‘You’re bluffing,’ snarled Pirra. ‘You wouldn’t let Hylas die.’
Meritamen’s chin went up. ‘If I don’t get the dagger, my family is ruined. I will do what I must. What will you do?’
Pirra hesitated.
Rensi whispered in her ear: ‘As long as Userref’s ba is safe, what matters the dagger? Give us the word and we’ll take her to the tomb. We can do it so that she won’t know which one it is: that way it stays secret, but we’ll get the boy out safe!’
Pirra chewed her lip. Rensi was right. Let Telamon have the dagger, so long as Hylas got out alive.
And yet. What if Meritamen was lying? What if Telamon was already here on the West Bank, ready to follow them to the tomb and kill Hylas the moment he stepped outside?
‘Hurry!’ urged Meritamen. ‘Time is running out!’
Pirra looked at her, then slowly nodded. ‘You can take my place – but only if you do something for me.’
Hylas pushed the lid of the coffin aside and took great heaving gulps of air.
Darkness pressed on him, heavy with incense and offerings already starting to rot. The silence was absolute. Far away in the land of the living, the heb had gone.
He scrambled out, feeling tiny things swarming like beetles over his hands. He pictured the medu netjer pouring over the sides of the coffin and skittering over the floor. He touched his headband and prayed that Nebetku’s spells would protect him.
It was utterly dark, he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. He groped for the lid of the coffin, slid it back in place, stood swaying with Nebetku’s scroll in his fist. Where was he? Had the sacred crocodile swum on without him and left him in the tomb? Or was the tomb itself in the Duat?
Nebetku had tried to explain it, but even to him, it was a mystery. ‘There are seven parts to a man’s spirit, of which his ka and his ba are only two. The ka stays in the tomb. If the ba passes the trials of the Duat, it flies out by day and enjoys the Place of Reeds, returning at night.’
Hylas panted in the hot thick air. Silence roared in his ears. ‘Light,’ he muttered to give himself courage. His voice rang unpleasantly loud.
‘Everything you’ll need will be in a jar,’ Nebetku had told him. ‘You’ll find it by the tail of the coffin. You’ll know the jar by its lid: it will have the head of a baboon.’
It was horrible, feeling in the dark, dreading what he might find. His fingers fumbled jars with different heads: a bird’s beak, a jackal’s pointed ears. Ah. The blunt muzzle of a baboon.
Beneath his hand, the muzzle bared its teeth in a snarl. Hylas jerked back with a cry. The jar fell with a clatter. When the echoes died, the silence felt alive: as if something had woken.
His heart hammered in his chest as he groped for the jar. He felt inside. Familiar objects steadied him a little: strike-fire, palm-fibre tinder, two torches. Earlier, Rensi had shown him, so that he’d know what to expect. Each torch was twisted canvas, stiffened between two lathes and soaked in linseed oil. ‘Tomb-painters’ torches,’ the dwarf had explained through Nebetku. ‘They salt the oil, so that it won’t smoke and leave marks on the paintings. Whatever you do, don’t drop it. If you start a fire in there, that’s the end.’
Hylas’ hands were shaking so hard he nearly dropped the strike-fire, but at last he persuaded a spark to take. Light flared. Shadows skittered away as the medu netjer fled for the dark. Hylas twisted round, but couldn’t see his own shadow. He guessed it had stayed outside, rather than venturing in here.
When he raised the torch, hundreds of eyes stared back at him. The animal Wrapped Ones were all around: on the floor, in niches cut into the walls. Some, like the sacred crocodile, had splendid coffins. Others were merely neat linen bundles with painted faces. Torchlight flickered over kneeling rams, a dainty gazelle, two stiff tubular snakes. A cat’s slanted gaze reminded him of Havoc. A falcon’s teardrop eyes made him think of Pirra.
The thought of them gave him courage. Come on, Hylas. Let’s find the tunnel and get this over.
He found the black cat as Nebetku had described, sitting on its haunches in a niche halfway up the second tunnel on the left. It was varnished with pitch, and it stared down at him with startling yellow eyes. Behind it, the niche appeared to be backed by smooth grey stone, but this came away easily, as Nebetku had said it would.
