Chapter XIII
My revival was sudden and violent. For a second I lay semi-conscious; then realizing my predicament, every fibre rebelled at the ridiculous situation. Caught ... caught again, like a rat in my own trap. Blindly I rushed about in the blackness of the tomb. Underfoot resounded the crash of fragile furniture, the splintering of priceless relics. My head struck some sort of musical instrument built on the tambourine order which fell to the floor with a weird jangling of copper discs. Then I stumbled over a great urn and lay panting amid the fragments.
Where was my light? In a sickening panic I groped for it ... thank God! my hand closed about it almost instantly ... perspiration dripped from my forehead. I did not press the button of my flash at once. Somewhat calmed by its possession I brooded bitterly, glad that the darkness could hide me from myself. Fool! ...foolthatI was to have been so trapped ... to have felt so fatuously secure. Not a thought had I given to Wimpole during my exquisite “rêve d’amour.” He was dismissed ... waved away like a wraith. But he had materialized.
How had he done it?
A score of answers thronged my brain. Disguised, perhaps he had accompanied me, mingling with my humbledoolahsor, more probably, had followed me, keeping apart, weaving his way, snake-like, through the hills, watching and waiting to strike the dastard blow. G’r-r-r ... I ground my teeth in impotent rage.
But stay ... this was idiotic. Gradually I calmed and for the first time switched on my light. Playing it on the ceiling I realized that all trace of the moveable stone was lost in the complicated decoration. Climbing a wall which curves inward is one of the most difficult feats in the world, though I have been able to do it in the past. But now it seemed so futile. Any search of the ceiling would have lacked direction. Without moving I gazed sombrely about me.
I was buried alive, there was no getting away from that. Having chewed this bitter cud for several minutes I resolved to put my spiritualhouse in order, so to speak. My first act was to make my will, something I had frequently proposed and as often postponed. It occurred to me now that my position was probably unique in drawing up this last testament after I had been entombed. All that I possessed I left to Lady Sarah in fee simple or to her heirs or assigns forever, to have and to hold, from now on until death us do part—the form was strictly legal and I signed Whinney’s name as witness, per W. E. T. to make all sure.
“And now,” I thought, “for my last words.” In vain I tried to evolve some simple, compact sentence which would epitomize my entire life but the subject was too large. Finally I compromised on a five-hundred word obituary outlining the main events of my career. I then recited what I could remember of the burial service and considered that I had been decently laid away.
With these rites performed I could composedly take stock of my surroundings for it occurred to me that I could put my time to no better use than by writing a careful inventory of the contents of the mausoleum. That much at least could remain as my legacy to the culture of the world. Then for the first time I realized the magnitude of thediscovery in which I had so completely lost myself.
For the benefit of those interested in archeology I will give a mere outline of the main features, the principal one of which was, of course, the basalt sarcophagus of the King himself. Beside this in a similar receptacle a few sizes smaller lay his favorite Queen, Heck-To. Ranged about the walls was a dazzling array of royal furniture, boxes, chairs, beds, chariots, tables, vases and so on. All the latter were of solid gold heavily encrusted with gems. Many of the vessels were filled with food but the contents of the wine jars had unfortunately evaporated so that I could only look forward to dry fare for a brief period.
The picture writing on the walls was of immense interest and showed Dimitrino at his favorite pursuits, hawking, hunting, catching scarabs and playing Mah Jong which even in his day was an old game. One intimate close-up portrayed the monarch using a dial system telephone which the modern world is now re-discovering with so much trouble. Another section showed him teaching archery to his son who afterwards became Melachrino I.
Numerous passages were in verse which, inhieroglyphics, is effected by rhyming the symbols in idea, a bird with an egg, a bow with an arrow, a snake with a woman, and so on. A scene very lovely in color, depicted the Queen’s mother, Eks-Ito, being devoured by vultures, the King and his son looking on.
About the sarcophagus stood the tutelar divinities, Psh, Shs, Pst and Tkt, the big four of their day. The queen’s lid bore an intaglio of Thothmes indicating that she had a hare-lip. Hundreds of articles I listed carefully in my note-book, becoming completely absorbed in my work.
Then gradually a chill horror numbed my body.My light was going out!There was no doubt about it. It was fainter than it had been. The battery was fading. To die, thus, in the dark! ... horrible. My determination to complete my catalogue drove me to fresh effort. Having completed the movable objects I made a closer inspection of the sarcophagus itself. On the top carved in high relief lay a coiled snake. As I reached my hand toward it, to my amazement, its head raised and I saw the coils stiffen. Across my brain flashed the thought that this was the King’s “Ka,” his spiritual familiar and guardian. But no, that was rot; the creature was alive!
Subconsciously a ray of hope sprang in my breast. Not realizing just why, I reached my light toward the serpent. When it had almost touched him he glided silently over the edge of the stone, dropped with a thud on the tiled floor and flowed like a black stream to the edge, back of a delicate table, where he disappeared.
In a frenzy I hurled the furniture out of the way and cast myself on the floor playing my light before me. There was the snake’s exit, where a tile was loosened against the side wall. And if his exit, why not mine?
Idiot, not to have thought of it before! The construction of tombs is peculiar. They have practically no foundations. In this country with no frosts or moisture it is only necessary to go an inch or two below the level of the hard-packed sand. Dashing the tile aside I felt the surface below. It was friable and crumbled easily under my hand. Scratching the sand deeply with my pen-knife I scraped up the top layer with a shallow copper bowl. In another moment I was burrowing madly like an excited mole.
In an hour I was completely submerged. My flash was thrust in my breast pocket where I could occasionally play its waning beam on thetunnel before me. But I soon learned to do my work in the dark, passing the sand back of me and worming my way forward. Above me I could feel the masonry of the enclosing wall, first on my head, then my shoulders, waist ... legs ... I was free of it.
As I began to turn my tunnel upward the sound of a solid slump caused me to play the light over my shoulder and look back as well as I could. A large mass of sand had fallen from the roof of the tunnel. Not being able to dig with my feet or to turn in the passage any retreat was cut off. It was do or die now and with desperate energy I wielded my scoop.
Strange that I did not reach the surface! On, on, I went and still there was no light ahead. My sense of direction became confused. Was I going upward or digging my grave deeper and more irrevocably in the arid earth. My strength, unusual though it is, was giving out and this dreadful doubt as to my direction served further to sap my energy. “One hundred more scoops”—I vowed ... still no air ... fifty more ... twenty-five ... ten ... one ... I broke through. Air, blessed air, cool and refreshing as water. Panting I lay with only my head above ground. Itwas night, and such a night! blowing a gale with the wind heavily freighted with sand. But amid the stinging drifts I rolled over and slept the sleep of a child.
The bright sun woke me and I staggered to my feet shaking the sand from my garments and staring stupidly before me. My experience came back slowly like a confused dream. The tomb. O, yes ... the tomb ... but where was it? I rubbed my eyes. There was no tomb. And then I realized what had happened.
During my incarceration the gale had heaped the sand-drifts about my prison until it was completely covered. No trace or trail indicated its position. Of my tunnel there was not a vestige and I realized why it had taken me so long to reach the surface.
The entire topography had changed. Wily old Dimitrino! To tuck his tomb away in this shifting, evasive landscape where he was literally here today and gone tomorrow!
Thank Heavens my compass could not run down and I still had my records. At the thought of the return trip memory re-illumined the flame of anger but, close on its searing glow, burst the effulgence of love. Faint from hungerbut buoyed by my inextinguishable passion I stumbled through the distorted territory where, verily, as the old Hebrew says, “the little hills skip like rams.”