"Has Clive regained his composure?" I asked. "He made it clear that I was no longer welcome here, for reasons that quite frankly mystified me at the time."
He clapped me on the back. "Oui, Monsieur. In fact, he suggested we invite you back here to help us with the investigation. Come, we shall inspect the tomb, and you can discuss matters further with him. He has been very busy these past few days."
Leaving the box and book in the tent, we stepped out into the maelstrom of stinging sands, and M. Maspero led us down the ravine to the site of the macabre discovery. Some of the laborers looked away as we passed, and others glared, their faces harboring barely concealed malice. No doubt there was talk regarding the uncanny resemblance of the body in the tomb and myself, and I wondered what local superstitions had been piqued.
Clive Fotheringham and his laborers had been busy indeed, for the tomb itself was now almost wholly excavated. It was hewn from the sandstone wall of the ravine in a rough pyramidal shape, six feet per side, with one corner jutting from the wall, and only two sides visible. On one side, the likeness of Anubis was crudely etched beneath a carving resembling the Eye of Horus. A boulder had been shifted away from a crawl space near the pyramid's base. The iconic images triggered a glimmer of recognition in my mind. I vaguely recalled a passage in the Unas text describing the connection between Anubis and the Eye of Horus, although what it could mean in this context I could not fathom.
When we came upon Clive, he was in the midst of a heated argument with an Egyptian who, seeing our approach, cursed and made the sign of the evil eye. He was draped in a broad white cloak and his turban was spotless.
He stormed off along the other side of the ravine.
M. Maspero cleared his throat. "I trust you have not offended the Imam?"
"No," Clive sighed. "We just had a difference of opinion. I'm sure he'll be back."
Clive brightened when he saw me, and extended his hand. "Awfully sorry we parted on a sour note, Samuel. When I found what was inside the tomb, I thought it best that you leave for a few days. Please understand."
We shook, and after some discussion of trivialities, I gestured toward the tomb. I thought it best to first discuss the tomb itself, for I had not yet the fortitude to enquire of the denizen within. "What can you tell me of it? It's quite unlike anything I've seen in the Valley of the Kings, and it seems a good deal cruder even than the smaller tombs elsewhere."
“One of the laborers tripped over the pyramid's peak where it protruded from the sands,” said Clive, leading us to the odd construction.
It was apparently quite recent, possibly no more than a few years old. Clive believed that it might be a contemporary of the box containing the gold-bound book. It was clearly not the work of skilled Egyptian artisans -- in fact, it was even crude for modern work. The most glaring indications were the tomb's uneven shape and the nature of the carvings adorning its exterior, both amateur work.
The interior was accessible by moving the boulder from the crawl space on the side. It had been wedged in such a way as to prevent it from being moved from within the tomb. Rather than keeping would-be grave robbers out, the intent had clearly been to keep its unfortunate occupant trapped inside, with no possibility of escape.
"I have been speaking to some of the workmen and solved part of the mystery, at least," said Clive, over a light luncheon that afternoon. "There was a sandstorm four years ago. I remember it myself: it affected travel for some time. Here it obliterated several villages and drifted deep enough to bury that tomb. But that doesn’t answer the pressing question . . . ."
"The identity of the man is no mystery," I said. Clive and Maspero stared at me, open-mouthed. "Although the circumstances of his death certainly are."
"You know who it is? Would you care to illuminate us, Monsieur?" said Maspero, putting down his glass of cold tea.
"It is my cousin, William. Although there is a difference in our ages, we have always so resembled each other that we are frequently mistaken for twins. One of those tricks of genetics, I suppose."
Maspero reddened. "And is there some reason that you did not choose to tell us this when you first saw the photographs?"
I felt my face flushing in my turn. "Obviously, Monsieur, I was stricken at the sight. I thought it better to see the body for myself before confirming the identity."
