Cries from the Lost Island

by Kathleen O'Neal Gear

  It didn’t take me long to figure out why. The warmth coming out of the cave was drenched with the scents of gunpowder and machine oil. Not only that, someone was moving around inside. Feet tapped the floor of the cave. Back and forth, scurrying, as though the person knew we were standing just outside, and he was waiting for us.

  Moriarity said, “I want both of you to stay here. Let me check this out first. I’ll return shortly.”

  Roberto jerked a quick nod. “You bet.”

  The professor vanished inside the cave, and we watched his shadow move across the firelit walls like a dark ghost calmly searching for something it had lost centuries ago.

  “Dr. Who is starting to weird me out,” Roberto whispered. “Did you have any idea he was carrying a gun? It must have been stashed in the Jeep.”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t know, but I suspect he’s met a lot of extremists, robbers, and looters during his time in the Egyptian desert, so maybe it isn’t so weird. Maybe it’s practical.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but it’s still illegal. He could end up being beheaded. Then what will we do?”

  Roberto’s nose was dripping sweat from the hike, and he was still breathing hard. I’d never considered what we’d do if something happened to Moriarity, but it might be wise to start. “Head for Per Amun by ourselves, I guess.”

  “You think it’s going to be easy to catch a camel ride out here, Hal?”

  “He’s probably not going to be executed tomorrow, Roberto,” I pointed out. “At least, I hope—”

  Moriarity suddenly laughed out loud, and said, “What were you doing? Hiding from me?”

  A soft indistinct voice answered.

  Then Moriarity called, “Hal and Robert? Come in and meet Samael.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  When we stepped into the cave, we found Moriarity standing beside the fire with a hunchbacked elder who was at least in his late sixties, and maybe early seventies. A toothless and short man, Samael had stringy gray hair dangling over his shoulders. As though frightened, he kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other and giving Moriarity worried glances.

  “Come over here, boys.”

  I staggered forward, utterly exhausted, but stopped when my gaze was drawn upward. The firelit roof soared thirty feet over my head and was covered entirely with ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics, as well as several inscriptions, most in ancient Greek or Latin, but a few were in modern Arabic. Even the walls were covered with writing. Though the main chamber was about fifty feet wide, several smaller chambers jutted off in different directions. Ancient Egyptian and Roman artifacts, probably looted from local archaeological sites, hung from pegs that had been driven into the rock walls: carnelian-encrusted swords, golden theatrical masks, bracelets, collars, and magical amulets. The wealth of two-thousand-year-old mosaics alone would have kept a smuggler living nicely for the rest of his life. Why hadn’t someone stolen these priceless artifacts from this frail old man? Antiquities’ looting was big business in Egypt. Half the Egyptian military was supposedly involved in selling off their country’s priceless heritage.

  As I crossed the floor on shaking legs, I said, “This place is a museum.”

  “Yes. Samael has been collecting artifacts his entire life,” Moriarity extended a hand to me. “Samael Saqqara, this is my friend, Hal Stevens. The boy still standing near the entry like a bad statue is Robert Dally.”

  “Come and let me look at you?” Samael waved me forward with a parchment-like brown hand.

  The old man was a walking skeleton. The sharp bones of his face stuck out as though flesh barely covered them. But it was his cataract-covered eyes that left me uneasy. They sank so far back into Samael’s skull, they resembled holes filled with ice.

  As I slowly continued toward him, I passed a wealth almost beyond belief. An Egyptian chalkstone relief—carved by a master stoneworker—leaned against the wall to my right. It depicted Cleopatra wearing the headdress of the Mother-goddess Mut, surmounted by the horns of the Cow-goddess Hathor and the disk of the Moon. Magnificent. I’d seen something similar in a book about the Hathor Temple at Denderah. Hathor was a curious deity who dwelt in a thick sycamore grove that overshadowed tombs. She fed the souls of the dead with water, wine, figs, and meats. Next to the chalkstone relief, a sandstone panel around ten feet tall and fifteen wide leaned against the wall. It showed Cleopatra with Caesarian, her son by Julius Caesar. She was depicted as Isis, while Caesarian was Pharaoh bringing incense to the gods.

