“Anubis! But isn’t he a regular Egyptian deity—a recognized one?” Peter broke in.
His father answered from the manuscript itself:
“For Lord Anubis holds the keys to Life and Death; he guards cryptic Kameter, and none shall pass the Veil without consent. Some there are who deem the Jackal-God to be a friend of those who rule, but he is not. Anubis stands in shadows, for he is the Keeper of Mysteries. In olden days for which there is no number it is written that Lord Anubis revealed himself to men, and he who then was Master fashioned the first image of the god in his true likeness. Such is the image that you will find at the end of the inner passageway—the first true image of the Opener of the Way.” “Astounding!” Peter had muttered. “Think what it means if this is truel Imagine finding the original statue of the god!”
His father merely smiled, a trifle wanly, Peter thought. “There are ways in which the first image differs from the rest,” said the manuscript. “These ways are not good for men to know; so the first likeness was hidden by the Masters through the ages, and worshiped according to its demands. But now that our enemies—may their souls and vitals rot!—have dared profane the rites, the Master saw fit to hide the image and bury it with him when he died.”
Sir Ronald’s voice quivered as he read the next few lines:
“But Anubis does not stand at the head of the inner passage for this reason alone. He is truly called the Opener of the Way, and without his help none may pass to the tomb within.”
Here the older man stopped completely for a long moment.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Peter, impatiently. “I suppose there’s another silly ritual involving the statue of the god, eh?”
His father did not answer, but read on to himself, silently. Peter noticed that Sir Ronald’s hands trembled as he held the parchment, and, when the older man looked up at last, his face was very pale.
“Yes, my boy,” he replied huskily. “That’s what it is —another silly ritual. But no need to bother about it until we get to the place itself.”
“You mean to go there—discover the spot?” asked the young man, eagerly.
“I must go there.” Sir Ronald’s tone was constrained. He glanced again at the last portion of the parchment:
“But beware, for those who do not believe shall die. Pass Lord Anubis though they may, still he shall know and not permit of their return unto the world of men. For the eidolon of Anubis is a very strange one indeed, and holds a secret soul.”
The old archaeologist blurted out these last words very quickly, and immediately folded up the parchment again. After that he had deliberately turned the talk to practical affairs, as if seeking to forget what he had read.
The next weeks were spent in preparation for the trip to the south, and Sir Ronald seemed to avoid his son, except when it was necessary to converse with him on matters pertaining directly to the expeditionary affairs.
But Peter had not forgotten. He wondered what it was his father had read silently; that secret ritual which would enable one to pass beyond the Opener of the Way. Why had his father blanched and trembled, then quickly changed the subject to saner things? Why had he guarded the parchment so closely? And just what was the nature of the “curse” the manuscript mentioned at the last
Peter pondered these questions a great deal, but he had gradually dispelled his stronger fears, because of the necessary preoccupation with technical details which the organizing of their expedition subsequently entailed. Not until he and his father were actually in the desert did his misgivings return, but then they plagued him mightily.
There is an air of eon-spawned antiquity about the desert, a certain aura of the ancient which makes one feel that the trivial triumphs of man are as fleeting and quickly obscured as his footprints in the shifting sand. In such places there descends upon the soul a sphinx-like brooding, and somber soliloquies rise, unrepressed, to rule the mind.
Young Peter had been affected by the spell of the silent sands. He tried to remember some of the things his father had once told him concerning Egyptian sorcery, and the miraculous magic of the high priests. Legends of tombs and underground horrors took on a new reality here in the place of their birth. Peter Barton knew personally many men who had believed in the potency of curses, and some of them had died strangely. There was the Tut-Ankh-Ahmen affair, and the Paut temple scandal, and the terrible rumors concerning the end of that unsavory adventurer, Doctor Camoti. At night, under the spying stars, he would recall these and similar tales, then shudder anew at the thought of what might lie before him.
When Sir Ronald had made camp at the spot designated by the map, there had been new and more concrete terrors.
