Dreams from the Witch House: Female Voices of Lovecraftian Horror (27 page)

The capital Dr. Sangare used to open her clinic had come largely from the sale of certain personal effects she had claimed from those bodies she had procured while still in medical school. Unfortunately, given her chosen clientele’s lack of solvency, she didn’t make enough to keep herself in medicine and meals and to also bribe the lawmakers into looking the other way when they realized what she was doing.

Bridget stuck by Dr. Sangare even after the scandal, offering her a place to stay when her clinic was shut down and her assets were all seized. While living together they discussed the sensational news regarding a Dr. Carter’s recent expedition to Egypt—as well as the estimated value of what he had discovered. Dr. Sangare knew how to rob a grave, and Bridget knew how to get by on not a lot, even in unfamiliar places, so they decided almost that very night to try something similar. The pockets of the unwary and the graves of the damned supplied everything they needed to get to someplace with deeper pockets and more fabulous graves. And in order to make the most from their efforts, they decided that they would keep the expedition to just the two of them.

How they settled on Leng I never did find out. All I heard was that they had “obtained” a map allegedly showing the burial valley of Leng’s ancient warrior queens; after we made it over the pass, it was toward this we headed. I was never as convinced of its existence as they were, but I hoped it was real. Though I was appalled by Dr. Sangare’s grave-robbing, and alarmed by Bridget’s nonchalance about having been a hired killer, thief, and prostitute at various times in her life, I came to respect them both for their determination and passion. I came to like them.

 I like to think they came to respect me and like me, too.

§

I awaken, tasting dirt and blood. I spit out a tooth, which bounces away and disappears. It is
black
down in the pit; I see nothing but a patch of sky through the hole we tumbled through.

I feel around in the darkness, and cut myself before discovering our lantern, shattered in the fall. Were I able, I’d curse, for the hot gush between my thumb and forefinger makes me aware of the sticky blood on my face, in my eyes; the scrapes all over my body.

I find some bit of ragged cloth and wrap my hand, which makes it easier to get one of our emergency candles lit. The brightness sets my eyes watering, but eventually I can see enough to look around.

We are in a conical cave. Cobwebs cling to everything, and the floor is littered with dusty chunks of masonry. The most interesting thing is the staircase, spiraling to the hole above along the side of the structure. I frown at it, as I feel my aches and pains from the fall.

My two companions are slumped on the floor. I trot over to them. They are both breathing, but Bridget’s arm is twisted under her body in a way that sets my stomach rolling. She will need medical attention. Fortunately, there’s a doctor close at hand.

I drizzle some of our precious water onto Dr. Sangare’s face, getting a little in her mouth. She sputters and licks her lips, then gingerly pushes herself to a seated position.

“Krishna!” She looks around. “Are we safe?”

I nod.

“How did you get down here?”

I point skyward.

“You jumped?” She seems annoyed. “Now we’re all stuck!”

I point at the stairs. Her eyes widen.

“You knew?”

I shook my head.

“What a damn fool thing to do!”

I raise an eyebrow, folding my arms over my chest. She sighs.

“What I mean is
thank you
.” She winces, stretching out her legs. The knee of her trouser has been ripped away, and her black flesh beneath is red and pink with blood. “At the very least we’re safe from those jackals in here.”

I point at Bridget. Dr. Sangare gasps, and pulls herself over to her partner.

“She’s still out cold! We need to get her up.”

I pour water into Bridget’s mouth. She does not stir.

Dr. Sangare frowns. She looks worried. I am not. If Bridget were in real danger, I’d know.

“Bridget!” She shakes the girl. “Come on!”

“Gngh,” says Bridget, eyelids flickering. “Ow.”

We get her up, and take a look at her arm. It is definitely broken.

“We’ll have to set it,” Dr. Sangare says, frown deepening.

I can see how much pain Bridget is in already, and hold up a single finger. While they watch, mystified, I pack a
chillum
with hash. I pantomime how to smoke.

“What…” Bridget winces. “I suppose I can’t ask why.”

I consider this and point to my arm, making a wracked expression, as if I’m in pain.

