Fossil Lake II: The Refossiling

by H. P. Lovecraft

  Now his pants were down. By God, he was pulling down his underwear! He dragged me kicking and thrashing down the stairs and grabbed my hind legs, spreading them and…I cannot continue. It is too agonizing to describe. Fortunately, I lost consciousness.

  When I awoke – I wish I had never awoken – Dicky was smoking a cigarette and holding me next to him in his sleeping bag. He was staring off into space, once again too ashamed to look at me. All he could say was, “Gramps doesn’t have to know about this.”

  For months, Dicky has refused to walk me or remove the piles of my feces which now litter the floor. I have become his concubine, and he refuses to let me see his grandparents. When he forgets to feed me, I am only able to survive by breaking the tops of his pill bottles and swallowing the contents.

  The end is coming. If the old humans do not rescue me soon, I shall be dead. I leave this record of the atrocities I have suffered as a warning to all other dogs to flee the presence of this despicable internet troll.

  A FAR SOUTHERN LAND

  D.J. Tyrer

  “I wouldn’t bother listening to him,” the barman said as he plonked two beers down on the table, suds sloshing onto long-unpolished wood.

  “Why not?”

  “The bloke’s a crazy old coot,” he replied as he turned and walked away.

  The old man seemed to take the insult in good humour, giving me a ‘what can I say?’ sort of grin, before raising his glass and taking an appreciative sip and presenting me with a frothy smile of thanks.

  “They all know me around here and they all think I’m as crazy as a kookaburra and twice as annoying! They don’t take kindly to new ideas around here; they’ve only just begun to entertain the idea that Aborigines are as human as them. My theories just don’t fit in at all.”

  “But, what exactly are your theories?” I asked him. I’d been told he was an archaeologist and he certainly had an academic’s tones, quite out of place in this godforsaken, fly-infested dump called Neversay Creek. I’d been told about him when I mentioned that I was a writer; apparently Leonard Hulke had ‘quite some stories to tell.’

  “Well, I’ve spent the last two decades out here looking for evidence that the Egyptians came to Oz.”

  “What? You mean ancient Egyptians? Rameses and that crowd?”

  “Exactly.”

  “That does sound a bit crazy! Ancient Egyptians in Australia?” I had to chuckle. “However did they get out here? I mean, did they even know how to build boats back then?”

  It was his turn to laugh. “Did the Egyptians know how to build boats? Did they! There were boats buried beside the pyramids. Hatshepsut sent ships to the Horn of Africa, if not beyond, and, later, the Egyptians employed Phoenician sailors, the greatest navigators of the ancient world.”

  “But, Australia? I mean, it wasn’t even discovered until, what, the 1700s?”

  “Oh, Europeans got here in the 1500s and the Chinese before that. And, of course, the Aboriginal tribes got here from Asia millennia ago. Australia isn’t some tiny speck of a desert island in the middle of an ocean, you know.”

  “I suppose not, but still...”

  “As I said, Hatshepsut sent ships at least as far as the Horn of Africa, that is modern Somalia, and possibly beyond. A Phoenician crew in Egyptian employ sailed right around Africa – something Europeans would only achieve two millennia later. Solomon of Israel sent his ships to the land of Ophir, which some have identified as Australia, in search of gold and jewels. The very name of Australia goes back to the ancient concept of a far southern land. There is no reason to doubt that the ancients sent ships out here.”

  There was a well-timed burst of mocking laughter from one of the iridescent-winged kookaburras that were lurking in the trees across from the bar.

  “Okay,” I said, after a moment’s pause, “let’s say it’s possible that their ships could make it here. Do you have any evidence, or is this all just wishful thinking?”

  “Oh, this isn’t some fancy that I just plucked out of the air, some airy-fairy theory based on a romantic reading of some musty old text. I didn’t come out here looking for proof. If anything, the proof came to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A local – George Sands was his name – a rancher and prospector, sent me a little statuette he’d found, asking me to identify it. He thought it had to be Aboriginal, but had seen nothing like it before and was curious.”

  “I take it it wasn’t Aboriginal...”

  He shook his head. “Egyptian. Seventh century BC. Definitely not Aboriginal; nor European.”

  “But,” I interjected, “even if it was the real deal and not a reproduction, how do you know the Egyptians were here? I mean, maybe it got traded and someone from, I don’t know, Borneo, brought it down here centuries later. Or, it could have been lost by some collector.”

  “Well, I couldn’t rule out either possibility, of course, although I doubt a collector would lose it right out in the middle of the bush. But, it was genuine and that intrigued me enough to do a little research. Don’t get me wrong; I had a good career and was hardly going to throw it all away on a hunch, especially one that sounded rather crazy.

  “No, I didn’t rush out here and start digging like some lunatic,” he went on before I could ask. “I looked up similar reports and found there had been finds of seemingly-Egyptian objects and even ruins out here in the past – not that anyone paid them much heed; they were each filed away and ignored as impossible. And, individually, they didn’t amount to much, but together... Well, the records were there for anyone who cared to look. Only, no one did until me.

