The Mummy

by Anne Rice

  Running at full sprint across the roof, he took the alleyway before him in one leap. Within seconds, he covered another roof, and dropped down to another, and then cut across another narrow street.

  Only then did he look back. His pursuers had lost him. He could hear the faint, very distant crack of the rifle. Perhaps they were shooting at each other. He did not care.

  He dropped down into the street and ran. Within a short distance, the street became an alley. The houses hemming him in had high windows covered over with wooden screens. He saw no more British shops or English signs. Only Egyptians passed him, and for the most part they were old women in pairs, with veils over their faces and their hair. They averted their eyes at once from his bloodstained shirt and torn clothes.

  Finally he stepped into a doorway and rested, and then slowly slipped his hand into his coat. The wound was healed on the outside, though he could still feel the throbbing inside. He felt the broad strip of the moneybelt. The vials were intact.

  The cursed vials! Would that he had never taken the elixir from its hiding place in London! Or that he had sealed the powder into a clay vessel and sunk the vessel into the sea!

  What would the soldiers have done with the liquid if they had got their hands on it? He could not bear to dwell on how close he had come to that possibility.

  But the thing now was to return to the museum! He must find her! And to dwell on what had befallen her in the interim was more than he could bear.

  Never in all his existence had he experienced the regret which he was feeling now. But it was done! He had succumbed to the temptation. He had awakened the half-rotted body lying in that case.

  And he must find the results of his folly. He must learn whether a spark of intellect existed inside it!

  Ah, but whom was he deceiving! She had called his name!

  He turned and hurried down the alley. A disguise, that's what he needed. And he had no time to purchase it. He must take it where he could. Laundry, he had seen ropes of laundry. He rushed on, until he saw another such rope sagging across a narrow passageway to his left.

  Bedouin garments-the long-sleeved robe and the headdress. He tore these down at once. Discarding his jacket, he put them on, and then cut a bit of the rope itself to tie around his head.

  Now he looked like an Arab except for the blue eyes. But then he knew where he might get a pair of dark glasses. He'd seen them in the bazaar. And that was on the way back to the museum. He headed out at a dead run.

  * * *

  Henry had been almost dead drunk since he'd come from Shepheard's the day before. The brief talk with Elliott had had a peculiar effect on him somehow; it had sapped his nerve.

  He tried to remind himself that he loathed Elliott Savarell and that he himself was pressing on to America, where he'd never see Elliott or anyone like him again.

  Yet the meeting haunted him. Every time he sobered up just a little he saw Elliott again, staring at him with absolute contempt. He heard the cold hatred in Elliott's voice.

  A lot of nerve Elliott had, turning on him like this. Years ago, after a brief and stupid affair, Henry had had it in his power to destroy Elliott, but he had not done so for no other reason than it would have been a cruel thing to do. He had always presumed that Elliott was grateful for that; that Elliott's patience and politeness signaled that gratitude. For Elliott had been unfailingly courteous to him over the years.

  Not so yesterday. And the awful thing about it was that the hatred EHiott evinced had been a mirror image of the hatred Henry felt for everyone he knew. It had soured Henry and embittered him.

  And it had also frightened him.

  Have to get away from them, all of them, he reasoned. They do nothing but criticize me and misjudge me when they are not worth a tinker's damn themselves.

  When they had left Cairo, he would clean himself up, stop drinking, go back to Shepheard's and sleep in peace for a few days. Then he'd strike the bargain with his father and head out to America with the considerable little fortune he'd saved.

  But for the moment, he had no intention of curtailing the parry. There would be no card game today; he would take it easy, and enjoy the Scotch without distraction; merely dozing in his rattan chair, and eating the food Malenka prepared for him if and when he chose.

  Malenka herself had become a bit of a nag. She had just cooked an English breakfast for him and wanted him to come to the table. He had slapped her with the back of his hand, and told her to leave him alone.

  Nevertheless she went on with her preparations. He could hear the kettle whistling. She had set china out on the small rattan table in the courtyard.

  Well, to hell with her. He had three bottles of Scotch, which was plenty. Maybe he would lock her out later if there was a chance. He loved the idea of being all alone here. Of drinking and smoking and dreaming. And maybe listening to the gramophone. He was even getting used to that damned parrot.

  As he dozed off now, the parrot was screeching and clucking and walking back and forth, upside down, on the ceiling of its cage. African grays liked to do things like that. In truth the thing looked like a giant bug to him. Maybe he should kill it when Malenka wasn't here.

  He felt himself drifting, dozing, on the edge of dream. He took one more sip of Scotch, so smooth, and let his head roll to the side. Julie's house; the library; that thing at his shoulder; the scream curled at the back of his throat.

  "God!" He shot forward out of the chair, and the glass fell out of his hands. If only that dream would stop. . . .

