The Mummy Read online

  In the cool still morning, he let himself remember a time when all answers had seemed to him to be so simple; when he the brave King had taken life with a swift blow of his sword or his cudgel. When he'd struck down the priestess in her cave so no one else would possess the great secret.

  A thousand times he'd wondered if that had not been his first and most terrible sin-to kill the innocent crone whose laughter still echoed in his ears.

  I am not fool enough to drink it.

  Was he truly damned for that? A wanderer on the face of the earth like the biblical Cain, marked by this great eternal vigor which separated him from all humankind forever?

  He did not know. He knew only that he could not bear to be the only one any longer. He had blundered, he would blunder again. It was a certainty now.

  Yet what if his isolation was meant? And every attempt would end in such disaster?

  He laid his hand on the hard rough stone of the Sphinx's paw. The sand was deep and soft here, and the wind stirred it as it ruffled his robes, and tore at his eyes cruelly.

  Again he looked up at the disfigured face. He thought back to the age when he had come here in pilgrimage and in procession. He heard the flutes, the drums. He smelled the incense again and heard the soft, rhythmic incantations.

  He made his own prayer now, but it was in the language and the manner of those times which gave him some sweet childish comfort.

  "God of my fathers; of my land. Look down on me with forgiveness. Teach me the way; teach me what I must do to give back to nature what I have taken. Or do I walk away in all humility, crying that I have blundered enough? I am no god. I know nothing of creation. And little of justice.

  "But one thing is certain. Those who made us all know little of justice either. Or what they do know, great Sphinx, is like your wisdom. A very great secret."

  The great gray shadow of Shepheard's Hotel grew darker and ever more solid in the rising light as Samir and Ramses approached it-two robed figures moving swiftly and silently together.

  A cumbersome black truck, rocking on its four wheels, pulled into the front drive before they reached it. Newspapers in tightly bound bundles were thrown down upon the pavement.

  Samir removed one quickly from the first bundle as the bellboys came out to collect the others. He felt in his pocket for a coin and gave it to one of the boys, who took little heed of it.

  ROBBERY AND MURDER IN DRESS SHOP

  Ramses read the headline over his shoulder. The two men looked at each other.

  Then they walked away from the sleeping hotel, in search of some early morning cafe where they might sit and think and read this evil news, and ponder what to do about it.

  Her eyes were open when the first rays of the sun pierced the thin curtains. How beautiful it looked to her, the great arms of the god, reaching out to touch her.

  How stupid the Greeks had been to think the mighty disk the chariot of a deity, driven wildly over the horizon.

  Her ancestors had known: the sun was the god Ra. The giver of life. The one and only god before all gods, without whom all gods were nothing.

  The sun struck the mirror; and a great golden glare filled the room, blinding her for an instant. She sat up in the bed, her hand resting lightly on the shoulder of her lover. A dizziness overcame her. It seemed her head was teeming suddenly.

  "Ramses!" she whispered.

  The warm sun fell silently over her face, her knotted brows and her closed eyelids. She felt it on her breasts and on her outstretched arm.

  Tingling; warmth; a sudden great breath of well-being.

  She rose from the bed, and moved on swift feet across the deep green carpet. Softer than grass, it ate the sound of her steps completely.

  She stood in the window looking out over the square, looking out again to the great silver glare of the river. With the back of her hand, she touched her own warm cheek.

  A deep ripple of sensation passed through her. It was as if a wind had caught her hair and lifted it lightly off her neck; a hot desert wind, stealing over the sands, slipping into the palace halls, and creeping over her, and somehow into her, and through her.

  Her hair made a soft zinging sound as if being stroked by a hairbrush.

  In the catacombs it had begun! The old priest had told the tale, and they all laughed at supper. An immortal slumbering in a deep rock tomb, Ramses the Damned, counsel to dynasties past, who had gone to sleep in the dark in the time of her great-great-grandfathers .

  And when she'd awakened, she'd called for him.

  "It is an old legend. My father's father told it to him, though he did not believe it. But I have seen him with my own eyes, the sleeping King. Yet you must be aware of the danger."

  Thirteen years old. She did not believe in such a thing as danger; not in the ordinary sense; there had always been danger.

  They walked together through the rough-cut stone passage. Dust fell from the loose ceiling above. The priest carried the torch before them.

  "What danger? These catacombs are the danger. They may cave in on us!"

  Several rocks had fallen at her feet.

  "I tell you I don't like this, old man."

  The priest had pushed on. A thin baldheaded man with stooped shoulders.

  "The legend says that once awakened, he cannot easily be dispatched. He is no mindless thing, but an immortal man with a will of his own. He will counsel the King or Queen of Egypt, as he has done in the past, but he will do as he pleases as well."

