The Mummy Smugglers of Crumblin Castle

by Pamela Rushby

  Then she was further distracted by a small monkey that bounded up to her, climbed onto her shoulder and shamelessly begged for the small, sweet cakes that were served with the tea.

  “May I pat it?” Hattie asked.

  “Yes, it is very gentle. It is my daughter’s pet. She is about your age, I think,” said Omar Shaydi.

  Hattie fed the monkey fragments of cake, and tuned in again to the conversation.

  It appeared that the Shaydi family was an extensive one. There were brothers living far, far up the Nile, Omar Shaydi said, who would most certainly, without a doubt, be able to supply what Great-aunt Iphigenia required.

  “But it is one thing to supply them,” Edgar Raven objected. “Another to get them to England. Are you able to do that?”

  Omar Shaydi surveyed him with eyes as black and glittering as Edgar Raven’s own. “But of course,” he said. “The Shaydi import-export business has ships constantly travelling from Alexandria. Ships with crates and boxes packed with textiles, carpets, all manner of cotton goods. It is but a simple matter . . .” He waved his hands expressively.

  “How long will this journeying up the Nile take?” Edwina Raven had been quietly inspecting the mud and stains that had transferred themselves to her boots in the alley. The sooner she left the dust and dirt of Egypt behind, Hattie knew, the happier she would be.

  Omar Shaydi frowned and calculated. “Travellers take a month to travel up the Nile.” He ticked off on his fingers. “A few days, a week, perhaps, to do our – business – then a month back to Cairo –”

  “Months!” Edwina Raven looked horrified. “Months! Why ever can’t we just travel straight there and back?”

  “No, no, it cannot be done like that,” Omar Shaydi told her decisively. “Questions would be asked. Officials would say, why are these travellers moving so swiftly? Why are they not visiting the ancient sites? Could it be that they are not legitimate travellers at all? We must watch them most carefully. No. We must look like genuine tourists, we must hire a dahabiya, move slowly, stop to look at the tombs and temples and pyramids along the way as travellers do. Past Aswan, we will meet with my family, discuss business, then move slowly back towards Cairo, again as travellers do. But we . . .” he paused impressively, “we, inshallah, will have cargo. The cargo you desire. And it will go to Alexandria, and then to England.”

  “But months. Months!” Edwina Raven was in despair.

  Omar Shaydi regarded her with amusement. “If it is to be done successfully and without suspicion, it must be as I suggest. Do not be despondent, madam. A dahabiya is a most comfortable way to travel.” He turned to Great-uncle Sisyphus and Great-aunt Iphigenia. “You, sir and madam? Are you content with this plan?”

  Hattie turned to look at Great-uncle Sisyphus and Great-aunt Iphigenia. There was no need to ask if they were content. Their faces were rapt, shining. As was her own, she could feel it. Months – whole months! – to travel slowly through Egypt and visit all the ancient sites along the Nile. Hattie, Great-uncle Sisyphus and Great-aunt Iphigenia smiled brilliantly at each other, while the Ravens glowered.

  “You would travel with us, Omar?” asked Great-uncle Sisyphus.

  Omar Shaydi put his hand to his heart and bowed. “I would be honoured to act as your dragoman, sir,” he said.

  “Then we will consider it a bargain between us.” Great-uncle Sisyphus put out his hand, and Omar Shaydi shook it firmly. “Now, what is our next step?”

  “Let me make some enquiries about a suitable dahabiya and crew,” Omar Shaydi suggested. “I will send a message to your hotel and you may inspect it as soon as you wish. Then, it will be provisioned, and we will set off. A matter of days, perhaps.” He paused delicately. “May I ask how payment is to be arranged?”

  “Oh, Edgar and Edwina take care of all that,” said Great-aunt Iphigenia. “Just speak to them.”

  “I shall do so.” Omar Shaydi bowed. He turned to the Ravens. “We will make an appointment to arrange this?”

  Alert at once, Hattie glanced up from the monkey just in time to see a look pass between Omar Shaydi and the Ravens. It seemed, to Hattie, a significant look. She remembered some of the Ravens’ muttered comments that she had overheard, back at Crumblin Castle. They had mentioned finances. And now they were making an appointment to arrange payment of funds . . .

