Pyramid Song

[Content Note: death, colonialism, racist views, the dog dies.]

Carter was dying - that much was clear. Although he didn't believe in "the curse" it seems his body did. He was once a dynamic presence on the world stage and was now reduced to little more than a quivering jelly.

He wasn't the first to be hit by the so-called curse. The wrath of the ancient Egyptians was a persistent rumour - mostly set about by those who found themselves infected by one of the overly-friendly locals. Unexplained rashes and a lingering malady were the common symptoms of the explorers' pox; but this was different. Something in his bones told Carter that Anubis had been angered and was seeking his revenge.

No! Utter poppycock! Anubis didn't guard the dead and Osiris wasn't lying in wait for grave-robbers. He'd been too long among the savages that he was starting to believe their heathen faith. He coughed blood. This wasn't malaria and no amount of gin and tonics would cure him. Besides, it was hardly robbery. Those tombs had been locked under the desert for millennia! The world deserved to see the precious treasures in a befitting setting like the Imperial Museum in London. The people of this land had evidently forgotten their history, and it was up to great men like Carter to revive it. Another clump of hair fell out.

There was a lingering feeling though. Something was stalking him. "Boy!" he called out.

The savage boy in the corner of the room continued to waft the stale air around the room. His dull and thoughtless eye affixed to the ceiling as he muttered his prayers.

"Boy! I say"

The child lazily wandered over. Barely spoke any English, the poor thing. A street urchin, no doubt stealing money from Carter's purse when he slept.

"Boy! Go find housekeeper. HOUSE KEEPER. Tell her to bring me my correspondence. Letters. Post. Understand? POST."

The boy repeated the word "post" and left the room. This was intolerable. Carter had discovered the greatest trove of wonders and yet his letters went unanswered. Was the mail in this country really so unreliable or were there more sinister forces at work? Tish! Superstition plucking at his brain again.

The boy returned, a single envelope in his filthy hand. Carter greedily snatched it from the child and ripped it open. It was from England! At last, someone had heard his good news. The letter's border was tinged with black. It wasn't a letter of praise and commendation, it was a letter of grief. The sentimental old fool of a steward had written to say Carter's dog had died. It awoke in the middle of the night howling, nothing could be done to calm it, barking madly at invisible foes, growling at the sky. Until, with a whimper, it collapsed and died. The letter was dated the day after Carter had opened the tomb.

He felt his heart beat quicker. Icy tendrils ran over his diseased body. Based on the time difference, his beloved old dog had died at the moment Carter punctured the pyramid's inner sanctum.

Carter tried to picture the moment of discovery. His memories were hazy now, as though some unrelenting external force were squeezing his mind between its serpentine fingers. Think man! Think!

They were in the middle of nowhere. A barren desert for as far as the eye could see. The camels had revolted about a mile back so Carter's band of explorers pressed on by foot. There were no birds in the sky, no chattering insects, no life whatsoever. Carter consulted his compass and set off at a brisk pace, ignoring the moaning of the shiftless natives carrying his kit. The map had been obtained with a small fortune and no end of bargaining with the duplicitous curator of what passed for Cairo's museum.

Spikes. That's what the pyramids were. The ultimate in hostile architecture. A brazen warning to all not to approach. They were thorns sticking out of the land, preventing people from plucking their treasures. Carter was made of sterner stuff than the cowards who had tried to hide these treasures. As he walked through what the locals referred to as "The Valley of Death", Carter felt no fear; only excitement and the lust for glory. His certainty in the righteousness of his faith, and of the power in pistol at his side, gave him hope and courage. To be the first civilised man to enter the tomb of kings was to write his name in history. He glanced at the map. Here was the sharpest thorn of all. A wicked and evil protrusion designed to repulse and repel. Carter summoned the largest man of his retinue and instructed him to dig.

The tents swayed in the winds. The desert nights were long and full of the whispers of the ancient gods. The men continued to dig while Carter slept. His dreams were troubled. He saw an eagle fall from the sky, screaming as it reached the ground. A thousand painted savages ran as it exploded, engulfing them in flame. In the middle of the forest, a windmill was spinning. Faster and faster. The blades were a blur and the tower began to shudder. The land around the windmill began to wither and die as it sank spinning into the ground. An Indian elephant stamped it down, leaving its foot behind. A woman, almost naked but for a few strips of cloth, danced in front of him. She stood on a crossroad, one way led to a castle, the other to the sea. Her smile was wide and her eyes were empty. It was her skin boiling away which jolted Carter awake.