Without giving himself time to think, Hylas jammed the Spells and the spare torch in his belt, moved the cat aside, and hoisted himself into the tunnel.
It was so narrow he couldn’t wriggle in straight, but had to slant sideways with one arm stretched forwards, holding the burning torch, the other back. Mercifully, the tunnel was short. He fell out the other side on to a bumpy stone floor.
He was in a small, low chamber: rough walls hacked from the rock, then plastered over. Against them sat the red clay ancestors of Userref and Nebetku. Hylas glimpsed women in white linen dresses and scribes sitting cross-legged with scrolls and palettes in their laps. All wore dusty ropes of dried cornflowers, and had been well provided with jars of beer, water and mouldy loaves. All gazed serenely on their joyous, painted world.
The ceiling was a bright blue sky where a green goddess watched over them with outspread arms. On one wall, painted slaves harvested wheat, and tended sleek cattle and vines with fat purple grapes, while painted ancestors feasted on wine and roast geese. Among them, a pretty girl who reminded Hylas of Meritamen ate a dish of honeycomb, while at her feet, her pet hedgehog sat tied by its leash to the leg of her chair.
The other wall was a vivid green papyrus marsh, alive with ducks and riven by blue waterways teeming with fish. Around it were date-palms and pomegranate trees, where a young man drove a chariot drawn by two prancing white horses. It reminded Hylas of the Great Green – but with no crocodiles or scorpions to hurt you. It was the Place of Reeds, where everyone was young and healthy, and there was no sickness and no pain.
All this he took in by the glimmer of his torch. Then, directly ahead, he saw the door. It was stained scarlet, to ward off demons, and it stood slightly ajar. On the walls on either side were two large black painted jackals. They lay on their bellies with their heads raised and their sharp ears pricked.
‘Anpu, Lord of Silence, guards the burial chamber,’ Nebetku had said. ‘With my spells, He will let you pass.’
‘Won’t the burial chamber be sealed?’ Pirra had asked.
‘I left it open,’ Nebetku had replied. ‘Soon, I too will become a Wrapped One: then Rensi and Herihor can seal us in.’
Sweat trickled down Hylas’ spine. Putting out his hand, he grasped the edge of the door and pulled it open.
The tunnel slanted so steeply that it was almost a shaft. Rough steps hacked from the rock led down into darkness. The silence beat at Hylas’ ears: the utter silence of deep underground.
The burial chamber was smaller and plainer than the one above: no happy, painted world down here. It was crammed with dusty coffins and all that the dead would need. In the uncertain light, Hylas glimpsed stools, sandals, clothes, a board game, scrolls – Nebetku’s gift to his brother? – and a bronze disc propped on a basketwork chest. He knew what that was. Last spring in the House of the Goddess, Pirra had shown him one, she’d called it a mirror. ‘Bend closer and take a look,’ she’d said – and giggled when he’d recoiled from the misty bronze boy within.
The air was thick with spells and the rank sweetness of decaying lotus. Once again, he prayed that Nebetku knew what he was doing with this headband.
Suddenly, he became aware of the distant flutter of wings, as if a bird had become trapped in some forgotten tunnel of the Crocodile Tomb. And closer: faint scratchings and tiny gnat-like voices.
The hairs stood up on his forearms. The voices were coming from the far corner.
Unsteadily, he swept it with his torch. Shadows leapt, and his light flickered over rows of shabti, all busily weaving and sewing, kneeling at grindstones, or stirring beer. They glanced up irritably at the light. He drew back, shroud
ing them in darkness.
Userref’s coffin lay on the ground in the middle of the chamber. It was man-shaped. The lid had feet jutting upwards and a carved and painted head: striped blue hair, serene dark-rimmed eyes, arms crossed on its chest, and below, a pair of large outstretched wings. Everything about it warned Hylas not to disturb the peace of the dead.
Except that the dead was not at peace. Hylas could still hear that panicky fluttering. Userref’s ba was trapped, unable to get out.
The lid was heavier than that of the crocodile coffin, and he could only use one hand; not for all the gods of Egypt would he let go of his torch. Somehow, he managed to manoeuvre the lid till it lay aslant the coffin.
