“Ah. What is it?”
“It is a linen used to wrap a mummy,” Kate said. “In ancient Heliopolis, where the priesthood of Ra was centered, it was used to re-create their god here on Earth, in a physical form. Once summoned, Ra would lead the armies of Heliopolis against enemy cities, destroying their god and leaving the city weak and helpless before the invading forces. In this way, the priesthood made Ra the dominant god in ancient Egypt, destroying or absorbing all rivals. The pharaohs were all subject to the will of the priests of Ra for their power on Earth. The Skin of Ra allowed the followers of the sun god to rule Egypt for thousands of years.”
“What happened to it?” Thomas asked.
“No one knows, of course. It was lost or stolen or destroyed, depending on the story one believes.”
“But, of course, it’s just a story. Yes?”
Kate and Simon exchanged knowing glances, and she said, “May we see it?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so.” Thomas looked confused and nervous.
They followed Thomas and his oil lamp out of the common workroom and along the corridor. The curator stopped at a door and fumbled with a key ring. Finally, he unlocked the door.
“Do be careful on the steps,” he said.
They descended into the dark, cold cellar on stone steps. The musty smell of damp earth surrounded them. There were a few thin windows set deep in the stone walls near the ceiling, but they were black from the night. The oil lamp threw a faint yellow glow on the surrounding mob of stone faces and frozen, snarling, animal snouts and rows of pottery and towers of wooden crates. There was barely room to walk between the detritus of cultures. A faint thumping noise came from the darkness.
“Rats,” Thomas suggested weakly. “They’ve eaten half of the world’s history down here.”
The three came to a stone wall lined with shelves covered with pots and urns. Thomas studied labels on the shelves. The bumping noise came again to their right. He looked warily in that direction.
“That way.” Thomas tried to urge lamplight into the distant black corner.
The thumping continued in the dark. Thomas froze.
“That’s a very insistent rat.” Simon saw Kate reaching into her bag to have a defensive elixir ready at hand. The sound was not rhythmic like a loose object swinging freely. It was an irregular scrabbling like fingers scraping rapidly with energy, then slowing as if tired. It resembled the sound of an animal testing the limits of a container.
Simon clasped his hands behind his back. “You don’t keep living specimens down here, do you? A parrot or a jaguar?”
“No.”
“Well, carry on then. No doubt the rat will scurry at your approach.”
“No doubt,” Thomas said timidly.
They squeezed between crates and shelves, moving toward the sound. Simon followed close behind Thomas. The curator stopped short and he bumped into the man’s back.
“There.” Thomas pointed. On a shelf at the edge of the lamp light was a wooden box. It was pitch-black, made of rich, ebony wood, perhaps a foot in width and length and height. Delicate gold highlights accentuated the corners. Around the sides were carved hieroglyphs.
The thumping sound was coming from inside the box. Thomas gasped, watching the wooden container move. The corners lifted a few inches off the shelf, up and down as if something inside wanted to get out. Simon pushed past Thomas.
“Simon, don’t be stupid,” Kate warned. “For once.”
He stood in front of the jumping container. Slowly, his hand went toward the lid. The thumping sound stopped and the box dropped motionless to the shelf. He raised an amused eyebrow.
Just as his fingers brushed the cool ebony, he heard a clicking noise. Regular. Rhythmic. It came from the direction of the stairs. Footsteps. He looked at Kate. She turned around, listening as well.
Thomas pressed against the wall, unnerved by another unexpected sound. He whispered, “I shouldn’t have brought you down here.”
The steps continued to approach, stopping occasionally to avoid an obstacle in the path. A small figure could soon be seen against the grey background. It turned and moved slowly toward them along the same narrow path they had taken. The steady footsteps rang off the stone foundation. Finally the shape stopped a few feet from Kate.
The figure was female, draped in a long gown, with her head completely veiled.
“Mrs. Mansfield?” Thomas asked with surprise. “Did we have an appointment? I’m so sorry to have inconvenienced you. I hope the watchman didn’t give you a problem getting inside.”
“No.” Mrs. Mansfield whispered. Then she raised both hands and held them out in front of her in a peculiar pose. She spoke with a familiar voice that sounded like a rusting gate. “He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry?” Thomas inclined his head politely.