by S. A. Sidor
“Why don’t they fear him?”
“They are the only living survivors of his cult. For generations, they have been making offerings, carrying out necromantic rituals in his memory. When a traveler disappears, a child from the village cannot be found… there are rumors… of human sacrifices. You see, sir, Amun Odji-Kek feasts on the flesh of innocents.”
Somehow the act of supplication made this gang more threatening. More mindless, yes, and at the same time more formidable – as if they were not a group of individuals but one entity knitted together by invisible threads and under the control of a single intelligence. Their previous fears had vanished, and in their place a wild exuberance was born. The chants grew faster. They rose and straightened their backs and commenced pounding the floor with their feet, turning in circles with horrible coordination as if they had rehearsed this dance their whole lives. Spittle flew from their mouths. I wondered if we would have total frenzy at the climax, a blood orgy staining the floor of this grim hole that spouted red as if it were a fountain.
“I expect they’ll kill us after their prayers.”
“Not necessarily,” Hakim said. “They have searched for the body of Amun Odji-Kek for thousands of years. They are in the mood for celebrating.”
“For at last they have found him,” I said.
“You found him,” Hakim corrected me.
I nodded. “Yes, absolutely I did. Excellent point! So they must be feeling grateful to me to a certain degree. Do they appear grateful to you?”
The brother diggers twirled and the torches bent with the wind their movements made.
“It is difficult to say. I do not know what language they are speaking, or if it is language.”
The tiny vault vibrated with shouts and the brothers’ rhythmic stomping.
“Any idea what their plan is?”
“Why, only one – to bring the sorcerer back to life.”
Montague P. Waterston’s phantom had drawn us an uncanny map. Waterston’s money had paid for the digging. I was Monty’s man, but I felt more in the dark than any of my native workmen. Did the feverish California gold baron have any clue where he was sending me? Or what I would find? Or in time would he discover, like me, that he had sunk himself deep in the soil of an ancient land he could only pretend to know?
9
Out of Egypt
Waterston-Hardy Expedition, 2nd digging season, 1888
Approx. location: Saqqara, Egypt
The task of bringing to the surface the entombed sorcerer Odji-Kek and his five lesser companions was foremost in the minds of our crew. Regarding this matter, we had no quarrel. What to do with the bodies afterward was something I decided to deal with, well… afterward… making a timely gambit to stay any blade from cutting Hakim’s throat and my own. I tried in earnest to persuade the skunk-bearded digger – whose name I discovered was Chigaru – that we needed more men and supplies if we hoped to empty the tomb safely. Chigaru insisted I was wrong. The smart devil feared another earthquake would steal their “god” just as fickly as the one which had unveiled him.
“Sink, sink,” he repeated, pointing down. Then shaking his head, he added, “The land is not happy. We must rescue the Lord of the Demons. He is a prisoner no more.”
“I don’t know if we can do it with so little help,” I said.
Sitting between us, Hakim translated.
“He says he will show you how.”
Chigaru clapped and shouted a name. One of the youngest workmen, a skin-and-bones high-cheeked lad whose perpetual smile unnerved me, came forward. Chigaru whispered instructions in his ear. The young man nodded, snatched a torch, and took something from one of the gear packs before he disappeared, grinning, up the tunnel.
A few minutes later he returned.
He had taken a clay pot and trowel. The trowel he had tucked away under his belt, as diggers will do, but in the crook of his arm he carried the pot, now heavily filled. He handed the pot to Chigaru, who petted him on the head as if he were a hurdy-gurdy man’s monkey.
Chigaru removed the lid and bid me to look inside.
My nose reacted before my eyes did. A stew of slime threatened to overspill the rim – indeed, several thick trickles already had. Here was the pungent smoked-gray exudation of the maggot-thing, left behind as its bulk heaved along the passages; the boy had, bravely or dumbly, scraped residue from the entrance of its wormy burrow.
To what end?
Chigaru pantomimed painting the contents of the pot onto the floor.
