The Mummy

for Diana

The shadows were lengthening. The last rays of the sun slid around the curves of Castell St Angelo, gilding the bronze statue of the archangel Michael placed atop its battlements so that, for a moment at least, the frozen face of the angel seemed to glimmer with life.

The illusion was only fleeting. Within seconds, the sun had retreated away across the Tiber, its light trailing through the muddy brown water and sparking off the flotsam carried along in its stream. Under the sunset, Rome turned red: ancient buildings afire or awash with blood for the briefest of moments, their history returning to relive their brutal pasts.

And then the light faded, and all sank into the grey of dusk.

Inside Castell St Angelo, heedless of the encroaching night, Carl sat curled upon a chaise longue. His feet were tucked beneath him, and he leaned against a large squashy cushion that he'd found on a chair elsewhere in the Vatican. Vaguely he registered that the day was ending, but he made no move to draw the curtains or to light the lamps and candles scattered throughout the apartment. Instead, he lifted his magazine higher, slanting the pages towards the light so he could read the solid black type that kept him so in thrall.

It got darker. Shadows crawled into the room. Still Carl did not move, save to turn the pages of his magazine. He squinted at the words, reluctant to leave the world of the printed page for even a moment. His body tightened into its curl as he realised distantly that the wind had got up, and that a breeze was moving coldly through the room to tickle the back of his neck.

He heard footsteps outside in the long corridor that joined Castell St Angelo with the rest of the Vatican buildings. Only one person ever used that corridor, and so Carl was able to continue his reading without any concern even when the interruption opened the door.

"A bit draughty in here, isn't it?" Gabriel Van Helsing wondered aloud as he strode into the room.

When he received no reply, he continued over to the windows and pulled them closed, cursing under his breath as he managed to trap the white curtains. Even his words of blasphemy had no effect. Usually Carl would sit up and quiver with indignation at the careless taking of the Lord's name in vain, but this evening he seemed oblivious to anything and anyone.

Gabriel experienced a moment of rejection. It wasn't a new feeling, but it gave him pause enough to ask, his voice louder: "What are you reading?"

"Shh!" Carl did not look up, but he did raise a hand, the forefinger pointing straight up in the gesture of a scold.

With a shrug, Gabriel dropped his hat onto the card-table beside the window and sat down in an easy chair opposite Carl. He watched the friar for a while, fascinated by the emotions playing across Carl's face. Horror and pity seemed uppermost, along with indignation and a certain compulsion. Gabriel had seen that last look before - Carl wore it every time he was inventing something new in the labs.

Finally, Carl finished reading. He put down the magazine with a deep sigh, closing the pages so that Gabriel could at last see the cover. The Cornhill Magazine, it said, along with the current date. The title meant nothing to Gabriel, and the cover was scarcely helpful, as it did not feature mechanical devices or images of saintly personages. These were the only things that Gabriel imagined would hold any interest for Carl; and so, as they seemed to be lacking from the front of the magazine, he was obliged to ask what manner of periodical it was that Carl was holding.

"It contains stories," Carl said: a touch defensively, or so Gabriel thought.

"What kind of stories?"

"Just… stories."

Carl seemed to be blushing, and Gabriel was instantly suspicious. "Not – those kind of stories?" he asked, slightly shocked that Carl should even know about pornography, let alone own any. "I know you're only a friar, and a bad example of one at that, but… really, Carl, I never expected-"

"What?" Carl stared at him, looking bemused. He glanced down at the periodical still held in his hands, and then back up at Gabriel's face. His blush deepened when he realised what Gabriel had meant, and quickly he turned the magazine around, riffling through the pages to demonstrate that there was nothing untoward printed upon the paper.

"Oh, Van Helsing! Dear me, no – it's nothing like that, I do assure you," Carl said hurriedly. "This is merely a – a literary magazine, with short stories and serialised excerpts of longer works from popular and well-respected authors!"

"Really?" Now that his curiosity had been assuaged, Gabriel sat back. "So what were you reading so intensely just now, then?"

Carl flipped through the pages again and held up the periodical. "It was a story called The Ring of Thoth, by Arthur Conan Doyle. I found it most enjoyable, very gripping, and-"

"Conan Doyle," Gabriel repeated, frowning. "He's a Spiritualist, isn't he?"

"And a very good writer," Carl said with a touch of annoyance in his voice.

