Author's note: Big, big hugs to everyone. When I finished this story in early October last year I had no idea I'd be publishing the next chapters in this kind of context (who could have predicted a global pandemic anyway? That's the stuff of sci-fi and disaster movies!). But as I said in the previous chapter's notes, I hope this little story – especially this chapter – makes you smile. Take good care of yourselves, y'all And enormous thanks to the anons who left reviews! I can't reply to you individually but every word made me SO HAPPY :')
'All Together Now' is a Beatles song and, technically, a bit of a spoiler. But for what exactly, well, you'll see!
Disclaimer: Stephen Sommers owns and developed The Mummy and The Mummy Returns; the characters, places, some situations are his creation. Some things and characters I did make up, but every character here is fictitious, and has nothing to do with any person, living, dead, or in-between. Who knows.
FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM
Chapter 22: All Together Now
Evelyn had made an effort, but she hadn't eaten much. She had downed what she could and had left Rick to his own meal with the assurance that she would be all right and only needed to check on Alex. Which was only half a lie.
Early twilight had softened the sunlight until it was a warm caress instead of a blow and started to paint the sky with spectacular colours. Evelyn's gaze was lost in the distance as she walked, hardly noticing the beauty of the Egyptian sunset.
She started violently when she heard her son scream. Five seconds later, she burst into the tent, her heart pounding. Then she felt her eyes go very round.
Whatever she had imagined or feared had nothing on what she saw.
Alex was on his feet, shouting at the top of his lungs, while Tom Ferguson stood in front of him, yelling as well, to all intents and purposes protecting him from – Evelyn's hands flew to her mouth – a body wrapped in white cloth that writhed and twisted around wildly, screaming muffled words through the fabric. Evelyn dropped beside it, tore up the linen, and found herself staring into her brother's wide eyes.
Jonathan's face was bright red and sweaty, his curly hair stood on end in messy twists, and he looked just as thoroughly confused as he had when he had died.
But his chest was heaving and he was shaking, his body warm and alive.
"What –" he stammered, "what – what –"
Evelyn had clear recollections of her resurrection. Or rather, she clearly remembered a few seconds of jumbled confusion as the memories of both lives – Nefertiri's and Evelyn's – collided into her mind.
Nefertiri had looked at Alex and said dispassionately, "…Child" while Evelyn's soul had cried, "MINE". And Evelyn had seen her brother in peril and shouted in her mind, "Jonathan!" while Nefertiri's soul, sounding puzzled, had said, "Who?"
Evelyn had let her mostly take charge in the urgency of the situation, muscle memory returning to muscles that never actually had worked like that, and in the end they had both fought Anck-su-namun before Nefertiri and her memories retreated to the back of her mind. Despite the confusion, it had been a relief, having this other set of recollections when she woke up, like a strong, friendly arm that helped you pick yourself up.
Who knew what was going on in Jonathan's head right now, fresh from a journey so inscrutable her brain still didn't let her access it two years later?
She grabbed his head between her hands and forced him to look at her.
"Jonathan," she said, her voice almost steady, "it's me. Do you know who you are? Do you know who I am?"
Jonathan's mouth opened and closed wordlessly. His eyes were still darting here and there, but they gradually seemed to gain focus.
"Evy – of course I – what did –" He took a deep breath, and with a voice that still trembled badly, articulated with utmost earnestness, "What the fuck—?"
Alex let out a nervous giggle somewhere on her left.
Overwhelming relief and hysterical laughter crashed into Evelyn at the same time, colliding with what remained of the grief and loss. The dam broke, and she flung her arms round her brother, bursting into tears.
"Oh, Jon, you… It's… I love you so much, you idiot, don't ever…"
Jonathan still looked frankly alarmed, but awkwardly freed his arms from the linen encasing him from feet to torso and held her tightly against him. His shivering died down, his breathing slowed back to normal, and after a while she felt him melt into her embrace.
"Evy…" he murmured into her hair. "Why on earth do I look like a bloody mummy?"
Evelyn laughed through her tears and gripped him tighter. The next moment, a small, warm body barrelled into them. Jonathan let out a small "Oof, easy there" and they both shifted their arms to welcome Alex into the hug.
