Rakitaki: A Jonas Quartermain Adventure

by Lee Alexander

  “This is the guarantee it is truly his signature.”

  Jonas nodded. He couldn’t be sure, but he hoped it was good enough. Wistfully, he pulled the money from his wallet. It went from a pleasingly fat bifold to anemic in one transaction. He felt ill to spend the money. Still, Mister Holcomb would treasure it, and Jonas felt bad for not bringing something back the last time he’d returned home. He placed the money down and the owner counted it out.

  “Two-eighty. This book is now yours, sir. Would you like me to wrap it?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m traveling back to America in the near future, and it will be traveling with me in my bag. Please make it as safe as possible for that.”

  The old man nodded, humming to himself. He placed the card back inside the book, then closed it. He took several long pieces of butcher paper out, as well as a thin sheet of foam. He wrapped the book in the foam, then two layers of butcher paper and taped the whole bundle shut. He placed it in Jonas’ hands.

  “Thank you for your business, sir.”

  Jonas clasped the bundle to his chest and walked out. The first rays of sunlight brightened the sky. He walked quickly back to the hotel and up to his room. He placed the paper bundle on the desk and sat down. Despite spending an astronomical amount of money, he felt good. It was a good prize for his friend. He moved to the couch and picked up the phone.

  “Operator.”

  “Connect me to Akron, Ohio.”

  “I’m sorry sir, international calling is unavailable at the moment. Maintenance is being performed on the lines.”

  He sighed and placed the handset back on the receiver. The bed called to him. He stripped down to his underwear and lay on the bed. Sleep claimed him in less than a minute.

  45

  Atakheramen stood in the shadows near the entrance to his palace, looking at the sun-bathed landscape. The last time he had dared to expose his skin to the sun, he had burst into flames. He could still feel the phantom pain; his hands were still pink with scars. Even though he stood away from direct sunlight, he could feel his skin tingling. He felt trapped.

  “Why is only direct light dangerous?” He mused to himself. “I can let the sun in, but cannot stand in its glorious radiance.”

  His people were in the market. Just out of sight, yet as far from his reach as the land of the dead.

  “Water,” he demanded. Though the large room appeared empty, movement could suddenly be heard. A man soon approached, struggling to carry a five-gallon water-laden pot. It was filled to the top with water that sloshed quietly, spilling a few drops on the floor. Atakheramen’s eyes snapped to the offending drops and the man blanched. He took the pot from the man with one hand and began to gorge himself, chugging the life-giving water greedily. Not a single drop fell to his chin, nor to the ground below.

  He emptied the pot in mere seconds, much to the servant’s astonishment. Even that pot, more than a week’s ration of water for a man and his wife, did not slake his thirst. He turned his reddened eyes on the slave. The gold and polished obsidian mirrors used in the palace showed his irises had not returned to the dark black they had been before. They remained red, and sometimes even appeared to glow. It was an unsettling effect, even to himself. He could tell his eyes had started glowing again when the man fell to his knees and groveled, begging for his life.

  “Why can I not slake my thirst? Why does food make me ill?” He asked of the man, even knowing he did not want the answer. He had not been satisfied by water or food once in the two months since the ritual. An ever-present hunger gnawed at his insides. He felt a growl begin in his guts, a rumble that signaled starvation. Tears began to drop down the man’s face. He begged again and again, pleading to be spared. Atakheramen had become violent in the months since the ritual.

  The seers had promised him everlasting life, eternal power on Earth, and servants to bend to his will. Instead, shadows would gather around him like smoke, his eyes would glow and frighten the common folk, and teeth sharp enough to injure himself often. He feared the day. His frustration grew by the day, his anger stoked by the lack of power he had gained. He woke in strange places, huddling in small spaces to hide from the daylight. His seers had disappeared, replaced by trees that did not belong.