"A good writer of sensationalist stories, who happens to be a Spiritualist." Gabriel stretched his legs out in front of him. "I wonder what Cardinal Jinette would make of your reading material, Carl?"

"Cardinal Jinette need never know what I read," Carl said with a sniff. "Besides, why do you think I ordered my copy under a false name?"

"Giving a Vatican address," Gabriel said with a grin. "C'mon, whose name did you use?"

Carl looked at him, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Yours."

"I wouldn't be caught dead reading that sort of tripe."

"It's really very good," Carl assured him, setting it to one side.

"I'm sure it is."

Gabriel got to his feet and began to pace around the room. His gaze came to rest on the magazine that was placed on the cushion besides Carl, and he nodded towards it. "Tell me about the story."

"I thought you said you didn't approve of sensationalist stories written by Spiritualists," Carl said with a smile.

"Usually I don't. But I've had a hell of a day and so a little light relief might be just the thing."

Carl immediately sat up straight, his expression concerned. "Oh, Van Helsing, are you quite all right? What happened?"

Gabriel tried to grin, but it came out as a grimace. "The usual. You know, demon hunter goes on a hunt, kills the demon, demon turns back into human form, bystanders get the wrong idea… Demon hunter comes home to deafening silence rather than rapturous applause. That sort of thing."

"Oh. Dear me. Yes." Carl blinked, and then nodded. "The hobgoblin in Rouen, was it? I should have gone with you. Hobgoblins can be nasty when cornered…"

Gabriel sank back down into the easy chair and ran his fingers through his hair. "It wasn't a hobgoblin. It was a child possessed by an evil spirit. They needed an exorcist, not a demon hunter. Now it's too late."

Carl's eyes were huge. "You killed a child?"

"No, damn it!" Gabriel flung out his hands in an angry gesture. "Good God, Carl, do you think me to be that far beyond the pale? I killed the demon, not the child. But the two were connected - as any decent exorcist would have told the people of Rouen."

"So, the child lives," said Carl softly. "You saved it."

"Him," Gabriel said. "It was a young boy. Yeah, I saved him. Only now he's unconscious, missing the soul-link he had with the demon." He scrubbed his hands over his face wearily. "Only God can save him now."

Carl sat forwards, his look gentle. "I wish I had been with you."

"Yeah. I wish you'd been there, too." Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, and then sighed. "Anyway. Tell me about this story."

"Well," said Carl, looking somewhat uncertain, "I don't know if it's the sort of tale that would lighten your mood. It's about a man who stumbles upon strange goings-on at the Louvre…"

"Don't tell me, it's about a mummy that comes to life."

Carl pursed his lips. "Not exactly. More like an immortal man who's been searching for the mummy of his lover for over two thousand years, and the antidote to his immortality is contained within a ring – the ring of Thoth, as it happens, like in the title – and so the immortal unwraps the mummy of his beloved and a scholar happens to see it, and so the immortal tells him his story before he takes the antidote…"

Gabriel sighed and prodded at the stuffing of the easy chair. "You're right. It does sound gripping."

"Don't poke fun, Van Helsing. I'll have you know that it's extremely well written. In fact, it was so well written that I couldn't put it down!"

"Yeah, I know, I saw for myself." Gabriel looked at Carl suspiciously. "You know, you've been getting kind of curious about all things Egyptian lately. Only last week I saw you hanging about in the Vatican museum, eyeballing the lion-headed goddesses…"

"Sekhmet," Carl corrected. "Her name is Sekhmet. A mighty and ferocious goddess, Van Helsing, and one that you'd do well not to cross."

Gabriel raised his eyebrows. "A monk telling me to beware of a pagan goddess. Yes, absolutely."

"I'm not a monk; I'm a friar," Carl recited, annoyed. "And of course pagan gods exist. They're just another manifestation of demons, or angels, depending on whose side they're on."

"That's a very simple theology you've formulated there, Carl."

"Oh, do shut up," Carl said with a frown. "You know perfectly well what I mean. As for my interest in Egyptology – yes, I admit it. The culture fascinates me."

"Why do I feel worried about that?" Gabriel said in an undertone.

Carl glared at him. "I heard that. Anyway: Egyptology. Of course, I was mainly drawn by their skill in architecture, wondering how they built the pyramids and constructed their temples to lie on the paths of certain constellations or to face the solar equinox, but it's only been recently that I started to get interested in their religious beliefs."