  “Oh, and, of course, I spoke further with George Sands and he told me about other finds people had made and of possible ruins out in the bush, on the edges of the desert, which piqued my interest to come down here and have a look around. I didn’t make my big discovery, obviously – if I had, I’d be famous!” He laughed, paused to drink some more of his beer, then continued. “But, I’ve found enough to convince me that the Egyptians were here in antiquity and I hope to prove it with the weight of evidence.”

  “So, you mean you actually have evidence?”

  “Naturally. I can show it to you, if you’re interested.”

  “I am...”

  Hulke lived a good four or five miles away, down a rough dirt track that made the ride in his pick-up feel more like three times that, in a two-room house that was really little more than a poorly-built shack with an outside toilet and an emu lurking in what passed for a yard.

  “Don’t worry,” he chuckled as he led me inside, “she won’t bite!”

  The building was full of boxes, mostly cardboard, some wooden and a few tin.

  “The only problem,” he cheerfully told me as he selected a few to lay upon the heavy wooden desk in the middle of the room, “is that the damn creepy-crawlies get in and nibble at them. Ideally, they should all be properly stored in a museum; once my research is vindicated, they will be.”

  He proceeded to open the boxes and show me his various finds. They were largely unimpressive to my eyes: different statuettes, amulets, beads and such like, that could only really excite an expert like Hulke. I had to take his word that they were Egyptian in origin, as I didn’t have a clue. Although, they were nothing like anything I’d seen associated with the Aborigines, so I was willing to concede they probably were anomalous. There were a couple of little statues that made me think of Anubis and Isis, which provided a more convincing case.

  “Okay,” I said at last, “you’re winning me over. But, if they really were here, why haven’t I read about it before? Surely, there ought to be some records somewhere; unless they were just a handful of explorers or lost merchants who got shipwrecked here and never returned home.”

  He nodded. “That was my initial thought. A failed expedition or lost mariners or even a band of exiles who had no intention to go back. There just seems too much spread over too wide an area and dating over too long a period to be able to di
smiss it so lightly. All the evidence is that the Egyptians were here in numbers for a long time. In other words, it was a colony or outpost of the Egyptian Empire just as, more recently, Australia was part of the British Empire.”

  “Let’s say that’s true. Why were they here? Why did they leave? And, why do we have no record of them?”

  “To answer that last point of yours first, it is admittedly a little odd that we have no record of their presence. It may just have been regarded as a minor outpost compared to more prestigious conquests and ports of call. More likely, it is in the records and we just haven’t recognised it because we didn’t know they had come this far. Places like Biblical Ophir could be here, not Africa or some never-never land.” He paused.

  “Or, of course, there is another possibility...”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, that’s bound up with its abandonment, so perhaps we ought to discuss your other questions first. Now, the Egyptians were as curious and interested in trade as any Renaissance or nineteenth-century explorer, but, unlike the British and French, if they needed more lands for their population, they had far greater potential to expand into nearby lands. Thus, they had no need to plant colonies for their excess people. Most likely, they came here in the search for gold and other precious resources, either to mine them directly or to trade with the tribes who lived here.”

  “Right.”

  “As to why they left... Well, the mines may have been played out or the trade route disrupted. Or, the conquest of Egypt by the Persians, then the Greeks and Romans, may just have caused its abandonment due to the chaos and conflict. But, there is another possibility...”

  “The one you hinted at when you said there was another reason why we might not have heard of them being here?”

  “Yes.” Suddenly, he seemed reticent, as if he was unwilling to reveal his theory.

  “Please, go on,” I prompted. I was genuinely interested to hear what he thought; he’d successfully reeled me in and I didn’t want to be left dangling.

  He nodded as if he’d made up his mind.

  “My interpretation of the evidence is that something terrible happened here. Now, I don’t think the local tribes are likely to have been either numerous, organized or warlike enough to have attacked the Egyptians, nor does it seem too likely that a rival power or pirates could have sacked the place; certainly not so thoroughly as seems to be the case.”

  “So, what are you saying?”

  “It is my belief that the Egyptians destroyed the colony themselves.”

  “Sorry?”

  He repeated his theory.

  “But, why? Civil war? A rebellion? It makes no sense.”

  “Some sort of civil war does seem unlikely and, if they went rogue, they were too far away for the homeland to easily punish them. No, I think it was something more fundamental. I think the colony was cursed.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh, especially as he said it so earnestly. “You sound like something out of a Hollywood movie!”

  “I’m deadly serious.” He did look it. “Yes, it sounds melodramatic, I know, but superstition is real even if the superstitions themselves are nonsense..A They can drive people to extreme acts. I believe that the Egyptians thought a curse had fallen upon the place and abandoned it. There are statues of what appears to be the local deity — ” he rummaged around in a box and produced one. “— and the name has seemingly been ritually obliterated on many. See? Probably they thought they had offended against their god in some way and that they punished the guilty before abandoning the place, hence the signs of a violent overthrow.”

  He was silent for a moment. I said nothing, either.

  “Are you interested in archaeology?” he asked, finally.