"I remembered 'Ahmenophus' this time, Uncle Jon!" he half-laughed, half-cried. "I recognised the Book and I remembered the whole spell –"
"Great job, partner. Knew you could do it," Jonathan said distractedly, clearly more focused on holding on his sister and nephew for dear life. Then he opened one eye. "What book?"
The flood of emotions inside Evelyn abated, and curiosity and rationality made their way back to the forefront of her mind, along with a thousand questions. She gently disentangled herself from Jonathan and Alex and stared at her son.
"Alex," she began, suspicion and awe making her voice unsteady, "how…?"
"He had the Book of the Dead!" Alex exclaimed, pointing to the side. "And he didn't even know!"
Evelyn followed Alex's index finger to Ferguson, who was standing there looking thunderstruck, his face the colour of chalk. Jonathan's mouth dropped open.
"Tommy!" he blurted out; then, turning to Alex with wide eyes, "Did you bring him back, too?"
Alex shook his head. "No," he said patiently, "he found the Book in the pyramid and got out. Only he didn't know what it was. But I did, and it worked!"
The Book of the Dead. Evelyn's eyes fell on the big obsidian artefact lying open on the carpet, almost innocuous, half-covered with filth. Ferguson had found the Book of the Dead. And he had unwittingly given it to one of the two people alive who knew exactly what to look for.
Jonathan gaped at the three of them for a handful of seconds, then hastily wriggled out of the linen, ripping at the cloth to free himself faster. Evelyn supported him as he staggered up, and he closed the few steps between him and Ferguson on somewhat wobbly legs.
"I thought you were dead!" he said, wonder in his voice.
Ferguson let out a strangled, nervous laugh. "I win, mate. I actually saw your corpse."
There was a beat; then he threw himself at Jonathan and wrapped him in what must be a bone-crushing hug.
"Oh, I say." Jonathan looked bewildered and awkward, his hands hovering as though he had no idea what to do with them. He finally seemed to make up his mind and returned Ferguson's embrace tightly, almost fiercely. "I really am glad you're not dead, too, old chap," he said with a shaky smile.
"I'm sorry I dragged you into all this, Jon," said Ferguson in a broken voice. "And I'm sorry I lied to you."
Jonathan blinked. Then his expression shifted, his eyes closed, and his shoulders sagged a little bit.
"Ah, well," Evelyn heard him sigh into Ferguson's shoulder. "All water under the bridge now."
Evelyn smiled. If Jonathan had forgiven Tom Ferguson, then she could afford to do the same. Especially since he had been instrumental in giving her back her brother.
The two men broke apart with a bit of sniffling and self-conscious throat clearing, eyes suspiciously bright. She left them a few seconds to compose themselves, then asked, holding up the Book of the Dead, "How on earth did you find this and not know what it was?"
"Yeah," Alex chimed in, narrowing his eyes at Tom, "I thought you said you loved old books?"
"I do," said Tom. "I just… It looked like a tablet engraved with a sort of poem about the Scorpion King, and it was covered in… well, that. I just picked it up for somethin' to do while we waited for O'Connell, and then…" He swallowed. "The pygmy mummies attacked. The next thing I knew I was falling down a big hole, still holdin' that thing. I put it in me bag and forgot about it."
He shot an awed, almost reverent look at the book.
"It really does work," he said softly, his gaze going from the book to Alex, then Jonathan. Who grinned.
"I knew you didn't believe me."
"I do now, that's for sure." Tom poked a finger into Jonathan's breastbone. "Good God, I can't believe you're actually alive. Wait, does that mean you're undead, now?"
Jonathan spluttered indignantly; Alex burst out laughing. Evelyn shook her head, still smiling, even though half of her was still focused on what she held in her hands. Her mind was spinning.
The Book of the Dead…
She had not touched it in over a decade, but the feel, the weight, the sheer raw power of it was unforgettable. It was like holding Pandora's Box. The possibilities it opened were endless, if, admittedly, rather daunting…
Footsteps came closer and stopped in front of the tent, and a tattooed hand drew the flap.
"Evelyn? O'Connell said—"
Ardeth stepped into the tent, and his eyes fell on Jonathan.