But Maspero was right -- I should have mentioned William before. But there, in the Cairo Museum, I hadn't even remembered my poor cousin. In fact, much of my past life had devolved into confusion. And chanting. In the back of my head, the eternal chant, the eternal dance, where even death may die.
Now, clarity. I remembered why.
"Of course; you were quite right," said Clive. Maspero flashed him an irritated look.
"But Samuel," continued Clive. "We were at school four years together -- I have met your father more than once, before his death, and I never understood you to have a cousin."
"Nor would you, Clive. Until the last few years he has never left Australia. And I am ashamed to say that, like the rest of my family, I never mentioned him for the simple reason that he is . . . was, I should say . . . a little mad. He was not unintelligent, and shared my interest in mythology, especially that of the ancient Egyptians -- but he was obsessed with them past the point of all reason. And he was prone to episodes of mania -- to the point of having to be restrained for his own safety.
"A few years ago he eluded his keepers and made his way to the continent -- I can only surmise for the purpose of continuing his studies in Egyptian Mythology at the source. I was not aware that he had stolen my private copy of my own translation of the Book of the Dead. I came to Egypt to find him as well as to further my own researches -- I had hoped to keep him by my side while we pursued our studies together. It is shocking, although perhaps not surprising, to find him dead."
"My condolences, Monsieur," said Maspero, as Clive patted me on the shoulder. "But your story, while illuminating, leaves intact the mystery of how he met his fate."
"Indeed," I replied, sipping my tea.
That night, Clive came to my tent. He spoke of nothings, at first -- mundane observations from his digs of the past year, the difficulty of finding trustworthy workers, the legendary disorganization of the Cairo Museum.
Finally he worked himself to broach the subject of his visit.
"The Imam says you've been here before, Sam. Four years ago, in fact."
"Of course he would. He mistakes William for myself. Countless people have."
"He insists not. He says you were here together, built the tomb together. Hired workers from the village for the purpose. And in the end, you left alone, leaving a sealed tomb."
"Nonsense!"
"He says for a night and a day unearthly cries came from behind that boulder. He thought, like the rest of these superstitious peasants, you were a mighty wizard who had imprisoned an evil ifrit, a demon, and none would go near."
I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
Then, filling me up like the cool tide, lucidity: the clarity of my terrible purpose.
Clive sat on the campstool opposite, and leaned quite close.
"Did you do it, Sam? Did you seal your cousin in that tomb? Did you kill him?"
I studied Clive's face. Sun burnt as he was, accustomed to hard labor in foreign lands in search of knowledge, he remained quintessentially English, naive, a beef-fed student shocked at the arcane.
"I had to, Clive," I said, reasonably. "He was my responsibility, after all."
Beneath the sunburn, Clive went pale. "What?"
I felt cold and calm, calm as Horus carved in basalt.
"You've never served at the pleasure of Her Majesty, the late Queen, did you, Clive? Or of His Majesty, either. No –- I mean no reproach. But there was a certain pressure on Australia's son's to show their patriotism. I've always been a crack shot, so I joined the South Australian Mounted Rifles and went to Africa to fight the Boers."
Clive's brow creased. "All very c
ommendable, Sam, but what . . . "
I rose and went to the canvas-flap door of the tent, and checked outside. All was quiet. The full moon filled the camp with a hard, white light and sharp shadows. Thoth, the moon god, full of dark wisdom. But go back further, and we know what the moon really is, don't we? The Eye of Horus, watching, waiting. Waiting for me to act.
"I saw things there, Clive," I said, still looking out the flap. I felt him shift impatiently behind me. "Things you never heard about back home. Foe against foe, rifle against rifle -- that isn't pretty, but it's straightforward. It's something a warrior can understand. But the camps, Clive. No one at home cared much to hear about the camps where the natives, the Zulu –- many of them women and children -- were herded. The things I saw . . ."
