Tutankhamun Uncovered

by Michael J Marfleet

  While the others remained silent, overawed by what they saw around them, Lady Evelyn said, “We... we are the first to intrude into this place for... for how long, Mr Carter?”

  “Three thousand years...” Carter whispered respectfully in the stillness of the chamber.

  “That is, of course, providing the plundering was accomplished and reparations completed almost immediately after the burial. From the looks of the place, I am pretty sure that was the case.”

  Intruders themselves? They felt nothing of the kind. Explorers? Adventurers? Entrepreneurs? Discoverers? Lucky? They were all these things.

  Carnarvon grinned at Carter and then looked down at the resealed robbers’ hole...

  Chapter Nineteen

  Conspiracy

  So it was on that one remarkably sunny day in Bavaria, on his way to meet his wife at the little town of Schwabach, that George Edward Stanhope Molyneux Herbert, the Lord Porchester, erstwhile autophobe and speed hound, purposefully aimed his open car down the long Roman road which, vacant of traffic, stretched straight as a die ahead of him. He pushed the accelerator firmly to the floor. As the roadster speeded up, Trotman, his chauffeur for over a quarter century, sat rigidly upright in the passenger seat alongside his lordship, the expression on his face a picture of virtual apoplexy.

  Before them, the sun was fairly low on the horizon, crisply highlighting the countryside ahead. The brightness of the illumination erased any sense of contrast in the contours and, before they realised it, they were on a rise that just as quickly fell away beneath. As the car crested the small hill, it briefly parted company with the ground. Carnarvon felt a momentary rush of excitement, then the wheels took hold of the road again. The driver flashed a broad grin at his terrified passenger.

  An instant later, the thrill was erased. Two stationary ox carts completely blocked the roadway barely a hundred yards ahead. The earl reacted quickly and skilfully. Realising he would be unable to bring the car to a safe stop in time, he drove it deliberately onto the relatively flat grass verge, taking a line that would have negotiated around the obstruction. But Carnarvon was concentrating on the objects on the road before him and not on the verge itself. As he strained to manoeuvre the roadster, the left front wheel bounced over a large cobble on the side of the road. The brief impact was enough to pitch the speeding vehicle into the air in a sweeping arc, flipping it over to the right.

  Trotman involuntarily parted company with the car as it began its roll, and landed on his shoulder in the grass. The heavy turf helped break his fall. Carnarvon was not so lucky. He held on tightly to the steering column until the car hit the ground, upended above him.

  The chauffeur, dazed only a little by the shock of the event, found himself relatively unscathed and was on his feet within seconds. He scrambled to the overturned car and looked urgently for the earl. The vehicle straddled a ditch. Peering under the driver’s door, Trotman could see the earl’s contorted body, his head buried face down in the mud of the ditch.

  ‘My God, he’ll be drowning!’ thought Trotman.

  He got down on his hands and knees, reached under the car and grabbed Carnarvon by the shoulders of his leather coat. Summoning all the strength he had, he managed to drag his master from the wreckage and place him on his back in the grass. He quickly wiped the mud from the earl’s face, clearing his nostrils first, and desperately looked for any signs of life.

  Trotman looked all around for help. The men with the carts had gone. They were now so far away he could barely make them out in the distant field. It was almost as if they had never existed.

  There were some farm workers not far away in the same field. They were seated incongruously in a group having their packed lunch and dispassionately observing the traumatic events at the roadside. Trotman called to them in English but got no response.

  He got up and ran over to them, asking whether they had any water. They looked at him without comprehension. He noticed one of them had some water in a can and, in one swift movement, he grabbed it and ran back to his master.

  He splashed all of the water over Carnarvon’s face. Immediately the earl drew breath and coughed, and within seconds he was breathing regularly. Trotman sat back on his haunches in relief. The farm labourers dashed up behind him and began gesturing for the return of their can. Trotman chose not to understand the sign language.

