Sekhemib cried in sudden, horrible pain. A hand had grasped him by the wrist and was squeezing with an inhuman force so incredibly strong that he felt his bones cracking beneath the pressure. The floor stones of the ancient mastaba were thrust upward, dislodged from their ancient mortar, cast aside as the sand continued to give birth to the sand creatures, the pitiful images of human beings, the senseless, shuffling things whose eyes did not see and whose ears did not hear, but whose featureless faces radiated eternal wrath, unrelenting anger, a lust for vengeance, a murderous fury, a hatred older than the very sands of Egypt.
Sam had prayed for the freedom of the stolen souls. And now they were free.
Tekenues. They were the tekenues.
All the dust and, all the ashes of all the murdered innocents of all the millennia were being reconstituted from the sand into which their remains had been cast by the murderous priests. Ten thousand years, a hundred thousand years, since before humanity was human, since before the dim mentalities of the prehuman creatures whose sons would build the pyramids could even conceive of deities, since before mankind existed, the remnants of the tekenues had been burned and buried in the area around this mastaba. And now they were all coming back, hundreds of thousands of years of victims, an army of tortured, stolen souls, rising from the trembling sand into the broken forms of embodied human hatred.
Sam Goldhaber lost consciousness as the multitude arose from the sand which stretched for miles in all directions, as the screams of agony burst forth from Sekhemib, from Meret, from Yuya and Senmut and Herihor and Khumara and Wenet, as thousands, tens of thousands, millions, of inhuman hands grasped them and tore them and ripped them and rent them asunder, casting bloody bits of severed flesh up into the air, turning the collapsing mastaba red with blood, the muffled laughter from each vengeful throat merging with the identical muffled laughter of each other identical epitome of hatred until the combination produced a massive, deafening thunder of screaming, murderous fury. Those mortal priests who had fled from the temple added their cries of terror and agony to the general din as hands thrust up from the sand beneath their feet everywhere outside the temple walls and held them, crushed them, tore them to pieces.
And then there was silence.
Sam Goldhaber did not know how much time had passed, but when he drifted back up to consciousness the silence was the first thing which he noticed. He was lying face down upon the ground, and particles of sand were in his mouth and eyes and nostrils. He tried to spit the sand from his mouth, tried to bring forth tears to clear his eyes, but found that he was too dehydrated to manage it easily. He blinked and blinked and blinked, and eventually produced enough liquid to free his eyes of the irritants. He sat up and looked around him.
The mastaba was gone, devoured by the now motionless expanse of desert. Not one stone remained of the ancient temple which had such a short time ago been the site of such unspeakable monstrosity. As the first rays of the morning sun crept over the hills to the east on the other side of the Nile, he could dimly see dozens of bodies lying motionless upon the sand all around him. No, not motionless, for their chests were rising and falling in living, breathing bodies, their own bodies, resurrected bodies with liberated souls. All the people who had been brought there the night before to serve as food for the monster and his servants were alive and free.
Harriet Langly lay upon her side ten yards away, and near her was Thomas Sawhill. Far away from them both, Roderick Fowles was stiffly raising himself up on his left elbow. He looked over at Sam Goldhaber quizzically, and then, exhaustion and shock reasserting themselves, he fell back unconscious onto the sand.
Sam smiled softly as he sat. silent upon the warm sand. As the sun rose into the clear blue Egyptian sky, the words of David's psalm drifted in and out of his mind.
"The fool hath said in his heart, 'There is no God."'
EPILOGUE
The summer sky of rural New YorkState was already beginning to grow gray and dusky, and the first cool breaths of the impending autumn winds were slowly beginning to repaint the leaves. The air of Greenfield was already filling with the subtle aromas of apple pies and pumpkin pies, of traditional autumn cakes and roasts, of the last few ears of the season's corn harvest as they bobbed in steaming pots of bubbling water. Soon the brightly colored leaves would drift downward from the boughs and carpet the sidewalks, the streets, and the floor of the nearby forests with patches of red and yellow and brown, adorning the peaceful world with its annual coat of many colors.
