The Khamsin Curse (18 page)

“Jealousy implies poor
self-esteem. It’s not in my nature. From that you should not infer
that I don’t love you. I love you, but I’m not
in love
with
you. Being
in love
is a type of infatuation driven by
emotion. I realized that about six months into my marriage.”

“Hold that thought. I want to
continue this conversation later tonight. Right now we’ve both got
a job to do. I can see Jefferson Lee and Lorna Baxter heading this
way. You wait for them. I’ll join Ursula. Don’t go wandering off
anywhere alone tonight. There’s safety in numbers.”

Mr Lee was wearing the tall
conical headdress of the Pharaohs known as an Atef crown. A fake
Pharaonic beard graced his chin. In his hands were the crook and
flail of Osiris.

Mrs Lorna Baxter was wearing a
scorpion headdress. That meant she was Serket or Selket, the
goddess of fertility, medicine, magic and the healer of venomous
stings and bites. She who tightens the throat; she who causes the
throat to breathe – a bit ambiguous. She was also the guardian of
Apep the serpent of evil.

The sun went down and the
torcheres were lit as they gathered inside Trajan’s Kiosk and
waited for the birthday girl to arrive. It didn’t take long.
Professor Mallisham, dressed as Khnum the ram, had been chosen to
escort Hypatia to the ‘surprise’ party, and it had caused yet
another bitter rift between father and daughter.

Hypatia was Ma’at.

11

A copy of an ancient prayer had
been found by Professor Mallisham and painstakingly copied on
papyrus in beautiful calligraphy by Daisy. Everyone was given a
personal copy before the birthday girl made her way to the place of
honour and they began to chant:

Ma’at is honour and justice

Goddess of goodness
everlasting

Since the day of creation

She walks the path of
fairness

Wearing the feather of
truth

We declare: Heavenly Being
Bless Us.

This chant replaced the
traditional birthday song and was repeated several times throughout
the dinner, between courses, during various toasts, and whenever
the mood called for it. By the end of the night they had memorized
the words and no longer needed to refer to their papyrus.

Ali Pasha had blundered into
the Kiosk prior to the commencement of the feast, exactly as
envisaged by Major Nash, pleading to be allowed to stay since his
ferryman had dropped him off and deserted him, claiming the island
was Unapproachable and all who trespassed would come to an evil
end. He had no costume, but since he already resembled Sobek it
hardly mattered. His distinctive headdress was the green fez.

Colonel Sebastian Moran hovered
here and there, his snakelike shadow passing in and out, alert to
every sound and movement in the undergrowth. He partook of food and
drink but did not join the party. It was understood he was part of
the hired help and had a job to do.

The night sky was awash with an
electrum of gold and silver stars spread out on a purple faience
sky until about half way through the feast when someone noticed the
astrological vault had become obscured by a dirty copper-coloured
cloud. Sand swirled through the air but they were protected by the
twenty foot high walls of the Kiosk so it was not until much later
that someone commented that they thought the Khamsin was making a
return.

Within minutes of that
statement the wall of heat hit with a vengeance and the heavens
roared as if a thousand sistrums were being rattled simultaneously.
As the windstorm swept across the broad expanse of water it was the
breadth of the Nile that spared them the worst of it.

That’s when panic set in.
Though it was still an orderly type of panic. The sort where
everyone says things like: “No need to panic.”

Followed by well-meaning
platitudes such as: “We’re safe here. The walls are solid stone.
They’ve been standing for thousands of years. The wind will blow
over our heads. It’s heading for Cairo.”

Then someone screamed.

That set off a frenzied chorus:
“Watch out! Crocodile! There! Quick!”

Panic turned into
pandemonium.

The ground was suddenly
crawling with armoured reptiles. Baby crocodiles were making horrid
chirring sounds like terrified baby birds who sensed they were
about to be devoured by a raptor. There were about a dozen or more
doing belly runs under the low tables, slender snouts snapping;
shredding silk cushions with razor-sharp teeth that looked all the
more frightening because the razors sat on the outside of their
ferocious little jaws.