Userref’s sah lay on its side with its neck on a limestone headrest, as if asleep. Herihor had excelled himself. The body was bandaged in intricate overlapping linen dyed red, then crisscrossed with white tapes, as if to prevent it bursting free. The breast was wreathed with crumbling poppies. The head wore a braided wig as blue as the sky, the face a mask painted green, like Userref’s god Ausar, Lord of Rebirth. In front of the folded arms lay the cruel blank scroll left by Meritamen’s spy – and behind, against the back, the dagger of Koronos: wound with linen spells beseeching the gods to destroy it.
They hadn’t, of course. Between the bandages twisted round the dagger, Hylas caught the murderous glint of bronze.
Sweat streamed down his flanks. Userref’s sah looked as if at any moment it might push itself up on one elbow and turn its dreadful gaze on him. ‘Forgive me,’ he whispered, ‘for disturbing your rest.’
Wiping his hand on his thigh, Hylas bent over the coffin and reached down for the blank scroll.
The fluttering wings grew suddenly louder. Hylas felt bewilderment and pain swirling around him like dust. He spun round, his light catching the bronze mirror on the chest.
His heart jerked. The mirror threw back a cloudy image of himself – and behind it, a tall winged figure standing in the shadows.
Hylas swayed. ‘Userref … Is that you?’
It stood beyond the torchlight on the other side of the coffin: a thing of dust and darkness, shifting, blurring, breaking apart.
Hylas made out a bowed head and the points of folded wings jutting above the shoulders. He felt its pain, and his dread turned to fearful pity. This had been a man. Pirra’s big brother in all but name. It was Userref who had found the lion claw which had become Hylas’ treasured amulet, it was Userref who had carried Havoc to safety when Thalakrea was burning. Now his spirit was in danger and needed help.
From across the dark river that flows between the living and the dead, a voice whispered in Hylas’ mind, as insubstantial as mist: Why …
Hylas tightened his grip on the torch. ‘N-Nebetku sends spells – to help you in the Hall of Truth …’
Truth … echoed the voice.
‘I’ll put them in your …’ Wiping his free hand on his thigh, Hylas stooped over the coffin and reached for the blank scroll – careful, don’t touch any part of the Wrapped One. He set it on the ground, then took the true scroll from his belt and held it up.
Shadowy wings rustled. The spirit’s gaze chilled his skin.
The Spells for Coming Forth by Day were a tight-furled scroll, tied by tapes sealed with little clay discs. Nebetku had warned him to lay it the right way up. ‘I’ve drawn a bee on the top end: you must put it with that end nearest the heart.’
Hylas did as he’d been told. As he set the Spells before the Wrapped One’s crossed arms, a fathomless sigh breathed through his mind. Aah …
Now for the dagger of Koronos.
Again, Hylas wiped his palm on his kilt. ‘He said – I could take the dagger.’ But as he reached for it, an icy draught swept over him and his wrist was caught in a grip stronger than winter. He tried to draw back. He couldn’t move.
Then it came to him. Userref thought Pirra was dead. He’d sworn to keep the dagger safe, and he was guarding it still.
‘She’s not dead,’ panted Hylas. ‘Pirra’s alive!’
The freezing grip only tightened.
‘I can prove it! Your wedjat – you left it hanging on her bedpost when she was sick! I couldn’t possibly know that unless she told me! She’s here in Egypt, she asked me to bring it to you – she misses you so much, she wants you to be at peace!’
Peace … echoed the voice in his mind. The chill faded from his flesh, and he could move. But the figure loomed over the coffin, horribly close.
Hylas felt its gaze as he bent and grasped the dagger of Koronos and slid it into the empty sheath at his belt.
But when he took the wedjat from around his neck, the dark wings fluttered in protest, the shadowy head shook, and a finger pointed at his chest.
‘You – you want me to keep the wedjat?’ faltered Hylas.
The head bent in assent.
As Hylas slipped the thong back around his neck, he heard another sigh in his mind: not of pain, but release. Aah …
For the last time, Hylas bent over the coffin and slid the lid in place over the Wrapped One.
When he straightened up, he was alone in the burial chamber. Userref’s ba was gone.
