trickster instead, lost his reputation and his daughter's happiness in the bargain.
Nothing I could do for him.
He looked at his watch, took up pen and paper to write, waved me out of the
room. I left him chewing on the nib, shaking his head, still in the stage where a
doomed man hopes he might only be dreaming.
I walked upstairs in the Finneran mansion for the first time. Talking to Mar•
garet was impossible; Inge had her quite asleep. "She was hysterical," said the
Viking. "She is adjusting to some new medications." Inge allowed me into the
room to see her, but there was no budging Margaret. I can't even imagine what
Inge'd given her. The ministering devils of Sunset on the Bayview give some of
the rowdy ones here something strong, too, a horse tranquillizer, I think, when
the old fools realise too clearly that they've been parked here to die and they raise
a stink about it, or when the nutters start screaming like they're invading Turkey
again. It must have been something strong like that in your poor aunt's case, be•
cause it was all she could do to push the air out her nose.
I sat next to her bed, waiting for her to come around, her
rrrrrare
Tibetan
spaniels snoozing in a heap on a little white-and-green sofa across from the bed.
Hours passed, and the last November sun set early. I went downstairs to check on
the man of the house, but amazing: he was gone, hadn't thought anything of leav•
ing me in his girl's boudoir, you see, when
his
hide was in trouble. So much for the
doting father charade. He'd left letters and other papers on his desk, including a
letter to Margaret I found, in which he apologised for everything, not very clear
what that meant, said he was going to fix everything and would be gone for a
while, would contact her soon, don't worry, trust Inge for everything in the mean•
while. I had my suspicions where he'd gone, and I was right: as it turned out he
was on his way to New York on the sleeper that very night. An Alexandria boat
left the next day, see, December 1st. I knew the timetable well: I'd reserved a place
on that boat several times in my long, hesitating sojourn in Boston. I wandered
the Finneran house, and Inge left an hour or so later, perhaps assuming I was on
to watch Sleeping Beauty (or guard the prisoner, depending on point of view).
A few hours later, your aunt was sitting up awake, as if she'd just had a quick
nap, not a drugged sleep of the dead. "Oh, it's you," she said sullenly and turned
away to face the window. She asked me for her coat but didn't look at me when I
gave it to her. She searched it, alternately furious and dazed, scratching at the
pockets but then falling asleep for a few seconds at a time. "Can I help you find
something?" I asked. "Shut up," she said and finally found what she'd been look•
ing for, something small enough to hold in her fist. "Bless you, JP," she said.
Macy, I just reread this long, long letter. It's taken me the entire damn day to
write about my time in Boston, which suits me fine, rather write down this diffi•
cult tale than play along with the forced Christmas cheer the rough bastards try
to push on us this time of year. Especially since, tonight, it's not even the usual
crew of thugs who run this place but the rare monsters who are pleased to work
Christmas, with nothing better to do than clean up after the old and the ill and
the batty and slap us around a bit for fun.
I think I mentioned somewhere in here your aunt's three moods. Well, what
to call the third? Maybe it was a real part of her, or maybe just a product of the
opium, or maybe it was something about me, something only I brought out of
her. Either way, it was ugly. "Get away from me, you," she shouted, when I tried to
hand her a glass of water. "What did you do, Harry? What did you do? Get away
from me, you horrible— Just leave me alone. I'm going to JP's." But she didn't
move. She wouldn't look at me.
"There are things you don't understand, that I have to tell you."
"Aw, can it. Nothing's that important. You've done your dirty work."
"That's not fair." I desperately tried to get her to listen, to see that I was the
unwilling messenger, not the cause of her trouble. I told her Trilipush had be•
trayed her family, had only pretended to love her, had spent her father's money to
get other people's money, and now he was running off with the ancient gold he'd
dug up, without a thought for her. "He used you, he's not coming back here. I
know you don't truly care about him and your father forced him on you, so it
doesn't matter."
She didn't take this how I'd expected. I'd started to think—I don't know what
I'd started to think. "You don't know anything! You don't know anything! I hate
you, you make me sick." And then she was screaming for her father and her nurse,
but I knew we were alone in the house, and no one was going to interrupt. She felt
she needed to humiliate me. She was calling me some rather horrible names,
pushing at the bedcovers like they were choking her, insulting anything about me
that caught her anger. I tried to get her quiet is all, for her health, tried to prevent
her from hurting herself and throwing things at me, tried to tell her how I felt,
that I loved her and she'd be safe with me, that she'd escaped a close call with
Trilipush, and I was an honest man who could offer her proper happiness.
Well, some of us aren't built for love, I know after a long life, Macy, and she
didn't—it pains me to admit even years on—she didn't stop and look at me with
wonder and gratitude, dawning affection, all that. No, she laughed at me, and it
was a nasty little sound. She mocked me, and I looked away, looked at the two lit-
tle dogs sitting on the white sofa with the green painted design of French country
scenes: the milkmaid and her lover hand in hand in the woods. I looked at those
dogs looking me in the eye curiously, while she just did not stop: I was nothing
next to Ralph, I didn't know anything, I was a fool and a monster and a bastard,
a joke next to a man like Ralph, I wasn't fit to say Ralph's name, didn't under•
stand anything, I was less than a joke, I was pathetic and disgusting, and on and
on. "A stupid Australian is what you are, Harry, you horrible ass. You spread these
lies. You made Daddy do this. But your lies can't ever touch a man like Ralph."
