The Book of the Dead
Page 32
My amusement vanished. If only I had known. “Of course!” I exclaimed. “We have lost hours through my ignorance and stupidity. Now it all makes sense. I only hope we are in time.” Ahead of us I could see the black immensity of Hyde Park. My pocket watch told the hour of two.
Here the Professor paused in his telling, and contemplated the dying coal of his cigar. He was somewhat obscured by the fug and his listeners leant forward. We were willing him to conclude this fantastical tale. It was evident he hesitated, grappling with the matter of how best to continue. It was Coningsby who reached out to touch his elbow with a gentle grace. “Come on, Ferrara, you know you must finish it.” Professor Ferrara nodded, rueful.
At the tradesman’s door of 19 Park Lane, Richards’ hammerings soon roused a startled maid, who called the head butler. There was something soothing about Richards’ presence: thanks to it, my deranged insistence on entering the Lordship’s cabinet of curiosities at the dead of night eventually gained purchase amongst the staff. “It is a matter of life and death for your master and mistress,” I stated in as calm a manner as I could.
Within minutes, Heddon, the butler, took us to the fine oak doors in the extension at the back of the building that housed the cabinet. He was surprised that we asked him to snuff the candles before unlocking the doors.
A quick glance was enough to see that there was no evident disorder or signs of damage, either on the main floor or the iron gallery that girdled the walls. Stone statues loomed in the shadows, the main floor arrayed with sarcophagi and wrapped mummies that seemed thankfully undisturbed in their immemorial sleep.
“We are in time,” I muttered to Richards. “It has not happened yet.” I turned to the butler. “Your master acquired a stela depicting Thoth in recent days, Heddon: do you know of it?”
“I know nothing, sir, it is the keeper of the rooms whom his Lordship employs that concerns himself with these matters. Is there something seriously wrong?”
“A keeper? What is his name?”
“Hebdige. A scholar from Cambridge. A young man, but most erudite.”
“Hebdige, eh? Does he have a room in the building?”
“No sir, I believe he resides in the Soho district.” Heddon looked pained.
“Indeed: but he will have a key to the museum and can come and go, I don’t doubt?”
“Of course. There are always new acquisitions, and they are much concerned with a catalogue to be prepared.”
“Let us try to find sign of this stela, Richards,” I said, and we passed through the museum, two pools of light from a single candle each. I grasped the classification of his Lordship’s museum with speed, and located a vitrine with a fine collection of stele. There the prize was displayed, a label indicating the date of acquisition but a week before. It matched the one in Mazhar’s shrine, but unbroken.
“We are in time. Heddon, I expect an attempted burglary in the remaining hours of the night, and perhaps something more. We will need your help. And you will need to wake the masters of the house to forewarn them. I would be happier if the Lady of the house were able to leave, but it is too late.”
Heddon looked to Richards, whose barely perceptible nod granted legitimacy.
“You must stand guard, Heddon, by her door. Let no one pass the head of the stairs.”
“Aye, sir”, the man responded. I had not mistaken his military gait.
“Carry a torch, Heddon. Use fire, if necessary”, I said. “Fire. Don’t hesitate.”
The grand collection afforded us an excellent hiding place: the vast stone sarcophagus of Seti I, which Belzoni had dragged to England and sold to Anstruther-Thompson’s grand-father. It was large enough for both Richards and I to sit in quite comfortably and yet repose unseen. Heddon retreated, locking us into the cabinet, and we settled down to wait in that eerie coffin.
The glass and iron roof revealed a pattern of stars above. Feeble light glinted off the gold and faience. Anubis and Hathor heads reared up in the gloom, and the floorboards creaked and sighed to themselves, shredding our nerves.
It would happen before dawn, I warned Richards. At four, we heard the surreptitious scrapings of the mews door at the rear being unlocked with great caution. I pressed the arm of my comrade to stay, but be alert. A shadow entered, gliding between the coffins, stopping to listen like a skittish deer every few steps. The figure hovered at the main wooden doors of the cabinet for almost a minute, then pulled out a key and unlocked the door, leaving it ajar.
