by Unknown
The young man had placed all his hopes in the perspective of finding a way out. But now, with the scene playing out before his eyes, he had to come to reason and accept that there was no exit, no safe way out. And behind them, by some mysterious means, the wall had closed them in. They were prisoners of this place.
Champollion’s eyes went from lamp to lamp. “This simply is not possible. They can’t have lit themselves,” he murmured. “Could this be a case of spontaneous combustion?”
Kalaan had too many thoughts running through his mind at the same time, so he started breathing slowly and deeply in order to regain his self-control before answering his friend.
“These bowls most likely contain an abundance of highly inflammable material. Oil could not have been preserved throughout the past centuries; I think perhaps sulfur or saltpeter[22].”
“Possibly, but a source of fire would be necessary for there to be combustion.”
Both men looked at the extinguished torch. It could not have been the source of fire. Champollion had a very valid point and Kalaan could but agree with his observations.
The two men began studying the antechamber. The gold covered walls captivated Jean-François. It was not only the precious metal that held his interest, however. The wall was covered with carvings and hieroglyphs. Kalaan’s interest was retained by a rectangular pedestal of sorts, covered entirely in gold just like everything in the room. On the pedestal was a black stone in the shape of a pyramid.
“The ground!” he called to his friend who looked away from the inscriptions for a moment. “Notice how pure the sand is here, white as snow and very fine. The only things marring its perfection are our footprints.”
After this observation, Kalaan immediately returned his attention to the stone, as if it were a magnet, and murmured:
“We are in the den of mysteries where neither logic, nor reality rule.”
Champollion was so taken with all the inscriptions that he did not hear the count’s comment. He grabbed his pencil and notebook and started talking aloud to himself.
“The chamber is lavishly decorated and measures approximately six meters[23] long by four meters wide. The ceiling… is, I would venture to say, about 2 meters fifty high.”
Champollion’s low droning voice was fairly distracting to Kalaan who was getting dangerously close to the pedestal. It was as though the strange stone was sending a silent persistent summons against which he had no power to resist.
“Akhenaten! His story as well as that of the edifice is written here!” Champollion’s enthusiastic shout broke the spell that was drawing his friend to the black stone.
Shaking his head to clear his mind and collect his thoughts, Kalaan turned around and joined Jean-François. Deliberately turning his back on the mysterious pedestal he became totally absorbed by the beauty of the work accomplished by the scribes and sculptors.
“Salam was correct; we are not in a tomb. There is no sarcophagus, no canopic jar, and certainly none of the usual objects, sacred or from daily life, which usually accompany the departed into the afterlife. This chamber is strangely empty aside from the pedestal and stone.”
“You are mistaken,” countered Champollion. “This antechamber is full of reliefs and inscriptions telling us the story of a forgotten era. We are here in a temple of knowledge. The mysterious veil shrouding Akhenaten’s story is finally lifting in a most fabulous manner. He was most definitely a pharaoh!”
All the drawings and symbols seemed to come alive in the flickering light of the flames from the bowls. Meanwhile the moaning and lamentation that Kalaan heard earlier returned to beset his ears.
“Do you hear that,” he asked Champollion who looked at him with a puzzled expression.
“Hear what?”
“That murmuring.”
“Mmm... no. I can only hear the crackling of the flames in the lamps. Do you think it could be our men coming to look for us?”
Kalaan pursed his lips and returned to contemplating the inscriptions.
“Yes, that must be what it is. I am surprised you cannot hear them. However, you may rest assured. We will find our way to the surface, with or without their assistance! We have been closed in for quite some time now; we should already be suffering from a lack of oxygen, and the flames should not be so strong.”
Champollion nodded, his eyes sparkling with joy. “This means we have enough time to translate the inscriptions, does it not?”
“Perhaps not all of them, but a good amount, yes.” Kalaan replied, smiling at his friend.
“I think it will go very quickly. There are quite a few drawings here, as well.”
Thus, the history of the place came to life, narrated by Jean-François, his voice, sometimes calm sometimes excited, betraying his emotions.
“This edifice was built in absolute secrecy by Akhenaten’s devoted architects and faithful scribes. He was the tenth pharaoh of the XVIIIth dynasty, and his name means ‘He who is of use to Aten.’ All of this was to fulfill an ancient magic ritual according to Imhotep’s sacred formulas. It was shortly before the new pharaoh’s capital Akhentaten ‘Aten’s horizon’ was built on the site of Tell el-Amarna. The new capital was entirely dedicated to the cult of a one and unique god, the universal creator, Aten. The old metropolis of Thebes was abandoned when Akhenaten erased the names of all the old gods and ran off all the priests who still believed in them.”
On the gold covered walls of the chamber, the god Aten was represented by a disk with the head of a rearing cobra (a uræus[24]) and an ankh, symbol of immortality and eternity. Rays ending in hands descended from the disk and Akhenaten appeared to bathe in the celestial light. At one point, Kalaan had the fleeting impression that the reliefs were moving.
“Look Kalaan, Akhenaten is wearing a khepresh[25]. He is standing alone before his god, humble and without the ostentation of a pschent[26]! He is raising his hands to Aten, palms upward. And can you see what he is holding? The black pyramid shaped stone that is on the pedestal right here in this room!”