Worm slime as lubricant? I dared not laugh. I thought it better at this point to indulge the devout cultist, and in the inevitable event of his plan’s failure, I would volunteer myself to procure additional workers and new equipment for our team. Better to take my chances in the cursed desert than to remain here. If I made it to Cairo, I would round up men, but also rifles, to regain control of the excavation.
I feigned enthusiasm for Chigaru’s methods.
I ordered six men to retrieve our sturdiest ropes, and our block and tackle. I measured and told them the specifics to build a sled for transporting the sarcophagus. “Bring down more lamps,” I said. “And fetch the long iron pikes so we can lever and guide the stone box onto the sled.” In the meanwhile, I supervised careful removal of the mummies in the five damaged cedar coffins. Despite this activity in and out of the tomb, Hakim and I were unable to leave at any time. To keep my spirits up, I thought, I shall go free when this immense sarcophagus refuses to budge a damned inch.
Now I swear to you, dear Reader, we should not have been able to move that stone sarcophagus out of that tomb with hardly enough men to play a baseball game. How could we maneuver and drag tons of rock with only ropes, a simple pulley, and a great deal of sweat? Consider the slope of the ramps. The hairpin-angled turns. No, no.
But move it we did.
Chigaru slathered the runners of the sled with the maggoty juice.
The coffin almost seemed to lift itself at the very moment the men strained to raise it. They quickly pushed the sled underneath.
I could not believe what I was seeing. The men divided into two teams, each dedicated to one of the pair of ropes securing the sled. Chigaru positioned himself at the front and took no cords in his hands but led the men with his barking voice. Hakim and I went behind the coffin to watch for any slippage or signs the sled might collapse under the weight of its load.
The men began to pull.
The effort seemed to take them to the brink of death, so unchecked was their exertion, the total physical dedication, yes, stressed to the brink but not over.
I could not stand by and watch these men, whatever their occult beliefs, without lending my own effort to the cause. I planted my hands on the stone and pushed for all I was worth. Hakim did likewise. I do not want to give the impression the sarcophagus moved with a sudden ease. Quite the contrary. It did not. But its slow journey up the ramp felt queerly frictionless, like a steel ball rolled in an oily track. And at each turn – where I feared the ropes would snap or the men might lose their footing and the sled come crashing back on Hakim and me, grinding us into bloody paste – the coffin pivoted neatly, swiveling at a precise center point so the sides did not jam into or even bump the tunnel walls, and without reason, the giant box held itself, as if it were braked, until the men found enough breath and muscle to continue.
At the last turn, the air freshened. The tomb-space grew brighter, overcoming the shadows and the monochromatic flickering of the torches. A makeshift ramp led up the steps. We leveled the sarcophagus and exited the death chamber.
“I’ve done it. I’ve excavated my first sarcophagus.”
Sweat darkened my shirt. I was elated. I had never felt more alive than I did in that moment, leaning back, resting my elbows on Odji-Kek’s funereal stone box.
“We will never forget this day,” Hakim said.
“You are right, friend.” I patted the warm granite. “This is a piece of living history.”
&nb
sp; Pale, lavender dawn greeted us. Relief, liberation, joy – all these emotions bubbled in me. I rounded the massive encasement and congratulated Chigaru on his technique. He bowed. We rested from our labors and sat in one big jovial circle, drinking tea and admiring the sunrise.
Hakim turned his cup in his hands and stared at the horizon.
I squatted beside him, complimenting the diggers in earshot, before I leaned close to whisper. “We need to get these mummies on a barge for Alexandria. Waterston will buy a ship to convey me to New York if he needs to. So, friend, the question is how do we convince Chigaru to take our prize to the Nile?”
“We may not have to,” Hakim said. He pointed off in the distance.
I shielded my eyes. I saw it then – a dark line like ants crawling on an anthill.
“Who are they?”
Hakim shrugged. He pulled a brass monocular from his belt pouch and aimed it at the ants that were growing larger and turning into men as we watched.
“No one comes here,” he said, handing me the monocular.
