The Bone House

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “I must bring an artist as soon as it can possibly be arranged,” Thomas said. “Though I doubt any mere copy could do justice to the original.” His expression, alive with pleasure in the glow of the lamp, was that of a boy at Christmas. “They are wonderful.”

  “That one looks like my father,” observed Khefri quietly. He pointed to one of Anen’s priestly attendants. “And there—that is the very image of my cousin Hosni.”

  “Over here, gentlemen,” said Kit, directing their attention to the panel where a shaven-headed priest stood next to a Caucasian man in a colourful striped robe, open at the chest to reveal a cluster of tiny blue symbols on his skin. “I give you the man himself.”

  “Upon my word!” gasped Thomas. “Here he is.” He searched among the hieroglyphs beneath the painting, found the one he was looking for, and traced it lightly with a fingertip. “The Man Who Is Map.”

  “Arthur Flinders-Petrie,” said Kit.

  “He was here,” said Khefri. “High Priest Anen knew him.”

  “Yes, he did.” Kit stepped to the last panel. “And now,” he said, with a gallery owner’s flair, “the pièce de résistance.” He directed their attention to the figure of the shaven-headed priest, a little older and heavier, standing with what looked like a scrap of leather in his hand. “That,” declared Kit, “is the Skin Map as it once existed. And see, Anen is pointing with his other hand to that big star behind him. What is that?”

  “Hmmm.” Thomas held his lamp closer. “It appears to be the constellation Canus Major. I take it to be Sirius—a star especially revered by the ancients, no doubt due to its prominence and seasonal qualities.”

  “That is more or less what Cosimo and Sir Henry thought,” confirmed Kit. “And the object Anen is holding,” he continued, “that is the Flinders-Petrie map—you can tell from all the little blue symbols on it. And, based on Cosimo’s assessment, it appears to be all in one piece.”

  “Extraordinary,” breathed Thomas. “It is very much as you described.” He turned a grinning face to Kit. “As it has not been discovered in any of the boxes or chests yet examined, it must be in one of the few left.”

  Kit cast a glance around the room at the several dozen or so remaining containers. “We live in hope.”

  The work resumed. Kit returned to removing and, with Thomas, opening the last boxes and chests, his hopes soaring and crashing with each one until Khalid appeared at the table beneath the canopy to say, “This is the last.” He placed a small black lacquered box on the table. Inlaid with ivory and lapis in a geometric design, it did seem the kind of box to hold a treasure.

  “Open it,” instructed Thomas. With a trembling hand, Kit lifted the lid upon an elaborate beaded necklace of lapis, carnelian, and amber . . . a priceless object in anyone’s estimation. There were also a matching ring and brooch.

  But no map.

  “Well, that’s it,” muttered Kit. “All this for nothing.”

  “Not for nothing!” tutted Thomas. “We have excavated a very important tomb and have made considerable archaeological finds. The hieroglyphics alone will prove invaluable to our understanding. This is a major discovery. It will advance the science of archaeology by leaps and bounds. You should be proud.”

  “Sure,” allowed Kit, “but you know what I mean. We came here to find the map.” He gestured forlornly in the direction of the storage chamber cut in the sandstone of the wadi wall behind them. “We’ve got a whole truckload of treasures—everything except the one we came to get.”

  “And yet,” suggested Thomas, his steel-rimmed glasses glinting in the sun, “there is one container we have not searched.”

  “I looked in every blessed box and jar myself,” blurted Kit, disappointment making him raw. “It wasn’t there.”

  “Oh, ye of little wit,” admonished the doctor. “Use that brain of yours, sir. Think!”

  “I am thinking,” Kit muttered. “I am thinking we’ve been on a wild goose chase.”

  “My impetuous friend,” chided Thomas, shaking his head, “we have not looked in the sarcophagus.”

  “The sarcophagus . . .” Hope, instantly renewed, flared in Kit’s despairing soul. He started back to the tomb on the run. “All hands on deck! We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

  “Khalid, bring the heavy-lifting equipment,” called the doctor. He paused and shouted towards the temple. “Khefri, fetch the cook and bring a team of mules—we may need them.”

