The Curse of Katmunkhet and the Light Fingered Jack

By Simon D Smith

1887. The Golden Jubilee year of Queen Victoria. The British Empire is on its way to spanning almost a quarter of the Earth and controls almost a fifth of the world's population. The British Empire is the foremost world power.
Britannia rules the waves...
Returning home for Christmas after three years away on the China Station, HMS Britannia stops in Egypt. While enjoying the pleasures of Alexandria, a sailor of her company steals a figurine from a market stall and unwittingly invokes a damning and deadly curse, and releases into the world an insidious evil of almost limitless power.
What has been done cannot be undone...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781326812614

Book preview

The Curse of Katmunkhet and the Light Fingered Jack

The Curse of Tutankhset & The Light Fingered Jack

By

Simon D. Smith

Copyright  Simon D. Smith November 2011

The right of Simon D. Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been

asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988

I would like to thank Johnny Smith, Andy Blunt and Sean Havoc for their time, assistance and input with this project.

For Leslieanne

Prologue

Western Desert, Egypt

Allahu akbar, Omar muttered, deeply troubled by the flickering of his lamp. His voice cracked when he spoke, and it sounded weak. Pathetic.

The small and battered oil lamp he held up before him was totally unsuitable for purpose. It would be fine inside a small room or a tent. But he wasn’t in a safe small room or a safe tent on the desert floor. In the mazelike depths of what had to be either a temple or some kind of a tomb, it was next to useless, but it was the only one he had when he’d discovered the hole in the desert floor in the middle of nowhere, so it had to do. Before entering the steeply angled tunnel, he’d thinned the oil and closely trimmed the wick, which in turn produced a flame that although it would last a while longer, the quality of the light would be greatly diminished. Indeed, the dull yellow glow barely touched the cold sand at his feet. Held up just above his head, the shadows it cast deepened his cheeks and eye sockets and gave his face a gaunt and haunted look. The yellow light made his forehead, nose and cheekbones shine the colour of the treasure he so desperately sought. The flickering glow was only strong enough to suggest a row of thick and equally spaced columns to his right, and that picture was formed purely because of the darkness where the stone pillars weren’t.

The presence of the columns and the sheer volume of space told him he was likely to have discovered a temple complex, maybe even something on the scale of the Valley of the Kings. That was the only reason he kept going through air so heavy and dry that it pressed down on his lungs, and darkness so all-encompassing that it seemed to try and smother and snuff out his small orb of light.

Allahu akbar…

Over the last couple of years, Omar had taken great steps to cultivate the personality of a devout and religious man. A pious man who could inspire others, a man who could be counted on or looked to in times of trouble for either practical, spiritual and/or moral guidance. Indeed on several occasions it had happened, and each instance had validated this persona and had given him a tremendous sense of well-being. But as he inched ever further into the darkness of the stuffy tomb his fear was so great that he doubted the value of his prayers. He couldn’t be a true believer. If Allah, peace be upon him, was truly the light beside him in that dark and terrible place, what was there to fear?

"…Allahuuu akbaaaar… Allahuuu akbaaaar…"

Omar gasped aloud, petrified by the sudden manifestation of a deep and ghostly voice that seemed to fill the darkness, the very air itself. The sound swirled about him like the breath of a spectre before it struck and bounced off the ancient dusty walls hidden within the folds of darkness. Immediately, his head hunched between his shoulders, his eyes, wide as saucers, peered in every direction, seeking out the evil he felt about to strike him down. His fear subsided when he realised the sound was the echo of his own miserable utterings.

Omar knew then that he was only kidding himself. He’d always known. Way down deep inside, in his heart of hearts, he knew he was not a moral man. He was a thief. A liar. A chancer. The persona was nothing more than an act, but not with the intent to do wrong, just to maybe better himself, better his standing amongst his neighbours and contemporaries. He just didn’t believe in it the same way as everyone else. He found out at a young age that in the real world of man the power of prayer couldn’t help with practical matters, that some things have to be dealt with directly and personally, and not always in a legal, moral or honourable way. Consequently, throughout all of his life the only thing he’d ever truly served was himself. But, just in case, he hoped that utterance of his belief in the Almighty alone may imbue him with divine protection and ward off the evil spirits of the long dead Pharaoh, and/or his bodyguards, should any of them be lurking thereabouts. It may even illuminate his path through the near physical darkness to the resting place of the treasure he hoped to be there. He knew it was there. Somewhere.