  Elliott had to stop to catch his breath. The two bulbous eyes stared at him over the black serge. It seemed they tried to squint in the sunlight, but the half-eaten lids would not fully close. The woman's hand pulled the veil tighter as if she wanted to hide herself from his gaze.

  Whispering softly in Latin, he begged for patience. The carriage had been unable to get very close to the house to which they were going. It was only a few paces more.

  He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. But wait a moment. The hand. The hand which was holding the black serge over her mouth. He looked at it again. It was changing in the burning sun. The wound exposing the knucklebone had almost closed.

  He stared at it for a moment; then he looked at her eyes again. Yes, the eyelids had filled in somewhat and long beautiful black lashes were now curving upwards, hiding the leprous like ruin of the flesh.

  He put his arm about her again: at once she cleaved to him, a soft and trembling thing. A soft sigh escaped her.

  He was aware suddenly of a perfume rising from her, a rich, sweet and altogether lovely perfume. There was the smell of dust, of mud, actually, of the deep river silt-but that was very faint. The perfume was strong and musky. He could feel her warmth coming through the black serge.

  Dear God, what is this potion! What is it capable of!

  "There, there, my dear," he said in English. "We're very close. That door at the end."

  He felt her arm slip around him. With a powerful grip she lifted him slightly, taking the pressure off his numb left foot. The pain in his left hip slackened. He gave a little laugh of relief. In fact, he almost broke into outright laughter. But he didn't. He simply moved on, allowing her to assist him, until he reached the door.

  There he rested for a moment, and then he pounded with his right fist.

  He could not have gone another step.

  There was a long moment in which he heard nothing. He pounded again, and again.

  Then came the sound of the bolt sliding, and Henry appeared, squinting, his face unshaven, dressed only in a green silk robe.

  "What the hell do you want?"

  "Let me in." He pushed the door back and brought the woman with him into the room. Desperately she crowded against him, hiding her face.

  Dimly, he saw that the place was luxurious-carpets, furniture, decanters gleaming on a marble sideboard. Through the archway, a dark-skinned beauty in a satin dancing costume-obviously Malenka-had just set down a tray of steaming
food. Small orange trees crowded against the whitewashed garden wall.

  "Who is this woman!" Henry demanded.

  Holding tight to her still, Elliott struggled to the chair. But he could see that Henry was staring at the woman's feet. He'd seen the bare bones showing in the instep. A look of disgust passed over Henry; of puzzlement.

  "Who is she! Why did you bring her here!"

  Then convulsively, Henry moved back, slamming into the pillar that divided the archway to the courtyard, his head thudding dangerously against the stone. "What's wrong with her!" he gasped. "Patience, I'll tell you everything," Elliott whispered. The pain in his chest was so bad now that he could hardly form the words. Easing down in the rattan chair, he felt the woman's grip loosen. He heard her make a faint sound. He looked up, and realized she had seen the cupboard across the room, the glass bottles gleaming in the light from the courtyard.

  She went towards the liquid, groaning. The black serge garment fell from her head and then from her shoulders, fully revealing the bones of her ribs gleaming through the gaping holes in her back, and the remnants of cloth that barely concealed her nakedness.

  "For the love of God, don't panic!" Elliott shouted.

  But it was too late. Henry's face went white, his mouth twisted and shuddering. Behind him, in the courtyard, Malenka let out a full-throated scream.

  The wounded creature dropped the bottle with a great piteous moan.

  Henry's hand rose from his pocket, sun glinting on the barrel of a small silver gun.

  "No, Henry!" Elliott cried. He tried to rise, but he couldn't. The shot exploded with the same nerve-shattering volume of the guns in the museum. A parrot screeched in its cage.

  The wounded woman cried out as she took the bullet in her chest, staggering backwards, and then let out a great bellow as she ran at Henry.

  The sounds coming from Henry were scarcely human. All reason had left him. He backed into the courtyard, firing the gun again and again. Crying in agony, the woman closed on him, knocking the gun out of his hand and taking him by the throat. In an ugly waltz they struggled, Henry clawing at her desperately, her own bony fingers holding fast to his neck. The wicker table went over, china shattering on the tiles. Into the orange trees they stumbled, tiny leaves pouring down in a shower.

  In terror Malenka crouched against the wall.

  "Elliott, help me!" Henry screamed. He was being bent over backwards, knees buckling and hands flailing, catching stupidly in the creature's hair.

  Elliott managed somehow to reach the edge of the archway. But only in time to hear the bones snap. He winced as he saw Henry's body go limp and tumble softly, in a heap of green silk, on the ground.

  The creature staggered backwards, whimpering, and then sobbing, her mouth making a grimace again, as it had in the museum, teeth bared. The ragged cloth covering her had been torn from one shoulder; her dark pink nipples showed through the sheer linen. Great gouts of blood hung in the wrappings still clinging to her torso, strips of fabric falling from her thighs with each step. Her eyes, bloodshot and running with tears, stared at the dead body and then at the spilt food, the hot tea steaming in the sun.