Harriet Langly Sawhill lay in her husband's arms on the sofa in front of the fireplace, her gaze drifting lazily back and forth from the rustic panorama which stretched out before the long picture window to the comforting flames which licked the edge of the logs. Thursday was always a peaceful, restful day. Thomas Sawhill had no office hours and she had no classes. It was a day upon which they had decided that they should do absolutely nothing, and this intentional idleness was both regenerative and rejuvenating. Harriet's mind was not constructing coherent thoughts but rather was allowing itself to be washed by waves of contentment, peacefulness, security, and calm.
"My parents called today, while you were still asleep," she said softly.
"Yeah?" he replied, stretching his arms out like a contented cat. "What's new with them?"
"Not much."
They were silent for a long while as they sat upon the sofa and listened with uncomplicated ease to the crackling of the fire and the low moan of the October wind. They said nothing, for nothing needed to be said. Each knew the other's thoughts and shared the other's memories. Each knew that a merciful and benevolent Providence had granted to them an opportunity for a life together, a life which had seemed fated such a short time ago never to be.
"Have they accepted our compromise?" he asked. "Hmmm?"
"Your parents. Have they gotten used to the idea of what we did?"
"Not really," she replied, "but give 'em time. They'll get accustomed to it eventually. After all, Tom, you're a Lutheran and I'm a Catholic. What else could we do but get married by an Episcopalian priest?"
"Made sense to me," he laughed. "Of course, we could have followed Sam's advice and become Jews."
"Oh, sure," she said, smiling. "That would have thrilled both families. Let's face it, neither of our families is particularly broad-minded."
He nodded. "I know. And none of them went through what we went through, either. After what happened, the differences between Protestants and Catholics don't really mean very much to me. It all seems so petty and silly, somehow"
"I know what you mean," she replied, nestling down slightly into the crook of his arm. "Who would have ever thought it? I mean, three old agnostics like us and Sam. We're going to an Episcopalian church and Sam's decided to become 6. rabbi."
He laughed softly. "Strange world, isn't it?"
She nodded. "Stranger than I'd ever imagined it could be." She was silent for a few moments. "Did it really happen, Tommy? It all seems like a dream."
"A bad dream," he agreed softly. "But it happened, Harriet. It happened. Maybe it'd be better if we did think of it as a dream."
"Maybe," she said pensively. "I don't think I'll ever really be able to understand what happened there, over in Egypt."
"It defies logic," he said. "I've decided not to attempt to try to analyze it rationally. It's a mystery that's all. A mystery."
They became quiet again and looked out the window as one unfortunate leaf was severed from a branch and drifted erratically down to the grass. Harriet muttered, "Xepheraxepher."
"Hmmm?"
"Nothing, honey. Nothing."
Harriet smiled into the flames which danced upon the logs. The world was beautiful, and life was fine.
Three hundred miles away, Professor Samuel Goldhaber sat patiently, amusement and a tinge of annoyance mingling in his expression as the old bespectacled man on the other side of the large desk paged slowly and thoughtfully through the folder of papers which he held in his hands.
At last he looked up over his bifocals and smiled at Sam. "I'm very happy about this, Dr. Goldhaber, very happy indeed, but a bit surprised."
"How so, Rabbi?" Sam asked.
Rabbi Myron Schamis sat back in his chair. He preferred the title of Rabbi to those of Doctor or Professor, even though he was entitled to all three. "Well, you must admit, Dr. Goldhaber—"
"Sam, please. Call me Sam."
"Okay, Sam, fine. You must admit that applicants for admission to our university, or to any university, tend to be people of a less advanced age. Please don't be offended—"
Sam waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal, smiling. He had found that for the past year, ever since he had awakened on the quiet desert in the early dawn, he was neither upset nor disturbed by anything. "No offense taken, Rabbi. But please remember that I'm sixty years old, and that's twenty years younger than Moses was when God called him from the burning bush."
"Yes, yes, of course. It's just that . . ." Rabbi Schamis paused, trying to find the words to express his doubts without calling into question the motives or attitude of the man who sat before him. "Sam, the vocation of the rabbi is more than just a scholarly pursuit, more than a—an insurance policy with God, if you know what I mean." He paused and waited for Sam to respond, but the only response was a gentle smile, so he continued. "Your qualifications, academically, are of course quite impressive. In fact, I remember reading your monograph on the Semitic elements of the Sumerian language, back in—when was that article published?"