  The servant’s voice faded away, replaced by a thundering in his ears. His eyes, sharp like those of a falcon, focused on the rapid pulse in the man’s neck. The sound of the servant’s heartbeat filled his head. He reached down with one hand and placed a single finger under the man’s chin, drawing his head up. The man fell silent and looked into the glowing red furnaces that had been his Pharaoh’s eyes.

  Then Atakheramen’s hand clamped around the man’s throat. A gurgled cry escaped from the slave’s lips, stifled by the pressure around his neck. He lifted the man with one hand and bared his teeth. His canines elongated. He flicked his tongue across them, drawing blood from fresh cuts. A feral grin etched his face. The man’s eyes bulged further, even as his feet kicked uselessly for the ground. Then Atakheramen opened his mouth wide and sank his teeth into the man’s neck. He dropped the pot and placed his other hand on the back of the man’s head to hold him still.

  Salty, metallic blood rushed hotly over his tongue and down his throat. He drank deeply, feeling that ravenous hunger abate. The man’s savaged throat bubbled. His exertions grew weaker and weaker, until he fell still. Shortly after that, his heart stopped, and the blood immediately went sour. He spat what little remained on the floor and dropped the corpse.

  A broken sob shattered the silence of the throne room. He heard movement behind the pillars that hid the servants. They tried to be quiet as they moved for the nearest exits. He waited, his face to the sky with eyes closed, luxuriating in the feeling of power. Blood dripped from his hands and splattered against the stone floor. The corpse lay nearby, drained to the point of appearing prepared for mummification.

  “More,” he growled. His voice was deep and guttural, made deeper and hoarse by the thick blood. His muscles rippled; his shoulders broadened. He finally understood what the ritual had gifted him with. His eyes snapped open as he dropped to all fours and broke into a flat-out sprint. A woman screamed as he rounded the column and tackled her to the floor. Power flowed into him as her life ebbed. The cries of his slaves stoked a fire in him, drawing the sleeping predator out.

  He found a man sobbing wildly. The servant knelt in a puddle of his own urine, stinking of fear and grief. Atakheramen hardly paused as he gripped the man by the throat and drank deeply of his blood. He tossed the corpse aside, feeling a feral glee as the body cracked against a pillar. He heard another of his slaves fleeing the room and gave chase.

  The slave made it through the grand doors of the throne room, bursting into sunlight. Heedless of the danger, Atakheramen followed into the open air. His skin instantly burst into flames. A long howling shriek of pain escaped his lips. He turned, scrabbling in the dirt to flee the light in search of a dark place. He crossed the threshold into the palace, screaming and flaming. Even out of the sun his skin continued to burn; his wig caught fire and fell apart.

  He rolled to a stop, slapping at the flames that still smoldered on his ruined clothing. The hall was silent save for his panting. He slunk to the back of the throne room, and into his bedchamber. There he lay, feverish and burned, until night fell. As the moon rose, he felt healthier. He stood from the bed and opened a window to let the silvery light wash over him. He felt better than he had in weeks. His skin was flush and healthy, his own hair regrown, a lustrous black cascading to his shoulders. What had remained of his clothing had shredded as he lay in bed. Even more surprising, his stomach felt full. The gnawing hunger had abated for the first time in months.

  He called for a slave, though none responded. Annoyed, he wound his hair up and dressed in his robes. He strode into the throne room, expecting it to be full of people. Instead, he saw a lone woman scrubbing the floor. Even his guards were absent. Blood had stained the stone. He walked past her, mentally willing her
to ignore him. She didn’t pause in her movements even as he stepped in the puddle of bloody water. He poked his head out of the palace doors, looking for his people.

  The city lay quiet. Candles burned in a few homes, looking like brilliant little stars in the darkened windows. Torches could be seen guttering away near the marketplace. Not a soul was in sight. He walked boldly into the marketplace, reveling in the cool night air and the freedom to be in his city again.

  “My people!” He roared out. His voice traveled off into the great distance. Households began to stir at the sudden outburst. Reed curtains were pulled aside, and faces looked at the Pharaoh in concern.