Gabriel snorted. "By 'recently', you mean since you've been reading the purple prose of Mr Conan Doyle and friends."

Carl glowered, but did not deny it.

"It's a story, Carl. Fiction." Gabriel gave him a lazy smile. "You of all people should know what that word means."

"Just what are you implying by that? Van Helsing!" Carl spluttered. "Are you suggesting that religion is a convenient fiction, a way to blind and bind the masses?"

Gabriel held up his hands innocently. "Hey. It wasn't my idea. You said it."

"If you're going to be like that…" Carl huffed a little and took up the magazine again, flicking through the pages to find the story. "I should read you some of the description. I'm sure it's quite accurate."

"Why are you…" Gabriel stopped and narrowed his eyes. "Carl! This isn't another of your attempts to help me remember the past, is it?"

Carl's air of innocence was a sight to behold. "Of course not."

"Good," said Gabriel. "Because I've never been to Egypt. Not ever. Oh, I've been to Sinai, yes – but never to Egypt."

"Sinai?" Carl almost ripped the pages as his hands trembled. "What were you doing in Sinai?"

Gabriel gave him a truly angelic smile. "I don't remember."

"Oh, come on now," cried Carl, flinging aside the magazine and leaning forward in his excitement. "Surely you remember… something?"

"I remember…" Gabriel began, getting out of the chair to stand tall, frowning deeply as if the memory were far distant: "I remember a wall of water… The sea…"

Carl yelped. "You parted the Red Sea for Moses?"

Gabriel gave him an indulgent look and then started to laugh. "The hell I did. Give the prophets some respect, Carl. Moses managed that particular miracle all by himself – with some assistance from the good Lord, too, of course."

"Oh." Disgruntled, Carl sank back onto the chaise longue and hugged the squashy cushion. "So what were you doing in Sinai?"

Gabriel shrugged. "I told you. I don't remember."

"Van Helsing! You really are the most aggravating man."

"And you," Gabriel said with affection, "are far too trusting."

* * *

A few days later, Gabriel found himself standing face to face to a black basalt statue of the snarling lion-headed goddess Sekhmet. The carving was simple and stylised, all curves rather than angles, and the stone gleamed dully under the feeble lamplight. Sekhmet looked serene, waiting patiently for her worshippers.

Gabriel glanced around at the almost-deserted corridor. There were no worshippers for the goddess now, not unless one counted the visitors that entered this part of the Vatican museum. Carl had told him that many scholars from all over the world came to examine the Pope's vast treasury of art history.

Gabriel wondered if research and study was a form of worship. When he looked at Carl bent over a wooden coffin, he supposed that it was. Carl might only be a friar within the Church, but he was more than an acolyte when it came to science.

"Come here!" Carl whispered urgently. "Bring the light!"

Gabriel picked up the lamp from the lap of a seated pharaoh and carried it over to where Carl was crouching beside the coffin.

"All right, what have you found now – an advanced case of woodworm?"

Carl reached up and took the lamp from him. "Don't be so silly, Van Helsing. Take a look at this. According to the museum catalogue – which is woefully incomplete, I don't think it's been touched in twenty years, actually – well, this is lot number 291, which was purchased in Cairo in 1847. If you look here you can still see the label from the auction."

Humouring him, Gabriel leaned down to examine the coffin. The label was indeed there, affixed to one end of the long rectangular box. It was a simple, plain-looking coffin, riddled with woodworm and painted with several poorly executed designs. In places, the paint had cracked and peeled away, exposing the bare wooden boards. Elsewhere, blotches of a dark liquid had left stains in its wake. The whole thing smelled of age and decay.

Realising that Carl expected him to say something, Gabriel pointed to the dark stains and asked, "What's this? Blood?"

"Embalming fluid, I should think," Carl said briskly. "I don't imagine there was any blood left in the body after it had had its brains and internal organs removed, and after it was dried with natron salt and then packaged up the way Herodotus describes it."

Gabriel shook his head at the enthusiasm in Carl's voice. "I really don't want to know. But tell me, Carl - why are we skulking about in the dark by a coffin? It wouldn't have anything to do with a certain story by Mr Conan Doyle, would it?"

Carl tapped the top of the coffin. "The museum catalogue says that there's a mummy inside here. The coffin isn't worth much in itself, you know, but the mummy is the interesting thing. It was bought so that Vatican scientists could carry out experiments on it. As you can see, nobody's touched it in forty years. I was thinking I could… experiment with it."