"In 1965," Sam replied, "when I was at the University of Toronto."
"Yes, yes. Fascinating article, erudite and informative."
"Rabbi," Sam said with the slightest hint of impatience, "may I ask what the problem is?"
"Sam, please don't be offended. It just strikes me as peculiar that a man who seems to have had no connection whatsoever with a synagogue of any kind for all of his adult life should suddenly decide in late middle age to study for the rabbinate. I hope you realize that the rabbi's responsibilities—"
"Rabbi," Sam sighed, "let me assure you of a few things. I am not just an old man, frightened of death, trying to make up for a lifetime of neglect. I am not frightened of death, not in the slightest. And I am not just an academician drawn to the rabbinate out of scholarly zeal. I'm already a scholar of some renown, if I may be so immodest as to say so."
Rabbi Schamis shook his head. "There's no immodesty in speaking the truth, Sam."
"My feelings exactly," he smiled. "I have come to the realization that the things I used to regard as mythology are not mythological, that's all. When I was much younger, tending toward what I believed to be enlightened deism, I used to say that either the words of the Scriptures were true or they were false. If they were true, then nothing in life made more sense than to devote one's self to the service of God and man; and if they were not true, which is what I then believed, then any attention paid to religious activity was a waste of time." He leaned forward and his eyes seemed to glow with an intensity which Rabbi Schamis found a bit disquieting. "But I know now that they are true. All I wish to do is live up to my own injunction."
The rabbi nodded, agreeing but not satisfied. "I'm pleased to hear that, Sam, very pleased indeed. But you must understand—"
"Rabbi, listen to me." Sam's impatience was becoming apparent. "I am quite serious about my beliefs, and my desire is a selfless and sincere one. No man can read the heart of another, and I must ask you to accept my word. I mean"—and he laughed slightly—"I am well beyond the age of mercurial changes in attitude."
The rabbi nodded. "Yes, but you seem to have just made one, no?"
Sam considered this for a moment. "Yes, I suppose so. But there are reasons, personal reasons, private reasons, which I would rather not go into just now."
Rabbi Schamis nodded again, and then smiled. "Well, Sam, I've never refused a student who wished to study for the rabbinate, and I don't propose to start now. At least we both know that the linguistic studies aren't going to discourage you."
They both laughed, the tension broken by the quip. "No, I don't think they will."
"Of course, we'll wave the language requirements. You know more about that curriculum than some of our teachers!"
"I know. I took the opportunity today to browse through your bookstore. Your Aramaic I course uses a text I wrote."
"Is that a fact! Well, why don't you come in tomorrow afternoon. We'll sit down with Professor Hirschfeld and work out some sort of course of study for you which will satisfy the rabbinical board, who will have to approve you for ordination. With all of the study and research you have done, I doubt that it will take too long." He rose and held his hand out to Sam.
"Fine. I'll see you tomorrow, Rabbi. It's been a pleasure meeting you." He shook the proffered hand.
"Same here, Sam, and I hope we get to know each other better." He smiled. "And I hope someday you'll tell me what it was that made this change in your attitudes."
Sam laughed. "Maybe someday."
Never, Sam thought as he walked down the yeshiva's steps and buttoned his coat against the brisk autumn wind which was racing down the Manhattan streets, carrying dust and paper refuse with it. Never. I'm too old and well-respected to have my sanity questioned. He looked up at the tall buildings which stood out starkly against the gray sky. If man is God's special creation, then the city, like the heavens, declares the glory of God.
"Give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good," Sam muttered, "and His mercy endureth forever." You hit it right on the nose, King David, he thought, right on the nose. He began to walk toward his hotel, grinning and humming contentedly.
Fifty miles to the east, Jasper Rudd paced back and forth in the reception area of the KingsParkPsychiatric Hospital, glancing irritably at the wall clock. They told him to be there at noon, and it was already nearly one o'clock. Goddamn paper-pushing record keepers, he thought. Hell of a way to run a hospital.
