“Lovely song,” she remarked sarcastically. It seemed her temper hadn’t much abated despite having rescued the victims and apprehended the villains. Barnabas flushed and stopped singing. “If you’d just help Ma’at and Khepre into the chariot,” she ordered peremptorily, “I’ll go back in and fetch Montu so we can be on our way.”
Even as she spoke a loud crash sounded and one of the shack’s few intact windows suddenly shattered. Shards of glass splattered outward to fall like hail upon the yard.
Ma’at had already begun to walk towards the chariot (indeed, from the furious look on her face Barnabas imagined she was about to impart some choice words to Anti) so she was out of range of the fallout. Khepre had been slower to move, but the shards merely bounced harmlessly off of his hard exoskeleton. Hathor, however, was not so lucky.
Having turned back towards the shack in order to fetch her prisoner, she took the brunt of the explosion full in the face. She squealed in surprise and pain and turned away, pawing at the sharp pieces that had lodged in her hide.
With Hathor thusly disoriented and distracted, Barnabas and Wilfred saw, to their horror, first one long, skinny bird leg stick out from the broken window and then another. Those legs, they knew, could only belong to Montu, who must have escaped from whatever bonds Hathor had placed upon him.
Even as they watched, the rest of Montu emerged from the window. The two detectives saw that he hadn’t managed to free himself completely, as his wings were still tangled up in ropes. His legs were free, however, and as soon as he hit the ground he began to run with surprising speed across the lawn.
He raced past the still-disoriented Hathor (who was howling in rage and pain), the sluggish Khepre (who looked like he was having a hard time walking on his stumpy new legs), and the confused Ma’at (who, intent on getting away from the stinking shack had got quite far towards the chariot and, with Khepre’s massive form blocking most of her view of the shack, couldn’t see what was happening at first).
Montu was obviously heading for the track that served as the shack’s driveway, which was also the track that Hathor, Barnabas, and Wilfred had used as they approached in the chariot. Since the chariot (and therefore Barnabas and Wilfred, who were guarding it along with their prisoner, Anti) stood directly on the path, it quickly became apparent that the fugitive falcon’s trajectory would lead him directly into the two detectives.
“Oh!” yelped Wilfred, jumping out of the way.
“Eeeh!” yelled Barnabas, squinching up his face and leaping heroically in the way.
“Ack!” screeched Montu, as Barnabas’ flying body struck him directly in the knees. Knocked off balance, Montu tumbled and rolled. Before he could right himself, Ma’at grabbed him roughly by the scruff of his neck.
“Well done!” said Ma’at. Then, looking to where Barnabas lay rolled up in a tight little ball on the ground, added, “You’re all right, really. You can stand up now.”
Barnabas, who had closed his eyes in anticipation of a counterattack by Montu’s sharp claws and jagged beak, squinted one eye open cautiously. Seeing that Montu had been contained by Ma’at (who was even now refastening the ropes about the recaptured prisoner), he opened both eyes fully and bounced to his feet. “J’accuse you too!” he cried happily, pointing at Montu. Montu rolled his eyes and shook his head.
Hathor, meanwhile, had recovered and was looking bemusedly from Barnabas to Montu and back again.
“Well,” she said, picking a piece of glass out of her ear, “the little mouse has the heart of a lion, after all.”
She nodded her approval before coming over to help Ma’at load the prisoners onto the chariot. Barnabas stood nearby, beaming with pride, whilst Wilfred, much impressed, regarded his employer with bright eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It took Hathor and Ma’at, working together, scarcely any time at all to put Anti and Montu onto the chariot. Soon, everyone else had boarded as well, and the now-crowded chariot carried them all to Anubis.
Luckily the ride was a short one, since Barnabas and Wilfred quickly discovered that the mood in the chariot was most disturbing. No one was happy. Indeed, everyone seemed extraordinarily hostile. The two detectives found the company of their companions most disturbing, and did the best they could to huddle together in a corner, as far from the others as was possible in the cramped cab of the chariot.
Khepre was sullen and withdrawn, for obvious reasons. Still, Barnabas thought that he ought to have tried to show at least a little polite gratitude, considering that they had risked their lives (and literally lost their heads, in a way, if one counted having one’s head exchanged for that of a mouse as losing the head entirely) to free the thankless dung beetle.