"You only answered half of the question."

Carl sighed and looked up at Gabriel, his eyes shining in the lamplight. "Very well, I admit: I was thinking of Mr Conan Doyle's stories about bringing mummies back to life. Of course, I don't know if it's at all possible to raise an ordinary mummy, because the ones in the stories all seem to be cursed in some way and that makes them special… That would be a real challenge, wouldn't it, to concoct a potion that can raise the ancient dead! – but, well… I just thought it would be nice to question the mummy about its life."

Gabriel stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Why?"

"Because it would be interesting," Carl said defensively. "And besides, the mummy might have been a doctor or an architect, and we might be able to exchange knowledge."

"So you're not hoping that it had some long-lost lover that it needs to go chasing after through the museums and art galleries of the world?"

"No." Carl looked wounded, but rallied quickly: "It's all in the name of science, Van Helsing. Just think what we could learn!"

"Just think what the Church would say if you tried to raise the dead," Gabriel added laconically. He thumped his fist on the lid of the coffin. "Look, Carl: I don't know much about Egyptology but I guess that a famous doctor or architect would be buried in something better than this old crate. Even if you could raise this mummy – and I think you'd be crazy to try it – why on earth do you think that it would communicate with you?"

Carl looked at him uncertainly.

"I mean, how can it communicate with you?" Gabriel continued, warming to his theme. "You said yourself that the mummy has no brain, no internal organs – so how the hell can it talk, let alone remember all the things you want to ask of it?"

"Mr Conan Doyle…"

"Mr Conan Doyle is a writer of fiction," Gabriel snapped.

"And fact," Carl said. "I've read his non-fictional works, too."

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Good grief. I'm almost tempted to go back out into the field and take you with me, just to get you away from these damned sensationalist stories written by men who should know better!"

Carl's expression was mulish. "All fiction has its basis in fact."

"Yeah. And the fact in Conan Doyle's story was that mummies exist, and there are fools in the world who want to bring them back to life! What's done is done, and what's dead is dead."

Gabriel stood and picked up the lamp, holding it high so that Carl's face below him was bathed in a soft golden glow. His voice softer, but no less forceful, he said: "You might not be a monk, but you're a friar, a man of God. You can't bring people back to life. God knows there are times when I wish I had that power, but I don't. It's not for us, Carl. It's not for us."

* * *

"I can't believe you're actually going to go through with this," Gabriel said as he watched Carl pour a noxious-looking black liquid from a test tube into a small glass jar. "I really don't think this is a good idea."

They were in the Vatican laboratories a week after Carl had claimed lot number 291 for his experiments. Gabriel had scarcely seen the friar during this time, and had found that, if he wanted to talk to Carl, then he had to go looking for him in the vast underground warrens of the laboratories.

"I agree that, ethically, this is probably a bad idea," Carl began vaguely, holding up the jar and agitating its contents slightly. "But my curiosity is getting the better of me."

"Morbid curiosity," Gabriel said. "What's in that stuff, anyway?"

Carl frowned as he added a few drops of a fizzing red substance to the jar from a pipette. "The precise ingredients are secret, known only to me. I decided it was best if I didn't write them down. Just in case, you know? If we're successful in this, then I don't want the receipt to be lying around for anyone to find."

"What's with this 'we' business?" Gabriel wondered aloud. "I don't want anything to do with your crazy ideas."

"It's not crazy. If it works, my invention could do a lot of good for the world."

Gabriel scratched his head, unconvinced. "How?"

"Well, for a start, we can raise all the good men of history and they can help govern the world correctly. A lot of war and trouble could be avoided if we had the like of Perikles and Alexander the Great and Charlemagne still with us…"

"You don't think they'd fight amongst themselves?"

Carl added a dishful of bright spices to the jar and stirred the mixture. "No. They'd be too sensible to fight. And then we could bring back all the great philosophers – Plato, Francis Bacon - and the wisest of religious leaders – Augustine, Benedict, the Buddha… Just think what marvels of learning they could reveal!"

Gabriel yawned. "I think they'd all fight, too."

"And of course, we could raise all the saints who've cured so many people," Carl finished, smiling with pleasure as he shook the liquid in the jar one more time.

"Carl, I really don't wish to labour the point when it's obvious to me that this is a bad idea, but I thought the whole thing with saints was that they cured more people after their death than when they were alive."

