Scroll of Saqqara(179)

“It is a delicious ghost story,” she said firmly, “and nothing more. You say they struggle into Memphis, leaving the tomb by way of the tunnel, I presume. But the tunnel was blocked by a rock, and surely sand would have sifted over it as the hentis went by. How did they free themselves? By magic?”

“Perhaps. Or by some evil power. They had the tunnel dug in the first place, I am sure, so that they could escape in the event of the Scroll being read. They might even have left tools in it, close to the entrance. How do I know?” He moved pettishly against the pillow. “In any case, they find a vacant estate that closely resembles the home they once occupied hundreds of years ago in Koptos. Isolated, quiet, simple, perhaps it soothes their bewilderment and homesickness. Think of that house, Sheritra, the peculiar silence, the echoes in the palm grove, the feeling that you are leaving the world behind as you walk that soft, winding path. And inside, pure history. Furniture that is sparse and stark, something out of an age long gone …” His voice cracked to a whisper and he paused, waiting, recovering. Then he continued. “They speak the words and animate the shawabtis, who must have stood with them in the inner chamber, and they begin to repair the house. Then they seek the man who has stolen their scroll. The tomb is open. Workmen swarm over it. A few judicious inquiries bring them the information they want and they begin to plot a revenge.”

“But why revenge?” Sheritra interrupted, caught up in his tale and forgetting that he was speaking of Sisenet and Tbubui. “All they had to do was contrive to steal it back and then go on living unobtrusively where they were. Why become deliberately involved with …” She faltered.

“With our family?” Hori finished for her. “I don’t know. But I feel there is a reason and it cannot be a pleasant one. I do not have the ability to discuss that, Sheritra. This damnable pain.” His voice had risen. Sheritra heard the hysteria he was struggling to hide and stroked his arm. He was burning hot. “I learned that the Prince and his wife, and a few days later their son, had died by drowning,” he went on. “Remember Tbubui’s exaggerated horror when she believed she was going to fall from the ramp that day? Has Harmin ever been swimming with you, even in the hottest afternoons?”

“No, she whispered, her voice no more than a sibilant rush of air. “But why do you bring Harmin into this, Hori? There were only two coffins in that tomb. You cannot be speaking of the same family.”

“You are not hearing me!” Hori pressed desperately. “You read the scrolls. We are dealing with the darkest magic, Sheritra. We are not in the world of the decent, the rational, anymore. Let reason go! Merhu, your Harmin, drowned in Koptos and was buried there. I was in his tomb. Again there was no coffin lid, and something had dug its way out, breaking the seal. Father woke him also, and he made his way back to his parents in Memphis.”

“No, no,” she interrupted, shaking her head vigorously. “Sisenet is Harmin’s uncle. Tbubui said so.”

Hori stared at her helplessly. The corners of his mouth were black from the poppy and his pupils were so dilated that no irises remained. “Tbubui and Sisenet are husband and wife,” he said slowly, emphasizing each word as though he were addressing a child. “Harmin is their son. Their son, Sheritra. I know how terrifying this is, but please try to face it.”

Sheritra jerked away. “Don’t do this to me, Hori!” she begged. “Harmin is innocent, I know he is! He was so wounded and angry when I tried to talk to him about his mother. He …”

“He is a brilliant, unscrupulous actor, like the ghoulish thing who calls herself his mother,” Hori tried to shout, but the words came out a broken whistle. “Their flesh is mummified, cold. How many times have you touched Harmin and been puzzled at how cold he felt? Not lately, perhaps, for I believe that they are adjusting more each day to their second life. Tbubui loves the heat, remember? But the tomb, Little Sun … the Scroll was devised by Thoth in the beginning, and the family’s devotion to that god is evident everywhere, The baboons, animals of Thoth. The moons, his symbol.”

“Hori,” Sheritra cut in determinedly. “I believe none of this. It has just occurred to me that Tbubui has cursed you for the same reason she persuaded Father to remove us from the will. She is convinced that the life of her unborn child is in danger from you if you go on living. Once it is born, all you need to do is kill it to be once again Father’s heir.”

He began to laugh, then bent suddenly over his abdomen. “There is no child in her womb,” he choked. “She is dead, remember? The dead cannot give life, but they can take it. Perhaps she fabricated a child to force some kind of a decision on Father. It seems to me that he has been backing slowly but surely into a corner from which there is no escape, that she has been pushing him with lies, with seduction, breaking him up inside, Sheritra, weakening his soul, sullying his honour until there is no integrity left. Her aim seems to be to destroy him spiritually. But why? A punishment for stealing the Scroll is not reason enough.”