  “Come, come! Let us celebrate the cool air of the night.”

  People started filtering out of their homes to gather in the market square. He could hear them whispering about the savage attack in his throne room. He smiled widely, showing his ordinary teeth. His eyes were open and peaceful, though the red tint would never go away.

  “I know you are concerned about the vicious animal attack that occurred today. A large pack of feral caracal swept through, clearly starving during this drought. You know they are nocturnal creatures, and so we will be closing our houses and doing business during the cooler hours of the night. This will also make life easier for us, as we can avoid the harsh heat of the day.”

  He heard whispers among the people instead of rejoicing.

  ‘Caracal are solitary hunters,’ and ‘we worked during the night already,’ and ‘I heard it was a man that attacked the slaves.’

  “Fear not, for I will be training a fighting force with the aid of my guards to fight these invading caracals!”

  Expecting a cry of support, he was disappointed when his subjects continued to murmur. He thought quickly, then decided to sweeten the deal.

  “All men I pick for the force will have their families cared for, paid in food and luxuries!”

  That was what drew cheers. Men immediately began to volunteer, even knowing the danger. Most were free men who made little more than the slaves. Life that far from the Nile was difficult, but they had the endless wells. Atakheramen smiled again, seeing the people joining him in his delight. The flickering torches, though bright, cast long and daunting shadows across his face.

  “All applicants should report to the palace at sunset tomorrow.”

  46

  Jonas woke with a start. The dream left him feeling filthy, so he rose from the bed and trudged over to the bathroom. There he luxuriated in a long, hot shower. A stray thought crossed his mind.

  ‘Atakheramen never beheld the magnificence of a hot shower.’

  After registering the thought as his own, he did a mental doubletake.

  ‘Beheld the magnificence? Who says that crap?’

  He shook his head. “I wonder if I have any of those sleeping pills left. I really need a solid night of sleep, without these weird dreams.”

  He finished his shower and readied himself for the day. When he glanced at the red digits on the alarm clock, he realized he had less than an hour to arrive at the Garden Entrance for the university. He hurriedly dressed and called the front desk to request a taxi. They confirmed one would be ready in minutes and he hustled out the door.

  He caught the taxi as it rolled up, and they shot into traffic with hardly a stop. The car rattled through the city until they arrived at the University, and he jumped out of the cab and nearly into the arms of a man.

  “Oh, my,” said the man. His voice was familiar to Jonas; however, he kept moving in order to make the meeting. He looked over his shoulder to apologize and stopped.

  “Professor Souleiman?” He asked in astonishment.

  “Mister Quartermain?” Souleiman asked in return.

  “Professor, what are you doing here?”

  “I teach here, what are you doing crashing into people?” Souleiman waved a hand at his own chest for emphasis.

  “I have an important meeting about an artifact,” Jonas said somewhat breathlessly.

  “That sounds fascinating. I was going to get lunch somewhere. Perhaps I shall join you,” he said, inviting himself along.

  “Uh, thanks, but I think I’ve got it just fine.” Jonas turned to leave.

  “Nonsense, I’d be happy to lend some gravitas to your meeting. You are in my stomping grounds, as you Americans like to say.” Souleiman took a few quick strides and caught up, walking side-by-side with Jonas. “Tell me about this artifact.”

  “It’s a rubbing, actually, of a tablet. The tablet itself was stolen from the museum just recently, and I need to know what was on it.”

  “Interesting. I do believe I heard about the theft. Why do you need to know what was on the tablet?”

  “Actually, it probably relates to the dig that my old crew is working on, as well as my current dig.” They continued to walk through the well-manicured campus, slowly approaching the Garden.

  “You’re on a different dig now?” Souleiman sounded confused, and Jonas realized he probably had not heard of the arrest or deportation.

  “I ran into some issues and went home for a bit, then came back at Mister Jenkins’s urging. It’s a few miles away from the initial dig.”

