The Mummy

by Anne Rice

  "They're immortal?" he asked her. He spoke in the crude, guttural Hittite tongue.

  She had laughed madly. "They eat, but they do not need to eat. They drink, but they do not need to drink. It is the sun that keeps them strong. Take it away and they sleep, but they do not die, my King."

  He had stared at her face, so old, shrunken with its deep wrinkles. The laughter had angered him.

  "Where is the elixir!" he had demanded.

  "You think it is a great thing?" How her eyes had gleamed as she approached him, taunting him. "And what if all the world were filled with those who could not die? And their children? And their children's children? This cave harbours a horrid secret, I tell you. The secret of the end of the world itself, I tell you!"

  He had drawn his sword. "Give it to me!" he had roared.

  She had not been frightened; she had only smiled.

  "What if it kills you, my rash Egyptian? No human being has ever drunk it. No man, woman or child."

  But he had already seen the altar, seen the cup of white liquid. He had seen the tablet behind it covered with tiny wedgelike letters.

  He stepped up to the altar. He read the words. Could this possibly be the formula of the elixir of life? Common ingredients which he himself could have gathered from the fields and riverbanks of his native land? Half believing, he committed it to memory, never dreaming that he would never forget.

  And the liquid, ye gods, look at it. With both hands he lifted the cup and drank it down. Somewhere for off he heard her laughing and laughing; it echoed through the endless chambers of the cave.

  And then he'd turned, wiping his lip with the back of his hand, his eyes wide as the shock coursed through him, his face throbbing, his body hardening as if he were in his chariot before the battlefield, on the verge of raising his sword and giving the cry. The priestess had taken a step backwards. What had she seen? His hair stirring, writhing, as if lifted by a swift breeze; the gray hairs falling away as the strong brown hair replaced them; his black eyes fading, turning the color of sapphires-the stunning transformation that he would verify later when he held up the mirror.

  "Well, we shall see, shan't we?" he had cried, his heart pumping fiercely, his muscles tingling. Ah, how light and powerful he'd felt. He could have taken flight. "Do I live or die, priestess?"

  Stunned, he stared at the London street before him. As if it were only hours ago! The moment whole and entire, and he could still hear the flapping of those wings against the grate. Seven hundred years had passed between that moment and the night he'd entered the tomb for his first long sleep. And two thousand since he'd been awakened, only to go to the grave within a few years again.

  And now this is London; this is the twentieth century. Suddenly he was trembling violently. Again, the damp smoky wind stirred the feathers of the gray dove that lay dead in the street. He walked forward through the sludge and knelt down beside the bird and scooped it up in his hands. Ah, fragile thing. So full of life one moment, and now no more than refuse, though the white down fluttered on its warm, narrow little chest.

  Oh, how the chill wind hurt him. How the sight of the dead thing pierced his heart.

  Holding it in his right hand, he drew out the half-full vial of the elixir with his left. He pushed open the hinged cap with his thumb and poured the shimmering liquid over the dead creature, forcing one heavy drop after another into its open beak.

  Not a second passed before the thing quickened. The tiny round eyes opened. The bird struggled to right itself, its wings flapping violently. He let it go, and up it went, circling as it soared beneath the heavy leaden sky.

  He watched until it had disappeared from sight. Immortal now. To fly forever.

  And another memory came, silent and swift as an assassin. The mausoleum; the marble halls, the pillars, and the gaunt figure of Cleopatra running beside him as he walked on, faster and faster, away from the dead body of Mark Antony lying on the gilded couch.

  "You can bring him back!" she screamed. "You know you can. It's not too late. Ramses. Give it to us both, Mark Antony and me! Ramses, don't turn away from me." Her long nails had scratched at his arm.

  In a rage he'd turned, slapped her, knocked her backwards. Astonished, she'd fallen, then crumpled into sobs. How frail she'd been, almost haggard, with the dark circles beneath her eyes.

  The bird was gone over the London rooftops. The sun grew brighter, a shocking white light behind the rolling clouds.

  His vision blurred; his heart was pounding thickly in his chest. He was weeping, weeping helplessly. Ye gods, what had made him think the pain would not come?

  He'd wakened after centuries in a great luxurious numbness; and now that numbness was thawing, and the heat of his love and his grief would soon be wholly his once more. This was but the first taste of suffering, and what was the blessing, that he was alive, heart and soul, again?

  He stared at the vial in his hand. He was tempted to crush it, and let its contents drip from his fingers into this foul and rutted street. Take the other vials out someplace far away from London where the grass grew high surely, and only the wild flowers would witness; and there pour all the liquid into the field.

  But what were these vain fancies? He knew how to make it. He had memorized those words off that tablet. He could not destroy what was forever engraved on his own mind.

  Samir left the cab and walked the remaining fifty yards to his destination, hands shoved in his pockets, collar turned up against the driving wind. Reaching the house on the corner, he went up the stone steps and knocked on the peeling door.