  Carved from a single block of red granite, the hulking mass of stone sat in the centre of the chamber, as yet untouched. Kit swept away the dust with a handful of rags to expose the smooth, stylised visage of a man, features impassive, staring with blank eyes into the darkness of eternity. Below the face, the rest of the stone lid was engraved with row upon row of hieroglyphs.

  “This won’t be easy,” observed Kit. “The thing must weigh twenty tons. How are we going to lift it?”

  “Give me a lever and a place to stand, and I shall move the earth!” Thomas told him. “Archimedes.” He squatted down beside the massive granite case and ran his fingers along the seam joining the lid to the bottom. “We will also use wedges and ropes.”

  Setting the lamps in a perimeter around the great stone case, the labourers set to with levers and wooden wedges; working in tandem—two levers a few inches apart—they eased up an edge of the lid and held it while another workman hammered in a wedge. The process was repeated time and again all along the right-hand side of the huge stone top. When they finished, they started over again, raising the lid a little more and driving in the wedges that much farther.

  After the third round of prying and hammering, they had succeeded in raising the weighty red granite a few inches. Ropes were passed around the centre of the lid and these sent up to be secured to the mule team. The levers were applied, nudging the carved top a little higher—enough to drive even larger wedges into the gap and tilt the lid to one side. Little by little the top rose and tilted until, with a low grinding sound like the rumble of distant thunder, it began to slide off. The ropes grew taut as the mules took the strain. Khalid dashed to the chamber doorway and called instructions for Khefri to relay to the mule drivers. Slowly, slowly, with a creaking complaint of ropes and wood, the massive stone lid tilted and slid. All at once, one of the ropes gave way. The stone slewed to one side, teetered, then crashed to the floor with a thud that shook the ground beneath their feet.

  The dust was still rising in the air as Kit, Thomas, Khalid, and the nearest labourers rushed forward to catch the first glimpse of the interior of the sarcophagus. Any hope for jewelled treasure or golden ornaments was swiftly dashed. For inside was a second sarcophagus of limestone, richly painted to resemble the deceased high priest in his ceremonial robes. The lid of this second sarcophagus was lighter and was raised with little difficulty by the workmen to uncover a third coffin of wood, also painted.

  The third lid was prised off in a moment to reveal the mummified body of Anen, tightly bound in linen bands to withstand the ravages of time. Over the chest had been placed—not jewelled ornaments or ceremonial trinkets, as in the case of others of high-born caste—but only a simple olive wood ankh, the ubiquitous cross with a loop, symbol for life. Nothing more.

  Kit, leaning over the mummy, scanned the interior of the coffin, but saw no boxes, chests, or bundles of any kind. He felt the heat of discovery begin to fade into the gloom of disappointment once more. “Well, what do you think? Should we unwrap him?” he asked doubtfully.

  “We do not have the proper equipment,” said Thomas. “But I doubt we would find anything. I am sorry. I fear we have been grossly misinformed.”

  “I guess.” Kit, miserable with frustration, moved to the painting of the priest holding the map and pointing to the star. What was the old boy trying to tell them?

  “Kit Livingstone!” said Khefri suddenly. “Look here. The headrest!”

  The doctor returned to the sarcophagus. “What sharp eyes you have, my boy,” brea
thed Thomas. “I do believe you’re right . . .”

  Kit turned to see the doctor and Khefri leaning over the mummy once more. Crossing the distance in three bounds, he watched as Thomas reached down beside the linen-wrapped corpse. “Here, give me a hand. Lift the mummy—gently, carefully . . . there. Got it!” He straightened, and in his hand was a square of something wrapped in linen; it looked like a mummified sofa cushion. “Our friend Anen was using it as a pillow.”

  “Here—let’s get it out into the light where we can see it better,” suggested Kit, already heading for the door.

  Out in the daylight, the carefully wrapped packet was examined for any external markings. There were none; the linen bindings were the same as those used to swathe the mummy. “I will enter this find in the ledger,” said Thomas, moving towards his station beneath the canopy. “Then we shall open it.”

