by Ian Cook
She walked faster, trying to get away from them without losing her cool. When, one by one, they broke into a run, she had no choice but to do the same, cursing that she was wearing a skirt and praying that somebody would come to her help.
Stumbling around a corner at the end of the street, she almost knocked over an old man with a cane. He pulled back, startled.
“Pardon – excusez-moi – I’m so sorry,” she exclaimed, with a mixture of relief and embarrassment.
As the boys rushed around the corner, he took in the situation instantly, raised his cane and shouted something in Arabic at them. One boy defiantly pointed at Rebecca, yelled “Witch” a final time and retreated after his departing friends.
“Are you all right? Can I help you?” the old man said in perfect English, and with an old-fashioned courtesy. Upright, with a white, trimmed, military moustache, he was wearing a red felt chechiá, the Tunisian version of the fez.
“Thank you, thank you,” she said, flushed and still shaken. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been here.”
“Next time I see them, I’ll hit them around the head with this,” he said, waving his cane in the air.
She got her breath back and tried to speak calmly. “I was trying to find rue du Pasha – number 42 – Madame Bourguiba. I’m supposed to meet her there.”
The old man smiled. “But it’s just here. Round the corner. Come, I’ll show you.”
They walked no more than fifty yards and turned a corner. He pointed his cane. “There it is. Number 42,” he said.
“Thank you so much,” she replied, feeling rather stupid.
“Just press the bell, it’s at the side of the door.” He waited until she stood in front of the house, waved his cane to her and walked back slowly round the corner.
CHAPTER 7
Rebecca rang the bell at the side of the huge blue panelled door. There was no response. Stepping back, she looked up at the windows and caught a glimpse of a face peering down at her. She tried ringing again, and several seconds later the door slowly opened. The face of an old lady appeared.
“Oui?”
“Madame Bourguiba? I am Rebecca Burns.”
“Ah, un petit moment, s’il vous plaît.”
The door opened fully, and Rebecca stepped in. As it closed behind her, she turned around to see an elegantly dressed lady standing there.
Beautifully coiffed, she epitomised classic French chic. Her hair, delicately tinted, was cut in a bob, revealing small diamond earrings. She was wearing a cream blouse under a navy tricot, with a matching slim, calf-length skirt. Around her neck hung a thin gold chain, complemented by a gold bracelet.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” said Rebecca.
“No matter. I am not going anywhere. I’m pleased you came here. Mohammed is out shopping at the moment, so I have prepared tea myself. You like tea?”
“Yes, please,” said Rebecca, looking around.
Behind the door lay a traditional Tunisian courtyard. In the centre, a small fountain played quietly in a stone basin set on a pedestal. The floor was laid with decorated tiles to the edges of a raised terrace, beyond which she could see open doors screened by bead curtains. Palm trees were planted around the courtyard perimeter, from which were strung lights for the evening. Cacti grew in large, cobalt blue ceramic pots placed around the terrace, and purple bougainvillaea covered an entire wall.
Madame Bourguiba led Rebecca across the courtyard to two cushioned cane chairs with a low table set between them. A tray was laid for tea with a Tunisian silver teapot and two tall glasses, filled with green leaves, in silver holders.
“Please, sit down.” Madame Bourguiba waited until Rebecca was seated before she sat down herself. “I am sorry I do not have English tea. I hope you like mint tea?”
“I love it,” said Rebecca, starting to relax again with the sheer serenity and beauty of the place. “It’s very peaceful here.”
“Yes. I will never move now,” Madame Bourguiba replied. “Since my husband died I sometimes like to have company, and I have plenty of old friends here in the Medina. But in this house it is always quiet, and Mohammed looks after me well.”
She poured the tea and passed a glass to Rebecca. “I understand you would like to hear about my father’s experience at Carthage?”
“It does sound dreadful. Ali Benzarti told me about it, but I was wondering if I could ask you a few more questions?”
“But what happened to my father happened ninety years ago. I only heard about it when I asked my mother about my father’s scars.”