His irritation dissipated as Gus and his doctor entered the room. Gus grinned broadly but nervously as he walked over to Jasper and hugged him. "Hiya, Jas," he said.
"Hi, Gus. You all ready to go?"
"Yeah. I can't wait."
A few desultory comments were exchanged between Jasper, Gus, and the doctor, but neither of the two brothers paid much attention to them. For Gus, it was sufficient to know that he was going home after a year of care and treatment. For Jasper, having his brother back was all he cared about.
They did not converse too much as they got into Jasper's car and began the long drive home. The damp chill in the air caused Jasper a twinge of pain in his neck. Damn thing's never gonna heal right, he thought. Probably gonna get arthritis there, too.
They drove through the bumper to bumper traffic on the Long Island Expressway, through the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, up the FDR Drive, around the northern tip of Manhattan and onto the New York State Thruway without saying a word to each other. They were speeding through Westchester before Gus asked, "Did you do it? What I wanted you to do? Did you do it?"
"Yeah, Gussie, I found the grave and put some flowers on it. That CalvaryCemetery is enormous. Took me an hour to find the goddamn stone."
Gus nodded. "Is it a nice stone?"
"Yeah, yeah," he said brusquely, wishing to change the subject, "real nice. I don't know why you wanted to buy it for her, though."
Gus shrugged. "She didn't have no family or nothin'. I felt—I dunno—might have been me. I mean—"
"Gus, cut it out. It's all over. Forget it."
Gus did not reply. He would never forget it. He could never forget it. And he kept thinking, if poor Miss Melendez had been second instead of first, if the autopsy had been…
No! he thought, Stop it! You're okay, you're okay, everything's okay. The brief surge of panic which had begun to rise receded. It's all over. Everything's okay.
"And listen, you little bastard," Jasper said gruffly, "I don't want no more trouble from you when we get home, you hear me?"
Gus smiled, recognizing the affection which lay beneath the gruffness. "I hear you, Jas. I hear you." Only the fact that they were speeding along the thruway at seventy miles an hour prevented Gus from throwing his arms around his brother. Instead he punched Jasper softly on the arm. Jasper reached down and squeezed Gus's knee quickly.
"We're invited over to dinner tonight at Miss Langly's—I mean, at the Sawhills'."
"Oh, great!" Gus said with genuine enthusiasm. "I haven't had a decent meal in God knows how long."
"Yeah, that's what she figured."
"What are we gonna have?"
Jasper gave him an annoyed glance. "How the hell do I know? I didn't ask her for a menu!"
"Well, I'm sure it'll be good. Gotta be better than the shit they feed you in hospitals."
Jasper smiled. "I know. I ate it for a month myself." He rubbed his neck distractedly.
They drove on in silence, feeling no need for conversation. Everything was all right. Everything.
Twelve hundred miles away, the sun was setting over the bustling, growing metropolis of Orlando, Florida, and a few miles away the crowds were beginning to gather around Cinderella's Castle, eagerly anticipating the famous fireworks display at Walt Disney World. The multitude included people of all nationalities, of all ages and backgrounds, wearing every conceivable type of attire. But even in the midst of this cross section of humanity, a rather odd image was struck by the chubby Englishman with the helium-filled Donald Duck balloon floating from his wrist, the enormous pile of cotton candy in his other hand which left sticky traces upon his lips and cheeks as he tore chunks of it off the cardboard tube, and the undersized Mickey Mouse ears which were perched precariously upon his head.
Roderick Fowles, the fifteenth Earl of Selwyn, was madly in love with Disney World. He had called his new solicitor in London after his first day at the park to tell him to buy it, and Roderick was a bit miffed to hear that such an expenditure was beyond even his ample resources. When his subsequent suggestion that he be able at least to purchase Fantasyland was met with an impatient rejection and a rather tiresome and uninteresting explanation of why this was not possible, he decided both to forget the idea and find another solicitor. Old Pearson could have figured out a way, he thought. I should at least be able to buy the pirate ride, at least that! I am an earl, after all!
Stolen Souls Page 39