"Oh. Yes." Carl blinked. "You're quite right. Maybe we'll leave the saints where they are, then."

"Sounds like you want to create a Utopia," Gabriel said, folding his arms and leaning back against the laboratory bench. "You can't do that. It doesn't work."

"You're a cynic," Carl sniffed. "Sir Thomas More believed it was possible."

"That was a story, a piece of political propaganda." Gabriel rubbed wearily at his forehead. "One day soon, you and I are going to have a good long talk about why you insist on believing fiction is real."

Carl sighed and put down the glass jar. The liquid inside it had turned a murky green, with flashes of gold turning in it. "I already told you," he said, "fiction is based on fact. It's my duty as a scientist – and a man of God – to test the facts to their limit. And that's what fiction is, isn't it – fact stretched to the limit of our understanding?"

"That could be one way of putting it, yes." Gabriel nudged the jar with his forefinger. "Talking of testing things… don't you think you should test that stuff?"

Carl glanced up at him. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean it looks pretty nasty. It's practically glowing. It smells like… never mind what it smells like. It must taste disgusting, too."

"It's not meant to be ingested, Van Helsing."

"Oh, no?" Gabriel raised his eyebrows.

"No. Of course not. It's meant to be smoothed over the body of the deceased."

"I still think you should test it."

Carl frowned at him. "Why? It all makes perfect sense on paper – or at least, in my head."

"Yeah. So do a lot of things. And then when you build them, or make them happen, things go wrong. So it's best to test it first."

Carl leaned back from the table and sighed. "Ordinarily, I would agree with you," he said. "But you see, Van Helsing, this is a special case. It's all very well to design a machine and then to build a prototype to see if it works, but this new invention of mine isn't a machine. It's a liquid – and a rather viscous one at that. And the point of this liquid is to raise the dead."

"Keep your voice down," Gabriel said, giving him a warning look. "If Jinette got even a whiff of what you were up to, you'd be declared a heretic faster than you could recite the Nicene Creed."

"You're the one who wanted to talk about it," Carl said with a sniff. "Anyway, I can't test the liquid. I need a dead body to do that."

Gabriel raised his eyebrows. "There are nine hundred churches in Rome, and they've all got cemeteries. You can take your pick."

"I can't do that!" Carl looked genuinely shocked.

Gabriel felt like hitting his head on the bench. "Let me get this straight: you've invented a potion that will bring back the dead, and yet you don't want to test it on a dead person… Does that make sense to you?"

"Well, no. But the mummy will be my test subject, I suppose. I don't want to raise just any old corpse, do I? I mean, it might be a murderer or – or a politician-"

"Or a priest," Gabriel added with a sardonic grin. "A Dominican, even."

"Good God, I don't think so." Carl hurriedly crossed himself. "I do assure you, Van Helsing, I'm not going to try it on a human. What else do you propose that I test this liquid on, then?"

Gabriel blew out his cheeks and then sighed. "An animal?"

"Oh, so it's unethical to test on human beings but it's perfectly all right to test on animals? Really, Van Helsing, how could you even suggest it? I'm a Franciscan! And Franciscans -"

"…love animals, yes, yes, I know." Gabriel held up his hands in defeat. "I don't think all Franciscans love animals, though. I saw Father Anthony kicking the kitchen cat after Compline yesterday."

"Did he really?" Carl looked affronted. "That's… that's terrible."

"Mind you, it did steal a fish from his plate. So maybe it deserved it."

Carl glared at him. "Hmm."

Gabriel gave him an innocent look. "You know, Carl, I guess you could always try the potion on the fish..."

* * *

That evening, they returned to the Egyptian gallery in the Vatican museum. It had seemed eerie enough a week before, but now that Carl had the potion, Gabriel thought that the whole place tingled with an air of menace. The statues of Sekhmet that had seemed so benign now looked down sternly upon them. The ankhs, the symbol of life that the goddesses clutched in their cold stone hands, seemed to mock their intentions.

Gabriel was rarely spooked by anything that walked upon the earth, but this felt different. He could deal with demons and monsters, but this was out of the realm of earthly spirits. He'd pitted wits against necromancers before, but this time the necromancer was Carl, and Carl operated not for gain but from sheer curiosity.

"The road to Hell is paved with good intentions," he muttered.