“Ali told me that your family are French.”
“Yes, but I am the only one left here now. They all went back to Toulouse in 1956 at Independence. I should have gone back as well – the French were not liked. But I was married to a Tunisian, so I stayed, of course. It is normal. My husband was a well-respected surgeon, and I was teaching English and French at the university. I love English. Sometimes we used to visit London and go to the theatre there. My husband died quite young. He was only just sixty.” She fell silent.
“And your father – did he go back to France?” asked Rebecca.
“No, he died here in 1939. He looked a little bit like you. He had red hair as well, perhaps a little bit more blonde, but still red. His family came from Normandy. The children here were terrible. They used to call my father all sorts of names because of his red hair and because of his scarred face. The scars were very bad. He was just ‘Papa’ to me. I inherited my mother’s dark hair, so I had no problems. Sometimes I think he really must have suffered.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Just now, a gang of boys chased me. I’m sure it was because of my hair.”
“I am so sorry. The children here are a little wild. You know, you should leave the Medina before nightfall. It can be quite dangerous after dark, especially for strangers. Even my father was attacked once in the Medina. By a man with a knife.”
“Was he all right?”
“Oh, yes. My father was very strong. He fought the man. But it was very unpleasant.”
While Madame Bourguiba topped up Rebecca’s glass with more tea, Rebecca surreptitiously checked to see how low the sun was. It was still some way from setting, but she couldn’t help feeling anxious.
“Do you know what happened to Paul Durand?” asked Rebecca, deciding to change the subject.
“It was difficult for him. He never heard the crying himself, so he could not confirm my father’s story. But the attack by the bird was real enough for him. He was very proud to have discovered the tophet, but after that, the professional archaeologists took over. He died too, not long after my father.”
She smiled kindly at Rebecca. “Now, you must tell me what you have managed to find out.”
“Something to do with red hair,” said Rebecca. “I must tell you what the workers who heard the babies crying told us this morning. Something that wasn’t reported.” She proceeded to tell Madame Bourguiba about the ghostly priest carrying the red-haired baby.
“I wish my husband were still alive to hear about this,” said Madame Bourguiba. “He was a very educated man. He knew about the whole history of Carthage, and its strange gods and sacrifices. I miss him so much.”
Madame Bourguiba rested her hand lightly on Rebecca’s knee. “I know I’m just an inquisitive old lady, but you seem a little sad. Has something happened to you?”
Feeling vulnerable and caught unawares, Rebecca began to pour out her problems. First, she told Madame Bourguiba about her handbag being stolen, but soon found herself telling her about her own mother and father.
“My parents were killed in a plane crash a little while ago.” She went on to tell how her father had been researching a lost city in the Amazon. Her mother had joined him for a holiday in Peru, when their plane went down over the Andes.
Madame Bourguiba’s eyes reflected deep concern and understanding. “I am so sorry,” she said. “I felt that something was making you sad.”
“Don’t worry, that will just be Mohammed back with the shopping. He must have forgotten his key. Would you open the door for him, please.”
Rebecca crossed the courtyard to the door, lifted the heavy cast-iron latch and started to pull the door open. She only just had time to catch sight of a bottle sailing into the courtyard. It smashed on the edge of the fountain and burst into flames.
“Mon Dieu,” cried Madame Bourghiba, pushing the table as she instinctively shrank back. A glass fell to the ground and smashed.
Madame Bourguiba was shaking as Rebecca rushed back, put her arm around her and helped her into the house.
The fire soon burned itself out, leaving only broken glass and a few scorched tiles. Rebecca went over and closed the heavy door again.
Madame Bourguiba looked at the scene from a doorway and shook her head defiantly. “They do not frighten me. They did not throw me out at Independence, and they are not going to make me leave now.”
The door to the courtyard opened again and a short, elderly man walked in, laden with bulging plastic bags.
“Thank God,” said Madame Bourguiba. “Mohammed is back.”