  The panels must weigh several tons each. The frail old man standing in front of me could not possibly have dragged the reliefs in here, so how long had they been in this cave? Had someone two thousand years ago brought them here to hide them? To protect them? Or maybe as offerings? To what? Reliefs like this often held secret messages if you knew how to read the hieroglyphs. Cleo had taught me basic hieroglyphics, but I was no expert. Still, I’d give anything for a few days to try and decipher the secrets.

  When I got close enough, Samael reached toward me with a clawlike hand and groped for my shoulder. His ragged linen shirt and pants fluttered around him like a burial shroud. “You’re tall, aren’t you?”

  “Not really, sir. I’m five-nine. That’s pretty average in America.” I spread my feet to brace my weak knees. I really needed to sit down and rest my legs.

  “Well, you’re much taller than me.” Samael’s toothless mouth opened in what must have been a smile, but it looked a little scary. “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen, sir.”

  Samael’s white-filmed eyes never focused on anything. Clearly, the old man was blind, or mostly blind. How could a blind man be one of the best diggers in Egypt?

  “There is an ancient veil of grief that hangs about you, Hal Stevens.” He gently patted my shoulder. “Please, sit down. I can see you are tired.”

  “Actually, the grief is recent,” Moriarity said. “A close friend of his, my niece, Cleo, died a few weeks ago. You remember Cleo?”

  “Yes, of course.” Grief tightened Samael’s wrinkled brown face.

  While I sat down, Moriarity walked around the cave with his pistol in his hand, exploring the smaller caves. At a dark chamber in the rear, he stopped. “You have enough ammunition and guns in here to supply an army, Samael. And it smells like you keep them well oiled.”

  The old man grunted as he lowered himself to sit on the opposite side of the fire from me. “Well, as you know, you can’t be too careful out here in the desert.”

  “Yes, I do know.” Moriarity returned his pistol to his shoulder holster and walked over to the fire to sit down cross-legged beside Samael. “Robert? Come over and sit down before you fall down.”

  Roberto seemed fascinated by the dozen or so Roman lances, called pili, which leaned beside the entry. He was running his hand down the shaft of the longest one. “How old are these?”

  “Couple of thousand years,” Moriarity answered, then he gave Samael a pained look. “How long have you been blind, my friend?”

  “About one month. It is not so bad. I can now see things I could never see before. The threads of the past have finally all come together.”

  Moriarity bowed his head as though in sympathy for the old hermit. How did Samael do it? He lived out here in the middle of nowhere. Was he just dedicated to being alone?

  Roberto took his time crossing the floor. He seemed to be as riveted by the collection of ancient weapons as I was.

  Swords, stilettos, and knives lay end-to-end around the circumference of the cave, like some curious magical circle of protection. As well, a wealth of amulets and ostrich feathers stuffed the small natural hollows of the cave walls.

  “What’s with the feathers?” Roberto asked.

  “Hmm?” Moriarity had been staring hard at Samael, as though in surprise or shock. When he looked up, he said, “Oh. The feather was the emblem of lightness. Ancient
Egyptians believed that sins weighed down the heart, so its lightness had to be proven against the weight of an ostrich feather. At death, the heart was placed on one side of the scale, the feather on the other. If the heart was as light as the feather, the person was found worthy, and Osiris, the god of the underworld, opened the door to the afterlife.”

  “What happened if your heart was too heavy?”

  “Then the demon Ammut, who guards the Lake of Fire in the underworld, devours your heart, which assures that your soul must wander restlessly for eternity. Which is undoubtedly your fate, Robert. Now. Sit. Down.” He stabbed a finger at the floor.

  Roberto crouched beside me and gave me an askance look. Clearly, this whole place, the ancient inscriptions and weapons, the cave filled with guns and ammo, was not sitting well with him. To make matters worse, Samael was staring blindly at him from across the fire with a beatific expression on his ancient face.

  “Ah, Robert,” Samael said with affection, “I’m so glad to see you again.”

  “I’ve never been to Egypt before.”