  If Kit had had his way, he would have torn off the bandages then and there, but he agreed and followed the doctor to the table and watched with mounting impatience as Thomas made his entry. Then, handing Kit a thin-bladed knife, he passed the parcel to Kit along with the admonition to be very careful and take his time so as not to damage the delicate artefact within.

  With trembling fingers, Kit slit open the top layer of bands and began unwinding the long narrow strips.

  One after another, the layers were removed—seven in all—and as each fell away, excitement grew until Kit was almost hopping from foot to foot. The last layer of binding strips was unwound and there, on the table before them, lay a pair of wooden plaques tied with a cord of braided hemp that had been died red. The plaques were olive wood, raw and unvarnished, but covered with columns of black writing—not hieroglyphics, nor any language Kit had ever seen before.

  He licked his lips. “Do you recognise the script?”

  The doctor raised his glasses and bent down to scrutinise the writing, so close his nose almost touched the ancient wood. “I cannot say that I have ever encountered it.” He clucked his tongue. “Alas, I don’t know what it might be.”

  The cord was tied with a simple knot, and the doctor reached for it, then hesitated. “I think,” he said, pushing the bound wooden plaques towards Kit once more, “that you should have this honour.”

  Kit, his mouth dry, tugged at the woven cord, which parted as the ancient fibres shredded beneath his fingers. He brushed aside the disintegrating fragments and, holding his breath, lifted the top wooden plate. There, covered with a thin square of gossamer-fine linen, pressed like a rare leaf between the preserving sheets of a scrapbook, lay an irregular scrap of parchment almost translucent with age. The fine-grained leather, thin as gossamer and brittle as a scarab shell, was covered with a wild scattering of the most superbly etched symbols in dark blue.

  Like a shadow shrivelled by the noonday sun, doubt vanished at the sight, and Kit knew that he had found the Skin Map.

  PART FOUR

  The Language of Angels

  CHAPTER 21

  In Which the Scholarly Inquiry Bears Strange Fruit

  Douglas Flinders-Petrie stood beneath the dripping eaves marvelling at the pageant. There were maids with pails of milk on yokes across their shoulders, ferrying their wares to the college inns; ironmongers selling skewers and sconces; bakers with trays of fresh bread on their heads hurrying across the square; vendors in ramshackle booths selling candles, ribbon, cloth, cheese, and spices. A butcher working from the back of an open wagon, carving up the carcass as required by his customers; a pie seller with a handcart, shouting for business; a farmer with braces of trussed and squawking chickens strolling through the milling throng; and on and on, like a live action study for a Brueghel painting.

  How any of the students could concentrate on their professor, who was holding forth a few dozen paces away, Douglas could not fathom. But the lecturer, tall and gaunt upon his wooden crate, lifted his voice above the general din and declaimed in precise Latin on the subject of the day while the students, dressed in scholars’ robes of green and blue, faces earnest beneath the level brims of their square hats, sat or lounged on bales of straw that had been dragged together to form a loose semicircle around him. Not a few of the townsfolk stood listening as well, sometimes calling out facetious answers to the rhetorical questions posed by the renowned teacher.

  It was the professor Douglas had come to see, the sole reason he had so painstakingly polished his Latin and assembled the wardrobe, studied the history, manners, and customs in order to make this trip to the mid-1200s. Therefore, Douglas studied him intently. A trim, solemn-faced fellow of middle years with a strong nose and high-domed head, Roger Bacon—doctor, professor, scientist, and theologian—had established himself as a prime moving force in the fields of academia that were his domain: anatomy, medicine, science, alchemy, philosophy, and theology. He wore his dark hair short and tonsured like any other priest of his stripe, and his simple brown Franciscan robe, though threadbare and frayed at hem and sleeve, was clean, his belt of braided cord neatly tied.

