The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis Read online

  “Look sharp, boy. I haven’t got all day.”

  Aunt Hilda’s stocky figure emerged out of the scrum. Her face was bronzed and weather-beaten, her hair disheveled. But it was her clothes that made me stare in astonishment. She had cast off her skirt and was wearing trousers, of all scandalous things. At first I thought she was disguised as a man! Then I realized she was dressed in an odd sort of riding habit. Her jodhpurs were made of blue serge, which she had tucked into stumpy shoes. Shoes that would look clumsy even on my father.

  My aunt would never cease to amaze me.

  “It’s not a sack of turnips, you ignorant clot,” Aunt Hilda boomed at a porter weighed down by a packing case the size of a large coffin. “I haven’t traveled all the way from Memphis with the Pharaoh’s treasures, only to see it smashed to smithereens by a careless boy!”

  The “boy” in question was a middle-aged man with nut-brown skin. He was made even more clumsy by Aunt Hilda’s barking and I feared he would drop the box altogether. Behind Aunt Hilda, like a jerky puppet, danced my father. This was a tremendous day for him. His face clearly displayed the agonies he was going through.

  I shoved my way through the onlookers, the others hard on my heels.

  “Kit? Are you not with Miss Minchin?” my father asked, seeing us appear through the crowd.

  “You asked us to assist you,” I bluffed, knowing my father would not remember.

  “Splendid,” he said vaguely, his eyes darting off toward a porter unloading a case from a large cart.

  Aunt Hilda gave off berating the “boy” with the packing case. She noticed me and strode over to give me a brisk hug.

  “Can we help?” I asked.

  “Got a pack of friends with you? Might as well make yourselves useful, I suppose. Give Abdul here a hand. I pay him ten shillings a month to drop my most prized possessions. Daylight robbery!”

  I thought poor Abdul was doing a very good job, considering the size of the case, but I knew my aunt was a most demanding person. We all slotted in around Abdul and carefully carried the box into the museum. To reach the Pitt Collection we had to go through the arched hall of the Natural History Museum. Glass and steel soared above us. We marched past cases containing prehistoric bones and butterflies entombed in clear glass. Isaac loves the Natural History Museum. Declares it is the best in the world. For myself, I love the Pitt—or “The Hole,” as some call it. My father is the Director of this delightful collection of curiosities. Though the galleries in which the Pitt is housed are dark and fusty, it is a den of higgledy-piggledy delights. You may find everything of wonder there from shrunken witches’ heads to towering totem poles.

  Other porters followed us, laden down with even larger cases and trunks. Soon we were in the anteroom to the Pitt Collection and father was hopping around excitedly telling us to please, please be careful as we set down our goods. There were so many packing cases, corded with stout ropes and labeled FRAGILE in large letters. They filled the whole room.

  “So, Theo. Have you made a plan?” Aunt Hilda asked.

  “A plan?”

  “Where do you intend to unpack?” she gestured around impatiently at the trunks and packing cases. “I want to see my treasures have arrived safely. Also I’m expecting a chappie from the Illustrated London News. I expect they’ll have an artist along to do an engraving of me with the mummy. They usually do.”

  “How exciting.”

  “Actually it’s a rightful bore, but there it is. The public can’t get enough of me, it seems.”

  “We’ve cleared out a room. Would you like to inspect it?”

  “I’d better. Make sure there is no damage from sunlight or dust. My collection is really rather special, Theo. I want it properly treated.”

  Aunt Hilda ordered the porters to go outside into the yard and wait for the next delivery. Then she disappeared along with Father down a passage. The four of us were left alone with the mummy!

  “I wonder,” I said, slowly wandering through the packing cases, “which of these boxes is the mummy?” They bore the scuff marks and dust of their long journey from the East. They had traveled thousands of miles, swaying on the backs of camels, carried on the strong shoulders of native porters, by steamship and by carriage. Who knew what mysteries they contained?

