The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis (27 page)

We left the village before the muezzin's call to prayers, well before first light. Ahmed and a young Berber man, who was said to be the best tracker in the tribe, went first. Waldo, Isaac, Champlon, my aunt and I followed in a straggling line, bumping up and down on our own camels. Bringing up the rear were five tribesmen, accompanied by ten camels weighed down with waterskins and food. All of the men were prepared to fight for us, Ahmed had assured us. As we set off for the fabled oasis in the desert I reflected that we were now a true caravanserai—following in the footsteps of the merchant parties who had journeyed through these trackless wastes for centuries.

My aunt trotted beside me as the sun rose, dusting the sand dunes with a pink blush. As you can imagine, she was in her element. She had chosen to dress as a desert Arab, a flowing white robe, a scarf tied around her head, simple sandals. I had been happy to follow her lead for
the male robes looked loose and comfortable.

“Good to finally get some decent exploring in,” Aunt Hilda grunted.

“Has anyone, any English explorer I mean, ever been to Siwa?” I asked.

“I think the world's first true account of Siwa will be from Hilda Salter.”

“And Gaston Champlon,” the Frenchman put in.

“Of course, monsieur,” my aunt said, with a twinkle. “I wasn't thinking of the French. I meant the English-Speaking World!”

What can I tell you of our desert ride? Imagine a huge space, bigger than your home town, bigger than England herself. Imagine this space is built purely of sand, a vast ocean of the stuff. Dunes rise and fall but all is bare and there is scarcely a bit of a tree, bush or living thing to be seen. I was told that our guides could tell one dune from another. I sincerely hoped so, for to me one heap of sand looked much like another and there is no road through the desert. My description might sound very grim but that is not the whole picture. I swear to you there is beauty here: the golden sands; the fantastic shapes whipped up by the wind; the stunning ridges of salt—but my gosh it is a very bleak sort of beauty.

By the end of the first day's hard riding my eyes were again red from the fine stream of sand that irritated
them, despite my headscarf. Breathing was a trial because the hot air dried out the membranes of my nose and made every breath a fiery torture. My throat ached with longing for a drink but Ahmed had warned us we had to ration our water most carefully. The way through the desert was perilous. If we did not conserve our food and water and even more crucially find some pasture for our camels to feed, we could easily die here under the merciless sun. Egyptians believe that in the desert a camel's welfare is more important than its owner's. Camels can survive at the very most for two weeks without food, living off the fat stores in their humps, but if they sicken and die then their masters are truly done for!

Even Champlon and my aunt were tiring as the days wore on. Only Ahmed and his men seemed to be thriving. In his desert costume: turban, striped gown, colored scarves wound round his waists jangling with pistols and knives, Ahmed looked like a bandit prince. Even though at thirteen years old he was the youngest of them, the men of his Berber tribe respected his authority. I gathered that his father Sheikh El Kassul commanded respect from all these men and I was glad of it, because we were truly in the wilds journeying where few westerners had ever set foot. Our lives depended on Ahmed's men and they in turn on their camels.

At times, I confess, my heart sank and my spirits were
weak. Waldo I knew was going through the same thing. As for Isaac, he had bottled it all up again and it was hard to know what he was thinking. Why had we ever volunteered for this hardship? And then I thought of Rachel, traveling through the desert with another caravan and my heart was stronger. If not for the Book and the scarab—love for my friend would give me the strength to endure this journey.

By the end of the tenth day all of us had toughened up a little. I had learned to wind my scarf low over my eyebrows so as to keep out the sand and grit. I had learned to breathe evenly, despite the pain in my nostrils. I was even starting to enjoy the camel riding having learned not to sit astride the beast, which makes your thighs ache, but perch with my legs wrapped around the front hump. Maybe I was becoming more of a desert explorer because I was even starting to be able to tell the difference between various types of dunes and to spot where a water-course might lie. We spotted gazelles, desert rats and hares. My favorite part of each day, however, was the evening when we unsaddled, set up our simple cloth tents and cooked a frugal meal over a camp fire.

Tonight, after existing for too many days on bread smeared with a little butter, we were going to feast. Clever Ahmed had pulled a hare out of a bush. One of
the men roasted it whole over the fire to preserve the precious juices and we ate it ravenously, soaking up the sauce with bread. I lay down after our feast, looking at the orb of the moon, hanging lower and closer than ever at home. I felt I could reach out my hand and pluck it, like a silver apple. The men were singing some wailing desert song round the camp fire. It was wild and eerie but not unpleasant.

I felt strangely at peace.

“Ghazou! Ghazou!” harsh cries broke into my reverie.

One man jumped up and stamped on the fire, scattering burning embers in a wide arc. Others leapt up drawing swords and pistol. “A raid,” Ahmed hissed. “Quick back to the camels.”

“Who are they?”

“Enemies! Quick, with me.”

Shots rang out in the still desert air and I heard the racing of hooves. Before we could retreat the raiders were upon us, racing through our camp in a storm of sand and gunfire. Dark shrouded figures, on fast camels, their faces covered by scarves. As they rode some of them scythed the air with glittering swords. They were after our camels but they were not to have it all their own way. Our men, who a moment before had been singing before the campfire replete with food, had drawn their weapons. All around me was the clashing of
swords and the sting of gunfire. I found myself in the middle of a pitched battle.