  As they observed the broken man lying immobile in the grass, one of them shouted, “Doktor!” Immediately he turned and dashed down the road, recovered his bicycle and quickly peddled off into the distance.

  The earl breathed easier with every passing second. Help would shortly be on the way. Trotman settled himself to embarrassed smiles of acknowledgement as he and the remainder of the group conversed in expressions.

  Carnarvon’s recovery was slow. In fact, from the ordeal of this road accident he would never become fully restored to his former self. He had been permanently damaged, his way of life changed forever a disfigured palate that would hamper his elocution; a permanent limp and an unsteadiness of foot that would require the use of a cane; his resistance to infection a tenth of any normal man. Nevertheless, this incapacity was not sufficient to keep him from pursuit of his fondness for discovery. Ironically, through medical instructions to direct himself towards habitats with cleaner air and more clement winters, the accident had put him directly on a course for Egypt.

  Rather than divert him, progress towards the inevitable encounter had become irreversible. Their early conspiracy had turned out to be considerably worse than total failure.

  Together the royal couple had watched the relationship grow. Together they had witnessed the bond develop. Together their anxiety had steadily increased. And then, as if that were yesterday, the two explorers had reached beyond the threshold.

  The queen whispered in the king’s ear, “We must be more direct.”

  “Why?” asked Tutankhamun. “He who leads is to die by the curse. That will be warning enough.”

  “But more than a single event will have a better chance of getting their attention make them think,” Ankhesenamun continued. “The accident we contrived all those years ago did no more than strengthen that man’s intent to come to Egypt. It seems to me that these people do not share our knowledge and perception of the unnatural world and, since they do not believe it exists, they do not fear its power. To bring them to comprehend this energy, we must act more often develop situations that cannot so easily be dismissed as mere coincidence.”

  “But what, my Queen?”

  “Summon Dashir. He will know what to do.”

  Dashir, and all those who had been loyal in life, had joined the boy king in his heaven. All now enjoyed the fruits of their labours. All attended the royal couple in much the same ways that they had done all those millennia ago but this time absent of any preoccupation with survival.

  Dashir, the king and the queen looked down on the scene below. They watched and listened to every facet of the daily operation in the tomb, Burton, Gardiner and Callender and the two draughtsmen; in the laboratory, Mace and Lucas; Carter busily moving between them; Carnarvon’s visits; the official showings; transport of the king’s possessions to the riverside by way of the tiny, laboriously regenerated railway; and their discussions; and their evenings; and their nights; and their dreams. There was no aspect of their consciousness that the royal entourage did not share.

  After a week of watching, the artisan turned to his king and queen.

  “Your Majesties, the noble one is to die and soon. That is written. Queen Ankhesenamun is right. The event should be seen as just one of many catastrophes. It will not be easy to contrive these in their world but they are, as I understand, susceptible to suggestion by the unexplainable. I have a few ideas... I have noticed there is little affection or respect between those from the foreign land and those now in power in Egypt. There is, perhaps, room for some manipulation here. We can aggravate as easily as we can heal the rift: disturbances in the tomb itself as they wo
rk there; the death of someone close, even a pet; fanciful writings in their press; of curses and omens and dreadful consequences; nightmares to haunt them in their sleep. Should all this fail, we may have to contrive to kill. My good friend Meneg and I shall see to it presently. We shall do our best.”

  They began with the poltergeist.

  Breasted, alone in the tomb, became the victim. The place was entirely silent as the proverbial grave so much so that every time he hesitated in his work he could feel the stifling claustrophobia of dark, noiseless, restricted confinement. But the third time he stopped to straighten his aching back he thought he heard it a creaking. He sat motionless, waiting for the sound to repeat itself so he might locate its position nothing. He began once more to address the object before him again an audible creak. It appeared to come from inside the annex. It sounded as if someone or something was making its cautious way across the jumble of objects that littered the little room.

