The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [113]
‘Thank you,’ said Ramses.
Evelyn, pale as a ghost, took out her handkerchief and wiped his face. ‘What was it? Where are you hurt?’
‘I am not hurt,’ said Ramses. ‘Except for cuts and bruises which resulted from father’s precipitate removal of my person from the tunnel. Please, Mother! There are ladies present.’
I had ripped open his torn shirt, sending buttons flying with as much precipitation as Emerson was wont to do. The bandage was still in place and unstained. By blood, at any rate.
‘He appears to be relatively undamaged,’ I said.
‘Snakebite,’ Emerson said hoarsely.
‘Don’t be absurd, Emerson. What would a cobra be doing in the depths of a tomb?’
‘Then what did he scream for?’ The colour returned to Emerson’s face. ‘I never heard him make sounds like that.’
‘The initial outcry,’ said Ramses, with obvious chagrin, ‘was prompted by shock and surprise. I went on shouting because I was trying to get you to stop dragging me along with such painful precipitation. You can put me down, Father, I assure you I am quite capable of standing unsupported, and it is very humiliating to be held like –’
‘Why did you scream?’ Emerson’s teeth were clenched and so were the arms that held Ramses.
‘Not from fear, I assure you.’ Ramses glanced at Nefret. ‘I encountered nothing to provoke alarm. In fact, it is fairly easy going after the first few feet. The steps are steep and broken, but the lower portion is clear of debris – and of cobras. It must have been the modern thieves who removed the lid of the mummy case in order to look for amulets and jewellery . . . Mother! Stop her, Father, there is no physical danger, but the sight is . . . Oh, curse it!’
I got to the ramp a split second before Nefret, and was in the tunnel before Emerson could prevent me. I knew my son’s expository style well enough to be sure that he would go rambling on, deliberately prolonging the suspense, until he drove me to undignified verbal or physical remonstrations. I had to see for myself.
A hand caught hold of my foot, but I pulled away. (I am just as skilled as Ramses in wriggling through narrow spaces, though I get less credit for it.)
The air deep in the depths of Egyptian tombs does not strike pleasantly upon the nostrils, but as I proceeded I began to be aware of a sickly odour quite unlike any I had encountered before. As Ramses had indicated, the debris covered only the topmost steps, and my heart quickened when the small flame of my candle showed the unmistakable shape of a mummiform coffin below. The air was close, the candle burned low. I was quite close to the object before I realized it was not the sort of coffin I had hoped to see. There was no glitter of gold or glow of inset stones, nor any sign of an inscription. Dust dulled only a plain white surface of painted wood.
Not a royal coffin, then. Disappointed but still curious, I rose to my knees. The lid had been removed and flung aside. The occupant of the coffin lay exposed.
Exposed indeed. The body was unclothed, without so much as a scrap of bandage covering it. It was – unfortunately – in an excellent state of preservation. The head was flung back, the mouth hideously distorted in a petrified scream of agony and despair. I turned away, clapping my hands over my mouth to hold back the nausea rising in my throat. The foul, sickening stench that rose from the coffin was bad enough. Even worse was the realization that had struck me when I saw the ropes that bound the clawed hands and rigid feet. The man had been buried alive.
X
Men May Be Violently Attracted by Attributes That Are Not Immediately Apparent
THOUGH I have never been particularly fond of mummies, I have in the course of my professional career learned to deal with the nasty things efficiently and unemotionally. I retreated from that one in considerable haste. The hour was late when we returned to the Amelia, but I admitted the need for discussion and restorative libations. It was impossible to go tamely to bed after such an experience.