Wicked. Shannon Drake
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according to popular belief, no tomb discovered can be without a curse. A love of the mysterious, perhaps. We have opened many tombs with no severe warnings at the entry. But in this particular instance—as in some others—there was a curse just inside the tomb. ‘Let he who disturbs the New Life of the blessed one be cursed upon this earth.’ And sadly, the Lord and Lady Stirling died.”
“Did anyone else associated with the dig die?” Camille asked.
Sir John slowly arched a brow with something of a troubled countenance. “I…I don’t know. Certainly no one of the renown of the Stirlings.”
Camille started to turn, thinking she had heard a scraping sound just behind her, where the mummies and their sarcophagi lay.
“Camille! Are you listening to me?” Sir John demanded.
She was amazed that she had been so easily distracted. And it was evident that Sir John hadn’t heard any kind of noise. She was afraid that she was beginning to hear things—taking the small-scale drama that had suddenly invaded her life to greater heights. She loved ancient Egyptian history and all the stories that went with it, but thus far, she had never fallen victim to silly romanticism. She didn’t believe that mummies would rise from their tombs to stalk the living.
“I’m sorry. I thought I heard something.”
“Camille. We’re in a museum. Many people are walking over our heads.”
She smiled. “No, I thought I heard someone in here.”
He sighed with exasperation. “Do you see anyone?”
“No. I just—”
“There are others with keys to the vaults, Camille. We are not the only department in the museum!”
He sounded indignant, and she realized that he was angry he didn’t have her full attention on a very important topic.
“Asps! Camille. Dangerous creatures. Anyone who ventures into Egypt is aware of certain dangers. Though heaven knows, the common tourist is forever traveling down the Nile these days.”
She smiled and refrained from suggesting that everyone had the right to travel, to study, to marvel at the wonders of an ancient world. Even commoners.
“But,” Camille pointed out, “if someone saw to it that the asps were in Lord and Lady Stirling’s apartments, wouldn’t that suggest murder?”
Sir John appeared alarmed. His frown deepened and he looked around quickly, as if afraid they had been followed. He shook his head. “Don’t even think such an idea!” he warned.
“Surely, that is what the current earl must believe.”
He shook his head vehemently. “No! And you mustn’t spread such a suggestion. You mustn’t ever speak such a horrible idea aloud again, Camille. Ever!” He really appeared unnerved. He turned, heading out, but when she didn’t follow quickly enough, he looked back. “Come, come. We’ve used up quite enough time!”
She followed him, sorry that she had voiced her opinion. But one thing was quite certain. She’d be giving her work more painstaking care in the future, now that she knew more about the man, the curse and the find.
“Hurry!” Sir John said, looking back impatiently to assure himself that she was close behind.
“Yes, of course, Sir John,” she replied, hastening her steps.
The museum was already filled with people. She heard different accents—British, Irish and from farther afield—and she was delighted, as always, to see that the museum was well visited.
She loved the museum. It was, she thought, a crowning jewel of England. It had opened to the public on January 15, 1859. At the time, it had been an entirely new kind of institution, governed by a body of trustees responsible to Parliament, with its vast collections belonging to the people. Admission was free, thus, it had been a place she had come as a small child, her hand held safely in the gentle clasp of her mother’s fingers. Her own department was now known as the Department of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities, and they had Napoleon Bonaparte to thank for some of their finest pieces, since he, in his attempt at world conquest, had been the first to go into Egypt with scholars and historians. The British defeat of Napoleon had brought the majority of his collections to the British Museum.
As they walked, they passed the Rosetta Stone, the incredible find that had allowed for the translation of the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs.
Continuing through one of the Egyptian halls, she heard a young boy ask his father, “Papa, why do they do it? I don’t understand why it’s all right to dig up the dead, just because they’ve been dead a long time. Aren’t the people afraid when they dig up mummies?”
“Yes, dear, why is it all right to dig up the dead?” the boy’s mother asked. She was pretty, dressed in a handsome muslin day dress and wearing a pert and fashionable bonnet.
“Darling, we’ve moved many of our own, far more recent dead!” the husband replied. He, too, was in high fashion with his gray hat and jacket. “Honestly! The church cemeteries throughout much of our country are defiled in my opinion! Restoration! That’s what they call the projects. Why, in the ‘restoration’ of Salisbury Cathedral all of the gravestones were moved. It’s indecent, I say. Restoration! Bah. But these fellows…the mummies, well, they weren’t of the church, son,” the father replied.
Though she agreed with the man that much of the current “restoration” of historical sites seemed sadly careless of those who had gone before them in their own country, Camille was tempted to stay behind and offer the boy a far different answer regarding the fact that they should respect all countries and beliefs. She might have told the boy about the brilliance of ancient Egyptian engineering, but her duties did not include acting as a tour guide. Pity! She did so enjoy her subject, and would dearly love to be a guide if she were allowed to do so. Then again, she wasn’t a scholar, had never been on a dig and was rather certain she was lucky to be tolerated as it was.
Sir John cast her a warning glare, and she kept walking, offering him a weak smile.
“To work now,” Sir John said firmly. He returned to his desk, instantly lowering his head over his papers. She had a feeling that he was deep in thought, worried perhaps, but not about to show her his concern.
She went for her apron, hanging on a hook in the rear of the room, then entered the little cubicle where she was working on a section of a relief. Lain out on a long work-table, the stone was approximately three feet in height, two in width and three inches thick. The piece was very heavy, crowned with the Egyptian cobra, denoting that the words—the warning, as it were—had been given the blessing of a pharaoh. Each symbol had been beautifully, painstakingly chiseled into the stone, and each was small, thus the reason the tedious task had been given to her. The hierarchy here was also certain that this tablet did no more than reiterate other warnings that had been left around the tomb.
The man buried here had been beloved and revered. Now that Camille was aware of the number of people who had been buried with him, she was ever more fascinated as to exactly why. Had his many wives or concubines been killed to go into the eternal afterlife with him?
She sat down and studied the symbols in whole. She knew that Nefershut had been a high priest, but according to what she had already transcribed, he had been more, perhaps something of a magician for his day. She glanced at the words she had already written. Know all who come here that they have entered the most sacred ground. Disturb not the priest, for he goes into the next life demanding all that was his in this, his time on our earth, as we know it. In his honor, disturb him not. For Nefershut could rule the air, the water. His hand dealt the whisper of the gods, and at his table sat Hethre. His life is blessed beyond this life. His power extends as she sits at his right hand.
“Hethre,” she murmured aloud. “Hethre…who were you exactly, and why is it you are the one mentioned, though you are not mentioned as his wife?”
“The fellow must have had some powerful magic, eh?”