Looking bewildered, Mohammed put down the bags, sniffed the air and inspected the burnt tiles. Even as Madame Bourghiba explained what had happened and asked him to call a taxi for Rebecca, he eyed Rebecca with suspicion.
CHAPTER 8
That evening, in a room of a small hotel just off avenue Habib Thameur, the green-eyed man took off his jacket and tie and placed them over the back of a chair.
He retrieved a small packet of twisted paper from a jacket pocket and untwisted the paper. Very carefully, he tapped the brown powder contents into a glass of water and stirred the dark liquid with a spoon. Next, he placed a small stone carving on the bedside table. It was a bird with folded wings and a curved beak.
Sitting on the bed, he studied the carving for a minute, as if building up the courage to drink the foul-looking contents of the glass. Grimacing, he grabbed the glass and downed the contents in one.
For a while, he sat with his head between his knees, as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Suddenly, he put his hand to his mouth, dived into the bathroom and retched into the basin. Shaking, he went back to the bed, stretched himself out on it and shut his eyes. Two minutes later, his eyes flickered behind the closed lids.
He found himself pushing open a huge wooden door and emerging into the brilliant Egyptian morning sunlight, which flooded into the colonnaded courtyard of the Temple of Edfu in Upper Egypt. But this was the Upper Egypt of over two thousand years ago. His clothes, too, were those of a High Priest of the Temple of Edfu of that time.
Smoothing down the gleaming white cotton of his tunic, he strode towards the massive gateway through which the temple traffic entered the temple complex. Looking up at the boundary wall, he noted the freshly carved reliefs that had not been there when he was last in the temple. They illustrated the victory of the god Horus over his arch-enemy, Seth.
Striding out beyond the gateway, he ignored the greetings and shouts of recognition, as people prostrated themselves at the sight of him, and walked down to the banks of the Nile.
Nothing had changed since his departure. The dull green river flowed towards the Great Sea, and the dhows slowly navigated the waters as they had always done. Reassured, he turned round and shielded his eyes against the sun as he gazed out at the desert, stretching away into the distance. Deciding he was now ready to face his master, he walked back purposefully through the gateway and across the courtyard.
The entrance to the Great Hall was guarded by two, ten foot high, granite statues of Horus, here represented as a falcon. Entering the Great Hall, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim light and then moved on to the second hall. Attendants preparing ointments and perfumes in the adjacent laboratory stopped working and bowed their heads towards him. As he went through the smaller offering hall and the vestibule, he slowed down, dreading the ordeal he knew was to come.
At last, deep inside the temple, he reached the inner sanctuary. Coming to a stop at the entrance, he fell down and kissed the ground. At the far end of the sanctuary stood a block of hollowed-out granite. It was the naos, the shrine of the all-powerful god Horus. The priest got to his feet, walked slowly into the sanctuary and stood before Horus, with his head bowed.
Horus was standing inside the shrine. In his form as a peregrine falcon, he was over seven foot tall, and dressed in his daytime regalia. He towered over the priest. Draped over his shoulders was a crimson cloth, underneath which could be seen similar cloths of eau-de-nil green and pure white. Clasped to his body and tucked under his wing, he held his royal regalia: the crook, the flail and the sceptre. On his head he wore the Pschent; the Double Crown, representing power over all of Egypt. At his feet, just above his talons, he wore gold anklets, and around his neck, a jewelled collar which sparkled with coloured lights whenever he moved his head.
Imperious and impassive, the god looked straight ahead. Then the beady eyes flickered downwards. The beak opened. “Speak, Neferatu,” he ordered, the voice deep and rasping.
The priest looked up. “O my God, I am at your command,” he intoned.
Horus became visibly agitated, a wing spreading away from his body, until it touched the side of the naos. “You have failed. You allowed her to escape.” His voice trailed off into a hiss.
Neferatu hung his head. “It isn’t that easy. There were people everywhere. She was never alone. The stele dedicated to me was not powerful enough, and I had to use the ayahuasca drug to get back here. It made me sick. I don’t like using drugs.”