  “Oh, yes, you have. You’ve been here for over two thousand years, dear boy. You are a loyal and faithful shabti.”

  Roberto glanced at me, and I shrugged. We both turned to Dr. Moriarity for illumination.

  Moriarity ran a hand through his dusty hair. With an uneasy smile he answered, “I forgot to tell you that Samael can see into the Kingdom of Osiris. His whole family has special gifts—”

  “What’s a shabti?” Roberto frowned at Moriarity as though pretty certain he wasn’t going to like the answer.

  Moriarity tossed his fedora aside and spread his hands as if trying to decide whether to give an answer or a lecture. “Shabtis are mummiform figurines. You’ll see some before we leave Egypt. Shabtis are substitutes. Let’s say the dead have a task to perform, but, for whatever reason, can’t. The dead assign a shabti to substitute for them to make sure the task is accomplish—”

  Roberto turned to me. “What’s a mummiform figurine?”

  I said, “A painted figurine made in the shape of a person. Don’t you remember Ms. Lawrence talking about them in her class about the reign of Amenhotep III? She mentioned mummiform figurines, though she didn’t call them shabtis. Remember?”

  Roberto gave me a blank look. He was usually zoned out in history class, secretly playing computer games on his phone under his desk. “So, were these shabtis slaves in the afterlife?”

  “Are, Robert,” Moriarity said. “Shabtis serve forever.”

  Roberto gave me a disgusted glance as he slumped into a cross-legged position beside me. “Yeah, well, if I’m a shabti, why I am sitting here in this world?”

  “Ah . . .” Samael lifted a finger as though about to share some great secret. His toothless mouth hung open, revealing the pink tongue. “That is an important question. The dead person must wish to accomplish some task in this world, and the responsibility falls to you, as his or her substitute.”

  “Oh, okay, got it.” Roberto replied with exaggerated politeness as though it all made perfect sense now. “So will the dead person talk to me or something when the time comes? You know, to give me a clue as to what I’m supposed to do?”

  For several long moments, Samael just stared blindly in Roberto’s direction. In response, Roberto’s eyes narrowed more and more, until he was gazing at the old man through slits.

  As Samael reached down to pull the tripod closer and arrange the legs so that the pot dangling in the middle hung directly over the flames, his bony arms seemed to glide through the air. For all his skeletal gawkiness, the old man had a light birdlike manner, as though he had hollow bones. He said, “You will know when the time comes.”

  Roberto rolled his eyes.

  Samael couldn’t have seen it, but he smiled and gestured to the pot. “I just brewed olive blossom tea. Please drink. I know it was a long hot walk getting here. There are cups right there beside the hearth.”

  “Thanks. We’re all dehydrated.”

  In truth, I was so dog-tired and thirsty all I wanted to do was curl up and sleep for a week.

  Moriarity reached for one of the chipped cups resting beside the hearthstones and dipped it into the pot. He handed the first cup to me. The next went to Roberto. I found it strange that the good doctor did not dip a cup for himself. Was he afraid to drink it?

  As I drank the delicious brew, I noted the poorly patched holes in the bottoms of Samael’s woven-reed sandals. Hot sand must constantly torment the old man’s feet. Strips of reed protruded from a basket in the rear. Did his blindness prevent him from repairing the holes? Was there no one who came to check on him? To bring him supplies like new sandals? How did Samael survive out here alone?

  “This is good tea,” I said. “Thank you. Would you mind if I have another cup?”

  “Of course. I’m delighted it pleases you.”

  I gave the cup back to Moriarity, who refilled it and handed it back. He kept watching me, then his gaze would shift to Roberto. What was he waiting for? To see if we dropped dead? It would be just my luck if the old man was the reincarnation of Livia, the wife and poisoner of Emperor Augustus Caesar.

  Moriarity turned to Samael. “Before I tell you why we came, how are you, Samael? With your new blindness, how can you survive out here? I’m worried about you.”

  A gust of wind moved through the cave, fluttering the old man’s gray hair and bringing the pleasant scents of flowers and water.

  “It was a difficult year, James. Too many monsters to fight. They seem to be everywhere.”

