The Mummy

by Anne Rice

  Within a few minutes, Ramsey had reached the museum. Elliott watched him turn from the main entrance, and walk slowly to the far right side of the building, towards a light burning behind a barred window.

  The yellow light spilled out of the small rear alcove. The guard was slumped in the chair, snoring blissfully. The rear door was open.

  Elliott slowly entered the museum. He passed quickly through the empty chambers of the ground floor, past towering gods and goddesses. At last he reached the grand stairs and, clutching the railing, moved up step by step, hoisting his weight off his painful leg, trying not to make a sound in the thinning darkness.

  A gray murky light filled the corridor. The window at the far end was paling visibly. And there stood Ramsey beside the low shallow display case, in which the mass of the dead woman in her petrified rags gleamed like black coal. Ramsey bowed his head in the gray light, like a man praying.

  It seemed he whispered something in the dark. Or was he weeping? His profile was sharply clear, and so was the movement of his hand as he reached into his coat and drew out something that sparkled in the shadows. A glass vial full of luminescent liquid. Dear God, he cannot mean to do this. What is this potion that he would even attempt it? Elliott almost cried out. He almost went to Ramsey and tried to stay his hand. But when Ramsey opened the vial, when Elliott heard the faint grinding of the metal cap, he shrank to the far side of the corridor, and concealed himself from view behind a tall glass cabinet.

  How eloquent of suffering the distant figure was, poised there over the case, the open vial in his hand, the other hand rising to wipe his hair out of his forehead.

  Then Ramsey turned as if to go and came down the corridor towards Elliott without seeing him.

  Something changed in the light. It was the first palpable glow of the sun, a dull steel-gray radiance; a soft gray shimmer firing all the glass cases and cabinets of the long corridor.

  Ramsey turned. Elliott could hear him sigh. He could feel his torment. Ah, but this is madness; this is unspeakable.

  Helplessly, he watched as Ramsey approached the case again and broke loose the light wood-framed glass lid, and folded it silently backwards and away like the cover of a book, so that he might touch the dead thing inside.

  With sudden speed, he produced the vial again. The gleaming white liquid flowed in droplets down on the corpse as Ramsey passed the vial back and forth above it.

  "It's vain, it cannot possibly work," Elliott whispered half-aloud. He found himself shrinking even closer to the wall, peering now through the glass sides of the cabinet.

  In horror and fascination, he watched Ramsey smooth the fluid over the dead woman's limbs. He saw him bend tenderly, as if placing the glittering vial to her mouth.

  A hiss echoed through the darkness. Elliott let out a silent gasp. Ramsey stumbled back, pressing himself to the wall. The vial fell from his hand and rolled on the stone floor, a tiny bit of fluid still shimmering inside it. Ramsey stared down at the thing in front of him.

  Movement of the dark mass in the low shallow bed of the case. Elliott saw it. He heard a low raw sound like breath.

  Dear God, man, what have you done! What have you awakened!

  The wood of the case gave a violent creak; the thin wooden legs appeared to shudder. The thing inside the case was stirring, rising.

  Ramsey backed away into the corridor. A muffled cry escaped his lips. Beyond him, Elliott saw the figure sit up. The wooden case shattered and then collapsed, the noise echoing loudly throughout the museum. The thing stood square on its feet! Its great head of shaggy black hair poured down like thick smoke over its shoulders. The blackened skin was lightening, changing. A ghastly moan came out of the being. It raised its skeletal hands.

  Ramsey moved backward away from it. A desperate prayer escaped him, full of the old Egyptian names of the gods. Elliott clamped a hand over his mouth.

  Moving forward, its bare feet scratching the stones with the rough, dry sound of rats in the walls, the figure lowered its arms and reached out towards Ramsey.

  The light shone in its huge staring eyes, the eyelids eaten away, the hair thickening and writhing as it grew sleeker and blacker and tumbled down longer over the bony shoulders.

  But dear God, what were the patches of white all over it? They were the bones of the thing, the bare bones where the flesh had been torn away, perhaps centuries ago! Bare bone showing in the left leg, bare bone in the right foot, bare bones in the fingers struggling to reach Ramsey.

  It's not whole. You've raised a thing which is not whole.

  The light brightened in the window above. The first distinct rays pierced the ashen gloom. As Ramsey backed away again, passing Elliott, half stumbling towards the far railing of the stair, the thing came on, gaining speed until it reached the sunlight.

  And there it reached up as if trying to catch the rays, its moaning breaths coming rapid and desperate and full of panic.

  The shriveled flesh of the hands was now bronze. The face was bronze, and growing lighter and paler and more truly human as the sun struck it.

  It turned and rocked on its feet, as if drinking up the light, and the blood began to ooze from the torn wounds that everywhere exposed the skeleton.

  Elliott closed his eyes. For one moment he almost lost consciousness. He was aware of noise below. A door slamming far to the back of the huge building.