“Behind me,” hissed Waldo. “Keep down.” A firearm glittered in his hand. A tall man in a scarlet cloak was heading our way. Waldo fired—but the bullet went wide. The man leaned down and slashed at Waldo, expertly sending the gun spinning away into the desert. Blood dripped down Waldo's hand. The raider laughed, showing teeth that gleamed white in the darkness; he kicked out viciously; the blow hit Waldo hard in the chest and sent him toppling into the sand.

It was Ali, Ahmed's treacherous cousin.

“No!” I yelled, diving down. I had some idea I could upset the rider by attacking his steed; instead I fell perilously close to the camel's legs. The next few seconds were a blur, something walloped me hard in the head making my world go dizzy, then I felt strong hands pulling me back. It was Waldo. Or was it Champlon? Hard to tell in the melee of bodies and swords.

“Thanks,” I gasped scrambling out of the camel's way.

Champlon was smiling. Calmly he raised his gun, leveled his sights, took aim and fired. The bullet grazed the raider's arm, just as it was upstretched to catch Waldo another blow. Stunned, Ali howled in pain and dropped his sword, which fell in the sand. I dived to catch it, getting there just a second before Waldo.

I grabbed it and was about to stab the traitor—but he was gone; racing out of our camp on his camel, as fast as his whip could spur the beast.

All around us raiders were charging, but Champlon was a marvel. The calm eye of the storm, he stood straight and still, sending shot after shot straight to its targets. A bullet hit a raider's sword, causing it to fly out of his hands. Another smacked into a the shoulder of a man with a sweeping mustache; his yowl rose above the noise of the attack like a jackal's wail.

The raiders hadn't expected Champlon; a human hailstorm of bullets. We were armed, more aggressive in our own defense than might have been expected. Through the sand, we saw the raiders in retreat. Not before they had gained some precious plunder. One had got away with a saddlebag full of food, another with a tent, a third swiped a camel and was racing away, goading the reluctant beast with sticks and prods.

“Leave them!” Ahmed ordered his men, who were about to jump on their own camels and pursue the raiders.

“Piffle. I will see to them myself.” My reckless aunt jumped on her camel and rode off after the raiders.

“Champlon will never desert you!” The Frenchman followed closely. Before Ahmed could order them to their senses, the two adults had disappeared over a sand
dune, chasing the raiders in the star-spangled darkness. They would surely get lost. One sand dune is much like another to my aunt, however much familiarity with the desert she claims.

“We must bring them back!” I cried, rushing to my camel. “This is madness!”

“Stay!” Ahmed said. “We will track them tomorrow at first light. It will be impossible tonight.” I could see his point for they had already been swallowed up by the night. The raiders were gone and sudden silence descended on the camp; eerie after the panic of the raid. Then from the remains of the campfire we heard a loud shout in Arabic, followed by a clamor of voices.

“What is it?” I asked, fearful of more raiders.

“They have caught a hostage!” Ahmed explained.

We hurried to the spot where a small, slight Arab was struggling in the clutches of two of our strongest men. He was dressed in shabby robes, had a dark villainous face and was yelling loudly as we approached. English words were mixed in with his moans! There was something familiar about the man, though for a moment I couldn't place what it was. Then I leaned forward and wiped at his face with a finger I had moistened with spit. The grit and dirt peeled off, revealing pale, reddish skin.

Chapter Thirty

“Jabber!” I exclaimed.

“Pleased to meet yer again, Kit.”

“Is it really you?” I asked, staring at his dirty, tanned face, topped by that mop of carroty hair.

“Course it's me. Who do yer think it is? Me Arab double? I'm too gorgeous for that, I am. They don't build men like Jabber Jukes out 'ere in these hot countries.”

“What are you doing here?” I ignored this typical piece of arrogance.

“I'm on 'oliday.”

“Be serious, Jabber.”

“Wot do yer think? I'm wiv the Velvet Mob.”

“And we captured you …”

“Not likely.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let's just say I decided to stay behind and have a little rest when the Velvets scarpered.”

Egyptian life had treated Jabber well. He was wearing smart robes, a headscarf and around his waist a bandolier of bullets. He positively jangled with weapons. How smoothly my East End friend had transformed from a whippersnapper of an English thug to an Oriental one. Then it occurred to me:

“Rachel?”

He nodded, sagely: “I done all I could for her.”

“How is she? How are they treating her?”

Waldo, holding his bloody hand in the crook of his arm, and Isaac had come close, attracted by the din. They watched in amazement as our old friend was revealed. Jabber was completely surrounded by the hostile crowd, his grubby face faintly lit by the glow of scattered embers. He should have been fearful, but being Jabber he was cocky instead.

“Jabber! I asked you about Rachel!”

“She's all right.”

“It must be terrible for poor Rachel. Surrounded by enemies. Not knowing if help is going to come. Oh my poor friend.”

“I'll kill 'em. When I find those thugs I'll kill them.” Isaac burst out and Waldo put a comforting arm around his shoulder, even though he was wincing with pain.

“Do they drug her, Jabber?” I asked. “We heard that at Shepheard's Hotel she was drugged?”

“I 'ad to give her sumfink to make her sleep. You got a lot to be grateful to Uncle Jabber for. It was me wot looked after the little lady, I—” He broke off stunned, his hand rising to protect his face where Ahmed had just walloped him.