And on and on, crying and yelling, throwing pillows and dolls and glass things at
me, repeating what a wonderful man her English murderer was, how loyal and
true and English and noble, while I was a red-haired pygmy from the bush who
deserved to be spit on by everyone. "And
you
love me? You make me sick, Harry."
After a spell, I'd had my fill, and I walked out the door and I never saw your
family again, Mr. Macy. Those dogs were still sitting on that painted sofa, still
looking right at me when I left, never took their beady judge's eyes off me the
whole time. They say every hero has his weak heel, so there you are then. I only
did what any man in my position would've done, trying to win her heart, you see,
a girl like that. I was foolish, but that's no crime.
I'll drop this in the box to you now and hope for some sleep. You're getting
these, yes? I think I'd give up the ghost if they were lost in the mails, or sitting in
an unread heap on your desk. I'd throw myself off the roof of this place, if I
thought you weren't hearing me.
Merry Christmas, Macy.
HF
Friday, 1 December, 1922
Journal:
Spend morning moving my base from villa to Atum-
hadu's tomb, as intensive work approaches. Rental agent assists me in
storing certain items in a shed. Hate to part from Maggie and the toms,
but I will attempt to feed them as often as I can conveniently come
back across the river. It is tempting to bring them with me to the west
bank, but they have their hunting grounds here, I am certain, and I
would not wish to disorient them.
Work to improve the door Amr made. I use adhesives to cover its
front with rocks and sand, and cut it until it fits snugly and invisibly,
flush into the tomb's opening. Efficient, inexpensive protection! Also,
the former Door A, lying on its crushed cylinders, was unfortunately
likely to attract tomb-robbers, tourists, other unwanted attention, so it
had to be sacrificed, not a significant loss.
Summation of our finds in the History Chamber:
The ornamenta•
tion covering from floor to ceiling the walls and pillars of the History
Chamber is preserved in astounding condition. Every imaginable sur•
face is covered with text and illustration. The text is the highest quality
hieroglyphs, all written—to my trained eye—by the same hand. If I
may speculate further, I would say that this hand belonged to a scribe
of impeccable intelligence, but perhaps not one who came through the
recognised academic training of the day.
The walls' hieroglyphs include passages from the Admonitions, ex•
tinguishing any smouldering doubt that (a) Atum-hadu existed and
reigned; (b) he is the author of the Admonitions; (c) this is his tomb, or
was intended as such. A triple crown, certain to move Carnarvon to a
quick decision to finance further explorations at this site, or other likely
sites nearby.
And, if the accompanying illustrations are not of the highest artistic
accomplishment, if their composition is unwieldy, if the faces are not as
iconic as one would expect from ancient Egyptian tomb-painting, if the
animals are not easily distinguishable from furniture, if here and there
the paint seems to have smeared or dribbled down the unforgiving
tomb walls, if the artist was not apparently even trained as an artist,
well, one can only say that the rough last days of the dynamic XIIIth
Dynasty were not the soft, easy days of the flaccid XVIIIth, and per•
haps Atum-hadu's court had more vital attributes than the dainty
painterly facility of the peace-drugged faux-raonic dynasties that
served as epilogue to my king's grand drama.
For now, I expect it will take me several days at least to complete a
full copy and translation of the hieroglyphs, and make descriptive notes
of the paintings. After the chamber is fully catalogued, I will invite
Lord Carnarvon to examine our discoveries to date before proceeding
through Door C, the so-called Great Portal, and into the tomb's likely
treasury, sepulchre, and other chambers. Or perhaps Carnarvon and I
shall continue excavations in other locations instead, if in the end we
find this tomb unoccupied, with only the History Chamber to identify
it (as if such a find alone were not remarkable enough).
(FIG. H: CHAMBER 6, THE HISTORY CHAMBER,
OPENE D 23.11.22 , SHOWING THE PLACEMENT OF THE
ILLUSTRATIONS AND TEXTS)
Each of the twelve pillars depicts one key event from each year of
Atum-hadu's twelve-year reign, a span concretely determined now,
thanks to these twelve pillars, and likely having occurred 1642—1630
B.C. More comprehensive than the pillars, each of the twelve wall pan•
els tells, with text and image, a portion of the life of Atum-hadu, from
his conception through his reign to the end of his earthly life.
WALL PANEL A: "THE BIRTH OF ATUM-HADU,
FINAL KING OF THE BLACK LAND"
Hieroglyphic Text:
The great king's titulary has been composed
and will forever be Horus — Son of Osiris and Seth; He of the Two
Ladies — Restorer of the Lost Kingdom; Horus of Gold—Ma'at's Fero-