The terror was palpable.
Everyone screamed, even the men, as they leapt onto the divans to
save bare feet and toes, strapped in sandals, falling prey to
jaw-clamps designed for snapping shut and never letting go. No
creature had more jaw power than a crocodile. Their snouts were
bone-crushing muscle that was more bone than muscle.

More crocodiles appeared;
greyer in colour, darker, larger, more mature. They were making
aggressive coughing noises as they rushed between the tables,
flipping them over with flailing tails, and tearing voraciously at
the cushions and food, smashing the beautiful porcelain and the
finest crystal glassware. Short stumpy legs were raised, lifting
lithe reptilian bodies off the ground as they hissed and seethed
with anger, violently lashing out at everything in their path.

Now, it is often thought that
reptiles lack intelligence and that sub-aquatic creatures are less
dangerous when removed from their natural habitat. Nothing could be
further from the truth.

Crocodiles are nocturnal
hunters. They have no problem seeing in the dark. Their night
vision is on a par with cats. Lymphatic membranes in their skin
give them excellent hearing. And worst of all, their highly
developed olfactory sensors helps them pinpoint prey by smell.

Any man who had a gun on him,
now retrieved it and began emptying bullets into the fearsome
creatures that attempted to mount the divans and drag down what
they deemed was helpless prey in the form of trembling bipeds,
similar to small four-legged deer, though not as meaty as a herd of
thirsty buffalo at a waterhole. And if anyone was of the opinion
crocodiles could not climb, they were in for a rude surprise.
Crocodiles could climb trees and often chose to bask in
low-spreading branches.

Dr Watson had fumbled for his
Webley. Gideon Longshanks had done the same. Colonel Hayter managed
to unstrap his weapon from its leather holster then someone bumped
him and he dropped it. It was snapped up, crunched and swallowed
whole. The Countess was unable to access the double-barrelled
Derringer strapped to her thigh because she was desperately
clinging to Ursula Graf with both arms who was hanging onto her
uncle for dear life. She grabbed a flaming torchere at the first
opportunity and used it to fend off rapacious teeth. Mrs Baxter did
the same. Herr Graf used a silver salver to beat back long sharp
snouts. Any weapon that came to hand was better than nothing.

Ali Pasha grappled for the
dagger strapped to his ankle and managed to stab one of the
crocodiles through the snout before it ripped into the dainty foot
of Daisy Clooney. Jefferson Lee retrieved a Smith & Wesson from
beneath his Atef crown and shot indiscriminately at anything that
moved.

Their saviour appeared in the
form of Colonel Sebastian Moran. The big game hunter and
crack-shot, with the aid of his repeating rifle, dispatched five of
the biggest and most threatening of the creatures, one after the
other, until the trigger jammed and he was forced to leap onto a
block of stone to avoid being cut off at the knees permanently.

Dr Watson managed to kill four
reptiles and Gideon Longshanks nailed six more.

The sound of gunfire and
demented screams brought a second saviour in the shape of a soldier
wearing a smart red and black military uniform. He appeared in the
open doorway between the stone walls with his weapon cocked, ready
to fire, and could hardly believe his eyes when confronted by
fantastical images of men with animal heads – ram, beetle, jackal,
falcon and more. Several live crocodiles rushed him. He killed the
first two and kicked the third with his boot, sending it airborne
across the up-ended tables toward the falcon, which was caught by
surprise and flipped backwards, landing with a jarring thud.

The largest and most vicious of
the crocodiles had fortunately been dispatched, but two babies,
lurking under the divan, bellied forth for one last sally. Colonel
Moran shot one and Jefferson Lee shot the second. The unknown
soldier shot the one he had kicked which was still on its back,
legs in the air, writhing and hissing at the man-falcon lying
flat-out on the ground, stunned and helpless.

The terror was over.

No one spoke. No one moved.
Fear continued to hold them in paralyzing thrall. The horror was
disturbing. They were surrounded by a sea of vile dead reptiles,
and yet the scene was also appallingly tragic. Most of the
crocodiles were mere babies. Even the largest had not yet reached
maturity. The carnage was sickening.