The man was usually so impassive, so calm – or apt at pretending he was – that Evelyn found what happened next fascinating. His face contorted into an expression of prodigious surprise; then, suddenly, he was smiling the biggest smile she had ever seen on him, the incredulity fading quickly.
"Welcome back, my friend," he said, still beaming. Jonathan replied with a small smile of his own, unused to finding himself on the receiving end of such open warmth from the Medjai leader. Ardeth stared at him, as though to make sure he was indeed solid, then his gaze shifted to Evelyn. "How—?"
Evelyn mutely held the Book of the Dead, and Jonathan's hand came to rest on Alex's head. To Evelyn's surprise, he didn't protest nor shove it away.
"I have a very astute nephew, that's how," said Jonathan, sincere affection in his voice. Alex's ears turned pink.
"Mr Ferguson inadvertently brought the Book from the Pyramid of Ahm Shere," explained Evelyn absently, her eyes coming back to the carved obsidian as though of their own accord. She had always wondered what kind of secrets the Black Book might hold. The Book of Amun-Ra had been her obsession since she had been a small child; she had made it the subject of her thesis and researched it until she felt she almost knew what the gold pages contained. But the Book of the Dead remained shrouded in mystery. She had only held it once: when she had accidentally woken up Imhotep. The amount of information about Ancient Egyptian funerary practices and rituals that could be gained from it was staggering…
She looked up and met Jonathan's eyes. He was smiling slightly in that way he did when she got so engrossed in her never-ending quest for knowledge that the world could collapse without her noticing. It was a small smile, just on the warmer side of a smirk; she had known that smile all her life, and she had come so close to never seeing it ever again. The thought made her shudder.
The Book of the Dead had brought her back, and then, when everyone had thought it lost, it had resurfaced just in time to bring her brother back.
Perhaps it was time to let someone else have that kind of knowledge.
Evelyn let out a sigh and slowly, reluctantly, placed the book into Ardeth's hands.
"You already have the Book of the Living in your keeping," she said. "Now you also have the Book of the Dead."
Ardeth nodded, his eyes shining with the same emotion she felt, and it occurred to her that he had never even seen the Black Book except for a glimpse of it in Dr Chamberlain's hands, eleven years ago.
"Do you think…" She chewed on her lip and asked, her voice smaller than she liked, "Do you think I may come and study it, some time?"
Ardeth looked at her. A smile slowly lit up his face, almost as wide as his earlier grin.
"Yes, I think you may."
"As long as you don't read it aloud anywhere near a mausoleum," Jonathan piped up with a laugh. "What do you think the range of this thing might be, by the way?"
"Ooh, be quiet," she retorted, acutely aware that she had gone quite pink. "What were you going to say about Rick when you came in?" she asked Ardeth, ignoring Jonathan's good-natured smirk.
Uncharacteristically, Ardeth had to think about his answer.
"That O'Connell – that Rick told me you might be found here," he said, and Evelyn wondered at the unexpected self-correction. "He was talking about bringing food to Izzy when I saw him. I wanted to… question Mr Ferguson about what happened in the pyramid." He fixed Tom, who flinched, unaccustomed to the beady stare. "And now it appears that I have more questions."
Tom opened his arms. "Well, I'm all yours. Ask away."
Ardeth went first to the back of the tent, where he picked up a piece of the linen that had served as Jonathan's temporary shroud. He wrapped the Book of the Dead in it with slow, careful gestures, and placed it on the ground. Then he sat next to it with his legs crossed and, with a very dignified gesture, invited Tom to do the same.
"First," he said, narrowing his eyes at Tom, "I would like you to tell me how you managed to find the High Priest of Osiris in the first place."
Jonathan knew most of Tom's story since Hamilton and his men had departed for the desert, since he had been there for nearly all of it and Tom had already filled in the blanks about what he had been up to before. After a while, he got up, excused himself with a hasty "I'll just be outside, shall I" and got out of the tent.
Outside, the sun was living its last minutes before night. The sky was still on fire in the west, cobalt blue in the east, the sand cooling down beneath his feet. All living things – humans, camels, desert insects – perked up and came out to enjoy the mild temperatures before it got too cold. Activity in camp was somewhat subdued, as was to be expected, not twenty-four hours after a battle, but a few children were playing three tents over, a young woman was giving water to her horse a little farther, and he could smell food being grilled on a fire somewhere upwind. None of it was new, and yet, somehow, everything was.
