Robin Cook - Sphinx

Fear of the unknown made her stumble to her feet, only to lose her balance again and sprawl forward. There was a tremendous amount of dust choking her. Her outstretched right hand fell on an object that she thought was a piece of wood. She held onto it, hoping it would ignite like a torch.

Finally she managed to stand up. She switched the piece of wood to her left hand in order to get her matches from her jeans pocket. But the object no longer felt like a piece of wood. Touching it with both hands, she realized she was holding a mummified forearm and hand, trailing wrappings in the darkness. With disgust she threw the object away from her.

Shaking, Erica pulled the matches from her pocket and struck one. As its light filtered outward in the dust, Erica found herself in a catacomb with bare, unadorned walls and filled with partially wrapped mummies. The bodies had been broken apart and stripped of any valuables, then rudely discarded.

Turning around slowly, Erica saw evidence that the ceiling had partially caved in. In the corner she saw a low dark doorway. Grabbing her tote bag, she struggled forward in the knee-deep debris. The match burned her fingers, and she shook it out, moving forward with her hands groping for the wall, then the doorway. She passed into the next room. Lighting another match, she found herself in a room filled with equally grotesque images. A niche in the wall was filled with decapitated mummified heads. There was evidence of more cave-ins.

On the wall opposite Erica were two widely separated doorways. She worked her way into the center of the room, and holding the match ahead of her, decided the air was coming from the smaller passage. The match went out, and she moved forward with her hands ahead of her.

Suddenly there was a great commotion. A cave-in! Erica threw herself forward against the wall, feeling particles hit her hair and shoulders.

But there was no crash. Instead the commotion in the air continued and the atmosphere became saturated with dust and high-pitched screeches. Then something landed on Erica’s shoulder. It was alive and clawing. As her hand swept the animal off her back, she touched wings. It wasn’t a cave-in. It was a million disturbed bats. She covered her head with her arm and crouched low against the wall, breathing as best she could. Gradually the bats quieted and she was able to move into the next room.

Erica slowly realized that she had fallen into a maze of tombs of the common people of ancient Thebes. The catacombs had been progressively cut into the mountainside in the form of a labyrinth to make room for the millions of dead. Sometimes they had inadvertently connected with other tombs, in this case with the tomb of Ahmose, in which Erica had been interred. The connection had been plastered over and forgotten.

Erica pushed on. Although the presence of the bats was horrifying, it was also encouraging. There had to be a connection with the outside. Eventually she tried lighting the mummy wrappings and discovered they burned briskly. In fact, Erica found that the pieces of mummies with their wrappings burned like torches, and she forced herself to pick them up. The forearms were best, because they were easy to hold. With the help of better light she worked her way through many galleries and up several levels until she felt fresh air. Dousing her torch, Erica walked the last feet by the light of the moon. When she emerged into the warm Egyptian night, she was several hundred yards from the place she had entered the mountain with Muhammad. Directly below her was the village of Qurna. There were very few lights.

For a time Erica stood trembling at the entrance to the catacomb, appreciating the moon and the stars in a way she’d never done. She knew she was enormously lucky to be alive.

The first thing she needed was a place to rest, pull herself together, and have a drink. Her throat was raw from the suffocating dust. She also wanted to wash, as if the experience clung to her like dirt, and most of all she wished to see a friendly face. The closest source of all these comforts was Aida Raman’s house. She could see it up against the hillside. A light still shone in the window.

Stepping from the seclusion of the catacomb, Erica walked warily along the base of the cliff. Until she got back to Luxor, she would take no chance on being seen by Muhammad or the Nubian. What she really wanted to do was get back to Yvon. She’d tell him as best she could the location of the statue and then get out of Egypt. She’d had enough.

When she was directly above Aida Raman’s, Erica began the descent. For the first hundred yards it was deep sand, then loose gravel, which frightened her by shifting noisily in the bright moonlight. Finally she reached the back of the house.

Erica waited for a few minutes in the shadows, watching the village. She saw no movement. Satisfied that it was all clear, she walked around the building into the courtyard and knocked at the door.

Aida Raman shouted something in Arabic. Erica responded by calling out her name and asking if she could talk with her.

“Go away,” shouted Aida through the closed door.

Erica was surprised. Aida had been so warm and friendly. “Please, Mrs. Raman,” she said through the door. “I need a drink of water.”

The door unlatched and swung open. Aida Raman was clad in the same cotton dress she had on for their first meeting.

“Thank you,” said Erica. “I’m sorry to trouble you. But I am very thirsty.”

Aida looked older than she had two days previously. Gone was the apparent humor. “All right,” she said, “but wait here by the door. You cannot stay.”

While the old woman fetched a drink, Erica looked around the room. The familiar sight was comforting. The long-handled shovel nested in its brackets. The framed photos hung neatly on the wall. Many were of Howard Carter with a turbaned Arab Erica thought had to be Raman. There was a small mirror among the photos, and Erica was shocked by her appearance.

Aida Raman brought some of the juice she’d given Erica on her first visit. Erica drank slowly. Swallowing hurt her throat.

“My family was very angry when I told them you tricked me into revealing the papyrus to you,” said Aida.

“Family?” said Erica, the drink reviving her. “I thought you said you were the last of the Ramans.”

“I am. My two sons died. But I also had two daughters, who have families. It was one of my grandsons I told about your visit. He became very angry and took the papyrus.”

“What did he do with it?” asked Erica, alarmed.

“I don’t know. He said it had to be treated very carefully and that he would put it somewhere safe. He also said that the papyrus was a curse, and that now that you have seen it, you must die.”

“Do you believe that?” Erica knew that Aida Raman was no fool.

“I don’t know. It’s not what my husband said.”

“Mrs. Raman,” Erica said, “I translated the whole papyrus. Your husband was right. There was nothing about a curse. The papyrus was written by an ancient architect for Pharaoh Seti I.”

A dog barked loudly in the village. A human voice shouted in reply.

“You must go,” said Aida Raman. “You must go in case my grandson returns. Please.”

“What is your grandson’s name?” asked Erica.

“Muhammad Abdulal.”

The news hit Erica like a slap in the face.

“You know him?” asked Aida.

“I think I met him tonight. Does he live here in Qurna?”

“No, he lives in Luxor.”

“Have you seen him tonight?” asked Erica nervously.

“Today, but not tonight. Please, you must go.”

Erica hastened to leave. She was more nervous than Aida. But at the doorway she paused. Loose ends were beginning to merge. “What kind of work does Muhammad Abdulal do?” Erica was remembering that Abdul Hamdi had written in the hidden letter in the guidebook that a government official was involved.