  It seemed an odd question to ask now. “Yes, of course, fascinating subject.”

  “No, I mean actual archaeology – digs...”

  “Oh, um, I guess.”

  He grinned like a boy. “I think I’ve located a tomb. It may well be the vindication I have been seeking and may even answer some of the questions about what happened here... I was planning to open it up. You could come, too; if you’re interested. You said you’re a writer; maybe you could help me write up my find?”

  We went out in his pick-up along an even rougher track early the next morning. I’d slept in a dingy room above the bar, having promised to say nothing to the locals, and he’d dragged me out at an hour I considered utterly uncivilised.

  After a couple of hours, he parked the car in the middle of a region of scrub that was empty but for a couple of curious kangaroos and we began an hour-long trek. I must confess my still-sleepy mind did wander onto half-remembered cases of kidnap in the outback and I began to worry if he was planning to murder me out here. But, eventually, we reached our destination and I saw he hadn’t been kidding.

  The tomb was a low-lying structure of mud bricks. To be honest, I guess I’d been expecting him to lead me to some sort of pyramid. After all, when someone mentions tombs and Egypt, it’s those or the Valley of the Kings that come to mind. But, of course, it was unlikely we were talking about a king’s resting place, so I shouldn’t really have been expecting anything so grand.

  “This isn’t Aboriginal – they didn’t use mud brick – and the bricks aren’t the style of those used in early colonial times; besides, this area was only really settled just over a century ago. And, of course,” he added, as a thorny devil skittered across the tomb’s surface, “there are the hieroglyphs; they’re worn away, but you can make some out here.”

  “Can you read them?”

  “There aren’t enough to make a full reading, but I think it declares it to be the tomb of a priest. There is a name, here and here again; it begins with an N, but I can only make out the ending ‘hotep’ down here. Most interestingly, it says something about a curse...”

  “Aha! You think this tomb might shed some light on why the colony was abandoned?”

  He nodded. “Possibly. Of course, it could just have said that anyone who opens the tomb will be cursed, like in a gothic novel.” He chuckled. “If you want to avoid becoming cursed, you might want to leave now.”

  “Nah, I’ll take my chances.” I laughed at the thought. “So, let’s get to work.”

  I assisted in the careful dismantling and uncovering of the tomb. Although I was an amateur, Hulke was a careful teacher who took me through each task step-by-step. We paused for the heat of midday under a wide parasol he’d brought in the back of the pick-up along with all the tools and enjoyed a few tins, as he called them, of lager. Then, when it was a bit cooler, we got back to work; even then, it was sweaty, tiring work.

  Uncovering the tomb properly would take weeks or even months of painstaking effort, but Hulke hoped we might be able to locate the burial chamber beneath it with a minimum of effort. I think he was desperate to know if the tomb really was what he believed it was; so did I. We were both excited.

  We finally broke into the burial chamber just before nightfall. Out here, without city lights, the night was surprisingly light, the sky awash with stars and the moon bright like a searchlight. He’d brought a halogen floodlight and a small generator, but we almost didn’t need it.

  We weren’t going to pause just because the sun gone down.

  We ought to have...

  It took about an hour’s work to create a space big enough to actually access the burial chamber. Archaeology is a slow and tedious business, even when done at a rush. As keen as we were, we didn’t desire to emulate the old antiquarians who tore ancient monuments down in search of secrets and treasure; even if we were a little slapdash compared to more organised excavations.

  Finally, we had access to the burial chamber and the proof that Hulke had spent so many years searching for.

  We positioned the halogen light and eagerly peered inside...

  The chamber wasn’t that large, just big enough for a body and a few grave goods: a wooden staff with a golden top shaped like an eye on one s
ide, three canopic jars on the other and a box of wood decorated with gold at the body’s feet.

  The body itself was nothing like the stereotypical mummy of Egyptian provenance: for a start, it was only partially wrapped, rather than fully swaddled in bandages. Also, rather than the pristine white or even stained yellow one might imagine, the bandages and exposed, desiccated flesh were a tarry black. Strangest of all, the black substance had been heavily plastered over the face so as to obscure its features with a blank resin mask.

  “Weird,” I muttered.

  “Actually, it makes perfect sense,” he told me.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. If you remember, I mentioned the god of the colony.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, in my researches, I’ve come to the conclusion that they worshipped a faceless god. From what I’ve been able to reconstruct, I think they may have called it Bagon or something similar to that. See, I think those are the same hieroglyphs here; if only we had better light.” He sighed. “So, you see, if this man was a priest, that was most likely the god he served. Thus, in death, he was made into the image of his god.”I nodded.

  “Indeed. Well, here we have the canopic jars – you know what they’re for, of course. The box likely contains items of use to him in the afterlife and I’d hazard that the staff is his badge of office. The eye on the staff is a little ironic, don’t you think?”

  I nodded again.

  “Have you read any Discworld?” he asked suddenly.

  “Um, uh, yeah,” I stuttered, wrong footed by the question.

  “Perhaps their Bagon was like Pratchett’s Blind Io, with eyes independent of his face.”