That first night, Sir Ronald had gone off alone into the hills behind the tents. He bore with him a white goat, and a sharp knife. His son, following, had come upon the old man after the deed had been done, so that the sand had been given to drink. The goat’s blood shone horribly in the moonlight, and there was a red glare of corresponding violence in the slayer’s eyes. Peter had not made his presence known, for he did not deem it wise to interrupt his father while the old man was muttering those outlandish Egyptian phrases to a mocking moon.
Indeed, Peter was more than a little afraid of Sir Ronald, else he would have attempted to dissuade him from continuing the expedition. But there was something in Sir Ronald’s manner which hinted at a mad, unthwartable determination. It was that which made Peter keep silent; that which held him from bluntly asking his father the true details about the parchment’s mysterious “curse.”
The day after the peculiar incident in the midnight hills, Sir Ronald, after consulting certain zodiacal charts, announced that the digging would start. Carefully, eyes on the map, he measured his paces to an exact spot in the sands, and ordered the men to work. By sundown, a ten-foot shaft yawned like a great wound in the earth, and excited natives proclaimed the presence of a door beneath.
By this time, Peter, whose nerves were near the breaking point, was too much afraid of his father to demur when ordered to descend to the floor of the excavation. Undoubtedly, the elder man was in the grip of a severe aberration, but Peter, who really loved his father, thought it advisable not to provoke him by refusing to obey. He did not like the idea of going down into that chasm, for the seeping smell was distressingly repulsive. But the stench below was a thousand times more bearable than the sight of the dark door through which it had slithered.
This evidently was the door to the outer passageway that the manuscript had mentioned. All at once Peter knew what was meant by the allusion to the “seventh tongue in the seventh head,” and wished that the meaning had remained forever obscured from his brain. For the door was set with a silver symbol, framed in the familiar ideography of Egyptological lore. This central symbol consisted of the heads of seven principal Egyptian gods—Osiris, Isis, Ra, Bast, Thoth, Set, and Anubis. But the horror lay in the . fact that all seven heads protruded from a common body, and it was not the body of any god heretofore known in myth. It was not anthropomorphic, that figure; it held nothing that aped the human form. And Peter could recall no parallel in all the Egyptian cosmology or pantheon which could be remotely construed to resemble this utterly alien horror.
The quixotic abhorrency it induced cannot be ascribed to anything which may be put into words. The sight of it seemed to send little tentacles of terror through^Peter’s eyes; tiny tentacles that took root in his brain, to drain it dry of all feeling save fear. Part of this may have been due to the fact that the body appeared to be constantly changing; melting, that is, from one indescribable shape to another. When viewed from a certain angle, the form was that of a Medusa-like mass of serpents; a second gaze revealed that the thing was a glistening array of vampiric flowers, with gelid, protoplasmic petals that seemed to weave in bloblike thirst for blood. A third scrutiny made it appear that the formless mass was nothing but a chaotic jumble of silver skulls. At another time it seemed to hold a certain hidden pattern of the co
smos—stars and planets so compressed as to hint at the enormity of all space beyond.
What devilish craft could produce such a baffling nightmare composite, Peter could not say, and he did not like to imagine that the thing was the pattern of any human artist. He fancied that there was some sinister implication of allegorical significance about the door, that the heads, set on the background of that baffling body, were somehow symbolic of a secret horror which rules behind all human gods. But the more he looked, the more his mind became absorbed in the intricate silvery maze of design. It was compelling, hypnotic; glimpsing it was like pondering upon the meaning of Life—pondering in that awful way that drives philosophers mad.
From this beguilement, Peter was roughly awakened by his father’s voice. He had been very curt and abrupt all morning, but now his words were fraught with an unmistakable eagerness.
“It’s the place all right—the door of the parchment! Now I know what Prinn must have meant in his chapter on the Saracenic rituals; the part where he spoke of the ‘symbols on the gate.’ We must photograph this after we finish. I hope we can move it later, if the natives don’t object.”