Omar didn’t want recognition for his unexpected and possibly monumental discovery. He didn’t want grateful thanks and praise. He wanted gold. He wanted treasure and riches. Massive wealth. And why shouldn’t he be the one to profit from the discovery? He discovered the unknown and untouched subterranean tomb on the edge of the Western Desert. Greed tempered his resolve and he edged onwards, deeper into the darkness and the dust and rubble of an ancient civilisation, a place where no one had walked or breathed for hundreds of centuries. There wasn’t another person for hundreds of miles in any direction. If something happened there was no one to help. No one to hear him scream…

Allahu akbar, Allahu ak— His breath froze inside his lungs and his beady eyes widened. The large, angry red eyes of a huge animal headed creature stared down at him. Omar’s legs felt weak and he wobbled, and then realised that the flicker of the lamp flame had made the creature seem alive. It was nothing more than a painting on a wall, and not a vengeful temple guardian advancing to disembowel him. Even so, the massive image appeared to be breathing. Omar’s heart hammered against the inside of his ribs as though it were trying to rip itself free. The force of the pounding made his chest feel heavy. The relief was such that the sudden need to laugh was immediately superseded by a desire to cry.

The painted figure was obviously that of a god, but Omar didn’t know which one. He’d never seen an animal that possessed tall ears, fierce red lined eyes and a long snout. If it weren’t for the eyes and the ears the creature would resemble an anteater. He inched closer and more details of the painting became clear. Its left hand hung by its side and carried a golden Ankh. The right grasped a long staff with a strangely shaped blade fixed to the top. The figure was dressed in a red mantle and white skirt and several red strands hung from a wide brown belt. The unknown god towered over a large line of cowed and subdued prisoners, slaves, who also had red eyes. Omar then realized the eyes of the prisoners had been ripped out, presumably to prevent their escape. At once it occurred to him that their eyes were the red strands that were attached to the belt.

Omar shuddered and turned and started walking once more, not wanting to look upon the image a moment longer. He passed more paintings on the same wall. The same god, inflicting further punishments upon the helpless slaves; holding some of them up by their necks, beheading others with the tall pole weapon. There was something compelling about the horrific images. Even though they frightened him, he just couldn’t stop himself from looking up at them. He could easily imagine that monstrous figure coming to life, stepping down from the wall, patiently waiting in the darkness for the lamp oil to run out…

Omar finally tore his eyes away and looked behind him, back the way he’d come, back into the darkness, towards the way out and certain safety. He was free to turn around and flee the ghastly, godforsaken place. But greed overrode his fear; it blinded him and kept him rooted to the spot. He was there for treasure. He wanted treasure. If he turned and left he knew he’d always wonder about what he might have found if he’d just swallowed his fear and braved the infernal darkness and the monstrous paintings.

"…Allahuuu akbaaaar… Allahuuu akbaaaar…"

Fearfully he started forwards once more, painfully aware of how the weak light seemed to be struggling to keep the darkness at arms length. He followed the wall, but didn’t look up at it. He reached a corner, and saw it was one side of a narrow passageway that led through the painted wall. He followed it and found another corner into yet another passageway. The small corridor led down a slope to a doorway of darkness.

There was no gold inside. No chests full of jewels or golden weapons. No statues and also, mercifully, no paintings on the rough walls. A rectangular area was sunk into the middle of the room. A square pillar rose up from each corner. At the top of each of the four flights of steps in the centre of the wall, a doorway led into another darkened corridor, suggesting to Omar that every road led to that room, that it was the centre of the temple. Each step bore strange hieroglyphs and inscriptions that carried on up each column and disappeared into the darkness. He felt it was a seal of some kind, maybe even the seal of a royal household? Omar nodded, and slowly descended the steps, his eyes wide with excitement, never left the sunken area. A royal burial chamber? But where was the royal treasure?