In the shaft of light from the hallway, the shadow’s face was briefly glimpsed. It was a young man, Hebdige one presumed, but there was something glassy about his eyes and abulic in his movement, as if he were a somnambule.
What Hebdige did next was a surprise for Richards, less so for me. With mechanical movements he unlocked the vitrine of sacred stele, picked out the Thoth stela, and promptly smashed it on the ground. Richards almost jumped from his hiding place at this wanton act, but I constrained him. I whispered: “It abolishes protection. Like Mazhar’s shrine. Now he will begin the ritual unhindered.”
Hebdige swept the shards away and crouched on the floor in Eastern fashion. We had good sight of his actions, but they seemed to us nonsensical. The young keeper produced a stack of newspapers from under his coat, laid them out and began to tear them into long strips, all the while muttering something in a sing-song style, a sound familiar to those who travelled in Arab lands. After creating this chaos of paper, he then set to twisting himself a garotte. It was chilling in its deliberation. This was our man.
I will never quite trust what I believe I saw next, and nor would Richards ever speak of it again. It must have had something about it of the magician’s glamour or the infernal skills of the Mesmerist. You may think it a psychical phenomenon, gentlemen, which is why I bring it to your notice.
Hebdige stood and raised his arms in an invocation of the old gods, his voice rising to intone a clatter of ugly consonants. Below him, an eddy in the air began to stir the torn shreds beneath him, paper stirring as if in a draft. I looked to the main doors, anxious that some fool had opened the door and so disrupt our vigil. When my gaze returned to Hebdige, it was evident that this was no natural event. The torn papers were now furiously disturbed and rising in a column, twisting with the energy of a desert dust-devil. Hebdige glowed with delight at his little conjuring trick.
It was this disgusting look of triumph, I think, that disturbed Richards. He stood to put a stop to that filthy business. He called out an abrupt warning, and Hebdige’s face turned from delight to rage.
We found ourselves knocked down by a sudden battering wind that rushed past us with a keening edge that sounded like a wounded hound. I swear, as it passed, that I saw a finger pointing in judgement on me, and a pair of eyes glowing red. Yet I had been thrown a distance against a large funerary relief and fell very briefly unconscious, so I cannot be sure. When I came to, it was to see Hebdige advancing on me with murder in his vacant eyes. But there was a flash of light from beyond the cabinet doors, an unearthly howl of terrible pain, and sounds of men shouting “Fire!” Hebdige’s blank visage slid from the implacable to the mystified and pained. And then, I tell you, what inhabited the man – his soul, if you like, or some other occupant – visibly departed from that body. Hebdige shouted “You devil – where?” and collapsed to the ground, mortal man no more.
Outside the cabinet, the disorder and sensation was great. Later, in private, Heddon told me that he saw a squat human shape as if made of paper ascending the stair, a thing at once substantial yet ethereal, quivering in the light. It radiated immense malice and a forceful will, and Heddon knew that he was the last man standing between it and the door of his mistress. When it reached the top stair, he steeled himself against its glamour and had no hesitation in reaching forward with the torch and setting the thing alight.
We found only scorched paper on that stair, the twisted garrotte a smear of blackened ash.
As the Commissioner soothed the sha
ken Lord in the dawn’s gloomy grey, Richards took me aside to the cabinet and begged to be let into an understanding of what he had seen that long night. He was hollow-eyed, and I could see that he would be haunted forever without a little explanation.
“Do you know, Richards, that the Civil War of our American brothers stopped all circulation of cotton?”
He brushed aside this irrelevance, irritated.