Anti and Montu vacillated between surly anger wherein they mumbled snide and sometimes threatening remarks to each other (“Captured by a couple of mice! How ridiculous!” grumbled Anti. “If they were just an inch closer I’d reach out and peck them right on their stupid little foreheads,” snarked Montu) and what appeared to be extreme depression punctuated by fits of loud sobbing. Barnabas suspected that their weeping was feigned (and indeed, poorly acted at that) and rolled his eyes at Wilfred whenever he heard their pitiful squawks.
But it was Hathor and Ma’at who spoiled the atmosphere the most. Ma’at was still extremely outraged at the treatment she had suffered at the hands of Anti and Montu, whilst Hathor simply seemed to enjoy being angry. Together they talked of all those who had wronged or slighted them (in the most meager of ways, thought Barnabas; one fellow targeted by their outpouring of spite had done nothing worse than bring Hathor a bracelet in what she considered to be a slightly off shade of turquoise). The hostility of one fed the other, and soon they were aggressively planning all of the havoc they would wreak and the vengeance they would take once they had delivered the prisoners to Anubis.
“Oh my,” whispered Barnabas to Wilfred after Hathor detailed her plans for the violent destruction of a village where apparently all of the residents had once “looked at her funny.” “Didn’t someone say something about it being difficult to stop her once she was riled up?”
“I believe so,” said Wilfred. “Was it Thoth?”
“I have no idea,” replied Barnabas. “I just seem to remember somebody saying the last time she got angry she rampaged all over Egypt.”
“Which she seems ready to do again,” observed Wilfred.
“Indeed,” said Barnabas, flinching as Hathor mimed trampling some unfortunate sod or other so that the entire floor of the chariot shook.
Ma’at whooped with glee and cried, “Justice! Yes, justice for all!”
“But they managed to stop her with beer, remember?” supplied Wilfred helpfully.
“Ah, yes, of course,” said Barnabas, although he had quite forgotten that part of the story. “So we shall give her beer.”
“That should do it,” agreed Wilfred. “Do you have any beer?”
“Of course I don’t have any beer,” snapped Barnabas, flapping his robes about to indicate that there was nowhere for him to hide beer (or indeed a beverage of any sort) in their pocket-less folds.
“Of course,” said Wilfred, chastised.
Feeling guilty, Barnabas tried to smooth things over. “But I’m sure that Anubis must needs have some,” he said.
Wilfred exhaled a great sigh of relief. “You must be right,” he said. “I certainly hope so. If not, who knows what terrible things she’ll get up to.”
“And with Ma’at to encourage her…” Barnabas shuddered. “Her rampage would be most dreadful indeed. I would hate to be the cause of whatever destruction those two get up to.”
“It wouldn’t be our fault,” pointed out Wilfred. “Just like we couldn’t help what happened at Elephantine Isle.”
“Ugh,” said Barnabas. “Still. Let’s just hope Anubis has some beer.” Wilfred emphatically nodded his agreement.
So it was that when the chariot pulled up to Anubis’ throne, Barnabas and Wilfred scarcely waited for the whe
els to stop rolling before they hastily jumped over the side onto the strand. Anubis sat on his throne, and the two detectives rushed up to him.
“We have captured the perpetrators,” said Barnabas needlessly, since Anubis could clearly see the two scowling falcons tied up in the chariot.
“And we need beer,” said Wilfred. “The sooner the better,” he added, looking anxiously back towards Hathor and Ma’at.
“Beer?” asked Anubis, confused. Then, seeing Hathor’s angry face, understanding came over him. “Ahhh,” he said. He gestured for a servant to approach, then whispered in his ear. The fellow took off at a run. He brusquely gestured for two other attendants to attend Hathor. With a meaningful wiggle of his eyebrows and a cock of his head, his orders were understood and the two attendants hurried over to distract the angry cow goddess.
One of the attendants, a fellow with a ram’s head, was unknown to Barnabas and Wilfred, but they quickly recognized the one with the actual human head.
“What’s his name again?” whispered Barnabas to Wilfred.
“Peter, I believe,” responded Wilfred.
