The Wrath of Fu Manchu and Other Stories

by Sax Rohmer

  Early in August I received a note from a well-known dealer in antiques to the effect that an ancient couch of Egyptian workmanship had come into his possession. As I have myself a small collection of Egyptian curios—though insignificant beside that of Maurice Bode—and, as such antiquities are always of interest to me, I called at the shop to examine the specimen. I must confess that I was anticipating comparatively modern workmanship, probably evincing indications of the Roman influence; it was, therefore, a welcome surprise to find that the couch alluded to was of much earlier design. It was constructed to grotesquely resemble a leopard, the feet and claws being of copper. The body of the couch and a part of the legs were of acacia-wood, heavily gilded. The head and shoulders of the leopard were so contrived as to furnish a hollow, presumably for the reception of a large cushion, and along the framework of this singular piece ran a line of partially defaced hieroglyphics. The execution throughout was magnificent, and, though fantastic, betrayed considerable artistic taste. The wood had in many places decayed, and of the hieroglyphics I could make neither head nor tail. Nevertheless, I would have given much to possess it; but the figure mentioned by the dealer placed it beyond the reach of my somewhat slender purse.

  “The price I’m asking leaves me very little profit, sir,” he assured me. “It was one of the lots put up at Northbie’s last Friday, and there were buyers from three big museums to bid against.”

  “Who was the previous owner?” I inquired.

  “Professor Bayton, who died at the beginning of the year. It was the last item he ever added to his collection.”

  “How did they describe it at Northbie’s?”

  “Antique Egyptian couch—later Theban.”

  “No further particulars?”

  “No, sir,” said the dealer, with a smile.

  I determined to draw the attention of Bode to this very peculiar piece of furniture, and, mentioning my intention, I left the shop. It so happened, however, that the doctor was out of town at the time, and nearly a week elapsed before I saw him. At the earliest opportunity I called at his place, and proceeded to describe what I had seen, intending to ask him to accompany me upon a second visit. There was no need for me to make the request: I saw from the first that he was interested; and when I endeavoured to explain the unusual formation of the leopard’s head he sprang up excitedly.

  Seizing a sheet of paper and a pencil, he executed a rapid sketch. “Like that?” he said eagerly.

  “Exactly!” I replied, in astonishment.

  “We’ll go now,” was his next remark; and clapping his hat on his head, he clutched me by the arm and hurried from the house.

  On the way I endeavoured to elicit from him some explanation of his sudden enthusiasm; but he declined to gratify my curiosity, promising to explain more fully later. Upon our arrival at the dealer’s a disappointment awaited us. The couch had been sold two days before to a wealthy amateur collector, and was only that morning removed from the shop.

  I have rarely seen Bode so keenly annoyed. “I’d have willingly given twice the price,” he declared. “The thing is of no earthly use to M’Quown; to me it is of vital importance.”

  We were both acquainted with the purchaser, and I suggested that we should call upon him and examine the antique. My friend, however, opposed this. “M’Quown has wanted a certain uraeus from my collection for a long time,” he said. “I shall endeavour to arrange an exchange.”

  As I knew that Maurice Bode numbered this uraeus to which he alluded—the earliest example extant—among the three most valuable items of his museum, I wondered more and more why he was so eager to gain possession of the leopard-couch. I was about to press him for an explanation, when he began abruptly:

  “You are no doubt wondering what peculiar attraction this object has for me? Well, then, let me explain. I need not point out to you that I regard Egyptology from a different standpoint to that of previous and most contemporary inquirers, principally in that I look upon the period between the reign of Mena (once termed the first historic Pharaoh) and the Christian era merely as the latter end of Egyptian history. You are familiar with the results of my investigations upon the site of Heliopolis, and you know that I have definitely established the existence of dynasties earlier than the Theban. The secret of that synonym for mystery, the Sphinx of Gizeh, seemed almost within my grasp when an essential datum eluded me.”

  “You refer, of course, to the nature of the creed professed by the leopard-worshippers?”