  “And how does this artifact relate?” Souleiman pried for information as they walked. They arrived at the Garden entrance to find Toran already waiting, his customary cigarette smoldering in the corner of his mouth. He spread his arms wide, as much for a hug as in surprise. “Ah, Toran my friend! How are you?”

  “I am good. How do you know Jonas?” They embraced, a look of surprise on Toran’s face.

  “Why, I was the University liaison to his original dig. How do you know him?”

  “I don’t,” he said with a sour look. “He’s said some… things that have unsettled me, and I want to conclude my business with him.”

  “Now, now, my friend. That is no way to treat an up-and-coming archeologist of great renown.” Souleiman laughed a great laugh, his belly jiggling in time.

  “I’m sure, but he asked after the Murdus tablet. I think it best if I not get involved.”

  “Nonsense. Our young Jonas here is a good lad.” He said as he waved over at the young man. “He led to many discoveries at the first dig. Quite the good luck charm, I should say.”

  Toran grumbled under his breath for a moment. He tipped the ash from his cigarette, then shrugged. “Alright. Here’s that rubbing, Jonas.” He handed over a cardboard tube capped with plastic.

  Jonas eagerly opened it up, then unrolled the large piece of paper inside. He barely heard the two continue their conversation.

  “Hassan, are you still behind a desk in the University?”

  “Yes, however I do get out into the sunshine more often than before. Tenure has its perks. I was just on my way to lunch when I bumped into Jonas. Well, more like he bumped into me,” he said with another belly laugh. He even clutched his stomach as he laughed, which made Toran laugh too.

  “Hang on, I think I have something here,” Jonas said.

  “What?” Asked Souleiman. Toran turned his head as well. “Can you say that again?”

  “The prophecy, it’s all here. Let me finish translating it.”

  “He can read hieroglyphs?” Toran asked Souleiman.

  “He is quite accomplished in that regard. Very knowledgeable, from what I’ve seen.” They turned to look at the young man running his eyes up and down the rubbing. They waited in companionable silence as he finished reading it.

  “Let’s see,” Jonas said as he started over. “’The Crimson Night will bring great change to the world. A soul of power given form in a willing host will guide the host to their greatest wish. The cost is humanity.’ That’s basically what it says. I kind of paraphrased in a few spots. Even worse, I’m not sure what it means by ‘humanity’, because it can be interpreted either as the host’s humanity, or human kind as a whole…”

  All three men shivered, clutching their jackets closer. The prophecy weighed heavily on their subconscious. Jonas loo
ked around nervously while Toran shakily lit another cigarette, the one already in his mouth forgotten. Souleiman reached a hand out to Jonas, intending to grab his shoulder. Just as he was about to make contact, he pulled back. He exchanged glances with Toran as he let his hand fall impotently to his side.

  “There’s something else,” Jonas added. “If I’m reading this right, there’s something else here. Let me see…” he trailed off as he read over the rubbing. It took a long moment before he spoke again. “It looks like this happens regularly. Which means… it could be tomorrow, or it could be in fifty years. Or five-hundred.” He rolled the paper up, then looked at the ground. “I don’t know when. It’s impossible to say.”

  Both older men prayed silently for a moment before either answered. Souleiman was first to speak.

  “Are you certain of this, Jonas?” He made an obscure hand sign as he asked, something Jonas couldn’t decipher with his limited knowledge.

  “It’s pretty clear, if you read it correctly. Do you know how to read hieroglyphs?” Jonas asked as he held the paper toward the professor.

  Souleiman shook his head before answering. “I do not think my hieroglyphics have held up. It has been many years since I have translated anything myself, I will have to trust your translation.”

  “What do we do about this then?” Asked Toran.

  “We?” Replied Jonas.

  “Yes, we. No matter what I do, I seem to be involved now.” He sighed. “In fact, it seems I was involved three years ago when the tablet originally passed through my hands.”

  Jonas pointed an accusing finger at Toran. “You did know about the tablet. Was it you who sold it to Professor Calhoun?”