  A woman draped all in black wool opened the door a crack, then admitted him. Quietly he entered a cluttered room where two Egyptians sat smoking and reading the morning papers, the shelves and tables around them covered with Egyptian goods. A papyrus and a magnifying glass lay to one side on the table.

  Samir glanced at the papyrus. Nothing of importance. He glanced at a long, yellow mummy, its wrappings still quite well preserved, lying carelessly, it seemed, on a nearby shelf.

  "Ah, Samir, don't trouble yourself," said the tallest of the two men, whose name was Abdel. "Nothing but fakes on the market. Zaki's work, as you know. Except for that fellow. . . ." The man pointed to the mummy. "He's real enough, but not worth your time."

  Nevertheless Samir took a closer look at the mummy.

  "The dregs of a private collection," Abdel said. "Not in your class."

  Samir nodded, then turned back to Abdel.

  "I did hear, however, that some rare Cleopatra coins have surfaced," Abdel said, a bit playfully. "Ah, if I could get my hands on one of those."

  "I need a passport, Abdel," Samir said. "Citizenship papers. I need them fast."

  Abdel did not immediately answer. He watched with interest as Samir reached into his pocket.

  "And money. I need that too."

  Samir held up the glittering Cleopatra coin.

  Abdel reached for it before he was out of his chair. Samir watched him without expression as he examined it.

  ' 'Discretion, my friend," Samir said. ' 'Speed and discretion. Let us discuss the details."

  Oscar was back. Now that might be a problem, Julie thought, but only if Rita said something foolish, but then Oscar never listened to Rita. He thought Rita was a fool.

  As Julie came down the stairs, she found her butler just closing the front door. He had a bouquet of roses in his arms. He gave her the letter that had come with them.

  "Just arrived, miss," he said.

  "Yes, I know."

  With relief she saw it was from Elliott, not Alex, and hastily she read the letter as Oscar waited.

  "Call the Earl of Rutherford, Oscar. Tell him I cannot possibly come tonight. And I shall call later myself to explain."

  He was about to go when she took one of the roses out of the bouquet. "Put them in the dining room, Oscar," she said. She sampled the fragrance, then felt the soft petals with her finger. What was she going to do about Alex? Surely it was too s
oon to do anything, but every day only made matters worse.

  Ramses. Where was he? That was really the first order of business. The door of her father's room had been open, the bed untouched.

  She hurried back through the hall to the conservatory. Even before she reached the door, she saw the magnificent bougainvillea laden with red blossoms.

  And to think that yesterday she hadn't noticed these beautiful blooms. And look at the ferns, magnificent. And the lilies that had opened early in their pots throughout the room.

  "What a miracle," she said.

  She saw Ramses seated in a wicker chair, watching her. And already dressed splendidly for the day's adventures. And this time he'd made no mistakes. How ruddy and beautiful he looked in the streaming sunlight; his hair fuller, richer, and his great blue eyes filled with a somber melancholy as he looked at her, that is, before he brightened completely and gave her that irresistible smile.

  For one moment a shock of fear passed through her. He seemed on the edge of tears. He rose from the chair and came towards her and lightly touched her face with his fingers.

  "What a miracle you are!" he said.

  A silence fell gently between them. She wanted to reach up and throw her arms about his neck. She merely looked at him, feeling his closeness, then she reached out and touched his face.

  She should draw back, she knew it. But he surprised her. He drew back and then, kissing her almost reverently on the forehead, he said:

  "I want to go to Egypt, Julie. Sooner or later, I shall have to go to Egypt. Let it happen now.''

  How weary and raw he sounded. All the gentleness that had been in him yesterday was mingled now with sadness. His eyes seemed darker and larger. And she'd been right-he was near to weeping, and it sent the fear again to her soul.

  God, how great must be his capacity for suffering.

  "Of course," she said. "We'll go to Egypt, you and I together. ..."

  "Ah, that was my hope," he said. "Julie, this age can never belong to me until I say farewell to Egypt, for Egypt is my past."

  "I understand."

  "I want the future!'' he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I want . . ." He stopped, clearly unable to go on, Flustered, he turned away from her. He reached into his pocket and removed a handful of golden coins.

  "Can we buy a ship with this, Julie, that will take us across the sea?"

  "Leave everything to me," she said. "We are going. Now sit down, eat your breakfast. I know how hungry you are. You don't have to tell me."

  He laughed in spite of himself.

  "And I shall see to things at once."

  She went into the kitchen. Oscar was just setting the breakfast tray for them. The room was full of the good smells of coffee, and cinnamon, and freshly baked muffins.

  "Oscar, telephone Thomas Cook for me immediately. Book a passage for Mr. Ramsey and me to Alexandria. See if you can arrange for it straight away. We'll leave today if possible. Do hurry, and leave these things to me."

  How amazed he was.

  "But, Miss Julie, what about-"

  "Do it, Oscar. Make the calls at once. Hurry, There's no time to lose."

  Carrying the heavy tray, she came back out into the sunlight, and once more the great lovely flowers startled her. The purple orchids and the yellow daisies, equally beautiful.