If he was the one who had died, how come he felt as though the entire world had just been resurrected?
Jonathan hadn't felt this unsettled since he had come back home in early 1919. Stepping back into his old life had been like making a stranger's clothes fit without knowing how to sew – a task that should have been easy but had proved incredibly difficult. Perhaps he had changed, perhaps everything else had changed, he wasn't sure. His parents had been warm and welcoming and unspeakably grateful to have him back; but now he noticed that they looked tired, his mother's dark hair was streaked with silver, and his father had shadows under his eyes. His sister had been a skinny child when he had left, barely fifteen years old; now she was a few months shy of eighteen, almost an adult, wearing her hair up and throwing herself into her work as though it was the only thing in the world that mattered. How could he tell her that the only thing that mattered to him was that they were all alive?
If he wanted to be dramatic about it, he could say his life was just a little bit shattered then. And he had no idea how to go about piecing it back together.
Evy, unbeknownst to her, had been the one who had put the first piece of the puzzle back on the board. One night, two weeks or so after his return, she had sneaked into his room, like she had done since before she even knew how to read; she had asked him if he was asleep, then in a small voice said the familiar words, "Jon, I can't sleep. Can I stay with you a little while?"
And maybe the world wasn't that foreign, after all, because her feet had been icy, as usual, and as usual she had talked and talked to relieve her overflooded brain, and when she was done he told her jokes and stories she had heard a million times but oddly didn't mind hearing again.
Just before she had truly fallen asleep, he had heard her whisper, "I've missed you, Jonathan."
Jonathan had smiled into his pillow, and somehow, the world had gone back to a rhythm he could follow.
In the end, he never passed his degree, and after the deaths of their parents he followed Evy to Cairo. To him, Egyptology was the promise of treasure and easy ventures; any corpses involved were much too ancient to look remotely human, and at their worst smelled musty with a hint of incense. Imhotep had been the first mummy Jonathan had been afraid of.
And now… Nothing had happened. Nothing so earth-shattering, anyway. The big battle had been fought, and won; they had saved the world, and he had even had a hand in it somehow.
There had just been that sudden searing pain in the middle of his back, driving all air from his lungs and all energy from his body; Evy's eyes, even more familiar than his own, dark with worry then desperation; then nothing.
Nothing he remembered, anyway.
Why on earth that particular nothing rattled him more than two years of death and trenches had was an utter mystery to him.
Jonathan made to bury his hands in his pockets, wishing – not for the first time – he had his hip flask and something strong in it.
…The pockets of his jacket were full. Frowning, he dug in to investigate.
What he took out made his eyes widen. There was a small green gemstone, maybe some kind of beryl; a little medallion – late 18th century, probably; a lapis earring; a gold coin that looked remarkably like a Napoleon but bearing so many tiny teeth marks that the French emperor's head was practically unrecognisable…
The pygmy mummies' stash. Of course.
Jonathan stuffed the objects pell-mell back into his pockets. He would think about that later.
There was a shuffle behind him; he turned to see Evy let go of the tent flap.
"Are you all right?" she asked softly. "You've been gone some time."
"Have I? Sorry about that, I just…" He ran out of words and made a vague gesture. "You know. Needed some air, sort of."
She didn't comment. Instead, she sidled up to him, slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, and laid her head against his shoulder. Somehow it was the most natural thing in the world for Jonathan to complete the movement and take his little sister in his arms.
Her head found its old place against his, her chin on his collarbone. She only was four inches shorter than him – had been for decades.
The evening was soft and cool, the light turning bluer and bluer as the sun sank. In the silence he heard Evy sniffle a little.
"Please don't die again," she whispered. Jonathan smiled.
"Never. In fact, tomorrow I'm off to waking up old Imhotep to ask him how a fellow can go about making himself immortal without resorting to curses and flesh-eating scarabs."
There was a somewhat watery giggle near his ear.
"Idiot." She shifted a little and drew him closer. "…I lost you, Jon."
Jonathan tried, unsuccessfully, to swallow the lump in his throat. Then he closed his eyes and gave a small smile.
