Authors: Paul Sussman
‘Shit!’ cried Flin.
He spun and started to sprint, pounding across the sands towards the rearing flank of the Gilf, eyes fixed on the dwindling patch of light – a ghostly stain on the rock.
‘It must only show when the sun’s at a certain angle,’ he yelled over his shoulder to Freya, who was following on behind. ‘Keep looking – we have to see where it’s hitting. That’s what the inscription means. The rising sun points to something on the cliff face. We mustn’t lose it!’
The rock spire was four hundred metres from the Gilf and they had covered less than half of that distance when the beam faded completely, the light spot disappearing, leaving a blank wall of dusty yellow stone.
‘There,’ he shouted, slowing to a walk and raising an arm, pointing. ‘That’s where it was. Just above that ledge.’
Freya was looking at the same spot, eyes fixed on the rock face. They continued forward until they were right at the very foot of the Gilf, its cliffs rising vertiginously above them.
‘There’s something there,’ said Flin. ‘Some sort of hole. Can you see?’
She could: a small rectangular opening, no more than about fifty centimetres high by half as much across, just
above a protruding rock shelf ten metres up, barely noticeable unless you were staring directly at it, and even then still hard to spot. It was unquestionably man-made, its sides neatly carved and dressed, way too symmetrical for a natural feature, and appeared to be stuffed with material of some sort which helped it to blend into the surrounding cliff face. She started to ask what he thought it was, but Flin was already climbing. Wedging his fingers into a narrow crack, he heaved himself upwards, one toe jammed into a shallow rock pocket, the other scrabbling for purchase on the bare stone. He lost his footing and dropped back, cursing. He tried again with the same result, and again. Moving to the left he attempted a different route, this time getting almost twice as high before running out of hand-and footholds and falling off, tumbling onto the desert with a jarring thud. He struggled to his feet, spitting sand, and was about to have yet another go when Freya stepped up and gently pushed him aside.
‘May I?’
Swiftly she surveyed the wall, mapping out a route. Tying her hair up into a bun, she locked her fingers into the same crack Flin had tried earlier, toed into the same rock pocket and was off. A minute later she had reached the opening and was balancing herself on the ledge a metre below it.
‘I guess I’ll just stick with the Egyptology,’ Flin grumbled. ‘What can you see?’
‘Pretty much what we saw from down there,’ she called. ‘It’s a hole with a load of linen stuffed into it. Definitely man-made.’
‘Any inscriptions?’
She squatted – the ledge was more than wide enough – and examined the rock around the opening. It was bare, devoid of anything even remotely resembling lettering, hieroglyphic or otherwise.
‘Nothing,’ she called down. ‘I’m going to pull the material out, see what’s inside.’
‘Be careful of vipers,’ he called. ‘They’re common out here and we haven’t got anti-venom.’
‘Great,’ she muttered, tweaking nervously at the cloth, teasing it out of the cavity. It was coarsely woven, dyed a dull yellowish-ochre – the same colour as the surrounding stone – and extremely tightly packed, as though to prevent anything getting into the opening. She’d assumed it must be ancient, but it seemed remarkably well preserved and the more of it she removed the more convinced Freya became that it was in fact modern and nothing to do with ancient Egypt at all. She communicated her doubts to Flin, but he waved them away.
‘Textiles always survive well in the desert,’ he shouted. ‘It’s the dry air. I’ve seen five-thousand-year-old mummy wrappings that look as if they’re straight off the loom. Is it out yet?’
‘Almost.’
She continued to pull, more and more of the cloth emerging – there were, it transpired, several separate pieces of it rather than a single large sheet. Eventually, with a dry sucking sound, a last heavy plug of fabric popped from the opening and it was clear. She gave the heaped material a couple of prods with the toe of her plimsoll, still fearful there might be snakes curled up within its folds, then squatted down and placed a hand to either side of the
opening. Adjusting her position slightly so as not to block the sunlight, she peered in.
‘Anything?’ Flin’s voice came up from the desert below, expectant.
There was silence as her eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the hole, then:
‘Yes.’
Another silence.
‘Well what, for God’s sake?’