  “Precisely! At that point my investigations failed utterly. We both know that a mystic cult, the emblem of whose doctrine was some extinct or mythical species of white leopard, actually existed up to the reign of Tehutimes III; but subsequently, as you are aware, this ancient and mysterious priesthood, probably founded before the carving of the great sphinx, totally disappears. I take it that this leopard-couch which has fallen into the hands of M’Quown was used in their temple—probably about the time of Hatshepsu.”

  Bode had no immediate opportunity to further pursue the matter, for on the following day he again left London in response to an urgent appeal from the Continent, where he was engaged in some matter connected with one of the principal museums. He was still absent at the end of August, and it was upon the last day of the month that I observed the following paragraph in a well-known scientific journal:

  “The extensive collection of antiquities made by the late Mr Edward M’Quown, who died suddenly this month, will be sold by auction tomorrow by Messrs. Northbie, at their house in Wellington Street. The sale will commence at 11 a.m. when a large attendance may be expected.”

  I had known M’Quown slightly, and, as he was barely forty, was shocked to learn of his death. I saw, however, that I must act with promptitude, and without a moment’s delay I sent off a wire to Bode:

  “M’Quown dead. Auction tomorrow. Am I to secure the couch?”

  The reply was brief but definite:

  “At all costs—Bode.”

  Accordingly, at the hour of eleven on the following morning, I duly presented myself at the auction-rooms. I found the couch to be catalogued as Lot 13, and a mournful man who stood immediately beside me commented upon this circumstance.

  “Between ourselves, I am inclined to think that the bidding for Lot 13 will be rather slow,” he confided. “An unlucky number to an unlucky article.”

  “I am afraid I don’t quite follow,” said I.

  “Well, does any one know where Professor Bayton got the thing? No, nobody does. Did he or did he not die three weeks after it came into his possession? He died. How long did M’Quown have the couch? Four days! Then he died. Now it’s up as Lot 13; and if you’re thinking of bidding, it’s my personal opinion that you’ll get it cheap.”

  Whatever the reason, it was an undoubted fact that the bids for Lot 13 were few and cautious. It was ultimately knocked down to me at one-third of the price that poor M’Quown had paid for it. There were no other lots in which I was interested, so, having made arrangements for the conveying of the couch to my rooms, I wired Bode of my success, and spent the remainder of the day delving among Babylonian records in the British Museum. I returned home about half-past six, to find that the purchase had just arrived; and hastening through my dinner, I lit a cigarette and began a methodical examination of this latest acquisition.

  I had hoped to find something that would serve to confirm Bode’s theory; but beyond the fact that the work was of undoubted antiquity, I could establish nothing. The hieroglyphics might possibly contain a clue to the matter, but they were peculiarly complicated and difficult, and I felt too weary after my day’s labours to attempt their immediate translation. Being seized with a desire to learn whether any degree of comfort could be enjoyed upon so strangely shaped a piece of furniture, I placed a large cushion in the hollow behind the leopard’s head, and, lighting a fresh cigarette, stretched myself upon the couch.

  The result was surprising. A more delicious sense of restfulness stole over me than I h
ad ever before experienced. I had only to close my eyes to believe that I was suspended in space. The aroma of the Turkish tobacco seemed to gain an added fragrance, and almost unconsciously I abandoned myself to the seductive languor that grew upon me. At what point I slept I am unable to state; but I recollect feeling the cigarette drop from my listless fingers. It must have been some little time after this that I began to wonder, or to dream that I wondered, why the odour was still in my nostrils. Without opening my eyes I made up my mind that the cigarette lay smouldering upon the floor just beneath the head of the couch. This reflection would seem to indicate that I was not really asleep; yet no other theory can cover the extraordinary facts of my subsequent experience.

  Realising that this sweet, heavy perfume was dissimilar to anything I had ever known to arise from a cigarette, I reached down, still keeping my eyes drowsily closed, to find if it were really still burning. My hand failed to touch the floor!