To this comment I had little to add other than the obvious: Are we no one?
But I held my tongue.
They traveled on horseback – thirty well-armed riders at my count, and still more driving two large covered wagons on sturdy axles in their caravan. The soldiers – if they were soldiers – were dressed in uniforms I did not recognize by their cut or lack of insignia.
Government men from Cairo?
Through the gauzy heat, they aimed their weapons at us, leaving no doubt any rash movement would be answered with bullets. At twenty-five yards, they halted. From the rear of the caravan one man rode forward, attired unlike the others, his burly chest being overstuffed in a tweed suit. As he advanced farther, I noticed a waxed red handlebar moustache and a general lack of chin; everything higher was wedged under his pith helmet. The moustache quivered. “Do you own rights to this concession?”
An Englishman – judging by his accent.
“Who is in charge here? Speak up one of you!”
“This is my dig,” I answered, on my feet. “I am Dr Romulus Hardy.”
I approached him at an easy pace.
Gunsights followed me.
The Englishman dismounted.
“Where are your permits?”
“Who did you say you were?” I asked. “And by what authority–”
The Englishman drew his Enfield revolver and stuck its barrel in my face.
Offering my best smile, “Our papers are still in Luxor. Left behind by accident. But if you allow us to return with you to Cairo, we can clear up this simple clerical issue.”
He lowered his sidearm. “Your name is…?”
“I am Dr Romulus Hardy, as I already said. You might not have heard me.”
“Hardy?”
“Yes… H-A-R-D–”
I did not have a chance to say ‘Y’ before the Enfield sped upward again, butt forward this time, and the handle cracked against my left temple.
I went down into swift blackness.
And into blackness I emerged. I feared for a moment I had gone blind from the blow. But, no. I could see something before the tip of my nose. Texture, folds, little creases of light. I smelled my own sweat and hair tonic. I had a sack pulled over my head. My wrists were tied to the horn of a saddle. Someone was sitting pressed up tight against me from behind. Rough hands covered mine. Arms clasped under my ribs, keeping me balanced on the horse.
I thought to hide the fact I had regained my senses, but already I felt the rider behind me alertly register my change of state. He loosened his arm hold, slightly. He was waiting to see what I would do next. I wanted off with this blindfold, to be freed, to understand what was happening to my expedition – all at once preferably. I turned my head left, snapped back right, how comical it must have looked, and to no purpose. I was still hooded. I saw nothing, said nothing. If they wanted to unmask me they would pick the time.
I concentrated on breathing and listening.
What was I hearing?
Commotion. Thudding hooves. Horses snorting clouds of bitter dust. The swift movement of a goodly number of tense, armed men. Someone kicked the fire pit where we had boiled our tea – the embers hissed and a wave of smoke penetrated the bag over my face.
Shouting.
A rapid succession of orders.
The horse I was on walked away from the direction of the clamor.
We did not go far.
An unsettling quietness sprung like a trap. Disoriented, I realized this hush was worse, much worse, than the noise. Cut off – the silence fooled my jarred mind into thinking I might be suffocating inside the airless pocket snugged around my head. I lifted my hands to tear the sack off, but found they were were tied. I wanted to call out. For what, I could not say, and so I held my tongue. But I knew some new misery approached.
Under me the horse’s flesh quivered. The rider abruptly turned the animal around. Is he looking at something? I was dizzied with vertigo, feeling the blackness tugging at me. Why turn? What does he desire to see? I found my voice and yelled.
“Hakim! Run! They’re killers!”
But it was too late.
Judging by the screams, the first volley of rifle shots murdered most of my crew.
Afterward: a dreadful scuttling, heavy pawing about; limbs thrashed in the dirt. The wounded tried to crawl away from their fate. The dying groaned. No mercy came.
The second fusillade finished them off.
All but a man, or maybe two – for I heard the sharp reports of bullets ricocheting minutes later… one here… another farther away… there – echoing off the skull rock, a man’s scream. Whoever got away tried running down the tunnel. That was my best guess. Where else would they go? Does one escape a summary execution? Usually not.