‘It’s like …’
She paused, searching for the right word.
‘A handle.’
‘What do you mean a handle?’
‘A handle, a lever. Like the brake lever on a cable car.’
‘I’ve never been in a sodding cable car!’ He whirled his arms in frustration. ‘Just describe it.’
A wooden lever, that’s what she could see, right at the very rear of the cavity, which had been cut over a metre back into the cliff. It had a leather strip wound around its handle and sat in a deep horizontal slot in the cavity’s floor, the latter presumably providing a channel along which the lever could be pulled – to what effect she couldn’t even begin to guess. It was a surreal, curiously unnerving sight, like finding a light switch sitting on the surface of Mars, and part of her couldn’t help but feel faintly spooked by it.
‘Well?’ yelled Flin.
She described what she was seeing. He frowned and chewed his lip, pondering. Then he shouted up to her:
‘Pull it.’
‘You think?’ There was unease in her voice. ‘I don’t know if we should …’
‘What the hell else have we come out here for? Go on, pull it.’
She didn’t move, sensing … she couldn’t really explain what she was sensing. A vague premonition of danger; an inner warning that by doing as Flin instructed she would be setting in motion a chain of events that they couldn’t control, crossing a line that wasn’t meant to be crossed. But then as he’d said, it’s what they’d come all the way out here for. More important, it’s what Alex would have done. No doubt about it. Her sister would have pulled the lever without a moment’s hesitation, probably before she was even asked to do so. She paused a moment longer. Then, rapping her knuckles a couple of times against the face of the rock – a pull-yourself-together gesture she used when steeling herself for a particularly tough climbing manoeuvre – she drove her arm deep into the cavity.
It was cool inside, the handle only just within reach, right at the very limit of her stretch. She really had to force her shoulder into the opening in order to get her fingers around it, her palm pressing hard against the leather wrapping, her thumb curling round to secure her grip. She shifted slightly, tested her hold and then started to pull.
The lever was stiff and it took all her strength to get it moving, the muscles of her neck and shoulder bunching and rippling. She moved it a few centimetres, paused to get her breath and adjust her grip and heaved again. The lever started to come more easily, gliding slowly along the slot, its progress accompanied by a curious creaking and grinding as of ropes tautening and wheels turning, the sound issuing from somewhere far below, as if emanating from the rock itself. She dragged the handle towards her as far as it would
come, right to the front of the cavity. Giving it a final tug to ensure there was no more slack, she leant out and looked down at Flin, raising her free arm as if to say ‘Anything happening?’
He had moved a little way back from the cliff, his eyes running back and forth over the rock face.
‘Nothing,’ he called. ‘You’ve definitely pulled it all the way?’
She shouted an affirmative.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘There’s no magic doors opening up, I can tell you that much.’
They continued to watch, Flin below, Freya above, the curious creaking sound still echoing although fainter now, more distant. Otherwise everything remained exactly as it had been before she pulled the lever save that the sun seemed to grow hotter and brighter and the sky an ever paler shade of blue. They gave it a few minutes, the creaking gradually fading away into silence. Seeing no point in remaining up on the ledge, Freya started to down-climb, following the same foot – and handholds she’d used on the way up. As she did she became aware of a new sound, only just audible – a sort of soft, whispering hiss. She stopped where she was, feet toed into a narrow crack, looking around, trying to work out what was causing it. Flin had heard it too and had moved closer to the cliff, head cocked, listening. The hiss seemed neither to fade nor grow stronger, just hovered there in the background.
‘What is that?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It sounds like …’
‘Please don’t say snakes.’
‘No, no, more like …’
He broke off, stepping right up to the foot of the cliff.
‘Look at this!’
Freya shuffled her feet and leant right out, hand clasped around a knuckle of rock, peering down. At first she couldn’t see anything. Then she noticed what he had noticed. At the very base of the rock face, at the point where it formed a rough right angle with the desert, the sand was slipping downwards, trickling away along a twenty-metre stretch of the wall as though through the neck of an hourglass. Flin squatted beside it and pressed his palm on the ground, watching as the sand disappeared around his fingertips.