As though replying, a glint suddenly flashed out of the darkness at the head of the sunken area. Instantly, he turned and started towards it, the trembling lamp held aloft, his eyes stared as they tried to penetrate the shroud of darkness. Was it another lamp? Was he not alone in that chamber of the dead? For an instant he considered that it might be the tall figure painted on the wall. His hand trembled, and the dull light glinted again. It was a faint glow with a yellow tinge, and he realised it had been nothing more than a reflection of his lamp.

Shiny metals and precious stones reflect light in such a fashion…

Omar took a deep breath to calm his nerves and crossed the smooth stone floor like a man possessed. After only a single step the sharp angled corner of a large stone box emerged from the darkness that at once he recognised as a sarcophagus. He was again struck with the thought that he was the first person to stand alive inside that room for god knows how many hundreds of centuries. Realization that he shouldn’t be there, that he was an outsider, and a common outsider at that, that he had no right being there, no business being there other than to steal from a Pharaoh, made him shudder.

The sarcophagus was made of coarse and rough stone and bore no markings of any kind. Hardly a tomb befitting a king. There was no golden death mask. Maybe it was merely the last resting place of a trusted aide who’d journeyed to the underworld with his master? But why would they be laid to rest in the centre of a sunken, possibly sealed section if it wasn’t anyone of importance? It occurred to him then that maybe the coarse box was simply an outer, protective shell, that maybe the ornate sarcophagus and death mask were hidden inside?

Then he saw it.

Perched atop a broad stone plinth at the head of the sarcophagus stood a golden statuette. It was the length of his forearm, and it was gold. Solid gold. And he couldn’t take his eyes off it. The glassy, darting orbs took in every detail of the statuette. Gold. Valuable. The same God figure painted on the walls outside, except there were no strands hanging from the belt. Also, the front of the breastplate of the statuette was engraved with a large bat. Maybe it was the God King of bats? They have tall ears…

Omar looked once more at the colour of the trophy. A broad and crooked grin slowly lifted one side of his face. This prize was going to change his life. And for once the change would be for the better. There would be no more begging in the streets for scraps, no more scratching out a meagre existence in the dirt and sand. No more stealing. It would give him a vast marble palace. He’d have horses, and servants… He would have serving girls, and dancing girls, all virgins, and they’ll be ready to satisfy his every whim… on demand.

The golden statuette absorbed and magnified the weak lamplight and created a warm glow. The marginally brighter light allowed him to see the sharp corner of a small hand chest on the floor, nestled against the rear of the plinth. The wooden lid also bore a bat engraving, identical to the one on the breastplate. The small chest looked to be the sort of place where golden nuggets and or precious stones could be found. Swiftly he lifted the lid, half expecting the glow of diamonds or rubies to light his face. Instead, a musty cloud of dust and stale air spewed from the interior and covered his sweaty face. Startled, Omar threw his head back, but not before he’d inadvertently breathed in a mouthful of the cloud. He coughed and exhaled heavily, suddenly wheezy from the vile odour and taste of the dust. The darkness inside the box prevented him from seeing the bottom, but purely by gauging its height he knew there was no room for anything inside it. So where was the treasure?

Omar shrugged and returned his attention to the magnificent statuette. It alone would make him a rich man. A very rich man. His minds eye focused once more on the dancing girls… The effort required to lift it from its resting place confirmed that it was made of gold. He smiled down at it proudly, wondrously, like a father proudly cradling his firstborn son. Lovingly he ran his thumb across the top of its ears and down the curve of the snout. This more than made up for the disappointment at not finding a treasure room. But he would be back, with proper equipment, and as many people he could trust or control with threats.

Omar lengthened his vision to the she sarcophagus. He’d convinced himself that the lid was way too heavy for him to move by himself. He was smart, having heard tales that the old Paharoahs protected their temples and tombs, and sarcophaguses with deadly curses. On his return with more equipment, more lamps and a few men, he’d avoid any curse on the tomb by getting one or two of the shit kickers to open it when he’s not around.

