The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis Read Online Free Page A

eager face, knew that I was itching to get my hands on the packet. “Kit,” she explained to Ahmed and offered it to me.
    I unrolled it carefully. Inscribed on the top were the same three figures that were scrawled on the outside of the parchment. But underneath, to my great surprise, I saw there was writing I could understand. It was English, written in a fine, flowing hand. The others gathered round and I began to read it out:
    These are the words of a dying man.
    My name is Mustapha El Kassul. The boy who bears this letter is my son Ahmed Bin Mustapha El Kassul.
    I live with my family in a small village by the blue waters of the Nile, near Memphis. In the Old Kingdom of the pharaohs it was capital of the greatest empire in the world. Such wealth! Mighty pyramids hewn from stone,
monuments glittering with gold, surrounded by sparkling, white walls! Alas, Wealth crumbles to dust. These days we live simply, tilling our crops and tending our animals. Life has been good to us.
    Something about the letter struck me as wrong. I stopped reading and looked at Ahmed. He was watching me warily. I was struck by his large, bright eyes. They were not the eyes of a hunted animal, as I’d thought earlier. They were far too intelligent. Almost—though I knew it was impossible—as if he could understand what I was reading.
    â€œYour father writes very good English,” I said.
    Ahmed looked to Rachel for help.
    â€œYour father. He has very good handwriting.” I mimed holding a pen and writing on paper.
    â€œAh!” Illumination spread over the Egyptian’s face and he uttered a word that I didn’t understand.
    Rachel who was watching him carefully, explained: “I think he’s trying to say scribe. Maybe someone else wrote it, like a village scribe.”
    â€œThey used to have village scribes over here. In the olden days when no one could read,” said Isaac. “Perhaps the peasants in Egypt have scribes to write their letters because no one can read over there.”
    I glanced back at Ahmed. His eyes were black as beetles,glittering and impenetrable. “Scribe, scribe,” he said several times, nodding his head. I went back to reading.
    Our good fortune was about to change—all because of my very own nephew, Ali.
    One night Ali failed to return for dinner. We feared for his life. I went out with a search party. To my horror I found the secret burial place of Ptah Hotep—vizier to the great Pharaoh Isesi of the fifth dynasty—had been defiled. The door was wrenched off, and a foul stench came from within. Someone had dropped a dead donkey into the shaft hoping the stink would discourage investigation. Thieves had been through the tomb like a pack of jackals—plundering, smashing—in their lust for treasure.
    My head knew it was Ali—though my heart refused to believe it. He had been asking questions about the secret tomb and I had finally shown him where it was hidden.
    Worse was to come. The heart scarab that lay in Ptah Hotep’s bandages had gone! Worthless to all but us humble villagers whom it has protected down the flow of time. Legend has it that if the heart scarab leaves Memphis, tragedy will fall upon the village.
    The shame of it smote me. I fell to the earth, pain piercing me. From that day on I have been a marked man living under a suspended sentence of death.
    Our village is cursed.
    Crops failed, goats strayed, milk turned sour. The priest tells me that our family has brought evil. The only way to end the curse is to find Ptah Hotep’s scarab—the resting place of his Ba—his very soul—and bury it once more in his tomb.
    You are welcome to all other treasures—but please let the man’s soul rest in peace.
    Mustapha El Kassul
    p.s. Ptah Hotep’s coffin is richly gilt with gold and turquoise. On it is inscribed his name in the ancient script and the figures of Anubis, the jackal-headed one, Maat, feathered