Horus glared at him, unblinking. “Then find more effective icons. You must do whatever is necessary to finish the task. Get her to come to you, to your territory. The temple guards and the Moloch are at your disposal – the sun is strong enough now to get them through to the right dimension. The redheads must be stopped. Kill the queen, and the nest will die.”
Neferatu shrank back. “And Seth, your uncle? Has he found out what we are planning to do to his people? He is your sworn enemy and will do anything to protect those with red hair.”
“It will be too late when he finds out,” said Horus, ruffling his feathers. He lifted a claw, and the gold anklet glinted in the light. “Let me remind you, today is the Feast of the Beautiful Meeting. It is the one night I am allowed to spend with my wife, Hathor. She is already on the barque coming down from Dendera. And your role is to officiate at the ritual.”
Neferatu took a deep breath and bent his head downwards. “Your wish…”
“I want to celebrate in style,” Horus cut in. “We have a few of Seth’s supporters to sacrifice later on. You will need to prepare for the ceremony.” He lifted a wing and pointed it to the exit.
Neferatu prostrated himself once again, stood up and walked respectfully backwards out of the sanctuary. Once out of sight, he walked back through the temple and into the courtyard, hunched and bristling with a foul temper.
The bright sunshine could not dispel the ominous atmosphere. Piles of dried rushes were being brought in through the gateway and stacked into a pyre, ready to burn the bodies after the sacrifices.
Only when he reached the end of the courtyard did the priest’s mood lift, as he noticed a group of twenty or so men and women shackled together and guarded by a small group of soldiers. Obviously from all ranks of life, some of the men were rough-looking peasants wearing simple loincloths. Others, both men and women, were richly attired in full-length white tunics, their jewellery flashing in the sunlight. The one thing they had in common was their red hair.
CHAPTER 9
On the pavement of Great Russell Street, close to the entrance of the British Museum, a clown entertained passers-by. He concentrated on the children, and his appearance immediately caught their attention: the enormous
shoes, the baggy trousers and the huge, droopy, yellow chrysanthemum in his button-hole. His lugubrious white face was topped with a bright ginger wig under a mini bowler hat, with a green feather sticking out of it. He stepped up to the children as they passed, put his hand up to their ears and magically produced ten pence pieces, which he gave to them. Parents reluctantly stopped, and he rapidly built up a little group of about twenty boys and girls. He started juggling, and the parents resigned themselves to hanging around for a while.
Inside the museum, a young Japanese couple inspected a display cabinet in the Egyptian room. They barely noticed the small bronze statue of Horus of Pe. When the girl’s mobile phone rang, she eagerly started talking in voluble Japanese. She stopped abruptly, obviously waiting for a response. Then she looked hard at the screen and tapped it, before finally trying to call back.
It was while her companion was looking at the display that a man appeared behind them, studying the same group of exhibits over their shoulders. He would have been instantly recognisable to anyone who had met him. It was Neferatu. But he was now dressed as immaculately as any smart visitor to London, in a dark suit, white shirt and quiet tie. In short, he didn’t attract a second glance as he checked his reflection in the glass of the cabinet, straightened his tie, turned and walked towards the exit.
By this time the Japanese girl had managed to get through to her caller again and, still puzzled by the sudden interruption, took up the conversation where she had left off.
Neferatu had already walked down the stairs to the ground floor and was making his way to the main exit. He stood at the top of the steps and looked around as if to get his bearings. Then he strode slowly and decisively down the steps and across the museum courtyard.
A small boy was feeding pigeons in the middle of the courtyard. The number of pigeons had rapidly built up into a small flock and more were flapping in. They were directly in line with the main gate as Neferatu walked towards it. With a thin smile of sadistic pleasure on his face, he marched straight through the gathered birds and, nonchalantly but effectively, kicked one that had been too slow to get out of the way high into the air. The boy’s eyes opened in disbelief, and his face crumpled into tears as he rushed towards his mother.