No, do not turn around, Kalaan said to himself. It was as if simply mentioning the pyramid seemed to strengthen the effect it had on him.
“The rest of the inscriptions seem to tell more or less the same story as on the door, but in more detail and a more ornate language. Thanks to the stone’s magical powers all of Akhenaten’s fears were either erased or disappeared. All this magic was with the sole intention of granting Akhenaten the power of a supreme king worthy of serving Aten. In exchange, the one and only god would ensure the prosperity of the Egyptian people and protect Egypt from calamity. No more epidemics, no more famine, and an unrelenting protection against any enemy that may rise against them. Anyone who declared war against Akhenaten and his armies, would have run from the pharaoh, or died in defeat.”
Champollion continued to narrate the story, pointing out the different symbols of protection and the usual scenes of ceremonial offerings to Aten. Akhenaten was represented alone placing food, drink and impressive quantities of flowers on the altar. The hieroglyphs kept Jean-François occupied for a moment, although he was translating them with remarkable speed.
“And here is a prayer by Akhenaten to Aten, who, I hope wherever he is, will not hold my inaccuracies against me.
“
When thou appearest beautiful on the horizon of the sky,
Oh living disk, beginning of life,
Brilliant on the eastern horizon
All the land is filled by thee and thy beauty.
Thou art beautiful; thou art great, thou art resplendent
Far above all the land
Thy rays encompass the lands,
To the extent of all things which thou hast made.
As thou art the Sun, thou reachest their farthest confines;
Thou subjectest them to thy beloved son.
No other than thy son Akhenaten knows you,
Though thou art afar,
Thy rays are on the earth,
And of ever
y human, they caress the face.
None can say they know thy course
When thou goest to rest in the western horizon.
The earth is in darkness, in the condition of death...”[27]
“What we are discovering here is unheard of!” exclaimed Jean-François, once they had done a complete tour of the chamber walls. “Akhenaten was a pharaoh who served only one god! Do you realize what this means? What we have here is a story that will create an incredible uproar in the world of archeology and among our colleagues!”
“Indeed.” Kalaan found his friend’s outspokenness amusing. “Let us get back to the little we do know about Akhenaten, which is to say, nothing.”
Kalaan’s tone had become more serious.
“Everything can be explained by the fact that after his demise, he was completely erased from ancient history by the Egyptian priests who were returning to power. What do you say? After all, Aten did not promise the pharaoh immortality, did he? After regaining their power, the Egyptian clergy would have brought back the ancient gods banished by Akhenaten! This could also help explain the pillaging that Amarna, ex-Akhetaten suffered from. Anything and everything representing the pharaoh and his beliefs had to be destroyed, his acts reduced to nothing.”
Champollion agreed, all the while continuing to show his elation. He was so excited that he’d even forgotten to take notes. Kalaan had to admit he shared his friend’s feelings. However, one thing was preventing the young count from fully savoring the moment and that was the blasted black stone!
The object continued to call to him, incessantly. Like a magnet, or a siren’s song, the lamenting was taking control of his mind. No longer held back, he approached the pedestal and admired the enchanting stone. Once again, everything seemed to come to life in the glimmering light of the flames, and the moaning became more and more intense.
Am I going insane? Kalaan was disturbed when he saw that without realizing it, he’d come so close to the stone, he could touch it. Champollion was watching him closely, worried.
“It is time for us to find the exit, my friend. You seem indisposed.”
Kalaan did not hear him; he was completely hypnotized by the stone, which appeared to be carved in black tourmaline, a substance well known for absorbing negative energies.
“So much magic in such a small object…” murmured Kalaan.
Jean-François got on his knees to translate the hieroglyphs carved in the gold pedestal and muttered before cursing out loud.
“It’s that damned curse! I was surprised not to see it on the walls. It says what we already know: Woe to those who profane the den of fear, for on them the stone will unleash their worst fears, they will suffer, they will become, they will beg for the release that only death can bring them.”
Once again, Kalaan took no heed of his friend and reached for the stone to grab it.
“No!” Champollion screamed and immediately stood up, but not quickly enough to prevent the count’s gesture.
And then, just as the Egyptologist cried out in alarm, a most diabolical storm was unleashed upon them.
Chapter 4
The Curse
As Kalaan seized the stone, he felt an intense pain in the palm of his hand and was carried off to ... the doors of hell!
Not the hell we, mere mortals, know — a place of eternal damnation with burning fires and where sinners are tortured and receive never-ending punishment, not a lava-filled underworld where souls are devoured by flames and suffer atrocious agonies as told in the Bible. No, it was nothing like that.
The place where Kalaan found himself was cold and enveloped in shadows with hundreds of dark, emaciated human-like shapes shrouded in fog. The antechamber with its gold covered walls had disappeared in the blink of an eye and so had Champollion. Kalaan began to call out to Jean-François and search frantically for him left and right. The ground was spongy and covered in swirls of a chalk-like substance. He stopped one of the silhouettes thinking it might be his friend, but found himself facing a deathly-pale emaciated creature with blurred features, glassy eyes and thin stringy white hair — a dead man, a moving cadaver.