  "My father knew of this? "

  "He was told. He did not believe. Neither did your father's father, or his father. Ah, but King Ptolemy, in the time of Alexander, he knew, and he called Ramses forth saying the words: 'Rise, Ramses the Great, a King of Egypt needs your counsel.' "

  "And he returned, this Ramses, to his darkened chamber? Leaving only the priests with the secret?"

  "So I have been told, as my father was told, and that I should come to the sovereign of my time and tell the story.''

  It was hot, suffocating, in this place. No coolness of the deep earth here. She did not like to go any further. She did not like the flickering of the torch; the evil light on the rounded ceiling. Here and mere were marks on the walls, scribbles in the ancient picture language. She could not read them; who could? It made her afraid, and she loathed being afraid.

  And they had taken so many twists and turns that she could never find her own way out now.

  "Yes, tell the Queen of your time the tale," she said, "while she is young enough and fool enough to listen."

  "Young enough to have faith. That is what you have; faith and dreams. Wisdom is not always the gift of old age, Majesty. Rather, it is sometimes the curse."

  "And so we go to this ancient one?" She had laughed.

  "Courage, Majesty. He lies there, beyond those doors."

  She'd peered ahead. There were a pair of doors-enormous doors! Layered over with dust, and covered beneath the dust with inscriptions. Her heart had quickened.

  "Take me into this chamber."

  "Yes, Majesty. But remember the caution. Once waked he cannot be sent away. He is a powerful immortal."

  "I don't care! I want to see this!"

  She'd gone ahead of the old man. In the dancing glow from his torch she'd read the Greek aloud:

  "Here lies Ramses the Immortal. Called by himself Ramses the Damned, for he cannot die. And sleeps eternally, waiting the call of the Kings and Queens of Egypt.''

  She'd stepped back.

  "Open the doors! Hurry!"

  Behind her, he had touched some secret place in the wall. With a great grinding the doors had slid back slowly, revealing a vast unadorned chamber.

  The priest had raised the torch high as he entered beside her. Dust, the clean pale yellow dust of a cave unknown to the wild beasts or the poor wanderers and haunters of hills and caves and tombs.

  And there on the altar, a gaunt shriveled being, withered limbs crossed on his breasts; brown hair wisps about his skull.

/>   "You poor fool. He's dead. The dry air here preserves him."

  "No, Majesty. See the shutter high above, and the chains hanging from it. It must be opened now."

  He had given her the torch, and with both hands tugged upon the chains. Again, the grinding, the creaking; dust filling the air, stinging her eyes, but then high above a great iron-bound shutter had opened. Like an eye into the blue heavens.

  The hot summer sun poured down upon the sleeping man. Her eyes had grown wide; what words were there to describe what she had seen, the body filling out; reviving. The brown hair flowing from the scalp, and then the eyelids, shuddering, eyelashes curling.

  "He lives. It's true."

  She'd thrown aside the torch and run to the altar. She'd bent over him, as far as she dared not to shade him from the sun.

  And the brilliant blue eyes had opened!

  *' Ramses the Great, rise! A Queen of Egypt needs your counsel."

  Motionless, silent, staring up at her.

  "So beautiful," he had whispered.

  She stared out at the square before Shepheard's Hotel. She saw the city of Cairo coming to life. The carts, the motor cars, moved noisily through the clean paved streets; birds sang in the neatly trimmed trees. Barges moved on the smooth river water.

  The words of Elliott Rutherford came back to her. "Many centuries have passed . . . modern times . . . Egypt has had many conquerors . . . wonders such as you cannot imagine."

  Ramses stood before her in the Bedouin robes, weeping, begging her to listen.

  In the dark place of glinting glass and statues and coffins on end, she'd risen up, in pain, her arms out, crying his name!

  The blood had poured down his shirt where they'd wounded him. Yet he'd staggered towards her. Then the second shot had struck his arm. Same evil pain that the one called Henry had given to her, same blood and pain, and in the murky morning light, she'd seen them drag him away.

  I can't die now. Isn't that right?

  Ramses had stood at the door of her bedchamber. She'd been crying, a young queen in torment. "But for how many years?"

  "I don't know. I only know you cannot give up all this now. You don't know the meaning of what I offer you. So let me go. Use the knowledge I've given you. I'll return. Be sure of it. I'll return when you most have need of me, and then perhaps you will have had your lovers and had your wars and had your grief, and you will welcome me."

  "But I love you."

  The bedroom of Shepheard's Hotel was awash in blinding light; the furnishings vanished in the pulsing glow. The soft curtains touched her face as they blew out past her. She leaned forward over the windowsill, drowsing; her head swimming.

  "Ramses, I remember!"

  In the dress shop, die look on the woman's face! The serving girl screaming. And the young man, the poor young man who had looked down and seen the bone!

  Ye gods, what have you done to me!

  She turned, staggering away from the light, but it was all around her. The mirror was ablaze. She went down on her knees, her hands on the warm green rug. She lay down, tossing, turning, trying to push away the fierce power that penetrated her brain; that penetrated her heart. A great pulsing vibration had caught her entire form. She floated in space. And finally lay still in the great vibrating drift, the hot light blanketing her skin, an orange fire against her eyelids.