  Omar Shaydi moved swiftly. It was only the next day when a message reached the hotel informing them that a likely dahabiya had been located, and if the lady and gentleman cared to inspect it, a carriage would be sent for them at their convenience.

  “No time like the present,” said Great-uncle Sisyphus. “Does this afternoon suit everyone?”

  The carriage took them to Boulak, where Hattie, Great-uncle Sisyphus and Great-aunt Iphigenia had already seen a great number of dahabiyas for hire, tied up at the bank of the river. This time, they did not drive along the row of dahabiyas. Instead, their driver took them immediately to one craft. Omar Shaydi, again dressed in spotless white, stood waiting for them on the deck.

  On their previous visit to Boulak they had seen many different kinds of dahabiyas: huge ones, tiny ones, iron-hulled and wooden ones, some with awninged upper decks, some single decked – the variety and choice had been utterly bewildering. But this one, the one Omar Shaydi was now welcoming them to, appeared to be perfect. It was not the largest dahabiya, but it was certainly not the smallest.

  “Six cabins,” Omar Shaydi told them. “Two bathrooms. A large and comfortable saloon. An upper deck with chairs and awning. A dining room. An excellent kitchen. Even a storage space, so luggage need not be left in your cabins. The rais, the captain, is Abdallah, the most experienced rais on the Nile. Here are the crew, waiting to greet you.”

  There indeed was the crew. Lined up, dressed also in spotless white, were the Rais Abdallah, the steersman Osman, seven sailors, two stewards, a stout cook and his assistant.

  “Do we need so many people to look after us?” Hattie whispered to Great-aunt Iphigenia. “I mean, Sekhmet and the kittens do it all at home.”

  “But this is a boat,” Great-aunt Iphigenia murmured back. “I doubt even Sekhmet and the kittens could sail a dahabiya.”

  Hattie thought about that. She wouldn’t be at all surprised, she decided, if Sekhmet and the kittens could.

  Omar Shaydi cleared his throat. “I have a suggestion,” he said to Great-aunt Iphigenia and Great-uncle Sisyphus.

  “Yes?”

  “I have a daughter. A daughter about the same age as Miss Hatshepsut. Her name is Amal.”

  Hattie remembered that he had mentioned a daughter, when she was playing with the small monkey at Omar Shaydi’s house.

  “I wondered if it would be agreeable for Miss Hatshepsut,” Omar Shaydi went on, “if my daughter accompanied us. As a companion. It can be tedious for children, perhaps, visiting many temples and tombs –”

  Never!, Hattie thought. She was sure she’d never find temples and tombs tedious. And she had often found the company of other girls – those at Miss Fractious’ Boarding Establishment for Young Ladies – very tedious. She did not like the idea at all.

  But Great-aunt Iphigenia and Great-uncle Sisyphus clearly did. “What a wonderful idea! We have often felt that Hattie needs a companion of her own age.”

  Hattie sighed. It was going to happen. She would have to make the best of it.

  Edwina Raven toured the dahabiya, her expression appearing more cheerful every minute. “Even a piano,” she said in wonder. “A piano in the saloon.”

  Omar Shaydi smiled. “Of more importance,” he said, “is that this dahabiya is capable of passing up the cataracts. It can be sailed, and rowed, and towed if necessary, and can navigate the rocks and cascades and waterfalls. Our destination, as you know, lies beyond the First Cataract.”

  “It seems quite suitable,” said Great-aunt Iphigenia. “Perfect, in fact.” She looked around. “I take it we all agree?”

  “Indeed,” said Great-uncle Sisyphus.


  The Ravens said nothing, but at least did not glower.

  “Hattie?” said Great-aunt Iphigenia.

  “Yes, oh yes!” Hattie said. She turned to Omar Shaydi. “What is the dahabiya’s name, please?”

  The rais, Abdallah, smiled at her. “She is called the Hetepheres,” he said. “Named after a great and powerful queen.”

  “Just like you, then, Hattie,” said Great-uncle Sisyphus. “Well, it was clearly meant to be!” He turned to Omar Shaydi. “Excellent choice, Omar,” he said. “Now, how soon can we be off?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Omar Shaydi.