  At one point in the lecture, some local youths muscled their way to the fore and began talking loudly and making rude imitations of the professor standing on his wooden box. From this Douglas grasped another fact of his research: the petty jealousy of some of the townsfolk of what was increasingly considered the educational elite in their midst. Some, like the crude yokels Douglas observed, felt themselves hard done by a system that seemed to favour those they considered transient interlopers and effete snobs. Indeed, owing to his propensity for unorthodox notions and the inexplicable behaviour that often accompanied his various experiments, the esteemed man of science was steadily establishing himself as a leading eccentric, if not a cap-and-bell fool, in the court of public opinion.

  The troublemakers pursued a rather halfhearted attempt to interrupt the proceedings, until two bulky bailiffs with long pikes appeared and moved them along. Order restored, the open-air symposium continued. Douglas turned his attention to the lecture and tried to follow it as best he could. The Latin was accomplished—fluent and fluid, eloquent, and elegant in expression—and so highly polished by years of scholastic application that even when Douglas knew the words being spoken it was difficult to ascertain what sense was being conveyed. The students, and a smattering of townspeople, seemed to grasp the meaning of what Douglas eventually concluded was a discourse on the nature of the universe and the place of reason in framing the human conception of reality.

  It might well have been riveting stuff, but it took all of Douglas’ newly acquired expertise in the ancient language just to identify the subject; actually following the subtle nuances of the argument were well beyond his nascent abilities. Still, he had a basic general idea of the flow if not the particulars, and anyway he had not come to sit at the feet of the learned professor. He was on a far more important mission.

  “Snipe!” Douglas hissed under his breath. “Do not throw that.” He had seen his pugnacious assistant fingering a rotten pear he had picked up from the gutter on their way to the lecture. “Drop it now.”

  The youth turned a baleful gaze upon his master, but still clutched the overripe fruit, juice oozing from his fingers.

  “Drop it!” said Douglas. “Obey.”

  With a sneer of defiance, the pale youth released the fruit. The pear hit the ground with a dull splat; Snipe stomped it with his foot and ground the soft fruit into the dirt. He then stood, rigid with rage, and glowered at the rabble around them.

  “Good boy,” Douglas commended him, and offered him a sop. “We will find a cat for you later.”

  The lecture eventually came to an end and the students began drifting off in twos and threes, melting into the general bustle of the busy town square. A few lingered to ask questions, and Douglas waited for these to finish. When all had gone away, he approached. “Pax vobiscum, Magister Bacon,” he said, removing his round monk’s cap and making a nicely practised bow of deference. “Deus vobis.”

  “Quis est?” said the professor, as he turned. Taki
ng in Douglas’ robes, he said, “God with you, brother.”

  Douglas introduced himself as a visiting priest who had come seeking enlightenment on a scholarly matter. “I wonder if I may call on you in your lodgings to discuss it?”

  “It would be a sublime pleasure for a certainty,” replied Master Bacon. “Alas, my duties are many, and I have not found a way to expand time to accommodate them all. Therefore, I must sadly decline your offer to attend me—attractive as it may be.”

  “To be sure,” replied Douglas, who had anticipated a similar response and was ready with a reply. “I would not presume to add to your burdens in any way, God knows. Yet it may interest you to know that I come from the abbey at Tyndyrn, where an exceedingly peculiar manuscript has come into our hands, we know not how.” He saw the glint of curiosity spark in the professor’s dark eyes. “Some of my brothers believe you may be the only person alive who can read it.”

  “This manuscript of which you speak,” said Roger Bacon, rubbing the back of his hand, “what can you tell me about it?”

  “Very little, sir. You see, it is written in no language ever seen before. At least, not one that our best scholars can identify.”

  “Congratulations, my friend,” declared the august professor with a bow of his tonsured head. “You have succeeded in intriguing me—an eventuality that grows more difficult with each year that Christ tarries. Will you come to me tonight at the Bear? We will have supper together.” He indicated the inn behind them. “I take my meals within, and my table is always ready. I shall keep a place for you.” His eyes shifted to Douglas’ companion. “And your acolyte, of course. God’s greeting, my son.” Upon regarding the youth more closely, his smile wilted.

  “He is mute and does not speak,” Douglas informed the master with a pat of Snipe’s overlarge head. “My thanks, Master Bacon. Until this evening, then.”