  Cockroaches, he thought. Perhaps a scorpion. He returned to his work.

  But the next sound caused him to stop. A distinct and, in the confines of the stony chamber, loud crack. For a moment it resonated about him. Again the echoes didn’t permit him to locate the origin of the sound.

  He waited for another, sitting silent and inert for minutes. There was nothing. He shook his head in frustration and returned to his labours. Almost immediately he did so, another resounding crack filled the room.

  He sat bolt upright. The room fell into total silence once again. He decided he would listen for longer this time. He must have waited fifteen minutes without hearing anything of significance. He sat so rigidly motionless he could hear his heartbeat. He could make out the sounds of the voices of the crowds and labourers outside the tomb, but heard nothing more from within. Cursing under his breath, once more he turned back to his work.

  Hardly had he touched the piece he was working on than the silence was broken by a noise which sounded like something wooden had become dislodged and fallen to the floor. Once again he could not locate the direction.

  This was really frustrating. He got up and walked out of the tomb and into the sunshine. Stretching, he spied Carter who, with his usual purposeful step, was on his way back from the laboratory.

  “Howard!” he called. “You won’t believe this, but I have been hearing noises within the antechamber. Noises like there is something alive in there with me.”

  Carter smiled wryly. “Touch of the sun, old chap?”

  “Don’t be daft. Come and listen for yourself.”

  Carter was returning to the tomb in any case, so the only irritation was a few moments of silence to placate his colleague’s anxiety. They stepped down onto the antechamber floor and Breasted signalled to Carter to be still.

  They stood silent for a time. To Carter it seemed like an eternity.

  ‘Nothing. Not a damn thing,’ thought Breasted. ‘Bloody typical.’

  Then Carter spoke. “What’s that?... Hear that?... There.” Breasted couldn’t hear a thing. “A thumping. Rhythmical. Bumpa, bumpa, bumpa. Can’t you hear it? It’s seems to be coming from over...” Carter moved towards his colleague, “...here.” He rested an ear against Breasted’s chest. “Yes. Definitely a case of the heebie-jeebies! ’Fraid I’ll have to pronounce you unfit to work in confined spaces, Mr Breasted. A catacomb’s definitely not your cup of tea!”

  Breasted was not amused. “Dammit, Howard, I did hear it. Just don’t know quite where it came from. Will y’not stay with me a while longer to see if it happens again?”

  “Sorry, old man. No time to hold y’ hand. Got to get back to the lab. Enjoy your hallucinations.”

  He carefully picked up a piece that Breasted had finished earlier and darted off.

  The sounds of Carter’s scuffling up the stone steps subsided and the dust settled. Then something in that room snapped. Breasted held his breath. He looked about him. Again he could not pinpoint the location of the sound. This was all becoming most disturbing. He sat back on his haunches and listened nothing. He turned to the piece at hand as if to begin work once more nothing. He picked up some heated paraffin and pretended to apply it nothing. He applied it Crack!

  ‘Where did that come from?’ he asked himself. He went over to the tiny entrance to the annex and looked in. There were no signs of movement, only silence.

  He sat back in the centre of the antechamber and set himself to listening once more. He sat motionless for more than half an hour, long enough for Carter to have returned once more to retrieve the piece that his colleague had been working on earlier.

  “Not finished. Sorry, old boy. Give me another hour.”

  Carter was not happy.

  “James,” he began, “y’ know damn well we have a tight time schedule. Can’t afford any slowdowns. If it wasn’t for the damn visitors and press we’d have some flexibility. But as it is we have no margin for error not if we are to break into the next room before we leave for the summer. And we will have to do that early in any case with all the damn royalty and officialdom that are already booked in February; all of them descending on us in expectation of that occasion. They won’t delay. They will not tolerate the warmth of spring. Dammit, man, can’t you hurry up?”

  Carter’s impatience was bluntly self-evident.