  They arrived at Boulak the next morning in two carriages, the second one packed with luggage. The river sparkled, the dahabiyas moved gently at their moorings.

  Before they had left the hotel that morning, Hattie had paused at a little shop in the lobby. Among many other things, it sold brightly coloured postcards of Cairo. She ran her finger over them and selected one with a view of the pyramids.

  “If I write this now, could you post it for me?” she asked the shop assistant.

  “I will be happy to do so,” he replied.

  Hattie wrote quickly on the postcard and handed it over.

  “Who are you writing to?” Great-aunt Iphigenia asked curiously.

  “Well, to Sekhmet. And the kittens.”

  Great-aunt Iphigenia laughed. “I’m sure they will be very happy to hear from you. What a good idea.”

  Waiting for them at the Hetepheres was Omar Shaydi. Beside him stood a small figure. Hattie sighed. This must be Omar Shaydi’s daughter – Amal, she remembered – her companion for the voyage up the Nile. Hattie had not wanted a companion, not at all, but now she was a little curious. What would an Egyptian girl be like? As far as Hattie could see, the girl was dressed very much as Hattie herself was, in a navy skirt and blouse, with a short jacket to ward off the chill of the winter morning air. On her head, however, she wore not a hat but a large black scarf that shaded her face and fell down over her shoulders.

  Omar Shaydi stepped forward. “May I introduce my daughter Amal to you?” he said. He put his hand on the girl’s shoulder and gently propelled her forward.

  “Amal?” said Great-aunt Iphigenia kindly. “Why, that means ‘sweet’, doesn’t it? What a pretty name! How do you do, Amal?”

  The girl kept her head down as she shook first Great-aunt Iphigenia’s hand, then Great-uncle Sisyphus’. Hattie put out her own hand. “How do you do, Amal?” she said courteously, though with little enthusiasm. The girl looked up as she shook hands, and her scarf dropped back a little.

  Well, Hattie thought. Well. “Amal” might mean “sweet”, but the face that looked back at her was as sour and sharp as a preserved lemon. Amal, it was clear, was as enthusiastic about coming on their journey up the Nile as Hattie was about having her. The two girls stared at each other, equally unimpressed.

  “Now,” said Omar Shaydi, “it is time to be getting on board, I think. I will see to the luggage, if you would care to make your way onto the Hetepheres and find a comfortable place to sit for the time being. Amal, come with me for the moment, I will show you our cabin.” Without a word, Amal followed him.

  Hattie leaned on the railing of the upper deck of the Hetepheres and watched as their luggage, with much shouting and confusion, was manhandled aboard by porters. There was more shouting and confusion as a small flock of sheep arrived on the dock, and then baskets full of live chickens and ducks. These, too, were brought aboard and taken to the back of the boat, under the supervision of the cook and his little assistant.

  “They’re for us? These animals? What for?” Hattie asked.

  The cook glanced up at her, grinned and rubbed his ample stomach.

  “Oh,” said Hattie. She had no objection to eating chicken and mutton, but she preferred, she decided, not to be reminded of where her dinner had come from.

  The sailors of the Hetepheres lounged around the deck, as idle as the passengers, languidly observing the loading.

  “The sailors don’t help?” Hattie asked Great-uncle Sisyphus.

  “They are sailors. They are not porters. It would not be fitting,” said Great-uncle Sisyphus.

  Edgar Raven, his attache case tucked firmly under his arm, watched impatiently as the last of the trunks was heaved aboard. “When will we set out? Now? We are fully loaded, it seems.”

  “The rais will decide,” said Omar Shaydi. “The wind must be favourable.”

  The wind was not favourable.

  The sailors continued to lounge. The sun blazed down. Hattie grew bored, and went to inspect her cabin. It did not take long. The cabins were compact, with just enough room for a bed built against the wall, a chair, a washstand, some hooks for clothes, a shelf for books, and drawers fitted under the bed. Someone – the stewards, Hattie assumed – had unpacked her clothes and taken her trunk away to be stored.