“I see.” She looks to Dr. Sangare, who shrugs. “Well, I suppose I’ll try it…”

I help her get the pipe lit off the candle, and encourage her as she hacks and coughs on the thick smoke. When we see the relaxation on her face, we know it’s time.

Dr. Sangare puts her belt between Bridget’s teeth, a wise precaution. It is my job to hold her as Dr. Sangare sets the bone. She screams, but recovers quickly, as Dr. Sangare splints the arm and then constructs a makeshift sling from a scarf. When she’s finished, I pass out some goat jerky.

“Well, that’s done,” mumbles Bridget, through a mouthful, “but even if the jackals are gone, I’m afraid I’ll need to rest a bit.”

“I suppose I’ll do some exploring,” says Dr. Sangare, finishing her portion with one enormous bite. “This place must have been made by people for some purpose. Let’s see if they left anything behind.”

She grabs a piece of firewood and makes a torch of it, tearing Bridget’s petticoat into strips to wrap around one end and dousing it all in the last of our lamp oil. Bridget giggles, watching this, but I make the concerned Dr. Sangare understand that this is normal, a side effect of the hash.

Dr. Sangare begins to wave her torch about. We see there is a cavernous door in the wall; a corridor that slopes downward. We must be beneath ground level, but we can go yet deeper.

She looks from the door to me. “Krishna—want to come?”

I look from Dr. Sangare to Bridget. The girl nods.

“I’ll be fine,” she says vaguely, helping herself to more jerky.

Before I go, I wrap the remainder and tuck it out of sight. If the hunger comes on her, as it can with hash sometimes, I don’t want her eating everything we have left.

The ceiling is much lower in the tunnel. Dr. Sangare and I pad along, her hunched over; me upright with my head only a few inches from the rock, winding our way deeper as we go. Our path is a spiral, curving in on itself, a continuation of the staircase leading out of the conical chamber above. I see Dr. Sangare checking her pocket watch every so often. She’s timing our descent. It occurs to me that this is a woman used to sneaking around in unfamiliar places.

In unfamiliar graves.

“I wonder what this place is,” she mutters. “It wasn’t on our map…”

I cannot muse with her, but having looked at that map, which had only the vaguest markings, I am hardly surprised it left a few things off.

Eventually the tunnel bottoms out. A low gate has been built into the living rock, two stone slabs topped with a third. There is a chamber beyond the portal, and Dr. Sangare immediately squats down, thrusting the torch within and peering about.

I am more concerned by the hideous carving of a jackal-headed monster that sits atop the portal. Wings curve from its shoulder blades and teeth from its maw. It is hideous, sinister, and Dr. Sangare’s torchlight glints off the polished stones of its eyes in a way that makes it look almost alive.

I find it strange that no door blocks our passage. There is only this silent stone guardian protecting what lies within. I note there is some kind of writing carved at its cruel feet.

“Coming?” asks Dr. Sangare. She seems excited.

I point to the statue; the unfamiliar script. Dr. Sangare shrugs impatiently.

“There’s gold in there,” she says, and darts inside.

I consider whether I will go in after her, and that’s when I see it.
The color
. Like the halo of flames surrounding the glorious goddess Palden Lhamo, the color is all around Dr. Sangare in my mind’s eye. I cannot say anything, and when I think about trying the blackness appears behind my eyes with that telltale sensation of faintness.

Something about this place has doomed her. She does not know it, but I do.

I dart inside after her. Perhaps it isn’t too late.

Once I’m through, I can’t think of the color in my mind, for I am overwhelmed with all the very real gold. It limns the cave and every object in it, red-gold and yellow-gold and orange-gold, depending on where Dr. Sangare’s torch is burning. She is running to and fro, staring at everything, mouth open.

“Krishna!” she calls. Her voice is pitched higher than usual. “This is it! Look at it all!”

I am looking. Heaps of coins, diadems, bangles, cloth of gold, gold and jewel-encrusted weapons, even mirrors, the golden backing riming the reflective glass like early ice along the edges of a frozen puddle. It is a queen’s barrow, such as my companions dreamed of finding.

Dr. Sangare whoops and sings, racing from one pile to the next, selecting baubles and shoving handfuls of coins in her pockets. I sit back, dismayed, wondering what here could spell her doom. Is there a trap? A curse? Everything and nothing seems possible in that glimmering grave.