"Well, old mum, I'd say that makes us even."
Silence fell, comfortable, familiar, reassuring. The world kept turning, its axis a little less askew.
Maybe it would be all right, after all. Later.
Evy broke away to wipe her eyes, her smile a little bit wobbly still. He gently bumped his forehead against hers and chucked her under the chin to make her laugh. Amazingly, it worked.
"Are you going back inside?" she asked.
"No, I already know the story. I'll just ask Tom later for the details I missed."
"All right. Well, I am. Rick will want to –" Evy's eyes went round. "Oh, my goodness, Rick. He has no idea you're alive."
Jonathan looked at her, dumbfounded. Then a crooked grin pulled at his lips.
Evy frowned at him.
"Don't you dare," she said severely. "Your death hit him badly, you know."
"I wouldn't dream of it. Ardeth said he went to the dirigible?"
Evy shook her head with a badly-hidden smile and gave him the directions to where Izzy had parked his new contraption. Jonathan barely remembered what it had looked like on his escape from the pyramid; he had seen the sky, he had seen Evy, and that was what he had run towards. The dirigible itself had been an afterthought.
When he caught sight of the machine, he let out a low whistle. So that was where Izzy had spent his part of the money from the Diamond of Ahm Shere. Not bad at all, he thought.
The dirigible was sleek, light-grey, with an actual set of cabins inside instead of just a wheelhouse. Without the balloon looming above, it looked like the top of a modern ocean liner might have looked if the goal had been aerodynamics instead of piling deck upon deck like a plate of crêpes.
Jonathan ambled closer, looking around for his brother-in-law, and heard his voice from the dirigible.
"…believe you told her about Beni Mellal."
"I left out the good bits, don't worry. But I had to mention the donkeys."
Rick and Izzy were sitting on the bench along the rail, a small whiskey glass in hand. What Jonathan could see of Rick's face was drawn, tired, as though he hadn't slept in a month. It immediately obliterated any tongue-in-cheek remark he could think of.
The silver teeth in Izzy's grin gleamed white in the falling darkness. Rick shook his head with a wry smile.
"I'm sure she appreciated the mental picture. You know, you looked real cute sitting on your ass like that."
"Ha bloody ha, O'Connell. Too bad Lachkar didn't agree. Remember, we were supposed to fence him that bracelet? And he sent his goons after us 'cause we didn't have it?"
"Yeah, well, we could've done worse. And we got out all right, didn't we?"
"Almost all right. I still got that scar right here. And see, that's the thing with you, O'Connell – do all your friends eventually have to get shot at some point or is it just m—"
Rick went absolutely white. Izzy abruptly cut himself off, looking stricken.
"Oh, shit." He ran a hand over his face, then took off his pilot's hat and rubbed the back of his head. "I'm sorry, O'Connell. I didn't… That, er, that was dumb."
"I'll say," Jonathan said in a low voice, unable to stop himself. "And uncalled for."
Izzy dropped his shot glass, which bounced on the deck with a small tink. Rick whirled round and stared at Jonathan, a myriad of expressions on his face.
"You—!" Izzy shouted, pointing a trembling finger at Jonathan. "You were dead! You died! I mean – I saw – dead!"
Jonathan shrugged.
"I got better," he said, for want of an intelligent reply. Then, as Izzy's finger hadn't moved and Rick was still frozen where he sat, he climbed up the ladder onto the deck and glanced at the bottle they were sharing. An eight-year-old Glenmorangie. Izzy had unexpectedly good taste. "Got room for one more?"
Izzy gaped at him. Then he came closer, almost right under his nose, and stared. Hard.
"And why should I give perfectly good Scotch to a dead man?"
Because this particular dead man has been in need of a stiff drink for a week, that's why.
Jonathan returned his stare and sighed.
"I think the real question is 'why shouldn't you?'"
Izzy half-glared, half-squinted at him for another handful of seconds. Then he nodded, looking thoughtful.
"Okay, that's fair. Wait here," he added, picking up his glass and wiping it on his grimy sleeve, "I'll get another."
Jonathan had no idea whether he meant another glass or another bottle, and to be truthful didn't really care either way. He remained where he was, his hands in his trouser pockets, while Rick stared at him, unblinking, as though looking at a ghost.