  “It will be a large rectangular box,” Waldo proclaimed. “I expect this is the fellow.” He had halted by a case illuminated by a chance shaft of sunlight. Waldo laid a possessive hand on the box, as if he owned it himself. His blue eyes glowed with pride. The case was covered in tattered brown paper and twine and had a faded label on it. We all clustered round.

  “What if it’s cursed?” Rachel asked.

  “Mummies are said to bring bad luck to those who defile their tombs,” Waldo said. “Your aunt better watch out.”

  “Whooo. The curse of the mummy.” Isaac danced around the box making sinister noises.

  “Shush,” I said. “This is a serious, scientific museum. If you’re going to be silly, please leave.”

  Taking no notice of me, Isaac went on with his idiotic noises.

  “Quiet,” I said, more sternly and Isaac stopped.

  “Worse than the Minchin,” he grumbled.

  There was a moment’s deep silence, broken only by the faraway rumble of hooves and wheels. Then, quite unmistakably, there was a groan.

  A hoarse groan coming from within the room. I turned on Isaac.

  “Outside! This isn’t the time for your pranks.”

  “Wasn’t me.”

  Another groan, even louder, accompanied by a sharp crack. It couldn’t have been Isaac, unless he had learned ventriloquism.

  “The mummy!” Rachel gasped, clutching on to me.

  The noise had come from the largest packing case in the room, placed upright against the wall. A dull brown in color, it was the size of a big wardrobe. Was it my imagination or had it wobbled oh-so-slightly?

  A chill spread through the room. The decaying breath of a spirit which had been dead for many thousands of years. An unreasoning fear took hold of me—and the others seemed to feel it as well, because for a moment we were all still as statues. Then I took hold of myself. I couldn’t calm my too rapid heartbeat but I could move my feet. I went toward the box, while poor Rachel tried to hold me back.

  Again that awful noise. A groan. This time, there was no doubt it was coming from inside the box.

  Chapter Three

  The packing case shivered. One side of the wood bulged slightly, as if something on the inside had fallen against it.

  Rachel screamed.

  “Hush!” I snapped.

  Waldo murmured something to Rachel to calm her. But I noticed he did not move closer to the box to help me. There’s boys for you, all very well with empty talk. Real courage is another matter.

  I put out my hand to touch the case and again a tremor ran through it. There was something living inside.

  “The m … m … mummy’s awake,” Rachel stuttered.

  “Small animal most like. A rat or some other rodent,” I said, to calm her down.

  I noticed something strange. Like the other cases this one was corded with stout green twine. But somehow the twine had been frayed and broken.

  There was only one way to find out. I ripped off the remnants of the twine and pulled the string off the box. The others crowded round to help me. Then, my hand trembling a little, I opened the lid. It wasn’t at all difficult. The lid was loose, hardly difficult to pry off at all, despite its size and weight.

  It was dark inside the box. A glimpse of golden paint, shining off the sarcophagus, the wood coffin that housed the ancient skeleton. The famous mummy! Then I noticed something dark and crouching. The whites of two eyes were visible, peering through the gloom.

  “There’s something in here,” I said. “A trapped creature.”

  Praying that whatever it was wouldn’t bite me, I put my hand in the box. Instantly the thing sprang up, brushing my arm as it flailed out of the case.
I had a confused impression of tattered garments and brown skin and then it was gone. Out of the box, scampering past me.

  “Quick. Catch him!” Waldo shouted to Isaac.

  Now I saw it was a skinny young boy, covered only in a ragged nightshirt. Waldo lunged at him, but the boy was too quick. He slipped past and was nearly at the door which led into the Natural History Museum. Isaac put his foot out, tripping the boy. He fell face downward on to the floor and lay there, quite still.

  “Don’t hurt him,” I commanded Isaac, running over.

  I knelt down next to him. While the others crowded around, I attempted to roll him over. The boy was covered in dust and filth from the packing case. Staring at me with tormented eyes, he looked like a wild creature, a desert fox perhaps. But I noticed that his nose and lips were finely modeled, his eyes large and lustrous and his eyelashes feathery. He was almost pretty—more like a girl than a lad.

