do yourself justice and get your revenge, it is a sweet fruit and savoured the better in company. It is obvious to me that he is torn between the child he remembers with affection and desire for the woman you have become. You appear to have decided on another man and that has hurt his pride! Now you have to show him how you really feel about him!’

  ‘Hah! I nearly did that yesterday! No, Aunt, I will not lower myself to go to him, if he really wants me then why…’

  Hameeda clicked her tongue impatiently.

  ‘Why? What man can tell you why? Pride stands between you, and he is as stubborn as a bull, there is no why! And did I say for you to go to him? No, regretfully you have already had to reveal that you can fight,’ She held her hand up to stay Amunet’s quick protests, ‘Yes, I understand that you had no choice, but now you have to let him see that you can love as well. He shall come to you, my peach, just listen to your Aunt Hameeda and all will be well, I promise you. Not want you! Huh! He is hot for you, believe me and he is a proper man, that one, I do not think that they would have found it easy to kill him, even if you had not been there - I envy you your task of taming him!’

  ‘Aunt!’ Amunet protested, the colour rising fiery hot in her cheeks. But her Aunt shook her head ruefully and turned thoughtful.

  ‘As for the other matter, I am troubled, I remember the lady Alice well, and if she thinks … I will talk to Professor Blake, but … well, never mind! First things first, you must rest and get rid of those dark shadows and I will come back later to show you what I have contrived. Let us bring the Professor to a proper state of mind and then we will see!’

  Hameeda hastened away to speak to Armand Revenoir, who was a very old friend, and went blithely ahead with her arrangements. She was pleased and relieved that nearly all traces of the wan, pale creature who had greeted her when she first arrived had disappeared.

  This laughing, excited sprite of a girl was her Amunet and she felt no mercy for the man who had reduced her to that earlier pass.

  However, later, after she had spoken to Blake and Max and heard what they had to say, her silent amusement at the Professor’s approaching discomfiture changed to consternation and fear. Perhaps it was not he who was to blame after all for the great change that she had found in her niece, but a more insidious threat altogether.

  She wished Alice had come to Egypt with the others.

  Amunet had not been present at this meeting between the other three; it had taken place in the afternoon, while she was resting (an unusual occurrence that was a concern to Max in itself).

  Blake had firmly routed Max’s dread that Amunet had become so depressed that she had tried to commit suicide and was just as dismissive with Hameeda’s fear that the girl was possessed by evil forces!

  His own more prosaic interpretation of her behaviour, was the belief that the bizarre events of the last few months, which had so uncharacteristically taken hold of her imagination, were a direct consequence of
her recent head injury. Already physically undermined by grief and remorse at her failure to rescue Ghalida in time to prevent her cousin’s tragic death; the accident had further impaired her health to such an extent that she was dangerously susceptible to any wild and unlikely suggestion that distracted her from her grief and guilt.

  Blake carefully did not look at Max when he said this, but Max nevertheless felt immediately guilty himself and looked rather sheepish.

  Unperturbed, the Professor continued. In his opinion, these circumstances were more than enough to explain the nightmares, depression and even the candle-lit scene with the dagger.

  It made sense and reassured, Max was thankful to be relieved of his first assumption, although the Professor did not wholly convince Hameeda.

  One of the reasons why they had taken advantage of Amunet’s absence for this discussion was because Max was extremely loath for Blake to bring the dagger out with Amunet around. He had said nothing about the previous knife-throwing incident, but it still loomed rather ominously at the forefront of his mind.

  When they were all gathered in his room, Blake had laid the dagger on the coffee table in front of them and Hameeda gave a small gasp of distress at the sight of it.

  She agreed that this was the dagger that her husband had given her so many years ago, believing his story that it had come from a secret hidden tomb that he had found in the hills. Amunet had confirmed that this was truly the dagger she had posted to the Professor.

  Max stared at the elaborately wrought hilt and was convinced that this was the same knife that he had seen sticking out of Ahmed’s back on the night of the avalanche. He said nothing about that either.

  The pressing question was, of course, what should they do with the dagger now? The group was suddenly silent, each busy with his or her thoughts, until Blake, suddenly in serious Professor mode, looked from one to the other and leaning back in his seat, addressed them gravely.