I turned back to Clive, who sat still and sweating. "There’s not much to do against the brutality of undereducated, over-armed men, at once bored and frightened. But once I was put on guard duty, and I saw a woman -- she was a tall, handsome creature, by the way, reminded me of that unfinished sculpture of Nefertiti that was found not long ago -- and her son . . . well, let's just say that the boys were determined to have their fun that night. I'd seen enough, and I wouldn't have it, so I escorted them both to my quarters and had a chat with the camp commander in the morning. And as my family are not without their influence, I was allowed to take her back to her husband.
"His name was Dingane, and he was grateful. In fact, due to his status in the tribe -- he was the local witch doctor, with just as much power as the chief -- I was welcomed as an honorary Zulu, of sorts. After the war I went back and lived in the tribe for a time -- I've always been interested in the mythology of primitive peoples, and even went walkabout with some of the Aboriginals at home, near my family's estate, and I learned much from Dingane about his tribe's more arcane practices.
"One day I was out hunting, and I had the misfortune to be bitten by a Boomslang. Ah, yes," I said, as Clive frowned. "I see you've heard of them."
"But Sam," he said. "A Boomslang -- that's one of the most poisonous snakes in the world, if not the most. The victim has a bare hour to live, from what I've heard. It's impossible to survive its bite."
I smiled. "We have more poisonous snakes in Australia. And it is possible to live two hours with a Boomslang bite. But, in the main, you are correct."
"Then how . . ."
I sat. "My memory is dim. Fortunately I was not hunting alone. By the time Dingane's men carried me to his hut I was burning with pain and fever. He told me, later, that he should not have done what he did but the blood debt between us was too great.
"You must understand that Dingane was no ordinary witch doctor. His people had come, long ago, from the lands of the North. From Egypt, in fact -- or from those ancient lands that had become Egypt. They had borne with them a great secret.
"The Papyrus of Ani -- the Book of the Dead. Modern mystics make much of it, but it is simply, as scholars agree and you and I know, a series of spells to assist the soul of the deceased in the afterlife.
"But have you ever studied, or even wondered about those texts that precede the Papyrus? The Coffin Texts? The Pyramid Texts? The writing in the Tomb of the Pharaoh Unas? The infamous Cannibal Verse? After I returned from South Africa -- after Dingane told me his dark secrets -- I studied them in depth. And I found they were a grim passageway to what had been written before, and lost to time -- save that which had been smuggled south."
"This is madness," breathed Clive, but I could see his interest was piqued.
"I would have agreed with you, Clive, before I knew. But study them as I have, and you will not be able to deny their grim provenance. A Grimoire obliterated by the ages -- and by the efforts of the Pharaohs' scribes, for I have no doubt it was they who took the secrets of the people who dominated this land before them and translated them into the tamer spells we see today. Who could blame them -- for the original texts must have been terrifying -- spells to raise the dead, to twist them to one's own ends, to summon creatures fearsome enough to drive sane men mad. But we see hints of it, do we not, in the texts that came after? The Voynich Manuscript? The Necronomicon? The Greater Key of Solomon?
"I do not like to dwell upon those hours of madness, so I will tell you quickly. As I burned with poison, Dingane slaughtered a half-dozen of his own prize oxen. And when I tell you the value oxen have in their culture . . . well. He more than paid his blood debt.
"Buried under the bodies of the oxen was an effigy in wood, complete with my hair and smeared with my blood. Dingane refused to tell me how else he prepared the figure, or the words of the spell he chanted over me all day and night. Suffice to say that in the morning I woke, weakened but alive, and by my side sat Dingane and -- myself. Or at least a creature so like me I could not tell the difference.
"He was, Dingane explained, a tsi-rennit, a death-twin. By his creation death was deflected away from me. He was an empty vessel with my form. And after three days passed, when my safety was assured, he would die by Dingane's spear.
"This plan disturbed me greatly. I had occasion to speak to the tsi-rennit, and while he was simple and unresponsive -- an empty vessel indeed -- I saw no evil in him, and no reason to kill him. I was alive and growing stronger; surely my life did not depend upon killing this innocent. Dingane would not listen to my pleas for his life.