“Exactly what I was about to guess,” whispered Barnabas. Then, louder, he called out, “Hullo, Peter!” and waved.
Peter, however, had no time for niceties. He was frantically trying to prevent Hathor and Ma’at from embarking upon a murderous escapade together.
“May I ask you for advice on behalf of my wife?” he tried desperately. “She wrote a book, but some Russian fellow stole it and took all the credit. Tolstoy or something, I think his name was.” Of course, Peter had no wife, and even if he had she certainly would have never met Mr. Tolstoy, since being Russian that curmudgeonly fellow obviously did not inhabit the Egyptian afterlife.
Hathor, however, took the bait, and pressed Peter for more details, which he quickly made up. As Hathor and Ma’at hissed and tsssk-ed and adjusted their plans to include the Cyrillic scrivener in their plans of mass destruction, Peter continued on, heedless of the trouble he might cause poor Mr. Tolstoy. “And then he kicked a cow for good measure!” he said, causing Hathor to nearly moo with fury.
“Ohhh,” hissed Barnabas to Wilfred. “He may have gone too far, there.”
“Indeed,” agreed Wilfred, cringing at the force of Hathor’s anger.
Even Anubis began to anxiously look over his shoulder in the direction the first servant had run off. “Where is he with that confounded beer?” he muttered.
Thankfully, the servant arrived with the beer in good time, before Hathor and Ma’at could work themselves fully into a proper rage. Everyone sighed with relief as the servant handed Hathor a giant pitcher (and one to Ma’at for good measure, as well). Both angry goddesses drank deeply, and soon enough their eyes began to droop sleepily.
“I told him to bring the strongest stuff we had,” said Anubis by way of explanation.
“Good thinking,” said Barnabas, nodding.
Ma’at stretched lazily and yawned. “Can we do the death and vengeance thing later?” she asked Hathor. “I feel awfully tired just now. I think I’ll just go lie down awhile.”
“Smashing idea,” said Hathor. Her eyelashes fluttered as her eyes began to close, and she even burped up a nice piece of cud. Her jaws worked slowly from side to side as she softly chewed it.
Barnabas and Wilfred crinkled their faces in disgust, but Anubis clapped happily. “There!” he exclaimed. “That’s settled then.” He glanced at Anti and Montu. “So, it is as I suspected,” he said (somewhat infuriatingly, thought Barnabas, since the god had argued most vociferously against Anti’s guilt). His eyes raked over to where Peter stood, exhausted from the stress of dealing with not just one but two angry goddesses. “Peter!” said Anubis. “I seem to remember you thought it was Set who was responsible?”
“Yes, sir, I suppose that I did, at that,” said Peter.
“And,” continued Anubis, cocking his head innocently to the side like a puppy, “I also seem to remember that you made a bet of sorts regarding the outcome of the investigation.”
“A bet?” stammered Peter nervously.
“Yes, a bet,” repeated Anubis. “Hmmm, what was it that you said, exactly?”
“I’m sure I don’t remember making a bet at all,” prevaricated Peter. “But if I did, it was probably a very small one. Maybe a pound or two.”
“Oh!” cried Barnabas excitedly. “I remember! He said, ‘If it’s not Set then I’ll be a bunny-head,’ or something like that.”
“Ah, yes! That was it!” cried Anubis. “Thank you for your keen powers of recollection, Mr. Tew.”
“Yes, thank you,” grumbled Peter sarcastically. Then, more humbly, he said to Anubis, “Although I’m sure we all know that it was a facetious comment, not a literal one, of course.”
“I don’t think I know that word, facetious,” said Anubis, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Before Peter could even open his mouth to answer, Anubis snapped his fingers and just like that Peter’s head turned into that of a bunny rabbit.
Barnabas and Wilfred looked on, eyes wide. One moment a man had stood before them; now, two great big round bunny eyes peeped out of a furry face while two big floppy bunny ears twitched above them.
“What?” said Peter. “What happened? Is something wrong?” He put his hands to his face and patted. Once he felt the fur, the length of his ears, and the two long front teeth sticking out of his mouth, he put his hands down again and hung his head sadly. “Oh,” he said, whiskers twitching. “I’m a bunny rabbit, aren’t I?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Wilfred.