Hypatia fainted. Professor
Mallisham managed to catch her as she fell and laid her out on a
velvet divan. Several people hurried to her side, including her
father, Lorna Baxter and Dr Watson. Colonel Hayter spied an
unbroken bottle of gin among the bloody debris, cracked it open and
began drinking straight from the bottle. Ali Pasha, who normally
forsook alcohol, grabbed the bottle from his hand and took several
long gulps then began the search for his dagger. He found it stuck
in the snout of the crocodile. The creature was still alive. It
gave him a shock and he jumped back in fright. Someone shot it. It
was the Countess. She had finally managed to retrieve her
Derringer. Ali Pasha thanked her with a single grateful look,
cleaned up his dagger with a scrap of silk and rehoused it. Gideon
Longshanks, likewise, searched for his weapon. Ursula Graf stepped
off the divan into a prickly sea of hideous reptiles and appeared
to swoon. Gideon helped her to steady. Daisy came to the rescue and
led the fraulein to another divan. Herr Graf was being physically
sick in a corner. Gideon continued to search for his weapon.
Colonel Moran took a swig of brandy from his flask as he walked
among the reptiles, kicking them to make sure they were well and
truly dead. One or two that had survived were soon put out of their
misery.

Colonel James Isambard Moriarty
took the Countess by the hand and led her into the darkness…

While the crokodilian horror
was unfolding, the Khamsin was growing ever more powerful. By the
time everyone rallied, the world had turned a sickly shade of
apocalyptic orange. Waves of sand and grit stung their faces as
soon as they ventured beyond the mighty walls of the pit of Hell
and into the path of Destruction.

Blindly, the men tried to lead
the ladies but it didn’t take long to become disoriented. The
Khamsin was the equivalent of a blizzard from Hell. They had no
idea where they were going. No idea of the direction of the jetty.
No idea who was leading and who was following.

As soon as they stepped outside
the godless circle of flaming torches they were slapped and rolled
by stinging sand that felt like iron filings from a fire. The
moment they let go hands they were on their own. Cry as they might,
human voices were drowned out by the supernatural storm.

Stumbling in the darkness,
blind and deaf, and coming straight after what had already taken
place they were unnerved, panicky, prone to fears and wild
imaginings; hearts thrashing and legs shaking; adrenal glands in
overdrive.

Jim tore off his red military
jacket and covered her head and shoulders. He had scouted the
island the day before the arrival of the Sekhmet when he met up
with his brother’s old cadre, Sebastian Moran. The two Irishmen had
walked the perimeter of the island and reminisced. They had stopped
for a cigarette here and there, and he had taken the time to
memorize the orientation of every temple. He had acted as scout
numerous times for the army. He had a good sense of direction and a
good eye for reconnoitering the things that mattered. He was
currently heading due west toward an outer courtyard lined both
sides by the sort of royal colonnade he had only ever seen in
books. Surely, gods not men had built such structures.

What a wind! He knew it was
coming from the east, spitting fire like metal sparks from a
furnace, and as long as the hot metallic grit pounded them in the
back they were still heading in the right direction.

The Temple of Hathor – that’s
what Moran called it - was due north, much closer, but it was en
route back to the Sekhmet and they might have company. He wanted
privacy from prying eyes.

Above all, the eye of Ra…

God-fearing scraps torn from
the day of destruction echoed inside the Countess’s discordant
prayer-box as the wind pounded her ears and her head spun out of
control. Every footfall sang a different song…feather of fear…sky
serpent of creation…river of no return…swallow the red waters…pit
of death...wings of war…sacred avatar…god of chaos…the last
gasp…breath of ka…lead me into darkness…amen…and so it went.

Black and hot. The tiny chamber
was darker than a grave and hotter than the fires of Hades. Every
inhalation burnt their throat and lungs as they struggled for
breath. They burned from inside-out as they collapsed against a
stone wall, out of the punishing wind, the whoosh still vibrating
inside their ears. She fell against him and they clung to each
other wondering if they had entered that mythical tomb-like place
called the Afterlife.

He was the first to rein in his
breath as he sat with his back to the wall and cradled her with an
arm around her shoulder. “Who the hell decided to hold a party in a
pit full of crocodiles?” The shock had not yet abated and his voice
vibrated with anger.