‘He must die, my friend, he said. He exists merely to distract death from you. He is not meant to live in this world. To complete the spell I must kill him.
‘How can you, Dingane? I replied. He is an innocent!
‘Friend Samuel, he is a tool. I should never have used the spell. The book it came from is forbidden, for all my ancestors have been its keepers. But you were dying, you who saved my wife and children from the English death-camps. What was I to do?
‘And I am grateful. But you cannot kill him!
‘I must. At dawn I will.
"But it was not to be, for I was stronger than the tribesfolk knew. I took the tsi-rennit and fled to Capetown, soon after embarking by ship back to Australia. By then most of my family was dead, and I the sole heir; it was easy to pass William, as I named him, as an eccentric cousin.
"The only ones who were not fooled, who avoided him and me from then on were my old friends the Aboriginals. But they too bear wisdom from beyond the beginning of recorded time. It would not surprise me to know that certain of their ancestors had knowledge of the ancient text Dingane's ancestors bore.
"William learned quickly, and I found that we had memories in common. As time went on I found he remembered every important event in my own past life. He shared, as well, my interest in mythology, and together we researched the source of the Papyrus of Ani.
"As time went on he became less stable. He would insist that he was me, that I had usurped his position. At these times I would have to restrain him for his own good. Afterwards, during his periods of lucidity, he was as meek as a lamb.
"He did escape and flee to Egypt; I told the truth there. But I confess now I did find him. He had descended further into madness, but now it took a different form. Instead of insisting that he himself was Samuel Winchester, he said his further researches demanded practical application. He wanted to build a temple and invoke the ancient powers there. Only then, he said, could our lives and destinies be truly separated and he could live his life as my cousin and trouble me no more with his periods on instability.
"I humored him -- it seemed the least I owed him. We found this remote spot, and hired laborers to build the tomb-temple you found. When the work was completed to his satisfaction, he asked me to accompany him alone to the structure. I did not suspect he wanted to kill me.
"He must have stolen the dagger from the Cairo Museum -- their methods of inventory are atrocious. He took me by surprise but I managed to evade the blow, knocking him to the ground. I should have shot him there, I suppose, but still I could not. While he lay there, dazed, I ran to the entrance and with much effort rolled the boulder to block i
t, wedging it tight. The dry desert heat mummified him, as it does chance corpses. And that, Clive, is the story."
He shook himself. "It's murder, Sam, murder pure and simple. If you'd shot him in self-defense . . ."
"Oh, I did make a mistake by leaving him so, I concede that. For my further researches into the Cannibal Text told me what I should do."
Clive stared at my face with a peculiar intensity. "Do you remember, Sam, when we were out without leave that last quarter at Cambridge, and I dared you to climb the gates? And you slipped and cut the side of your face?"
"Of course I do," I said, wondering at the change of subject.
"It's been bothering me since your first visit to the dig, but I only really realized now. You bore a scar since that time -- a small white scar just under your chin. I doubt you yourself could see it in the mirror. You don't have it now. And that means –- you’re not Samuel Winchester."
He never saw me coming. I shall never forget the astonished look on his face as I sprung for his throat, knocking him clean off the campstool. A clean twist of the neck, and the job was done. His face retained its frozen expression of surprise
The Cannibal Text invites the Pharaoh Unas to eat the gods and his enemies to gain power. It seemed clear what I should do. I bent to my task.
My fingers are skinned raw: still I heave at the boulder. It is almost in place. The drug has worn off now. The man inside flings himself at the other side of the rock.
"Will! Will! What are you doing!"
But I am not William: I am Samuel, am I not? I have always been so.
"Will, you don't want to do this! Let me out and we'll talk!"
This is better than killing him with the dagger. He's always been kind to me; I don't want to strike him down myself. I'm glad I left it for him so he can make his own decision.
I run towards the camp, hearing the noises fade in the distance.
Lovecraft eZine Megapack - 2013 Page 18