HP Lovecraft's Magazine of Horror - Weird Tales

54 H . P . L O V E C R A F T ’S M A G A Z IN E O F H O R R O R
is the Cleopatra IX, moored side by side with all the other
cruise ships. But even though she traveled just ten minutes in
that filthy cab, she cannot see the river or the city of Luxor. She
has gone beyond the narrow edge of green where proximity to
water enabled things to grow.
The trail is not easy to see anymore. Like everything else in
Egypt., it has been obscured by the sand. She picks her way up
a rise and across a plateau. The desert is so empty. The desert
is so enormous. An ocean of nearly white sand, stretching on
and on beyond the horizon. The only marks are ripples made
by the winds. Who came this way before her? Who made this
inadequate path? Grave diggers. Grave robbers. The funeral
processions of pharaohs. History threatens to make her feel
insignificant.
And then she falls in a hole.
“AH, Egypt.” The travel agent had smiled as he spread his
brochures before her.
Much as she loved the thrill of speed, Merril hadn’t wanted
to go on yet another skiing trip. She kept thinking of the pyramids,
whenever her brain couldn’t absorb another earnings
ratio, she didn’t know why. But she knew that of the Seven
Ancient Wonders of the World, only one remained.
“Such a bargain now, after the trouble, though it’s safer
than ever. But you can’t just see the pyramids, you must take a
Nile Cruise.” As the agent described the beauty of the other
temples, and the fine dining on the ships, Merril was mesmerized
by his faint accent. And so she forgot she would be the
woman there, and not some other Merril, leaning on the rail,
while the Nile breezes wafted her scarf and her companion
pointed out the smile of the crescent moon.
“Single occupancy?” the agent said.
“No, double. Two tickets,” she said, daring herself to ask
someone to go with her.
AFTER the dirt and rocks cease to fall on her, she tries to catch
her breath. She wipes her face with the scarf she wears out of
deference to other people’s religion. She drinks half her bottle
of water, in great anxious gulps, before she realizes that she
should be saving it. Her leg throbs. God how she needs a drink.
A real drink. She makes do with one more little sip of water.
On the ceiling of rock, eight or nine feet above her head,
is part of a painting. She cannot tell of what, since the sun is
directly in her eyes. She inches along the ground, trying to
escape the bright heat. But she is afraid to travel too far into
what must be some kind of tomb. Whenever she moves, more
things fall from above.
“Help,” she cries. She assumes someone will come. She
needs help, therefore help will arrive. Eventually. Her niece
Karla will notice her absence, even though this trip has not
been the bonding experience Merril intended to have with the
only one likely to visit her in a nursing home. Mido the guide
will miss her, when they return from Banana Island. After all,
keeping track of tourists is supposed to be his job.
THE mutiny had happened at breakfast, a meal which Merril
considered a waste of time. Since the ship had no newspapers
or market reports, Merril always read about that day’s destination
in her guidebook while having her coffee on deck. After
learning all about the Valley of the Kings, she found her group
still lingering in the ship’s dining room. Her niece Karla was
pouring Mido another cup of tea and saying, “It would be so
cool to spend the day on a boat!”
“But you’re on a boat,” Merril said.
“Not a—what do you call it, Mido?” Karla said.
“A felucca,” Mido said.
Felucca felucca, men had crooned to Merril whenever she
walked along the Nile. She had been afraid to ask Mido what it
meant. Felucca sounded so sinister and decadent, like a brand
of opiate to be smoked in those Alice-in-Wonderland water
pipes which squatted by the circular brass tables in the coffee
shops.
“Let’s take a felucca to Banana Island!” the Canadian honeymoon
couple and the British school teachers and the
Scottsdale seniors all said. They were tired of dusty old tombs.
To them, columns and carvings were ancient history.
“I don’t care what you do, but I’m going to see King Tut’s
tomb,” Merril said.
“You cannot go by yourself,” Mido said. “I am responsible.”
“Then you should stick to the promised itinerary,” Merril
said.
“Please Mido,” they all began again. After Karla placed
both her hands on his arm, he said to Merril, “Perhaps you can
go with one of the other groups.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Merril left the table, as hurt
and angry as if another sort of promise had been broken.
From the deck, she watched them sail away in their felucca.
The tall curved sail resembled the wing of a bird. Karla
leaned over to trail her fingers in the Nile. Mido gave a cigarette
to the dark man who steered the boat with his bare foot on the
tiller. But Merril would have been ashamed to travel halfway
around the world to visit a place called Banana Island.
ANOTHER hour passes. Maybe two. She can’t say for certain.
She rations glances at her watch just like the sips of water. She
argues with herself over whether the passage of time increases
or decreases the probability of rescue. She looks in her pocketbook,
hoping for a bag of peanuts from the jet, a cough drop,
a mint flavored toothpick. Naturally she finds nothing like that.
She has always prided herself on being a tidy, well-organized
person, eager to discard whatever she did not need.
But she does have the guidebook and her pen and a packet
of tissues and the five postcards which Karla had written to
her boyfriend and Mido refused to mail, claiming they would
get to the U.S. faster if Merril carried them there herself. And
of course she has her wallet with its slots full of credit cards
and a photo she never looks at and money. She has plenty
of money.
THE trouble was, Egyptian cabs had no meters. But she did
not realize that until they were already on the bridge crossing
the Nile. “How much are you charging me?” she said.
“To Valley of the Kings? Not much. Very reasonable. Also
I wait while you visit King Tut’s tomb. Then I take you to