  He opened his eyes to see the thing drawing nearer. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Ramses plastered to the rail of the stairs, staring in undisguised horror.

  God in heaven, drive it back. Elliott felt the burning in his chest, the familiar tightening. The pain shot down his left arm, and with all his strength he clutched the silver cane. He willed himself to breathe, to remain standing.

  The skeletal thing was filling out. Its flesh was now the color of Elliott's own flesh; and the hair a great wavy mop veiling its shoulders completely. And its clothing-even its clothing had changed. Its clothing was once again white linen where the elixir had splashed. The creature bared its white teeth to the roots as it moaned. Its breasts heaved and the ragged linen fell loose from the womanly shape, tangling in the legs that trudged doggedly forward.

  Its eyes were fixed on the man at the end of the hall. Its breath came in heaves. Its mouth became a grimace.

  Noises from below. The shrill sound of a whistle. A man shouting in Arabic.

  Ramses reeled. They were coming up the staircase. Their shouts could only mean that they had seen him.

  In panic, he turned back to the female figure drawing ever closer.

  A rasping cry escaped her lips.

  "Ramses!"

  The Earl closed his eyes. Then he opened them again and stared at the skeletal hands outstretched as the woman passed him.

  There was a cry of "Halt!" and then a shot. The creature screamed and clamped her fingers over her ears. She staggered backwards. Ramses had been struck by the bullet, and pivoted to face the men coming up the stairs. Desperately he turned back to the female. Another volley of shots! The deafening roar resounded through the corridor. Ramses fell back against the marble rail.

  The female shuddered, hands still covering her ears. She appeared to lose her balance, staggering between the stone sarcophagi on the opposite side of the hall. When the whistle shrieked again, she roared in terror.

  "Ramses!" It was the cry of a wounded animal.

  AGAIN, ELLIOTT almost lost consciousness. Again he closed his eyes, and struggled to fill his lungs with air. His left hand, clutching the walking stick, was now entirely numb.

  He could hear the sounds of the guards dragging Ramses down the stairs. Clearly Ramses was fighting. But there were too many of them.

  And the woman! She'd disappeared. Then he heard her feet scraping the stone floor again. He peered through the glass beside him to see her retreating to the far end of the hall. Whimpering, her breath still coming in gasps, she vanished through a side door.

  All sound had died away below. Apparentl
y Ramses had been removed from the museum. But undoubtedly men would come to search within minutes.

  Ruthlessly ignoring the pain in his chest, Elliott hurried down the corridor. He reached the side door in time to see the female just disappearing from view at the foot of a service stair. Quickly he turned back, glancing under the display cases. There lay the vial, still gleaming in the gray light. Going down on one knee, he managed to get hold of it; and closing its cap, he put it in his coat.

  Then, fighting a wave of dizziness, he crept down the stairs after the female, his numbed left leg almost tripping him. Halfway down he saw her-bewildered, staggering, one clawlike hand raised as if groping in the dimness.

  A door opened suddenly, leaking yellow light into the passage; and a servant woman emerged, her hair and body draped in the Moslem manner by a garment of black wool. She carried a mop in her right hand.

  At once she saw the skeletal figure approaching, and she let out a shrill scream, the mop falling from her hands. She fled back into the lighted room.

  A low hiss came out of the wounded one and then that awful roar again as she went after the serving maid, skeletal hands out as if to stop the piercing scream.

  Elliott moved as fast as he could. The screams stopped before he reached the door of the lighted room. As he entered, he saw the body of the servant woman slumping, dead, to the floor. Her neck had apparently been broken and the flesh torn from her cheek. Her glassy black eyes stared at nothing. And the ragged wounded one stepped over her and moved towards a small mirror over the washbasin on the wall.

  A wretched agonized sobbing broke from her when she saw her reflection. Gasping, shuddering, she reached out and touched the glass.

  Again, Elliott almost collapsed. The sight of the dead body and the ghastly creature before the glass were more than he could bear. But a ruthless fascination sustained him, as it had all along. He must use his wits now. Damn the pain in his chest and the panic rising like nausea in his throat.

  Quickly he closed the door of the room behind him. The noise startled her. She wheeled about, hands poised again for the attack. For a moment, he was paralyzed by the full horror of what he now beheld. The light from the ceiling bulb was merciless. Her eyes bulged from their half-eaten sockets. White rib bones gleamed through a huge wound in her side. Half of her mouth was gone, and a bare stretch of clavicle was drenched in oozing blood.

  Dear God, what must her suffering be! Poor, tragic being!

  Giving a low growl, she advanced on him. But Elliott spoke quickly in Greek:

  "Friend," he said. "I am a friend and offer you shelter." And as his mind went blank on the ancient tongue, he switched to the Latin: "Trust in me. I shall not let you come to harm."

  Not taking his eyes off her for a second, he groped for one of several black cloaks hanging on the wall. Yes, what he wanted- one of those shapeless robes worn by Moslem women in public. It was easily large enough to drape her from head to toe.