  She made her way up to the awninged upper deck. Great-aunt Iphigenia, Great-uncle Sisyphus and the Ravens were still organising their cabins. Omar Shaydi was still busy somewhere about the boat. The comfortable wicker chairs on the upper deck were empty – except for one small figure sitting in the shade of the awning. Hattie puffed out her cheeks. Amal. Well, for the sake of politeness she supposed she would have to go and talk to her. She took the chair beside Amal, who looked up. She had taken off her scarf, and now Hattie could see long, black hair that flowed down almost to her waist, and large black eyes that looked distinctly unfriendly.

  “Um, hello,” Hattie said.

  Amal turned a page of the book on her lap. Her face still reminded Hattie of lemons.

  “Uh,” Amal said.

  Hattie tried again. “What are you reading?” she asked. She didn’t know what she expected. What did Egyptian girls like to read? English stories? Their own stories? Tales from the Arabian Nights, perhaps?

  “Mathematics,” said Amal.

  Hattie’s eyebrows rose. “Mathematics? Really?” She found it hard to believe anyone would study mathematics when they didn’t absolutely have to. She leaned over to peer at the page. The content, she could see, was far more advanced than the long division she had been struggling with. In fact, many of the numerals seemed to have been replaced by letters. “You mean – you understand this?”

  Amal scowled. “Yes. I understand this. I am not stupid, you know. I go to school –” She broke off. Then she slammed the book shut and threw it onto the deck. She was clearly very upset.

  There was a silence. Hattie did not know quite what to say. “You, um, go to school? Where?” she ventured.

  It was the wrong thing to say. Amal glared at her. “I did go to school. Now I am not at school. Because I am here. Here to be a friend to you!”

  “I didn’t ask for a friend,” protested Hattie. She glared back. “It wasn’t my idea.”

  “Yet here I am. Do you know, do you have any idea,” Amal said forcefully, “how long it took, how hard I had to beg, for my father to allow me to go to school? My mother, my grandmother, my aunts, all say school is no use to a girl, girls don’t need to study mathematics, or science, or languages, because a girl will get married. It took me so long to persuade my father, so long even to find a school for girls. I was so happy when he agreed that perhaps girls should learn. But now he has taken me away, to be a – friend – for you.”

  “Wait,” said Hattie. “You wanted to go to school? You wanted to study mathematics and science?”

  Amal stared. “But of course. I want to be – I don’t know – perhaps a doctor, a scientist, a teacher, a lawyer. Something modern. Something useful. Don’t you?”

  Hattie had never considered this. “Well, no. I didn’t like being at school. I hate mathematics. I wanted to learn about things my school didn’t teach, the things I study with Great-uncle Sisyphus. Ancient history. Especially ancient Egyptian history. And how to read hieroglyphs. Don’t you like that?”

  “History? No. History is so far away. So old. Temples, tombs – they are dusty, abandone
d things. History is not useful.”

  The girls stared out across the river, neither able to understand the other’s point of view. They slid puzzled, uncomprehending glances at each other.

  “Now I am afraid,” whispered Amal at last, “that when this journey is over my father will forget all about school for me. I am so afraid there will be no more school.”

  There was a long silence. “And I am afraid too,” said Hattie. “I am afraid that something will happen that means I will have to go to school again. That I will have to leave Crumblin Castle and my great-aunt and great-uncle and not be part of a family any more. You are fortunate. You have a family. I did not have one for a long time. That’s what makes me afraid.”

  The two girls sat, each afraid in her own way, staring at the river. They did not understand each other at all.

  Before long, lunch was served in the dining room. Then, a steward indicated, coffee would be served on the awninged upper deck.

  Hattie sat, as everyone drank tiny cups of dark coffee, and watched river traffic pass. There were small boats – feluccas – their white sails barely stretched in the reluctant breeze, and rafts of river plants with pale mauve flowers. She could almost fall asleep, she thought, in this heat-filled, breathless afternoon . . . She noticed that Amal, though she had her mathematics book on her knee again, was nodding gently over it.

  Then, just as her own eyelids grew heavy, Hattie saw a sudden ripple run over the surface of the water, as if the river had shivered. The still, white sails of the feluccas flapped gently and swelled. The rais shouted something.

  At once, all was action. Sailors leaped and with little ceremony stripped back the awning that was protecting the upper deck from the sun.