“No, no,” Kalaan intoned spinning around, like a possessed man. His hair, no longer attached, danced freely in the icy wind, whipping his face. A few strands were stuck to his cheeks, and caught in his eyes. The air was vile and damp, soaking his white linen shirt and light suede trousers, chilling him to the bone even more. It was as cold as the North Pole.
“I must be losing my mind; this place cannot be real!” he said to himself through his chattering teeth as he set off again in search of Champollion. It was so dark that he shouldn’t have been able to see anything; and yet, Kalaan could see everything around him very clearly. Soon as he realized that the cadavers were moving in his direction, Kalaan grew more agitated. The dead were becoming more and more aggressive and their moaning began to sound menacing. The young man realized he was in great danger; and he had no weapon with which to defend himself — neither sword, nor pistol!
But how could he defend himself anyway? The deceased cannot die again! For the first time in his life, before he could be completely surrounded, Kalaan took to his heels, and ran as fast as he could weaving through the zombies, avoiding as best he could their long bony hands and claw-like fingers.
So this was the lamenting and moaning that he had heard on the other side of the wall, the cries of the living dead! Kalaan, having woken them, was now their prey. He had to find a way out, and quickly!
In the distance, he could make out a building through the icy fog and he tried to make his way towards it. One minute he was running quickly, but the next he was wading through thick mud while his pursuers got closer and closer, showing their teeth like rabid dogs. He had to reach the building at all cost.
As he got closer, he realized the building was in fact a very bleak looking manor of sorts. Its door slowly opened making a horrible grating noise. Without even thinking, his pursuers so close he could smell their nauseatingly foul breath, Kalaan ran with all his strength towards what he thought was his last chance at salvation,stumbling over what he presumed was the root of a very old and unidentifiable tree and almost lost his balance.
This slowed him just enough for one of the creatures to reach him and scratch him deeply on his right shoulder. His shirt and flesh were torn and as he felt his warm blood trickle down his skin numb with cold, he let out the long moan of an injured wild animal. Kalaan clenched his teeth; this was not the moment to waiver so he compelled the powerful muscles in his legs to carry him forward towards the door, which seemed to disappear every time he got close.
Finally, he leaped up the three steps and entered the manor. As he did so, the door slammed shut behind him in an infernal racket. He leaned against the cold wood of the door and bent forward, placing his hands on his trembling knees, trying to catch his breath. His open lips let steam escape from his mouth in rapid wisps and his heart felt as if it would leap out of his chest.
Behind the door, his assailants were furiously scratching at the wood with their long nails. They were becoming increasingly agitated and began pounding on the barrier. Kalaan pushed against the door with all his strength to resist the onslaught. He had no idea how much time had passed before silence returned, but when it did, he carefully inspected his surroundings.
Strangely enough, it was just as he thought. There were no evil beings in the place. After a moment’s rest, he would be able to think clearly and try to understand what was happening. For there had to be a logical explanation; and the most likely one is that he was probably in the throes of a fever and in reality still lying down in the antechamber. His friends would soon come save him. It would also explain why Champollion was not at his side in this hellish place.
However, for the moment, everything seemed all too real and Kalaan’s instinct told him to keep moving. Oddly enough, he could still see perfectly well in the darkness so he went up to a tall mirror covered in spider webs. He could hardly recog
nize what he saw. In the mirror a tall strong man with pallid features looked back at him. His long hair was a mess, his cheeks stained with mud and his clothes were in a sorry condition. Yet it was his own reflection.
“Kalaan, count of Croz, Egyptologist and buccaneer, fearing neither God nor man, especially when it comes to giving the English a good flogging!” Kalaan’s deep baritone voice was loud and clear and as he spoke, for added effect, he clicked his heels in a military style salute.
A little humor couldn’t hurt, no matter how paltry and Lil’ Louis would have laughed at hearing him being so boastful with his usual composure.
Kalaan turned sideways, using the mirror to inspect the wound on his shoulder. Blood was still flowing from it, but had slowed down. He placed a few strips of cloth on the wound and applied as much pressure as he could with his left hand. It looked as if he’d been attacked by a bear, and not a cadaver.
“A cadaver,” he repeated with some bitterness. “God, release me from this fever induced nightmare and I promise to behave properly in the future! I will be more merciful with the English and I will not throw their vile boiled beef and mint sauce overboard.”
Despite his good intentions, Kalaan could not help the disgusted expression on his face.
Suddenly, a flash of movement behind his reflection startled him. Once more on his guard, he turned quickly, but there was nothing, not a sound, not a soul, even damned. It must have been a hallucination.
“You fool! You are already in a hallucination. Nothing here is normal!” Kalaan spoke out loud sounding annoyed, before rapidly looking around him.
He was in the entrance hall of an abandoned dwelling. It was furnished and decorated in the style of post revolutionary France. Everything was in a sorry state. The furniture was falling to pieces, the tapestries and rugs were worn thin, and the dirty floor was strewn with broken crockery. Everything was covered in dust and hundreds of spider webs that danced in the slightest breeze.