Omar wanted to leave. He couldn’t stay much longer anyway, not with such a small lamp. He didn’t want to stay. He wanted to be gone so that he might sell the artefact. Chances are he wouldn’t find anything else of great value in the small amount of time he had left anyway. The light would soon begin to die, and he needed to be back outside before that happened. If it went out while he was still inside the tomb he knew he’d never find his way out. As though on cue the light flickered, and Omar quickly trimmed down the wick. There was very little oil left. He had to leave at once.

Omar hugged his statuette and moved away from the sarcophagus. Halfway up the shallow steps he stopped dead and turned back, sure he’d heard his name whispered. He stared hard at the darkness and convinced himself he could see solid shapes moving slowly through the shadows. Even though the sarcophagus lay on the ground just feet away, he could only make out part of its shape by the angle of the nearest corner. He watched carefully for a moment and saw no movement in the darkness other than the repeated flickering of the flame. It was another trick of the light. He held his statuette tighter and hurried up the remainder of the steps with an urgency in his stride that hadn’t been there a moment earlier.

Omar crossed the hieroglyph carved top step and gasped aloud suddenly when a sharp cramp tore through his stomach like a white-hot sword blade. It struck him with such painful intensity that he immediately dropped to his knees, and he chose to drop the lamp rather than the statuette so that a hand could press against the pain in his stomach. The invisible blade stabbed him again, and again. And again. Omar’s agonized screams, and their accompanying echoes, split the air of the tomb apart. Still clutching the statuette he thrashed around on the dusty ground as though suffering some kind of fit. Finally he discarded the statuette so that he could press both hands to his stomach. He felt something move around inside his lower abdomen, something large and lumpy, and he began to shake. He was unable to calm or control his breathing or any part of his convulsing body. Bloodied spittle hung freely from his savagely contorting mouth. He stared hard at the statuette to try and focus on it so that he might be able to get a grip of himself. Its engraved eyes had changed from luxurious gold to bright fiery red. They were the same angry eyes of the tall figure painted on the wall.

Vomit rose swiftly. He gagged and retched violently. Instead of vomiting regurgitated food and water, his stomach expelled a long stream of angry wasps. He knew then that he was going to die in that godforsaken place. They poured from his mouth and nostrils, covered in bile and phlegm and spit, their number growing with every stomach churning retch. They’d stung him every inch of the way up, inside his stomach, airway, mouth and nose. They stung his lips and his tongue. Once free of the confines of his body they fluttered their wings dry before lifting up into a swarm close to him. They became entangled in his lank hair as they worked their wings to dry them, and took the opportunity to also sting his scalp and neck. They got inside his loose fitting clothes and seemingly stung him everywhere at once, his arms and hands, his legs, torso and face. One stung his left eyeball, and the pain from that one sting soared over and above all that he was already suffering. The eye closed immediately. The pain made his forehead and temple on that side of his head feel like it had been hit with a shovel.

Omar screamed but kept his mouth clamped tightly shut, but was forced to open it again when he retched and expelled another sixty or so stinging insects in a quick succession of burning heaves. The inside of his body and head felt aflame. He was unable to draw in oxygen, as they poured from his mouth and nose and blocked is airway. He prayed to God that he could die there and then, and end the hideous suffering. He prayed for a lightning bolt to immediately strike him down dead. At that very moment the retches stopped. The large mass that had been inside his stomach had gone, and once his windpipe had purged the last of the aggressive insects he drew in a deep wheezy breath that made his head swim.

The constant hum of the swarm diminished and allowed his exhausted body a brief respite. Slowly, through the fog of tortuous agony, he realised the hum hadn’t diminished; it had changed. It had deepened. The resulting echo made the sound all the more threatening. The sound was coming from the direction of the sarcophagus, but he couldn’t understand why, as he hadn’t opened it. But then he remembered the small hardwood box with the bat symbol on its lid. And no visible bottom…

His remaining eye found and locked on the statuette. Venomous rage lived in its inanimate red eyes. Strange angled shadows disfigured its torso and face because of the flickering flame of the dropped lamp. As he watched, its polished golden exterior changed to a dull matt black, and the soft golden light about him diminished.