  "Why, look at it," she whispered. "And to think I scarcely noticed it before. Everything in bloom. Oh, so lovely. . . ."

  He stood by the back door, watching her with that same sad and beautiful expression. "Yes, very lovely," he said.

  10

  HE HOUSE was in an uproar. Rita had all but lost her mind at the idea that she was going to Egypt. Oscar, remaining to keep the house, had been helping the cabbies get the trunks down the stairs.

  Randolph and Alex were arguing furiously with Julie that she must not make this trip.

  And the enigmatic Mr. Reginald Ramsey sat at the wicker table in the conservatory devouring an enormous meal, with glass after glass to wash it down. All the while he read the newspapers, two of them at a time, if Elliott was not mistaken. And now and then he lifted a book from the pile on the floor, and rushed through the pages as if searching for some dreadfully important item, and once finding it, dropped the book with a careless thud.

  Elliott sat in Lawrence's chair in the Egyptian room watching all of this silently; glancing now and then to Julie in the drawing room; and then to Mr. Ramsey, who surely knew that he was being observed but did not seem to care.

  The other silent and solitary watcher was Samir Ibrahaim, who stood to the very back of the conservatory, somewhat lost in the remarkable profusion of spring foliage, staring past the indifferent Mr. Ramsey into the shadowy front rooms.

  Julie's call to Elliott had come over three hours ago. He had gone into action immediately. And he knew more or less what was going to happen now, as the little drama in the drawing room played itself out.

  ' 'But you simply cannot go off to Egypt with a man you know nothing about," Randolph said, trying to keep his voice down. "You can't take such a trip without a proper chaperon."

  "Julie, I won't have it," Alex said, pale with exasperation. "I won't have you do this alone."

  "Now, stop, both of you," Julie responded. "I'm a grown woman. I'm going. And I can take care of myself. Besides, I'll have Rita with me all the time. And Samir, Father's closest friend. I couldn't have a better protector than Samir."

  ' 'Julie, neither of them is a proper companion and you know this. This is nothing short of scandalous."

  "Uncle Randolph, the boat leaves at four o'clock. We must be leaving here now. Let's get to the business at hand, shall we? I Ve had a power of attorney prepared, so that you can run Stratford Shipping with a free hand."

  Silence. So at last we get to the heart of the matter, Elliott thought coolly. He could hear Randolph slowly clearing his throat.

  "Well, I suppose mat's necessary, my dear," he answered weakly.

  Alex tried to interrupt, but Julie overrode him politely. Were there any other papers Randolph wanted her to sign? He could send them on to Alexandria immediately. She'd sign them and send them home from there.

  Satisfied that Julie would be leaving on schedule, Elliott rose and walked casually out into the conservatory.

  Ramsey went on eating superhuman amounts of food, quite undeterred. He now took one of three different lighted cigars and drew on it, then went back to his pudding, and his roast beef, and his buttered bread. It was a history of modern Egypt that lay open before him, the chapter entitled "The Mamluke Massacre." The man appeared to be scanning, so rapidly did his finger move down the page.

  Suddenly Elliott realized he was surrounded by foliage. He was almost startled by the size of the fern beside him, and the immense heavy bougainvillea brushing his shoulder, as it partially blocked the door. Good Lord, what had happened here? Lilies everywhere he looked, and the daisies exploding out of their pots, and the ivy gone wild over the entire roof.

  Concealing his shock, though from whom he wasn't certain, since neither Ramsey nor Samir took official note of him, he tore off one of the blue-and- white morning glories blooming just over his head.

  He stared at the perfect trumpet-shaped blossom. What sweetness. Then slowly he looked up to meet Ramsey's gaze.

  Samir roused himself suddenly from his apparent state of meditation.

  "Lord Rutherford, allow me . . .*' Then he stopped as if at a complete loss for words.

  Ramsey rose to his feet, wiping his fingers carefully on his linen napkin.

  Absently the Earl slipped the morning glory in his pocket, and then extended his hand.

  "Reginald Ramsey," he said, "a great pleasure. I'm an old friend of the Stratford family. Something of an Egyptologist myself. It is my son, Alex, who is engaged to be married to Julie. Perhaps you know."

  The man hadn't known. Or he didn't understand. A faint flush came to his cheeks.

  "Married to Julie?" he said in a half whisper. And th
en, with forced gaiety: "He is a fortunate man, your son."

  The Earl eyed the table laden with food, because he couldn't stop himself, and the blossoms all but crowding out the sun above. He looked placidly at the man before him, who was certainly one of the handsomest creatures he'd ever seen. Downright beautiful, when you thought of it. The sort of large compassionate blue eyes that drive women mad. Add the ready smile and one has a near-fatal combination.

  But the silence was becoming uncomfortable.

  "Ah, the diary," Elliott said. He reached into his coat. Samir recognized it immediately, that was plain.

  "This diary," Elliott said, "it belonged to Lawrence. It has valuable information on Ramses' tomb. Notes on a papyrus left by the man, it seems. I picked it up the other night. I must put it back."