‘What the hell is that?’ she asked. ‘Quicksand?’
‘Not like any I’ve ever seen before,’ he replied. The grains were starting to drain off faster, as though being sucked from below, the trickle turning into a flow, a clear line opening up at the bottom of the cliff.
‘Where’s it going?’ she asked.
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ he said, staring hypnotized as the line lengthened and widened.
‘Maybe you should move back a bit.’
He nodded and stood, backing off a couple of steps. The sand continued to slump and sink, more and more of the rock wall revealing itself, like the root of some enormous tooth.
‘It seems to be undercutting—’
He didn’t finish the sentence. With a muted whumph an entire section of desert dropped away beneath the toes of his boots. The hissing grew much louder, the sand avalanching downwards, although where it was going still wasn’t clear. Flin stumbled back, lost his footing and fell, leapt up again, frantically retreating as more and more of the
desert disappeared in front of him, surging away like water down a plughole, an ever widening and deepening hole rushing out from the cliff towards him.
‘Run!’ Freya screamed.
He didn’t need to be told. Spinning round, he sprinted off across the sands. The hole seemed to snap at his heels, chasing him away from the Gilf. It expanded almost fifty metres from the rock face before it gradually started to slow and, as if satisfied it had pursued him far enough, came to a halt, leaving an enormous crater gaping at the base of the massif.
Gasping for breath, Flin stopped and turned, ready to run again should the crater decide to resume its outward rush. Aside from some gentle slips and trickles of sand as it settled itself, the opening seemed to have stabilized, and after waiting a few moments Freya traversed sideways and dropped down onto the desert at the crater’s edge. Moving carefully, she made her way around its lip and joined Flin. The two of them gazed into the depression beneath.
‘God Almighty,’ Flin murmured.
Below them a steep, semicircular chute of sand swept downwards towards the cliff face. At its lowest point, black and forbidding, like a yawning mouth, a doorway opened into the bare rock, flanked by monumental carved figures – arms crossed at the chest, heads topped with tall conical crowns, beards descending from their chins like tapering stalactites. Below the waist the statues were still buried in sand, as was the lower part of the doorway, the desert funnelling through it and down into the gloom beyond, a pale slide descending into the throat of the underworld.
‘The Mouth of Osiris,’ Flin murmured, his face strangely blank and expressionless, as if he was so staggered by what he was seeing that he had momentarily lost the ability to work his features. ‘A lifetime of Egyptology and I’ve never … I can’t believe it. It’s just … just …’
His voice fell away into silence. For a while they just stood there staring down in mute amazement, the sun’s heat pressing against their backs, a lone buzzard wheeling high above them, wings silhouetted against the pale morning sky. Then, gathering himself and telling Freya to wait, Flin jogged back to the microlight, returning with the Maglite torch and the black briefcase he had taken from Alex’s house. He dropped to one knee, balanced the case on the other and clicked open the lid. Inside was what looked like an orange thermos flask with an antenna protruding from the top of it.
‘Locating beacon,’ he explained, pulling the object from the protective foam cushioning that surrounded it. ‘It’ll beam a signal direct to Molly’s people in the US and they’ll alert their team on the ground here in Egypt. We’ll have back-up within three hours.’
He flicked a switch on the side of the beacon, screwed it into the ground and stood.
‘Are we going down?’ asked Freya.
‘No, I thought we’d stay up here and build sandcastles.’
The sarcasm was gentle, and Freya smiled, knowing her question had been a foolish one, that there was no way Flin would just sit up here twiddling his thumbs.
‘You think it’s safe?’
He shrugged.
‘Probably on a par with Manshiet Nasser and Abydos.’
‘Well I guess we got out of those OK.’
It was his turn to smile.
‘God, you’re like your sister.’
She didn’t respond to that, just undid the bun on top of her head, shook out her hair and extended an arm towards the opening below.
‘Egyptologists first.’
His smile broadened and he started to make his way down towards the doorway, taking the slope sideways on to keep his balance, feet sinking into the sand almost to the level of his thighs. Freya followed. He was about halfway when he stopped and looked up at her. His smile had faded, his expression now serious. Businesslike.