The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [109]
Vandergelt stirred uneasily. “What is he up to now?” he whispered. “That was a first-rate performance; he ought to let the curtain down.”
I was myself a trifle apprehensive. Emerson has a tendency to overdo things. I hoped he knew what he was doing. His next sentence made me doubt that he did.
“Were they slain by the curse of the pharaoh? If so…” Emerson paused; and not one pair of eyes in that assemblage blinked or moved from his face. “If so, I take that curse on myself! Here and now I challenge the gods to strike me down or give me their blessing. O Anubis, the High, the Mighty, the Chief over the mysteries of those in the underworld, O Horus, son of Osiris, born of Isis, O Apet, mother of fire…”
He turned to face the fire, which had died to a bed of red coals, against which his form was darkly silhouetted. Arms raised, he invoked the gods of Egypt in a sonorous but rather oddly pronounced form of their own language. All at once the dying fire soared heavenward in a rainbow flame, blue and sea-green and ghastly lavender. A gasp went up from the crowd; for in the uncanny light they saw on the topmost step of the tomb entrance an object that had certainly not been there before.
It had the form of a giant black cat with glowing yellow eyes. The play of firelight along the lean flanks gave the illusion of tensed muscles, as if the weird beast were preparing to spring on its prey.
The cat shape was a hollow shell, covered with bituminous pitch, and had once contained, if it did not still, the mummified figure of a real cat. Emerson had presumably acquired this object in Luxor, from one of the dealers, and had undoubtedly paid a pretty penny for it. No doubt many of the watchers were as cognizant as I of the true nature of the feline mummy case; but its seemingly miraculous appearance had as dramatic effect as any showman could wish.
Emerson broke into a weird, stiff-kneed dance, waving his arms. Vandergelt chuckled. “Reminds me of an old Apache chief I used to know,” he whispered. “Suffered terribly from rheumatism, but wouldn’t give up the rain dance.”
Fortunately the rest of the audience was less critical. Watching Emerson’s hand, I saw the same movement that had preceded the burst of multicolored flame. This time the substance he tossed onto the fire produced a huge puff of lemon-colored smoke. It must have contained sulfur, or some similar chemical, for it was singularly odorous and the spectators who were on its fringes began to cough and flap their hands.
For a few seconds the tomb entrance was completely veiled in coiling smoke. As it began to disperse we saw that the cat coffin had split down the middle. The two sections had fallen, one to each side, and between them, in the exact pose of the coffin, sat a living cat. It wore a jeweled collar; the gleaming stones winked emerald and ruby-red in the firelight.
The cat Bastet was extremely annoyed. I sympathized with her feelings. Caged, boxed, or bagged, as the case might be, she had been kidnapped and then thrust into a cloud of evil-smelling smoke. She sneezed and rubbed her nose with her forepaw. Then her glowing golden eyes lit on Emerson
I feared the worst. But then came the crowning wonder of that night of wonders, which would be the subject of folktales in the nearby villages for years to come. The cat walked slowly toward Emerson—who was invoking it as Sekhmet, goddess of war, death, and destruction. Rising on its hind feet, it clung to his trouser leg with its claws and rubbed its head against his hand.
Emerson flung his arms high. “Allah is merciful! Allah is great!” Another mighty puff of smoke burst from the fire, and the majestic invocation ended in a fit of violent coughing.
The performance was ended. Murmuring appreciatively, the audience drifted away. Emerson emerged from the fog and walked toward me.
“Not bad, eh?” he inquired, grinning demonically.
“Let me shake your hand, Professor,” Vandergelt said.