The entrance to the tomb had been found.

In the dead of night the nearly-full moon scattered stray beams almost as an afterthought. Carter was surrounded by flaming torches, the sweat was lashing off of him, his jaw strained with impatience at the navvy's attempts to crack open the door. Overcome with frustration, he pushed the man aside and grasped the iron crowbar. The metal was cool to the touch, almost like ice. Carter heaved his bulk against it and the stone came tumbling down. The dank and musty air which had been trapped inside for untold centuries came rushing out with a howl.

"It is merely the difference in pressure!" he yelled at the retreating mob. "The resonance of the air against the stone is making that infernal noise."

The superstitious fools wouldn't be swayed. They cowered behind the tents and left Carter to his fate.

Carter's torch illuminated the corridor. The hieroglyphs came to life and performed their rituals for the first time since they were painted by ancient artisans. A trick of the light, of course. They were merely dancing in the flicker of the fire. Occult carvings made by a race of noble savages, sophisticated for such primitive people. A visual representation of what their unevolved minds were trying to communicate. Hieroglyphics were an active field of study, but one which Carter studiously ignored. He didn't want his brain filled up with childish scrawlings. Nevertheless, he bent to inspect their fine detail.

Danger! Death! Warning! Run! Terror! Even without the aid of translation, Carter could interpret the signs. You don't show a man being eaten by a crocodile unless you want to send a warning. Every panel was covered in beautiful paintings depicting the horrors which would befall anyone disturbing the sanctity of this place. The gods were shown emanating rays of light from their bodies, striking down those who dared enter. Curiously, when Carter stared at the gods for too long, he saw stars in his eyes. Probably just the dust being kicked up. He strode on, deeper.

The closer he got to the centre of the tomb, the larger and more gruesome the warnings became. He tripped on the decaying bones of more than one skeleton left, no doubt, to frighted naïve grave robbers. The bones were lumpy and misshapen giving them an almost unhuman aspect. Further proof that they were guarding something valuable and significant. You don't hide a building in the middle of nowhere and then destroy all evidence of it unless it contains a powerful secret. Carter entered the final chamber and marvelled. A treasure trove that would make him rich and ensure his place in the history books. He started to catalogue what he had discovered.

And now he lay dying. The secrets of the tomb had been revealed and sent back to England for safe keeping. Well, mostly. A small golden nugget was kept in his breast pocket. A curious rock hidden deep within a sarcophagus, nestled in several protective layers of cloth and metal. It was warm to the touch and glowed faintly in the dark. A powerful talisman that Carter hid away for his own private collection. Not everything needed to be examined by experts. His reminiscence was disturbed by a loud knocking on the door accompanied by raised voices babbling in the incomprehensible Egyptian tongue.

"Boy! Door!" Carter hacked up another wodge of bloody phlegm and wiped it with his skeletal hand.

A heavyset gentleman wearing a fez entered, followed closely by a slimmer man. They had the bearing of undertakers and the complexion of sun-baked clay. Ghouls, no doubt, come to prey on him.

"What do you two want?" Carter attempted to snarl, but it came out as a whisper.

"Effendi!" The larger one said, "You asked for the finest translators in the land. I am Rajul Qui, and this is my assistant Shajarat Alghari."

The thinner of the men smiled weakly but didn't speak. Carter looked on impassively. Was this how he would die? Surrounded by fools and ignorant savages. Rajul continued, "We have translated several sections of the hieroglyphics you sketched. Your skills as an artist are beyond comparison and a testament to your refined education. Would care for us to read to you the English meaning of the panels?" Carter nodded glumly. There was no curse. This translation would be a waste of money. What could it possibly tell him?

Shajarat Alghari plucked a crumpled sheet of paper from his inside pocket and wasted a moment unfolding it. He coughed nervously and read aloud in a reedy voice.

"This place is not a place of honour…"

Thanks for reading

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