  Elliott sat alone on the deep veranda. The empty bottle sparkled in the light of the morning sun. He dozed as he lay against the cushioned back of the chair, mind now and then wandering. Fasting, drinking, the long sleepless night, all had sharpened him and left him slightly mad; it seemed the light itself was a miracle streaking the sky; it seemed the great glossy silver car rumbling up the drive was a joke of sorts; and so was the sunny gray-haired man who climbed down off the high seat and came towards him.

  "I've been with Winthrop all night." "You have my sympathies."

  "Old man, we have an appointment at ten-thirty to clear everything up. Can you manage it?"

  "Yes. I shall manage it. You may depend upon me. And Ramsey can be there if ... if ... you've obtained full immunity."

  "Full and complete as long as he'll sign a sworn statement against Stratford. You know of course he struck again last night, robbed a shop-woman was in there with a full drawer of cash. He took everything.''

  "Hmmmmm. Bastard," Elliott whispered. "Old man, it's very important you get up out of this chair, have a good bath and a good shave and be there. ..."

  "Gerald, on my word. I shall. Ten-thirty, the governor's palace."

  Blessed quiet. The ugly car had gone away. The boy came again. "Breakfast, my lord?"

  "Bring a little something, and some orange juice with it. And ring my son's room again. And check the desk. Surely he's left a message!"

  It was late morning before her young lord finally awoke.

  Rome had fallen. And two thousand years had passed.

  For hours she'd sat at the window, dressed in a "fine blue frock," watching the modern city. All the bits and pieces of what she'd seen and heard were now a complete tapestry. Yet there was so much to know, to understand.

  She'd feasted, and had the servants take away the evidence; she did not want anyone to see the bestial manner in which she'd consumed so much food.

  Now his small banquet waited for him. And when he came towards her out of the bedroom, "So beautiful," she said under her breath.

  "What is it, Your Highness?" He bent to kiss her. She wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed his naked chest.

  "Take your breakfast, young lord," she said. "There are so many things I must discover. So many things I must see."

  He seated himself at the small draped table. He lighted the candles with the "matches."

  "Aren't you joining me?"

  "I've already feasted, my love. Can you show me the modern city? Can you show me the palaces of the British who rule this land?"

  "I'll show you everything, Your Highness," he said, with the same unguarded gentleness.

  She sat across from him.

  "You're very simply the strangest person I've ever met," he said, and again there was no mockery or meanness in it. "In fact, you remind me of someone I know, a very enigmatic man ... but that doesn't matter. Why are you smiling at me like that? What are you thinking?''

  "So beautiful," she whispered again. "You and all of life, my young lord. It is everything and nothing. So beautiful."

  He blushed like a girl and then laid down the silver tools and leaned across the table and once again kissed her.

  "You're crying," he said.

  "Yes. But I am happy. Stay with me, young lord. Do not leave me just now."

  He appeared startled, then transfixed. She combed the past slowly; had she ever known anyone so gentle? Perhaps in childhood, when she'd been too stupid to know what it meant.

  "I don't want to leave you for the world, Your Highness," he said. He appeared sad again for a second, half disbelieving. And then at a loss.

  "And the opera tonight, my lord, shall we go together? Shall we dance at the opera ball?''

  Lovely the light that came to his eyes. "That would be heaven," he whispered.

  She gestured to the plates before him. "Your food, my lord."

  He picked at it in mortal fashion. Then lifted a bundle from beside his plate, which she had taken no notice of before. He tore off the wrapping and opened what appeared to be a thick manuscript covered over with tiny writing.

  "Tell me what this is."

  "Why, a newspaper," he said, half laughing. He glanced at it. "And awful news, too."

  "Read aloud."

  "You wouldn't really want to hear it. Some poor woman in a dress shop, with her neck broken like all the rest. And they've got a picture of Rarasey with Julie. What a disaster!"

  Ramses ?

  "It's the talk of Cairo, Your Highness. You may as well know now. My friends have been involved in a fair bit of trouble, but that's just it, they've nothing to do with it. They've only
been associated with it. There . . . you see this man?"

  Ramses. They are friends of Lawrence Stratford, the archaeologist, the one who dug up the mummy of Ramses the Damned.

  ' 'He's a dear friend of my father and of me. They're searching for him. Some foolishness about stealing a mummy from the Cairo Museum. It's all hogwash. It will soon blow over." He broke off. "Your Highness? Don't let this story frighten you. There's nothing to it, really."

  She stared at this "picture," not a drawing like the rest but a dense image, rather like a painting, yet it was all done in ink, undoubtedly. The ink even rubbed off on her fingers. And there he stood. Ramses, beside a camel and a camel driver, dressed in the curious heavy clothes of this age. The print beneath said "Valley of the Kings."