"Hush, Van Helsing!" Carl ordered in a whisper. "I don't suppose the Swiss Guards will be patrolling this part of the museum, but still, I'd rather not get caught. Come on, bring the lamp here so I can see what I'm doing."

Gabriel wandered over to the coffin. He watched as Carl opened his scrip to extract several tools, which were no doubt borrowed from the laboratories. He took a step closer and held the lamp higher when Carl began to ease out the nails hammered into the lid of the coffin.

"I thought you'd make me do that," Gabriel said dryly. "So what do you want me here for?"

Carl answered without looking up from his task. "In case anything goes wrong, of course."

"I thought that was what you wanted."

"For something to go wrong? Really, Van Helsing. Of course I don't want things to go wrong."

"That's why you're trying to raise a corpse."

"It's just an experiment!" Carl pulled out the last nail from the lid.

Gabriel leaned closer. "Sounds to me like you're playing God."

"Don't be so disrespectful. I'm doing nothing of the sort."

"You are, you know. I just hope Jinette doesn't find out about this."

"He won't. Not unless this is a success. And then it'll be too late for him to complain about it," Carl said triumphantly as he lifted the lid.

The planks were old and dry. One cracked as Carl opened the coffin, and the noise reverberated down the corridor like a gunshot. Gabriel and Carl froze, looking around guiltily, but nobody came. Only the dark basalt eyes of Sekhmet watched them, curious and silent.

Gabriel swung the lamp forwards so they could peer inside the coffin at lot number 291. Carl exclaimed in disgust at the sight that greeted him, and when Gabriel got a little closer, he wrinkled his nose and frowned.

The mummy was unprepossessing, even for a corpse that had been dead for over two millennia. Somebody – perhaps in antiquity, perhaps more recently – had made a start on unwrapping the body from its bandages, and now the mummy lay battered and forlorn. Its limbs were tinder-thin, its body shrivelled. Even the stiffened bandages that still held it together in places failed to give it any bulk. The skull lolled back on the spine, the jaw stretched wide to reveal small yellow teeth. The face looked squashed and leathery, its eyes the size and shape of tiny walnuts. Clumps of matted black hair still clung to the skull. The same dry, dusty odour that he had smelled last week was even stronger now, mixed with a scent that reminded him vaguely of tar.

"Doesn't look too happy to see you," Gabriel remarked flatly.

"Oh, hush." Carl's hands were shaking as he reached back into his scrip and took out the glass jar with its murky green and gold liquid.

"Sure you want to do this?"

"Van Helsing!"

Carl took a deep breath and looked upwards, his lips moving in what Gabriel thought must be a brief prayer. Then he poured the contents of the jar all over the mummy, starting with its head and working down to its toes.

The potion glimmered in the light of the lamp. As Gabriel watched, it seemed to smooth itself over the exposed leathery flesh until it was completely absorbed.

They waited, and nothing happened.

Gabriel was unsurprised. Carl looked crushed.

"We have to give it some time to work," Carl said when Gabriel shifted his feet and moved the lamp.

"Of course we do." Gabriel nodded his head sombrely, humouring him again. "So tell me, Carl: what will you say to it, if it wakes up?"

"Him, Van Helsing. What will I say to him. The mummy is a male."

"Is it?" Gabriel glanced back into the coffin. "Oh, yes. Very well, what will you say to it… to him?"

Carl did not take his gaze from the mummy. "I shall greet it – him – in an appropriate manner."

"So you'll say: 'Hello, how are you?' or something like that."

"No." Carl looked annoyed. "I will address the mummy in its ancient tongue."

Gabriel snorted. "You don't speak ancient Egyptian."

"No. But I found someone who does."

Gabriel glanced around the empty, echoing gallery. "So where is he?"

"In London."

"Couldn't make it, huh."

Carl sighed infinitesimally. "His name is Wallis Budge and he's a scholar at Cambridge. He works for the British Museum, actually. He's on his way to Mesopotamia now in search of Hittite artefacts, I believe. Anyway, I wrote to him some time ago and he kindly gave me a brief lesson in hieroglyphics."

"That was decent of him," Gabriel said, his gaze travelling from Carl to the mummy and back again. "Hang on a minute – 'some time ago'? Just how long have you had this little escapade planned, Carl?"

"Oh… a couple of months," Carl said innocently, his eyes wide as he looked towards him. "Maybe six months. Or seven. Or…"

Gabriel frowned. "I see." He shrugged, and said: "So what will you say to the mummy? Let's hear it."