  Moriarity said, “I’m sure that’s true. All the wars raging across Africa and the Middle East have turned human beings into savages. My informants tell me that Abu Katan is overflowing with insurgents.”

  The elder reached down and felt around the hearthstones until he found an ancient bronze stiletto that lay half-hidden near his drinking cup. He clutched it tightly. “I sincerely wish my tormentors were human. They’d be easier to kill.”

  Moriarity’s gaze slid sideways. In a totally serious voice, he asked, “Are the demons still tormenting you? I thought you’d lost them?”

  Samael nodded. “I did, for many summers, but Ammut is very persistent. She knows how committed I am. I was Charmion in a former life, you know? Ammut came to me again about a month ago. I have to be very careful now, lest I make a mistake and she gets into my cave. If that happens, my holy quest is over.”

  At the name “Charmion” my eyes widened. If it was the same historical figure, this old man believed he was the reincarnation of Cleopatra’s most loyal servant, the woman who was with her when Cleopatra ended her own life. Plutarch had written that when Octavian’s forces burst into the room, Cleopatra was already dead and Charmion was dying. Stumbling and almost unable to stand, Charmion was clumsily trying to arrange the diadem on Cleopatra’s head, before she, too, collapsed.

  “Ah, now I understand why you moved to this cave.” Moriarity gestured vaguely to the walls and ceiling. “I can’t believe you’ve never shown me this place before. The magical protection spells carved into the walls and ceiling here are fascinating. Do they keep demons out?”

  “They have for thousands of years, but I must continue to be vigilant.”

  I watched the strange elder over the rim of my cup. Moriarity was listening hard, his bushy brows knitted in concern. I drank more tea and tried not to be judgmental. After all, I had no right to judge anyone else’s delusions. Given that I was hearing voices and seeing things, my mother would say my DID was in full swing tonight.

  “The monsters are demons?” I asked.

  “Some of them are,” Moriarity answered, reaching for a cup, then dipping it full of tea.

  I guess since neither Roberto nor I had fallen over clutching our throats, he figured it was safe.

  While Moriarity gulped tea, Samael said, “There are several va
rieties, but the red ones with frozen eyes are my greatest enemies.” Samael lifted a crooked finger and tapped his temple. “That’s how I was blinded. One of Ammut’s helpers touched me. You must never let them touch you.”

  My teacup stopped halfway to my mouth. “I’m not familiar with an ancient Egyptian demon that meets that description.”

  “Oh, there have been many varieties over the ages. These are very, very old. They have roamed this world since the beginning of time when Set murdered his brother Osiris.”

  Mesmerized by his voice, I whispered, “I see.”

  Samael’s blind gaze went back and forth between Moriarity and me. “Didn’t you hear it howling when you arrived? It was very loud.”

  Slowly, I lowered my cup. “I thought I heard a voice, but Dr. Moriarity heard howling.”

  Samael gestured to Roberto. “Did you hear its cries?”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  Samael nodded. “That makes sense. They wouldn’t hunt you, since you’re already dead.”

  Roberto turned to give me a dirty look, as though it was my fault.

  I shook my head wildly, to say, How could I know you were a dead shabti?

  Roberto didn’t look convinced. After all, I was the Greco-Roman-Egyptian-history whiz kid of Georgetown High. I’d won the Colorado Classics Award three times. He figured I knew everything else, why not that little tidbit?

  Samael added, “I really hate the ones that sound like animals. I’ll think I’m being followed by an ordinary jackal, or one of the village dogs, until I see them hulking along after me. That’s when I know I’m in trouble.” He bowed his arms at his sides and rocked his shoulders back and forth to demonstrate how they “hulked.” “If you hear its howls, it intends you harm. Beware, my friends.”

  The lines at the corners of Moriarity’s black eyes deepened. “Why are they chasing you?”

  “They recognize me. They don’t wish me to keep my promises to the dead.”

  Samael peered at the flickering fire for a few seconds, then his gaze shot to the cave entrance as though he’d glimpsed something moving out in the darkness. He seemed to be holding his breath.