I felt sick and responsible. Certainly, the diggers were a threat to my objectives, perhaps even to my life, a significant obstacle, to be sure, yet by no account did I wish them murdered. So why did guilt’s rat teeth gnaw at me as if I were an accomplice to this slaughter? What did my heart intuit that my brain missed? How was I to blame?
The sack came away then, and I saw how.
Sunlight like a bucket of shiny water splashed my eyes. I blinked repeatedly until bits and pieces of the tweed-bound Englishman came into focus. Cheery, all smiles, he tossed my hood to the sands. “Sorry about the tap on the head, poor fellow. I had to do something.” He inspected the plummy cranial knot. “You’ll patch up good as new. Let’s get you off that horse and onto one of the carts. You look positively squeamish.”
He gestured to the man over my shoulder, to my riding partner.
“Cut his hands free, Ali.”
Today was not my day to die. No bullet to the brainpan for me. I climbed down from the saddle, with the aid of Ali, and landed on wobbly legs, nearly falling sideways. The day had not been so fortunate for Hakim. He lay on his stomach, not twenty yards from me, a half-dozen red poppies pinned to his broad back. Of course, they weren’t poppies at all but bullet holes.
I turned away. “Who are you people?”
“Care for brandy?” the Englishman on horseback asked, ignoring my query. He offered me his uncapped canteen. I sniffed the fumes before gulping a torrent of biting hot liquor.
I coughed into my sleeve. Lifted my head groggily.
“You killed my foreman,” I said. “He had a pregnant wife, six children…”
The Englishman shuddered. “They litter like vermin. Heathens, filthy hordes of them. But you’re in the company of a civilized man now. I worked with one of your, ah, predecessors in Mr Waterston’s employment. Egyptologist from Philadelphia. Tall chap went by the name of Krazwell? Norby or Norton was it? Norman, I believe. Ned! Ned Krazwell. Were you two acquainted? No. Well, he’s been dead for years now. It doesn’t matter one whit, trust me. Ned had the air of doom about him. Dead Ned. Doomed from the start. They found his decapitated torso in the Sweetwater Canal, at Crocodile Lake. An open latrine is
more like it. The crabs had a real feast that night.”
Black splotches inked my vision. I bent over to get the blood flowing.
“Are you all right? Heat will kill a man quicker than the cold. That is fact. Nothing to worry about, my American friend. Ali, get the man a hat.”
Ali found me a pith helmet. I put it on and took another swig from the canteen.
“What is your name?” I asked the Englishman for what seemed to me the umpteenth time. Instead of answering he passed me a slip of paper and in exchange took back the remainder of his brandy.
“I have a telegram here for you from Mr Waterston. Sent two days ago to Cairo. Read it when you’re ready. The desert sun plays havoc with a man’s eyes. The sands will scratch them out if you live here long enough.” He pointed to the paper. “That explains everything. He had a presentiment you’d run into trouble and commissioned me to form a rescue party. We’re to accompany you all the way to Alexandria… you and the mummies. You’re going home, lucky bastard!”
10
Prime Meridian
March 21st, 1888
Transatlantic crossing
DEAR BRAVE HARDY – (STOP) – DREAMING OF YOUR DANGER – (STOP) – ARMED ESCORT WILL TAKE MUMS TO SAFE HARBOR – (STOP) – SHIP WAITING – (STOP) – EMISSARY WILL MEET YOU AT NY DOCK – (STOP) – GODSSPEED
M.P. WATERSTON
I reread the telegram at least a hundred times. During my first reading, while standing next to the Englishman on horseback who was upending the last drops of his canteen, I had made it as far as the second stop, when the skull rock exploded. Chips of limestone hailed down from the heavens. The unnatural monument where Odji-Kek and his minions had been interred for millennia crumbled into a pile of rubble. A plume of smoke escaped a gaping hole in what had been the top of the skull and fled skyward.