There was a hidden relish in his words which Peter disliked, and almost feared. He became suddenly aware of how little he really knew about his father and his secret studies of recent years; recalled reluctantly certain guarded tomes he had glimpsed in the library at Cairo. And last night, his father had been out there with the bats, like some mad old priest. Did he really believe such nonsense? Or did he know it was the truth?
“Now!” The old man’s voice was triumphant. “I have the knife. Stand back.”
With fearful, fascinated eyes, Peter saw his father insert the tip of the knife under the seventh head—that of Anubis. Steel grated on silver; then the latter gave. As the dog-like head slowly turned, as though actuated by a hidden pivot, the door swung open with a brazen clangor that echoed and re-echoed through the musty depths beyond.
And musty those depths proved to be. A noxious, acrid scent burst forth from its long imprisonment, a charnel fetor. It was not the natron or spice-laden miasma common to most tombs; rather it held the concentrated essence of death
itself—mildewed bones, putrefied flesh, and crumbled dust.
Once the first strength of the gaseous vapor had abated, Sir Ronald immediately stepped inside. He was followed, though much less quickly, by his son. The thirty-and-three sloping steps along the corridor were traversed, as the manuscript had foretold. Then, lantern in hand, the old man was confronted by the enigmatic eidolon of Anubis.
After that first dismaying scrutiny, during which Peter had uneasily recalled these memories of preceding incidents, Sir Ronald interrupted his son’s revery and spoke. He whispered there, before the giant statue of the god that seemed to frown down upon the puniness of men with baleful, conscious eyes. Some trick of the lantern-light seemed to change the contours of that stone countenance; its chiseled grin was transformed into a gloating leer of mirthless menace. Yet the grim apprehension this aroused in Peter was soon overpowered by more acute fright when he heard his father’s words.
“Listen, boy. I did not tell you all that the parchment revealed to me that night. You remember, there was a part I read only to myself. Well, I had reasons for not letting you know the rest then; you would not have understood, and probably would have refused to come here with me. I needed you too much to risk that.
“You don’t know what this moment means to me, son. For years I’ve worked and studied in secret over things which others scoff at as superstitious fancies. I believed, however, and I have learned. There are always lurking truths behind every forgotten religion; distorted facts which can be rationalized into new concepts of reality. I’ve been on the trail of something like this for a long time. I knew that if I could discover a tomb like this it must surely contain proofs which would convince the world. There are probably mummies within; the bodies of this cult’s secret leaders. That’s not what I’m after, though. It’s the knowledge that’s buried with them; the papyrus manuscripts that hold forbidden secrets—wisdom the world has never known! Wisdom—and power!”
Sir Ronald’s voice was shrill with unnatural excitement. “Power! I have read about the inner circles of the Black Temple, and the cult that has ruled by those designated as Masters in this parchment. They were not ordinary priests of magic; they had traffickings with entities from outside human spheres. Their curses were feared, and their wishes respected. Why? Because of what they knew. I tell you, in this tomb we may find secrets that can give us mastery over half the world! Death-rays, and insidious poisons, old books and potent spells which efficacy may bring a renascence of primal gods again. Think of it! One could control governments, rule kingdoms, destroy enemies with that knowledge! And there will be jewels, wealth and riches undreamt of, the treasures of a thousand thrones!”
He is quite mad, Peter thought. For a moment he entertained a frantic impulse to turn and run back through the corridor; he wanted to see the sanity of a sun overhead, and feel a breath of air on his brow that was not dust-polluted by dead centuries. But the old man grasped him by the shoulders as he mumbled on, and Peter was forced to remain.
“You don’t understand, I see. Perhaps it’s for the best; but no matter, I know what I’m about. You will, too, after I do what is necessary. I must tell you now what the parchment said; that portion of it which I did not read aloud.”
Some inner instinct screamed silent warnings in Peter’s brain. He must get away—he must! But his father’s grip was firm, though his voice trembled.