“You look bewildered, but it is the heart of this mystery. No cotton, no rags. No rags, no paper, you see. The paper-mills ground to a halt – Jeremiah Prospero’s mill, for one. Do you know what he did? He imported rags by the ton from Egypt into the ports of New England, without a care for their origin, from the dirty textile factories of Alexandria and slums of Cairo to the funerary cerements dug up from the cities of the dead. It is said that there was a cholera outbreak in Maine from the diseases those rags carried. Prospero’s reputation was tarnished by the affair. And yet by the end of that long war, the American news was undoubtedly being carried on paper made from mummy rags.”
“The newspapers!” Richards cried. “The Boston Globe, the Maine Intelligencer!”
“Indeed, my man, there at every scene. And leading here, to the new home of the heir of that baron’s precious paper empire. Who knows what Hebdige believed, or what commanded him, the weak-willed dabbler. Thoth was not strong enough to prevent this trail of unnatural murder. Doubtless we should not believe in such things, but did I not tell you at the start of this night that we must cultivate a textual attitude?”
Three Memories of Death
Will Hill
When they came, the old man was ready.
His daughter and her children were surprised to see him up and dressed in his finest robes, but he saw no reason why they should be. It had been seventy days since the God-King, the light of Ra, the Pharaoh Ramesses II had breathed his last, but the old man had been waiting longer than that.
He had, in truth, been waiting for this day for most of his life.
Amun shuffled slowly into the main room of the small home on the edge of Thebes he had taken for himself when his time in the temple had come to a close, carrying a linen sack in his gnarled hands. Vast, splendid dwellings had been offered to him, as befit his standing and long service, but he had rejected them all. He had agreed to the construction of the temple that bore his name only at the insistence of the Pharaoh himself, and needed no reminders of the duties he had performed with such diligence.
His memories were more than sufficient.
Standing in the centre of the room, being fussed around and cooed at by Amun’s daughter and grandchildren, was Prehotep, the Vizier of the North and second most powerful man in the empire. His robes gleamed red and gold, and his retinue could be seen lurking just beyond the threshold, ready to attend to his every need, no matter how tiny. Prehotep was feared for a thousand miles in every direction, but when Amun appeared before him he broke into a wide smile, and embraced the old man with great tenderness.
“Hery Sesheta,” said the Vizier. “It is good to see you.”
Amun carefully unwrapped the arms from his shoulders, and returned his old friend’s smile.
“I no longer wear the mask, as well you know,” he said. “I am a humble servant of Ra.”
“The God-King continued to believe otherwise,” said Prehotep. “The time has come, Hery Sesheta. The embalming is done, and the wrapping is complete. Only one thing remains.”
“I am ready,” said Amun, his voice sounding stronger than it had in many years. “Take me to him.”
“Father?” asked Anahita. “What do you mean? Where are you going?”
“To finish my work,” said Amun. “You will stay here.”
“Your work is done, father. You are supposed to be at rest.”
“I’ve rested long enough,” said Amun.
Anahita frowned deeply. The thought of her father travelling, even in the company of the Vizier, made her deeply uneasy. He was entering at least his eightieth year, and his eyes were deteriorating almost as rapidly as his ears and his equilibrium.
“Are you sure this is wise, father?” she asked.
“It is neither wise nor unwise,” replied Amun. “It is my duty. Prehotep, if you would take my arm, we can be on our way.”
“It will be my honour, Hery Sesheta,” replied the Vizier.
He reached out and took hold of Amun’s arm with a tenderness that raised a lump into Anahita’s throat. She watched the Vizier lead her father towards the door of his home, and as they passed beneath the arch, she found her voice a final time.
“Goodbye then, father.”
Amun turned back, and Anahita gasped. The light of the morning sun illuminated a smile that was wider and more beautiful than she would have believed him capable of producing; a smile that stripped years from his weathered face, decades even. For a single, suspended moment, her father looked like the man she had never known, young and proud and vital.
“Goodbye, my child,” said Amun. “May the eye of Ra warm you.”
Then he stepped through the door, and was gone.