  Fearlessly, he approached her, throwing the cloak over her head and winding it over her shoulders, and at once her hands went up to assist, closing it over her face save for her frightened eyes.

  He ushered her out into the corridor, closing the door behind him to conceal the dead body. Noises and shouts were coming from the floor above. He could hear voices coming from a room at the far end of the hall. Spotting the service door to his right, he opened it, and led her out into the alleyway, where the bright sun came down upon them both.

  Within moments, he was clear of the building. And they had entered the great endless crowd of Moslems, Arabs and Westerners one saw everywhere in Cairo, thousands of pedestrians moving in all directions, despite the blast of motor-car horns and the progress of donkey-drawn carts.

  The woman stiffened when she heard the motor horns. At the sight of a motor car rocking past her, she drew back, crying through clenched teeth. Again, Elliott spoke to her in Latin, reassuring her that he would take care of her, he would find her shelter.

  What she understood he could not possibly guess. Then the Latin word for food came from her in a low, tortured voice. "Food and drink," she whispered. She murmured something else, but he did not understand. It sounded like a prayer or a curse.

  "Yes," he said in her ear, the Latin words coming easily now that he knew she understood them. "I shall provide all you require. I shall take care of you. Trust in me."

  But where could he take her? Only one place came to mind. He had to reach old Cairo. But did he dare put the creature into a motor taxi? Seeing a horse-drawn cab passing, he hailed it. She climbed willingly up to the leather seat. Now, how was he to do it, when he could scarce breathe and his left leg was almost useless? He planted his right foot firmly on the step and swung himself up with his right arm. And then, near to collapse as ever he'd been in his life, he slumped down beside the hunched figure and told the driver where he must go with his last breath.

  The cab shot forward, the driver shouting at the pedestrians and cracking his whip. The poor creature beside him cried brokenheartedly, drawing the veil completely over her face.

  He embraced her; he ignored the cold hard bone he could feel through the thin black cloth. He held tight to her and, gradually catching his breath, told her again in Latin that he would care for her, that he was her friend.

  As the cab sped out of the British district, he tried to think. But shocked and in pain, he could achieve no rational explanation for himself for what he'd witnessed or what he'd done. He only knew on some inchoate level that he'd seen a miracle and a murder; and that the former meant infinitely more to him than the latter; and he was set now upon an irrevocable course.

  Julie was only half-awake. Surely she was misunderstanding the British official who stood in the door.

  "Arrested? For breaking into the museum? I don't believe it."

  "Miss Stratford, he's been wounded, badly. There seems to be some confusion."

  "What confusion?"

  The doctor was furious. If the man was badly wounded, he should be in hospital, not in the back of the jail.

  "Make way," he shouted to the uniformed men in front of him. "What in God's name is this, a firing squad?"

  No less than twenty rifles were pointed at the tall blue-eyed man standing against the wall. Dried blood covered the man's shirt. The shoulder had been blown away from his coat. There was dried blood there as well. Panic-stricken, he stared at the doctor.

  "Come no closer!" he cried. "You will not examine me. You will not touch me with your medical instruments. I am unharmed and I want to leave this place."

  "Five bullets," whispered the officer in the doctor's ear. "I saw the wounds, I tell you. He can't possibly have withstood such a-"

  " Let me have a look at you! *' The doctor attempted to move in.

  Instantly the man's fist shot towards him, knocking the black bag to the ceiling. One of the rifles went off as the man charged the policemen, slamming several of them backwards, against the wall. The doctor fell to his knees. His glasses fell on the ground before him. He felt the heel of a boot come down on his hand as the soldiers stampeded into the hall.

  Again the rifle cracked. Shouts and curses in Egyptian. Where were his glasses! He must find his glasses.

  Suddenly someone was helping him to his feet. The glasses were in his hand and quickly he put them on.

  A civilized English face came into focus.

  "Arc you all right?"

  "What the devil's happened? Where is he? Did they shoot him again?''

  "The man's as strong as a bull. He broke the back door out, bars and all. He's escaped."

  Thank God, Alex was with her. No one could find Elliott. Samir had gone on to the police station to find out what he could. As she and Alex were ushered into the office, she saw with relief that it was the governor's assistant. Miles Winthrop, and not the governor himself. Miles had gone to school with Alex. Julie had known him since he was a little boy.

  "Miles, this is a misunderstanding," Alex said. "It has to
be."

  "Miles," she said. "Do you think you can get him released?"

  "Julie, the situation is more complicated than we realized. First off, the Egyptians aren't too fond of those who break into their world-famous museum. But now there's a theft and a murder to be considered as well."

  "What are you talking about!" Julie whispered.

  "Miles, Ramsey couldn't murder anybody," Alex said. "That's patently absurd."

  "I hope you're right, Alex. But there's a maid dead in the museum with her neck broken. And a mummy's been stolen from a display case on the second floor. And your friend has escaped the jail. Now, tell me, both of you. How well do you really know this man?"