It was much harder to breathe as he made his way back. As if a spell had been broken, he realized that he’d been down here too long. In the world of the living, surely midnight was already past.
Breathless and light-headed, he scrambled up the shaft to the ancestor chamber, then through the tunnel. Hurry, hurry.
The dagger fell to the ground with a clatter. The sheath was too loose. Hastily he dealt with that, then slid the stone slab in place to hide the tunnel, set the black cat in front and ran back to the crocodile coffin.
Where was the doorway? Nebetku had told him what to look for: a wrapped calf at a left turn, a gazelle at the next, and two paces beyond, the outer doors.
Hylas couldn’t see anything resembling a calf. His mind went blank. What had he done wrong? Then he realized. He shouldn’t have returned to the crocodile coffin, he should’ve gone the other way.
Frantically, he backtracked, stumbling past the black cat, which watched him with impassive yellow eyes. His chest was heaving. The air was thick and hot, like breathing sand.
At last the calf flickered into sight. There was the gazelle. The doors loomed out of the dark. He collapsed against them, rapping three times. ‘Pirra!’ he panted. ‘Let me out!’
No answer.
He knocked again. Beat at the doors with his fists. They were barred from outside and didn’t budge.
He waited, hearing his own laboured breaths. Beyond the doors, he caught a familiar sound, muffled by distance: Havoc’s yomp yomp call. Where are you?
His torch blinked out.
He knocked again and again. ‘Pirra!’
Darkness and silence.
She wasn’t there.
Anxiously, the lion cub snuffed the wind, but she could catch no scent of the boy. All through the Light she’d waited for him in the burning land, and when the Dark had come and he still didn’t appear, she’d seized her courage by the scruff and gone to find him.
As the Great Lion rose silver in the Up, she prowled the clifftop, trying to see what was happening. Many of the humans were going back across the Great Wet, howling amid an awful stink of flowers.
Suddenly, she caught muffled yowls and frantic scratching, somewhere below her. To her horror, she heard that the boy was inside one of the lairs of the dead humans. She called to him, trying for a good loud roar – but as always, only managing a groany yowl.
A wind that wasn’t a wind stirred her scruff, and the falcon swept overhead and perched on a rock. Normally, the falcon roosted in the Dark, but now she was wide awake.
Fluffing up her neck-feathers, the falcon twisted her head right round in that way which the lion cub envied, then lifted off with a brittle alarm call: kek-kek-kek!
What had she seen?
The cub caught a new scent, and her hackles rose. Up from the Great Wet wafted the
bitter stink of the terrible men with the flapping black hides: the men who had killed her mother and father, and nearly killed her. They were hunting the boy.
Tensely, the cub crept to the edge of the cliff. They were far below, coming ashore from the Great Wet. She remembered the pain in her shoulder where their flying fang had bitten deep. Her courage faltered. There were so many of them.
What could one small lion cub do against so many?
As the falcon rode the hot smooth Wind, the crow-men dwindled to specks, and she felt lighter and freer. The girl had been anxious, which had made the falcon anxious too – and she hated that. Worry was for earthbound creatures, not falcons.
As she slid across the Sky, the falcon spotted the girl running between the huts of the humans. Something about her felt different. Yes. The girl was full of fierce, urgent purpose. This was much better: all falcons are fierce.
The crow-men hadn’t seen the girl yet, but they would soon. The falcon knew what to do about that.
She spiralled higher towards the Moon, then tucked in her legs, folded her wings and dived. The air screamed as the earth hurtled towards her. The crow-men blundered about with their flightless wings hanging limp down their backs: so slow, so unaware. They never saw her coming because they never looked up.
At the last moment, she spread wings and tail and pulled out of the dive, shrieking. The crow-men ducked as she swept over them. They scattered, pointing at the Sky – but by then she’d left them far behind.
As she slid on to a spiral of warm air and let it carry her up the cliffs, she spotted one more. This crow-man was on his own, making for the entrance to one of the dead lairs, where a girl stood waiting: not the falcon’s girl, the other one. The one her girl didn’t like.
Silently, the falcon flew past for a closer look.
The Crocodile Tomb Page 14