Amun’s father slid the blade into the side of the dead man with well-practiced ease, and stepped back. The ceremonial Anubis mask of the Hery Sesheta, the Overseer of Mysteries, the High Priest who directed the entire burial process, was heavy and cumbersome, and greatly limited its wearer’s vision; it prevented Amun’s father from carrying out the wet, slippery work for which he had become renowned.
“Continue,” said Ahmose, from behind the blue and gold jackal’s head that covered his own.
Amun looked up at the mask and felt a familiar shiver run up his spine. The jackal’s mouth hung open, its eyes were empty ovals, and its ears stood up tall and pointed, as though it had heard something in the distance; to Amun, the mask always looked hungry.
At his father’s command, the Hetemw Netjer, the priest who assisted with these first stages of the process, scuttled forward. At the edge of the Ibu, the purification tent that had been hurriedly erected after Ramesses I’s short reign had come to an end, the pale sand that covered the Valley of the Kings blew steadily around the ankles of the Hery Heb as he recited an endless series of incantations and prayers, his voice barely audible. His tone didn’t alter as the Hetemw Netjer, a man named Bes who Amun had known his entire life, who had once wept when a flock of birds, bewildered by a sandstorm, had thrown themselves against the walls of the temple, carefully widened the incision in the dead Pharaoh’s side, and reached into his mortal body.
Amun forced himself not to look away; it would be inappropriate for the son of the Hery Sesheta, a boy who would one day be expected to follow in the footsteps of his father. He focussed instead on the smells that filled the tent, the fragrant palm wine and the fresh Nile water that had been used to wash the body of the Pharaoh, the acrid scents of sand and animals that would have informed him he was in the desert even if his eyes were covered, and kept his gaze fixed straight ahead.
One after the other, the Pharaoh’s liver, stomach and intestines slid out of the incision Amun’s father had made. The organs were handled with the reverence that befitted them, and set carefully into bowls. The Wetyw, the army of the most junior priests, who Amun was certain were every bit as nervous as he was, scurried forward and moved them to a second table, where they were washed and packed in natron. The intestines uncoiled as they were released from their tight confines, translucent purple snakes that squirmed and writhed. The Wetyw took extra care with them, working the glistening ropes between several pairs of hands, keeping clear of from the abrasive sand below.
As they set about the cleaning, Bes reached back into the body with his knife, and sliced the lungs free, taking the utmost care not to so much as nick the heart; the thick muscle was the centre of all the dead man had been, and would be needed in the afterlife. He drew out the lungs, set them down, and stepped back into line alongside Amun and the rest of the priests; they filled one side of the Ibu, silent and watchful.
The family of the Pharaoh was clearly not inclined to any such public displays of emotion; there was nothing to suggest that they were even slightly upset by what they were seeing. Ahmose had told his young son that he was not to speak to any of the royal party under any circumstances, not to even look at them if possible, but Amun found himself unable to resist; there seemed to be some great weight to the line of mourners, a solidity, as though they were statues rather than human beings. Their faces were pale and smooth, without the work-lines and blemishes of the men who toiled in the Valley of Kings or the deep-set eyes of the priests, eyes that had beholden both glorious wonder and great horror; they seemed unreal, as though they inhabited a different world.
“Boy.” It was a male voice, even and full of authority.
Amun’s eyes widened, and he snapped out of the thoughts that had momentarily distracted him. He returned his gaze to the body of the Pharaoh, but it was too late; his loss of focus had clearly been noticed.
“Boy,” said the voice again. “I am speaking to you.”
Slowly, as though it was painful to do so, Amun turned his head to the left, and sought out the speaker. Shame was bubbling up within him; a reprimand inside the Ibu, from one of the royal mourners no less, would see him punished with great enthusiasm by his father when the ceremonies were complete. Ahmose was a man who believed that children learnt from their mistakes most effectively when the lessons were punctuated with the crack of a bamboo cane.