  “Jeez, Howard, give me a break,” pleaded Breasted, clearly irritated by his colleague’s insensitivity.

  Carter knew very well that preservation took time. But, at the same time, it appeared to him that Breasted was becoming preoccupied with fantasy, the occult or some such. He could not afford to be patient with the idiosyncrasies of his staff.

  Breasted’s face was a picture of frustration. “Howard, old chap. There really are sounds in here. But one has to be patient and wait for them. Will y’ not sit with me a while in the silence?”

  “James, I do not wish to unsteady our professional and personal relationship, but this much I have to say. We are falling behind. The antechamber must be emptied before the VIPs arrive in Luxor. The artefacts require our diligent attention. This takes time. This leaves no time to indulge our fantasies. Like as not, the noises you may indeed be experiencing for I do not doubt your story, old chap, remember that are generated by the artefacts themselves as they adjust to the modern atmosphere that now pervades this place and must infect them. Plus, there must by now be an abundance of life down here. This can only serve to underline the urgency of our work. Please get to it.”

  He left before Breasted could respond.

  Breasted accepted Carter’s logic, but his recent experiences within the tomb filled him with so much anxiety that, notwithstanding his colleague’s commonsense analysis, he could not bring himself to continue the work at hand until he had taken some time to sit once more, unmoving and in silence, alone in the centre of the antechamber.

  While he waited absolutely nothing happened. Breasted finally gave up his vigil and returned to the work.

  The second his brush touched the object before him, a great cracking noise broke all about him. This time he did his best to ignore it and continued working. But now everything that remained in the room appeared to be creaking at the same time until he heard the steps of Carter once again within the corridor on his way back down to pick up another piece. As Carter appeared the tomb once more fell back into eerie silence.

  Dashir looked at his king. The king looked at Ankhesenamun. They all agreed. This activity did not appear to be working.

  “We must quickly move to the next, my lord. As they sit together tonight, today’s events will become the subject of conversation. We must add another event to the stories they will tell.”

  “It is for me to play the part this time, is it not, Dashir?”

  “It is, my lord.”

  And almost immediately, as his queen and the servants watched, the image of Tutankhamun dissolved before them and the gold uraeus at his forehead fell to the floor.

  Carter left for Cairo that afternoon to purchase more supplies.

&nbs
p; Breasted continued his work in the antechamber and tried to ignore the continuous creaking and movement of inanimate objects all around him.

  The canary in its cage in his master’s bedroom at Castle Carter heard the grains of sand and dust grind together between body and tiled floor like so many boulders tumbling in a torrent from the cliffs above.

  “It was a cobra, I... I think,” Callender told Carter with some embarrassment as he met him at Luxor station. Callender had seen a snake of some kind slithering out the back door before he discovered that the canary was missing. The golden creature that had brought gold to the explorers was dead.

  Carter lamented that he had not given the canary one moment of his attention since the tomb had been discovered. He was not a superstitious man, and it was only an animal, but he would miss the company of its song and the knowledge that another warm body shared his bedroom. Sad, but that was an end to it.

  Ali was more direct in his interpretation of the event. “The golden bird is dead, sir. It is a sign. Bad luck now walks within The Valley. There will be more deaths.”

  They did talk about these things while at dinner that night, and they did share their individual interpretations and concerns.

  “What you said by way of explanation was quite sensible, Howard. But, with respect, you were not there when it happened. You have not experienced the feeling. You cannot then comment on it with any authority. All you can do is speculate.” Breasted was quite emphatic and direct in his statement. “I believe and I mean these words I believe it really could be a poltergeist.”

  Evelyn giggled nervously.

  As if he had some concern that any lack of negative response might implicitly recognise the possibility of some supernatural presence, Callender quickly cut in, “Rot. Absolute rot, James.”

  “Tommyrot,” added Carter. He did not elaborate further, lowered his eyes and continued to sip his coffee. His mind was preoccupied with the monumental job ahead of him.