  “What is your name?” I inquired gently.

  Numbly he looked at us, four heads hovering over him as he lay prone, cutting off his air and light.

  “Don’t be afraid. We’re your friends.”

  Waldo put his hand down and before I could stop him had given the boy a good pinch.

  “Stop playing games,” he said roughly. “What are you up to? Trying to steal the mummy’s treasures?”

  “Enough,” I snapped at Waldo, warding off more pinches. “Can’t you see how terrified he is?”

  The boy was trembling, his dark eyes looking frantically around for escape. I laid a careful hand on his arm. I don’t know what I said, mere soothing sounds really, but they seemed to calm him. Rachel, with her soft heart, had put her arm round his shoulder to lift him up. It was her actions, more than anything else, which comforted the creature. No one who looked into Rachel’s warm face could suspect her of anything but kindness.

  “Let’s see if he has a knife,” suggested Waldo.

  “He might want to stab us,” said Isaac.

  Waldo began scrabbling around the boy looking for weapons. More foolishness! Of course there was nothing.

  “Tell us your name,” I said.

  Those large brown eyes only flickered around the room, like an animal. I was beginning to think the boy was a mute.

  “It’s impossible!” I said. “He can’t understand a thing.”

  Rachel gave me a quick look, as if to chide me for my impatience. She looked into the boy’s eyes, forcing him to look back at her and calm down. She pointed at me: “Kit,” she said, very slowly and clearly. Then she did the same with all the others finally finishing off with herself: “Me, Rachel.”

  Finally an expression on that blank face. A small smile broke through his glumness, showing dazzling white teeth: “Me, Ahmed.”

  “Friends,” Rachel said.

  “Friends,” the boy repeated.

  “Ask him why he was hiding in King Isesi’s case,” Waldo butted in.

  “He might be a thief,” said Isaac.

  “More like a spy. A rotten Frenchie spy,” Waldo said.

  “Not a very good one,” I pointed out sarcastically. “Any longer in that packing case, I expect he would have dropped dead.”

  While the rest of us were arguing Rachel had disappeared. She returned with a glass of water which she offered to Ahmed. He took it eagerly and downed it in three huge gulps.

  “Food,” Rachel said. “He needs food.”

  A plan was beginning to form in my mind. I would smuggle Ahmed into our home. We would feed him, find him some decent clothes. Then, with Rachel’s patient help we would try to find out his story. He looked no older than us, twelve or thirteen at the most. How did this poor creature come to be in Oxford, shivering even in a warm autumn? How did he wash up, hungry, ragged, frightened and alone, thousands of miles from his desert home?

  I had already assumed, you see, that he was Egyptian. Those ebony eyes, the lack of English, the fact he was in the mummy case. That was our first clue. We had an Egyptian stowaway on our hands.

  “We will find him some bread and cheese,” I said. “We will take him home and feed him.”

  Just then we heard Aunt Hilda’s stentorian voice approaching down the corridor. “Your arrangements are adequate, Theo,” she was saying. “Adequate at best.”

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  “Less of the thank-yous. Could Do Better, that’s what you need to tell yourself. Anyway, I suggest you call it the Hilda Salter Bequest. The very least you can do. A magnificent collection of Egyptology, even if I say so myself.”

  “It’s very fine indeed,” my father bleated.

  Aunt Hilda had such a vibrant personality, she could force the strongest man into submission. Sadly Father was not the strongest man. For as long as he could recall, Papa had been terrified of his elder sister.

  But the effect on Ahmed of Aunt Hilda’s voice was extraordinary. He stood up, quivering. Then he bolted, crashing painfully into a large case. Without a murmur he got up and set off again.

  “Quick, catch him!” Waldo ran after Ahmed.

  By luck Ahmed had blundered into the dark corner of the room which led to my father’s office. We caught him there and opening the door ushered him into Papa’s sanctum, a crowded room, packed with cases, pottery, parchments and fragments of ancient bones. There were plenty of nooks and crannies in here where a skinny boy could remain undetected.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “You’ll be safe here. You can hide.”