Allahu akbar, Omar tried to say. But his throat and gullet were too swollen. He couldn’t breathe properly let alone speak. It broke his heart that the once beautiful object that he’d loved had become something dark and evil.

The humming suddenly grew louder. Then a wasp the length of his thumb landed on the ground between him and his statuette. Another landed beside it, and then another came, and another. It took a moment for it to register in his brain that they weren’t wasps. They were hornets. A whole swarm of hornets, each one twice the size of the wasps. Their noise alone terrified him, as did the realisation that they’d arrived there for one reason alone. Him. They landed en masse on the sandy ground before him. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Omar felt the heat emanate from that writhing, huddling insect carpet, from which a single hornet broke free and ambled slowly across the gap towards him.

Omar knew if he kept quiet and still, it wouldn’t get angry. It wouldn’t attack. It would lose interest in him and just fly off, and hopefully take the rest of them away with him. He also knew in the same instant that wasn’t going to happen. As was always the way with his nightmares, this was going to be a worse case scenario. So with his one good eye he stared hard at it, watching it as closely as he could and tried to slowly back away from it. Movement inspired immense agony. His entire body throbbed and he whimpered. He wasn’t going anywhere. So he slowly filled his stare with venom and hatred and every ounce of defiance he could muster. The hornet twitched and lifted from the ground. The weight of its body was such that its bulk hung vertically. It lifted up right in front of him, and appeared to move back, as though intimidated by Omar’s best endeavours to protect himself. It swayed from side to side, as though angered by the challenge before darting straight at him. It thrust its sting into Omar’s good eye with a malevolence he felt coming before the physical penetration turned the world black.

The deep hum increased suddenly when thousands of thin wings beat through the dead air. He opened his mouth to scream and the maddened, crazed insects attacked him with full force. Unable to see, move or even breathe properly, Omar preyed that his end would be quick, for he knew that’s where he’d reached. He was already suffering the most hideous agony. They stung his skull, neck and face and when they forced their way into his clothes he felt them land and walk across his skin, and sting his body over and over again. They forced their way into his ears, up his nostrils and into his mouth, stinging his gums and tongue and every inch of the way back down his throat and into his lungs and stomach.

The lamplight flickered and expired. Amid the feeble and pathetic grunts and groans of a dying grave robber, the deep echoing hum of the insects vibrated through the air, and the resonance caused the statuette to half submerge into the cold sand of the tomb of Tutankhset.

Western Desert

Lightning, blinding and jagged, ripped across the dreamy golden sky. Mohammed looked up just as it disappeared, although its brilliance momentarily left a stinging and savage welt across the sky like a bullwhip mark on soft flesh. An identical pattern burned onto his retinas was slow to dissolve. Quickly, and blinking strongly, he climbed the rickety ladder up to ground level from the trench where he’d been digging. He was hot and breathless, sweating profusely in the heat, and frightened by the intensity of the lightning. Rainfall that far from the Nile was rare. In fact, he doubted it had ever rained there. It was nothing like the lightning he’d experienced in his native Alexandria, the type of lightning he’d seen during thunderstorms. The lightning that scorched the golden sky bore malevolence and venom, and had nothing to do with the weather. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Mohammed reached the top of the ladder and began to transfer the bulk of his not inconsiderable weight to the ground. Too late his head turned swiftly, on hearing a distant yelled warning. The long and partially turned head of the petrified animal loomed large. A large cluster of froth and foam the size of a wasp’s nest hung from each side of an open and snorting mouth. A large glassy brown eye rolled back into its socket. Blindly it ran with neither care nor thought, other than escaping the terror it perceived to be behind it. Clouds of dust hung in its wake. Short and immensely powerful hind legs pumped back and forth, which propelled it furiously across the dig site; right past the ladder at just the moment Mohammed reached the top of it. He heard the warning shout, the petrified braying and the pounding of hooves simultaneously, just as he transferred his weight from the ladder to the ground. His eyes widened at the same rate that his mouth opened to scream just as the donkey cannoned into him. The jarring collision detonated a massive explosion of sparks and broke two of his rotten teeth while still in the gum. A pain filled scream came from somewhere nearby, as did another bout of squealing and wheezy braying.