“The part I refer to is that which tells one how to get past this statue and into the tomb itself. No, nothing can be discovered by looking at the thing; there’s no secret passage behind it; no levers concealed in the body of the god. The Master and his acolytes were cleverer than that. Mechanical means are of no avail; there’s only one way to enter into the tomb beyond, and that is through the body of the god itself I”
Peter gazed again into the mask-like countenance of Anubis. The jackal-face was contorted in cunning comprehension—or was it only a trick of the light? His father hurried on.
“That sounds queer, but it’s the truth. You remember what the parchment said about this statue being the first one—different from the rest? How it emphasized the fact that Anubis is the Opener of the Way, and hinted at its secret soul? Well, the next lines explained that. It seems that the figure can turn upon a pivot and open a space behind it into the tomb, but only when the idol is animated by a human consciousness.”
They were all mad, Peter knew. He, his father, the old priests, and the statue itself; all insane entities in a world of chaos.
“That means only one thing. I must hypnotize myself by gazing at the god; hypnotize myself until my soul enters its body and opens the way beyond.”
Peter’s blood was frozen ice in his veins.
“It’s not so bizarre a conception at that. The yogis believe that in their trances they incarnate themselves with the godhead; the self-hypnotic state is a religious manifestation among all races. And mesmerism is a scientific truth; a truth known and practiced thousands of years before psychology was postulated as an organized study. These priests evidently knew the principle. So that is what I must do—hypnotize myself so that my soul or consciousness enters the image. Then I shall be able to open the tomb behind.”
“But the curse!” Peter muttered, finding his voice at last. “You know what it says about a curse on unbelievers —something about Lord Anubis being a guardian as well as an Opener of the Way. What about that?”
“Sheer humbug!” Sir Ronald’s tone was fanatically firm. “That was merely inserted to frighten off tomb-looters. At any rate, I must risk it. All you need to do is wait. Once I pass into a trance, the statue will move, and the passage beyond will be disclosed. Enter it, immediately. Then give my body a good shake to break the coma, and I’ll be all right again.”
There was in his father’s words an authority
which could not be denied. So Peter held the lantern aloft and allowed its beams to play over the face of Anubis. He stood in silence while his father focused his gaze upon the jackal eyes— those stony, staring eyes that had so disturbed them with’ hints of a secret life.
It was a terrible tableau; the two men, the twelve-foot god, confronting each other in a black vault beneath the the earth.
Sir Ronald’s lips moved in fragments of ancient Egyptian prayers. His eyes were fixed upon a nimbus of light that had settled about the canine forehead. Gradually, his stare became glassy; nictitation ceased, and the pupils glowed with a peculiar nyctalopic fire. The man’s body sagged visibly, as if it were being vampirically drained of all life.
Then, to Peter’s horror, a pallor overspread his father’s face, and he sank down silently upon the stone floor. But his eyes never left those of the idol. Peter’s left arm, which held the lantern aloft, was seized with a spasmodic convulsion of utter fright. Minutes sped away in silence. Time has no meaning in a place of death.
Peter could not think. He had seen his father practice self-hypnosis before, with mirrors and lights; he knew it was perfectly harmless in the hands of a skilled adept. But this was different. Could he enter the body of an Egyptian god? And, if he did, what of the curse? These two questions reverberated like tiny voices somewhere in his being, but they were engulfed by overpowering fear.
This fear rose to a mad crescendo as Peter saw the change occur. All at once his father’s eyes flickered like dying fires, and consciousness went out. But the eyes of the god—the eyes of Anubis were no longer stone!
The Cyclopean statue was alive.
His father had been right. He had done it—hypnotized his consciousness into the body of the idol. Peter gasped, as a sudden thought slithered into his brain. If his father’s theory had been correct so far, then what about the rest? He had said that once inside the figure, his soul would direct it to open the way. But nothing was happening. What was wrong?
The Macabre Reader Page 4