  That was one word Ahmed understood. He looked at me with huge, scared eyes. “Hide,” he repeated. “Hide.”

  Chapter Four

  Ahmed crouched in the corner, in the dark space between the edge of my father’s desk and a bookshelf. More porters had entered the room next door, judging by all the banging and scraping coming through the wall. My aunt was busy being in charge, my father hard at work following orders.

  The Egyptian boy was over his fit of terror. Still, there was something about his frozen stance that was unnerving. Surely such fear was out of all proportion? Aunt Hilda can be something of a dragon, granted. But she is not a mean-spirited person. Under her bristly exterior, I am convinced, lies a decent heart. The boy reacted to her voice as if she was the devil himself.

  After some time, the banging outside ceased. Aunt Hilda and father had obviously found some new distraction. We heard their footsteps move away. Ahmed flopped and lay in a heap, quite still. We looked at each other and I shrugged. I didn’t know what to do with him. It was Rachel who went over and knelt down.

  “Ahmed,” she whispered.

  “Rachel.”

  “Everything will be all right, Ahmed.” The words were mere sounds to Ahmed. It was the soothing tone that comforted him. “Nothing bad will happen to you. Please, you must trust us.”

  “Bad.”

  “No Ahmed. We are good! No harm will come to you.”

  Ahmed uncurled a little. His eyes flickered to Rachel and then over all of us in turn.

  Some calculation was going on in that tousled head. I could see it clearly in Ahmed’s eyes. His skinny hands delved into the rags on his body and came out clasping a packet sealed in mustard-colored wax paper. The packet was roughly three inches square with a hole at the top. A red cord was threaded through the hole. Ahmed, we now saw, wore the packet dangling from a cord around his neck.

  “Rachel,” he said. He took a piece of parchment out of the packet and handed it to my friend.

  Rachel took the roll of parchment and turned it over in her hands, almost stroking the rough surface. The wax paper was dusty and dirty, as you would expect, since it had traveled with Ahmed across half the world. Inscribed around it in green ink were three symbols. I knew what they were: hieroglyphics! The mysterious language of the ancient Egyptians.

  I knew what the symbols were called, but alas I could not read them. Right then and there I decided to learn hieroglyphics, so I could decode their secret.

  Sensitivity is one of Rachel’s finest qualities. She saw
my eager face, knew that I was itching to get my hands on the packet. “Kit,” she explained to Ahmed and offered it to me.

  I unrolled it carefully. Inscribed on the top were the same three figures that were scrawled on the outside of the parchment. But underneath, to my great surprise, I saw there was writing I could understand. It was English, written in a fine, flowing hand. The others gathered round and I began to read it out:

  These are the words of a dying man.

  My name is Mustapha El Kassul. The boy who bears this letter is my son Ahmed Bin Mustapha El Kassul.

  I live with my family in a small village by the blue waters of the Nile, near Memphis. In the Old Kingdom of the pharaohs it was capital of the greatest empire in the world. Such wealth! Mighty pyramids hewn from stone, monuments glittering with gold, surrounded by sparkling, white walls! Alas, Wealth crumbles to dust. These days we live simply, tilling our crops and tending our animals. Life has been good to us.

  Something about the letter struck me as wrong. I stopped reading and looked at Ahmed. He was watching me warily. I was struck by his large, bright eyes. They were not the eyes of a hunted animal, as I’d thought earlier. They were far too intelligent. Almost—though I knew it was impossible—as if he could understand what I was reading.

  “Your father writes very good English,” I said.

  Ahmed looked to Rachel for help.

  “Your father. He has very good handwriting.” I mimed holding a pen and writing on paper.

  “Ah!” Illumination spread over the Egyptian’s face and he uttered a word that I didn’t understand.

  Rachel who was watching him carefully, explained: “I think he’s trying to say scribe. Maybe someone else wrote it, like a village scribe.”