Barnabas, feeling guilty, looked away. He had been so excited to supply the answer to Anubis’ question that he hadn’t thought the repercussions through all the way.”
“Ah, well.” Peter sighed resignedly. “I suppose I asked for it.” With that, he hopped away.
Wilfred, seeing Barnabas’ chagrin, leaned in towards his employer. “It’s not your fault, truly,” he said. “Anubis was toying with him. He remembered all the while, you see.”
“Really?” asked Barnabas hopefully. “I do hope that his having a bunny head doesn’t all come down to what I said.”
“I’m certain that Anubis was going to do it no matter what anyone said,” replied Wilfred.
“He’s a bit of a ratbag, isn’t he?” whispered Barnabas.
“The worst sort, indeed,” agreed Wilfred. “Not to be trusted in the slightest, I think.”
“If you two are finished whispering,” interjected Anubis, “I’d like to get on with your reward. Barnabas and Wilfred jumped and looked at each other with unease.
“I’m a bit afraid of what our reward might be,” whispered Barnabas to Wilfred, trying not to move his lips so that Anubis wouldn’t see or hear him speak.
“As am I,” answered Wilfred in the same way. To Anubis, he said, “Serving the greater good is the only reward we require.”
“Quite so,” agreed Barnabas. “It has been our pleasure.” He glanced down towards where he used to keep his pocket watch (when he was wearing proper clothing, that is; his pocket watch had in fact been lost at the same time as his nice British clothing). “Well, look at the time,” he said anyway, even though he had no watch to consult. “We’d best be on our way. With your leave, of course.” So saying, he made a polite bow and turned to leave, holding Wilfred’s sleeve so as to pull him along as well. Wilfred, of course, needed no urging. “We could go back to the Grey Mouse,” whispered Barnabas. “I’d love to see Bindi, um… Well, that is to say, I’d love to have the cheese platter, once more.”
“Very well,” agreed Wilfred, who would have gladly agreed to go anywhere that was away from the treacherous jackal god.
They were stopped in their tracks, however, by Anubis’ booming voice. “I have not given my leave yet,” he declared. “You will stay and take your reward.”
“Oh dear,” said Barnabas, turning around reluctantly. Then his innate politeness took over and he added, “Thank you very much, I’m sure.”
“You don’t even know what it is yet!” Anubis laughed.
“I’m certain it will be quite wonderful,” said Barnabas, thinking that any reward from Anubis would almost certainly be the opposite of wonderful.
“First things first,” said Anubis, snapping his fingers once more.
“Oh, Barnabas!” cried Wilfred at once. “Why, you’re you again!”
“And you as well!” replied Barnabas. He reached up to touch the now unfamiliar contours of his very own human face. “Do I look quite the same? I mean, the way I used to?”
“Precisely,” said Wilfred. “It is a perfect transformation. Do I?”
“Not a difference to be noticed,” replied Barnabas. “No one would ever know you were ever a mouse at all.” He furrowed his brow for a moment as he thought. “No one would even recognize us, who knew us from our mouse days,” he said at last, his mood changed.
Wilfred knew immediately that he referred only to Bindi, the lovely hostess at the Grey Mouse. He patted Barnabas sympathetically on the shoulder, but diplomatically said nothing.
Anubis, however, was not quite finished with them yet.
“And another thing,” he announced, making the two detectives groan with dread. “Since you have made such a smashing success of this, I have referred you for another job.”
Barnabas’ mood changed once more under the praise, and he straightened up and put a dignified expression on his face.
“We will be honored to take this new job,” he said with excessively formal grandiosity. “Whatever it might be, Wilfred and I are up to the task.”
Wilfred, for his part, thought it better to be careful before accepting any offers from Anubis, and elbowed Barnabas sharply in the ribs.
“Ow!” yelped Barnabas.
“I think what Barnabas was trying to say was that we could happily consider the new job after learning the facts of the case,” asserted Wilfred to Anubis.
“Too late!” crowed Anubis gleefully. “Once I heard you had apprehended the criminals, I not only recommended you but accepted the job for you. You’re completely committed now.”
Barnabas Tew and The Case Of The Missing Scarab Page 27