Whenever Mohammed had dreamed of flying, he would soar high over the city of Alexandria with the seagulls. He would look down and see people on their roof terraces, and people walking through the narrow and winding busy streets. All would be oblivious to his silent passing overhead. Out over the harbour the sea would reflect the sun and dazzle him. He would turn away and glide gracefully through the air, over the pastures and finally the featureless desert would pass silently beneath him.

But Mohammed wasn’t dreaming. He was flying sideways through the air. Somehow his brain had managed to slow down the passing of time. It felt like he was dreaming someone else’s dream, until he realised that the scream he’d heard a moment ago had been wrenched from his own mouth.

…And he was suddenly sat on the hard and dusty floor of the hovel in Alexandria where he grew up. His mother, Allah rest her soul, was sat in the corner nursing Abdullah, his younger brother. Her hallowed image melded into that of Mamta, his first love, his beloved wife, at the moment they first met. Slowly she lifted her head from the baby to look at him for the first time. Her dark eyes sparkled like the brightest of stars on the blackest of nights. How could they be so demure and innocent, and yet at the same time so wicked and exciting? Again they took his breath away…

…Their wedding in Alexandria surrounded by their families, and then alone later that glorious night, that first time, the joyous conception of poor Mostapha, Allah rest his soul. Holding him that first time in his arms, so small and precious, so perfect. Tears of joy and pride and above all, love. Love for Mostapha, and love for Mamta for giving him such a beautiful boy…

…Talking and laughing and sharing a sheesha with family friends on a warm spring evening on the roof terrace of their house, celebrating after securing work on one of the many foreign archaeological digs, losing himself in his thoughts of the future while staring at the water bubbling at the bottom of the glass vase before inhaling apple sweetened smoke…

…Sneaking into the tent of the English archaeologist in the dead of night at the dig just outside Cairo to steal the treasure, a tall godhead statuette that the English had intended to remove from the land of Egypt…

…The fire at his house that claimed the life of his poor Mostapha. The dreadful pain and endless misery that drove a wedge between him and Mamta, that turned her cold towards him…

…Homeless. Being taken in by his uncle, and then arranging his funeral and wake only ten days after the death of his beloved son…

A shuddering explosion ripped through Mohammed’s skull, a dazzling white flash that removed both sound and vision for a moment. A bone jarring crunch later he heard a high-pitched whistle that turned into the sound of the desert wind. Slowly his senses returned. Dazed and severely winded, he realised he’d slammed into a large boulder sticking out of the bedrock some ten feet away from the top of the ladder. He dry heaved suddenly and struggled to breathe, fearfully aware that his life had just flashed before his eyes.

His whole body ached and throbbed in time with his pounding heartbeat. He was intact. None of his limbs had broken, but sharp pain under his arm told him that perhaps he might have broken a rib or two. A snorting sound close to him filtered into his addled brain, along with the stomping of hooves. Mohammed slowly turned his head. The movement generated an immense wave of nausea and again he dry heaved. His vision blurred and swam, but not before he saw that the donkey was stood almost on top of him. Its swimming, distorted image became several donkeys. He blinked hard, and his staring eyes again flooded with tears. His head felt like it was trying to spin right off his shoulders. The revolving donkeys became a single donkey once more, though it bore a hazy, rainbow coloured outline.

The animal’s heat prickled his face. He wasn’t sure if the pungent stench of fear in the air was seeping from the clammy flesh beneath scrawny and matted hair of the beast or whether it had emanated from his own clammy skin. Hopelessly dizzy, he heaved yet again. This time his stomach wrung out a long gooey strand of spittle and phlegm. The beast was still at last, other than its uncontrollable and violent trembling. Its head moved slowly from side to side. Plate-like eyes stared as though watching for something. Long ears twitched as though listening for something.

Mohammed shuddered and remembered his life had flashed before his