  Slowly she went down on her knees. She grabbed up the muffins and stuffed them into her mouth. On all fours she lapped the spilt tea. She scraped up the jam with her fingers and sucked them frantically. She gnawed on the bacon and then swallowed the rasher whole.

  In utter silence, Elliott watched her. He was vaguely conscious of Malenka running silently towards him, and then hovering behind him. Deliberately, he took one short breath after another, listening at the same time to the hammer trip of his heart.

  The creature devoured the butter; the eggs she crushed and scraped with her teeth from the shells.

  Finally there was no more food. Yet she remained there, on her knees. She was staring at her outstretched hands.

  The sun beat down on the little courtyard. It gleamed on her dark hair.

  In a daze, Elliott continued to watch. He could not absorb what he was seeing or judge it. The continuing shock of all he'd witnessed was too great.

  Suddenly the creature turned and lay down on the paved ground. She stretched out full length, crying as if into a soft pillow, her hand scratching at the hard-baked tiles. Then she rolled over on her back into the full sunlight, free of the soft dancing green shadows from the small trees.

  For a moment she stared up into the burning sky, and then her eyes appeared to roll up in her head. Only a half-moon of pale iris showed.

  "Ramses," she whispered. Her bosom moved faintly with her breathing. But otherwise she lay still.

  The Earl turned and reached for Malenka. Leaning heavily on her, he struggled back towards the chair. He could feel the dark-skinned woman trembling. He settled down silently on the tapestried cushions, and rested his head against the high rounded chair back of prickly rattan. This is all a nightmare, he thought. But it was not a nightmare. He had seen this creature raised from the dead. He had seen her kill Henry. What in God's name was he to do?

  Malenka remained at his elbow, then went down slowly on her knees. Her eyes were wide- and empty, her mouth agape. She stared towards the garden.

  Flies circled over Henry's face. They swooped down on the remnants of the overturned meal.

  "There, there, nothing will harm you," Elliott whispered. The burning in his chest subsided very slowly. He felt a dull warmth in his left hand. "She won't hurt you. I promise you." He moistened his dry lips with his tongue, then somehow managed to go on. "She is ill; and I must take care of her. She will not harm you, you understand."

  The Egyptian woman clutched at his wrist, her forehead against the arm of the chair. After a long moment, she spoke.

  "No police," she pleaded in a barely audible voice. "No English take my house."

  "No," Elliott murmured. "No police. We don't want the police."

  He wanted to pat her head, but he could not bring himself to move. He stared dully out into the sunlight, at the prone creature, her glossy black hair spread out in the sunlight; and at the dead man.

  "I take care of . . ." the woman whispered. "I take my English away. No police come.''

  Elliott didn't understand her. What was she saying? Then slowly it dawned on him.

  "You can do this?" he said under his breath.

  "Yes, I do this. Friends come. Take English away."

  "Yes, all right then." He sighed and the pain in his chest intensified. Tentatively he pushed his right hand into his pocket and brought out his money clip. Barely able to move his left fingers, he took out two ten-pound notes.

  "For you," he said. He closed his eyes again, exhausted by the effort. He felt the money taken from his hand. "But you must be careful. You must tell no one what you saw."

  "I tell no one. I take care of ... This is my house. My brother give."

  "Yes, I understand. I shall be here only a little while. That I promise you. I shall take the woman with me. But for now, you will be patient, and there'll be more money, much more." Once again he looked at the money clip. He peeled the notes off without counting and forced them into her hand.

  Then he lay back again, and closed his eyes. He heard her pad softly across the carpet. Then her hand touched him again.

  When he looked up he saw her draped in black, and she held another folded black robe in her hand.

  "You cover," she whispered. And with her eyes, she gestured to the courtyard.

  "I cover," he whispered. And closed his eyes again. "You cover!" he heard her say desperately. And again he said that he would.

  With great relief he heard her go out, and shut the door to the street.

  In the long flowing Bedouin robes, Ramses walked through the museum, among the milling tourists, peering ahead through the dark glasses at the empty space at the end of the corridor where the display case had stood. No sign that it had ever been there! No broken glass, no splintered wood. And the vial he had dropped. Gone.

  But where could she be! What hap
pened to her! In anguish, he thought of the soldiers who'd surrounded him. Had she fallen into their hands?

  He walked on, turning the corner, eyes moving over the statues and the sarcophagi. If he had known misery like this ever in all these centuries, he could not remember it now. He had no right to be walking here with men and women, to be breathing the same air.

  He could not think where to go or what to do. If he did not discover something soon, he would go completely mad.

  Perhaps a quarter of an hour passed, maybe less. Cover her, yes. No, get her out of the garden before the men come. She lay in the sun, stuporous, now and then murmuring in her sleep.

  Gripping his walking stick, he rose to his feet. There was feeling in his left leg again, and that meant there was pain.