She slings a heavy chain of gold links around my neck before I can stop her. “Very handsome!” she hoots, before going deeper to see what else she can see.

I am still squatting near the entrance when I hear, “
Krishna
!” I lope quickly after her, worried, but when I find her amid the splendor I see that she is excited, not upset. She has found the queen—or at least a queenly-looking skeleton, perched upon a throne. She holds a sword in one hand, and some sort of idol in the other. The weight of a heavy crown has caused her clean white skull to list forward.

The crown comes to two strange points. They look like long ears.

“I want it.” Dr. Sangare is transfixed not by the crown or the sword but by the golden object clutched in the queen’s left hand. It is a miniature version of the guardian I saw above the tomb’s entrance. “Hold this,” she says, thrusting the torch into my hands.

The color in my mind is brighter than ever, and I realize the idol is the source of the danger. I pluck at her tweed sleeve, urging her to leave it be, come away.

“What?” she asks, annoyed.

I point at the statuette and shake my head. She rolls her eyes. I tighten my grasp on her wrist. I shake my head again. I wish I could tell her something, anything, but I cannot, so I do not.

“Don’t be so superstitious,” she snaps, wresting herself free.

I step back. I have never heard a tone like that in her voice. It frightens me. I point at it, and her, but I know not how to tell her without words that the gilded thing means death.

“I didn’t hire you to lecture me,” she says, turning back to the idol. She lifts it gingerly enough, but the skeleton comes unbalanced once the weight is gone and falls forward with a rattle of dry bones. The head bows, the sword clatters to the ground in a puff of dust, and the free hand jerks forward.

 A finger points directly at Dr. Sangare.

She takes no notice; she is too entranced by her find, the tiny model of a winged snarling jackal now cradled in her hands. She leans in to the torchlight, studying its intricate details.

“Bridget,” she breathes, “oh, Bridget… don’t you worry. We’ll die rich, yes we fucking will.”

I resist the urge to knock it out of her hands, cast the thing away. What good would it do? She is resolved upon having it, was resolved before she even picked it up. I see it in her eyes, and in her posture. The way she touches it.

“Just think of what the British Museum will pay for it.” She grins at me. “Eat your heart out, Lawrence of Arabia! Dily of Leng is about to eclipse your fame!”

I carry an armful of riches back up the spiraling corridor, but my heart is heavier than the gold. I can share none of their joy over the find, though I know it is extraordinary.

They do not notice my mood. They are too busy delighting in their fortune. Dr. Sangare shows it all to Bridget, piece by piece. I notice she gives every item to her partner to fondle, save for the idol. That, she holds before Bridget’s eyes, keeping it in her own hands.

“How much can we carry back, is the question?”

Bridget and Dr. Sangare look over at me.

“Krishna, what do you think?”

What I think and what I can communicate are two very different things. I look at their gear, and think about the volume of gold below our feet. Assuming they are willing to leave behind everything that is not essential to our survival, I imagine I can carry back quite a bit of splendid treasure.

In order to get this across, I rummage through a bag. I find Dr. Sangare’s favorite teacup and Bridget’s two spare corsets. I show them to my companions, mystifying them, and then set them away from the pile of gold. I point to one, then the other, and shake my head.

“We’ll have to downsize.” Bridget gets it first. “Of course! I can help with that, while you and Dily pick out the choicest keepsakes.” She sighs. “I see now why expeditions always have a dozen or more people, camels, horses, carts… too bad we couldn’t afford all that, eh Dily?”

“Next time,” she says.

Dr. Sangare and I spend the next few hours down in the queen’s vault. I do not fail to notice the bulge in her coat pocket as she sifts through the treasure. She did not leave the idol above; it is with her, with
us
, in the cave. I wonder if she put it down if the color would retreat from my mind, but I have little hope of this. Dr. Sangare’s hand finds the object often, checking to make sure it is there as she selects other items of varying size and varying value.

I am flattered by how strong she must think me, but eventually I must protest, when the pile grows to unreasonable proportions.

“What?”

I make a motion that I hope conveys my desire that she stop. She gets it after a moment, and sighs.