  As the mysterious nature of this circumstance came home to me, I sprang up into full wakefulness. Good heavens! What was this? I am not an exceptionally nervous man; but I can say with all truthfulness that my heart seemed to cease beating!

  The familiar room was no longer there, nor did I recline upon a couch. I was upon a long, narrow balcony, having a low parapet, with pillars at frequent intervals supporting the roof. It was constructed entirely of marble and overhung a garden. Brilliant moonlight threw into bold relief arbours of strange design and vines trained over artistic trellis-work. Beds of many-hued flowers, tastefully blended and arranged in groups intersected by paths, extended to the bank of a river. In the distance, apparently rising out of the water, could be seen a huge white temple, significant and majestic even beneath the great vault of the gleaming heavens. The real origin of the heavy aroma now became evident. It was wafted from the flowers but six feet below me.

  I will not attempt to give an analysis of my feeling, save to state that I seemed to be a bodiless entity, enjoying all my faculties but two—the sense of touch and of hearing. Try how I would, I could hear no sound, nor was I conscious of being in contact with anything palpable; in short, I was myself impalpable! I seemed to feel my heart throbbing, yet realised in some strange way that, being but an immaterial mind, I could have no heart.

  At this moment, I discerned a boat upon the water, and, becoming conscious of an ability to change my location by merely willing it, passed without perceptible effort from the marble balcony to the brink of the river.

  A man and woman were in the boat, which was rowed from the bow in the manner of a gondola by a gigantic Nubian. The woman was robed in white, and as she lay, with her head upon the man’s shoulder, and the moonlight fell upon her upturned face, I saw her to be as beautiful as a nymph of classic lore. A strange resentment, such as Zeus might have experienced toward a mortal lover of Io or Dana, possessed me; and when a shaft gleamed through the air and the man in the boat sprang up, to fall dead into the river, an incredible satisfaction took the place of my former resentment.

  An eight-oared galley shot out from the dense shadows of a huge bed of rushes, and then ensued a scene such as should have moved the heart of a stone; yet I observed it to its close without being conscious of any emotion whatever.

  The white-clad form of the girl rose up in the boat, and in another instant would have plunged into the river beside the dead man; but the huge Nubian seized her in one muscular arm and restrained her. A moment afterwards the galley came alongside, and she apparently lost consciousness as her body was roughly hauled on board. I saw her lying upon the deck as still and white as though death had claimed her too. I have no recollection of being actually on board the galley, but I remember vividly the silent journey across the calm bosom of the river, and can recollect that there seemed to be something familiar in it all. I even noticed the infinitely cooler air out there upon the water, and the scene of the arrival at the great temple shall be with me to my dying day.

  At the foot of a flight of marble steps the galley was moored, and I saw a number of men clad in long black robes descending slowly. Two of them carried a kind of bier, and as they reached the edge of the water the death-like form was lifted from the galley’s deck and placed upon it. Solemnly raising their beautiful burden, they mounted again to the top, and, passing between two tall towers, advanced along an avenue lined upon either side by the figures of sphinxes. I witnessed all this quite clearly without knowing by what means I was enabled to follow; and when the bearers reached the propylaeum of the temple and passed within I still accompanied them.

  Across an area surrounded by high walls they proceeded, and through a doorway that was either gold or gold-plated, into a vast hall, dimly illuminated, and seeming to be a very forest of pillars. At this juncture, I experienced an unaccountable difficulty in following, and, though I made a great effort, soon lost myself amid the innumerable pillars. Like some wandering spirit, I drifted about in that wondrous hall of shadows for what seemed like several hours. I had now apparently lost the power to control my own movements, and how I came to find myself where I ultimately did I do not know.