Carl cleared his throat and declared: "Yw msh m ytrw!"

"And what does that mean?"

"Er, it, er…" Carl looked a little embarrassed. "I believe it means 'the crocodile is in the river'."

Gabriel looked at him for a moment, and then said, "Right."

"At least the mummy will understand!"

"No, it won't. Come on, Carl – what would you think if someone woke you up and the first thing you heard was 'the crocodile is in the river'? Wouldn't you be even the slightest bit confused?"

"No…" Carl's conviction wavered. "Yes."

They fell silent and stared at the desiccated mummy. Gabriel was aware of the time passing, of the lamp running low on oil and the sense of the darkness pressing in around them. He was aware of Carl standing rooted to the spot, looking down at the mummy with an expression almost of pleading upon his face. He didn't think he'd ever seen Carl remain so still for so long.

He put a hand on Carl's shoulder. "Look, there's nothing happening."

"Give it time."

"We've already given it half an hour. Don't you think that if something was going to happen, it would have happened by now?"

Carl sniffed. "And don't you think that if you had been dead for two thousand years then it might take you longer than half an hour to wake up?"

"If I was dead then I wouldn't want to wake up," Gabriel said reasonably. "Maybe it's a question of free will after all."

"Oh, really, Van Helsing!" Carl turned to him, his chin up belligerently. "Are you suggesting that this mummy is just pretending to be dead?"

Gabriel tried to cover his laughter. "What! I didn't say anything of the kind! Carl, you're being ridiculous."

"It's not ridiculous. I made all the calculations correctly. I assembled the finest ingredients, and… oh."

"What?"

"Maybe that's the problem," Carl said, a frown creasing his brow. He looked up at Gabriel. "Maybe my ingredients weren't fresh enough."

"Fresh? I don't understand. What the hell are you talking about?"

"Well," said Carl, "I was working with a combination of ancient and fresh ingredients – the ancient being items like myrrh and dom palm that had been dried and preserved in the Egyptian tombs alongside the mummies. But maybe that's the thing at fault: I shouldn't use old things on an old body, I should use new, fresh things, to aid in the restoration of new flesh!"

Gabriel bit his lip to stop himself from saying his first response out loud. Instead he took a deep breath and said mildly, "That's very Hippocratic."

"I'm not sure that it is, actually." Carl squinted at the dribble of mixture that remained in the bottle. "Maybe I shouldn't have used the garlic after all."

"Garlic? Carl, this is a corpse, not a dish to prepare for dinner!"

"I know that." He sighed, his shoulders drooping. "Very well, Van Helsing. I admit it. I made a mistake."

"Not just one. This whole thing was a mistake," Gabriel said. "You should be happy that nothing happened."

"I suppose you're right." Carl looked mournfully down at the blackened creature that lay peacefully in the coffin. "But… don't you wish that it could have happened? That we could have woken up the mummy?"

Gabriel looked at him. "Honestly? No. I'm glad it didn't work. I can't think of anything worse than bringing the dead back to life. The body is a shell, Carl. The soul leaves after death. Reanimating the body will not bring back the deceased. Mankind dies for a reason. We're not meant to be immortal."

"You were an angel," Carl said softly. "You were immortal."

"I was made of light. I came from God. That's why I was immortal." Gabriel gently touched Carl's face. "But now I am a man, and I can feel pain and love and happiness and fear; and I can die. I know what's on the other side. I wouldn't want to come back."

"Not even for me?" Carl asked.

Gabriel smiled, knowing that he was being asked two questions. "No," he said. "Not even for you."

Carl sighed and then nodded. "I understand."

He busied himself for a moment, placing the jar back into his scrip along with the laboratory tools. He looked at the coffin lid and hesitated, glancing again at the mummy that lay at rest.

"I'll put the lid back on tomorrow," he said softly. "I don't think I could bear to seal him up again after looking at his face."

"Come on," Gabriel said. He put an arm around Carl's shoulders and led him back along the gallery, away from the coffin and the lid that stood propped against the legs of Sekhmet. "Let's go to bed."

* * *

Neither of them saw the slight movement that came from the coffin. A shiver and a shake, the crumbling of ancient blackened bandages, and then a wizened skeletal hand emerged from the coffin, its fingers outstretched…

End

Originally published in Chinook 4 (Blackfly Press)