  Since, after all, the whole was nothing but a vivid dream, I will not endeavour to explain. Suffice that I was in a small, rectangular apartment, fitfully lighted by a fire in a tall tripod. A man in a long robe of dull red was standing by a niche in the wall, and before him, ranged on narrow shelves, were rows of phials, apparently of blue glass. In the centre of the place stood an object that I had good cause to remember. It was the leopard-couch! Upon it was stretched the motionless form of the beautiful girl I had seen on the river. Her dark eyes were open now, and fixed in a changeless stare upon a brass vessel suspended above the fire. Her head rested, not upon a cushion, but upon a great crystal sphere which occupied the hollow in the couch.

  The man took from the niche in the wall a long metal rod, and, dipping it in the pendent vessel, withdrew it again with what looked like a globule of liquid flame adhering to the end. Advancing to the couch, he thrust the rod into the open jaws of the leopard, and almost immediately the crystal globe beneath appeared to be illuminated by an internal light. I became conscious of a sensation as though an irresistible power were carrying me to destruction; the scene grew dim, and a great despair possessed me. Then I felt myself to be borne away into darkness as by the mighty wind, and a voice was in my ears. Two conflicting wills seemed to be striving for the mastery of my derelict spirit. I struggled madly against some subtle force that sought to overpower me, and awoke—to find Dr Maurice Bode, supporting my head whilst he held a glass to my lips.

  “Thank Heaven!” he exclaimed. “You were beginning to frighten me.”

  I felt strangely dazed, and stared at him so blankly that he smiled. “I came away as soon after receiving your first message as possible,” he explained, “and learning at Northbie’s that the couch had been sent on to you, I called here immediately, to find you sound asleep upon the identical article. Without disturbing you, I took the liberty to examine it; and I am pleased to say that I have made two highly interesting discoveries. A couple of minutes ago you became so deadly pale that I grew alarmed. Were you dreaming?”

  I rose to my feet as unsteadily as though leaving a bed of long illness. “Before I answer your question, what have you discovered?” I asked, sinking into a comfortable arm-chair.

  “In the first place, I have partially translated the hieroglyphics, and, in the second place, I have removed the top of the leopard’s head.”

  “How could you possibly translate the hieroglyphics in so short a time?” was my incredulous inquiry.

  “Well, you have slept for over four hours, and I have, moreover, been engaged upon the inscriptions of this particular period for nearly a year now.”

  “You don’t mean to state that this couch dates back to the time of Hatshepsu?”

  “There can be little doubt of it. The inscription contains as romantic a love-story as the heart of a modern novelist could desire.”

  “Wait a m
oment, Bode!” I cried. “Does it correspond to the following?” And I related the incidents of my extraordinary dream as I have already set them forth.

  He remained silent for a moment at the end of my narrative, his eyes dreamily closed. Then, rising to his feet, he bent over the head of the couch. “Yes,” he said slowly, “there is a narrow channel from the mouth of the leopard that presumably communicates with the hollow at the base.”

  He paused, then added irrelevantly: “The rock temple at Deir-el-Bahari.”

  “Right, Bode!” I cried, in sudden excitement. “It was the temple at Deir-el-Bahari! I understand now why the scene seemed vaguely familiar. But how do you account for the leopard-priesthood being established there?”

  “A secret cult, consisting of priests ostensibly following other creeds. You have undoubtedly witnessed the punishment of Neothys, a beautiful priestess of the mystic goddess, who is never named in the inscriptions, but of whom the white leopard is emblematic. This Neothys had a lover, one Neremid, a captain of the warriors, and their trysting-place was in the very shadows of Hatshepsu’s temple at Deir-el-Bahari. He used to await her coming in a boat upon the river. But one night she was followed. Neremid died by the hand of Thi, chief of the temple-guard, and Neothys was dealt with by the high-priest.”

  “What was the meaning of the extraordinary experiment I witnessed in my dream?”

  “The man in the red robe was undoubtedly Karpusa, whom I believe to have been the last high-priest of the cult. I have previously encountered this singular personality in the course of my investigations; and his knowledge of the ‘unknown’ appears to have exceeded the credible. According to the inscription upon the couch, Karpusa wrecked vengeance upon Neothys by denying her immortality for all ages.”