Which wasn't exactly far-fetched, as comparisons went.
What was one supposed to say, really, in circumstances like these?
"Hello, Rick," Jonathan said quietly. "Smashing to see you, old boy."
At long last, Rick blinked. Then he downed his entire glass in one gulp, blinked again, and his eyes finally gained some focus. When he spoke – slowly, enunciating each syllable carefully – his voice came out a little bit strangled.
"Evy, Alex, or both?"
Jonathan couldn't help a smile.
"Alex. Turns out Tom accidentally salvaged the Book of the Dead from that bloody pyramid."
"The Book of the –" Rick stopped, then squinted up at Jonathan, eyebrows climbing up. "'Accidentally'?"
"What can I say? The bloke has always loved his books. He thought it was a tablet with a poem on it."
"A poem…"
Rick jumped to his feet, startling Jonathan, and grabbed him by the arms to peer into his face, as though searching for something. Whatever he was looking for, he must have found it, because Jonathan found himself on the receiving end of a patented O'Connell grin – the huge, beaming, four-hundred-teeth kind of smile.
"Damn, it really is you," he exclaimed. The genuine warmth in his voice wasn't unusual – what was unusual was how much of it there was. Jonathan smiled, a trifle awkwardly.
"In the flesh. And the… rest of it, I suppose. I'm happy you're all right too, by the way."
"Well, I am now." Rick almost clapped him on the back, but seemed to change his mind at the last minute, his face serious again. "You might want to, uh, change your jacket."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, it's got… well. Something on it."
Jonathan looked at him, curious, then shrugged off his jacket – mindful of the contents of his pockets – to take a look at the back of it. From the face Rick made, the shirt underneath had the same problem.
His once clean, dapper cream-coloured jacket had a large stain in the back, mostly brown, a little lighter where the blood had smudged the fabric instead of soaking it. Almost in the middle was a small hole.
Jonathan stared at the hole in the cloth until it felt like nothing else existed. A bullet had actually pierced that jacket, his shirt, and his back, and had ended his life. There was no way around that. It had been quite abrupt, rather pointless, as deaths went – almost an afterthought. He could brush it off or joke about it as much as he could, but the fact remained that without Alex… Without Tom… Without the Book…
By all accounts he shouldn't be alive.
His face must have lost a significant amount of colour, because the next thing he knew, Rick was gently taking the jacket from his hands and replacing it with a full glass of Scotch. Jonathan – like Rick had – emptied it in one gulp. The Glenmorangie deserved better treatment, certainly more respect, but circumstances called for something radical.
Rick traded back the jacket for the glass, sat down on the spot Izzy had vacated, and shook his head.
"I can't believe I didn't even notice you'd gotten shot," he muttered, making Jonathan wonder how much it had been eating at him. "When did that happen?"
Jonathan sat heavily next to him and leaned forwards, his elbows on his knees. "I honestly have no idea. After we stopped, but before we got out?" Then, as Rick stared at him, "No, seriously. I only noticed something was wrong when we were on the dirigible."
And then it had been all he could think about.
To his surprise, Rick looked pensive as he looked at the bottom of his empty glass.
"Yeah, I've seen it happen a few times. I saw a guy once go a good five minutes without noticing his left hand had been blasted off because he was so hell-bent on whatever he was doing." He raised his eyes back to Jonathan. "While you were… When you got, y'know, back… You didn't pick up someone else's memories, did you? No past life, or something? How many people you got, up there?" he said, tapping his temple.
Jonathan smiled despite himself, a little ruefully.
"Just me, I'm afraid."
"Good."
There was a lot to unpack in that one word. Jonathan decided to store it safely in his head to sort it out later, like the contents of his pockets, like whatever had happened between the moment his life had faded to black to the one he had woken up abruptly, bound in cloth from head to toe, half out of his mind with residual terror and almost suffocating. All of that could wait.
When Izzy got back, they ended up polishing half the bottle before their host took off again, this time to organise the sleeping arrangements. Naturally, Evy and Rick got a bunk to themselves, looking for all the world like they wouldn't let go of each other for days – rather like the return from Ahm Shere; Jonathan got a one-bunk cabin to himself and almost cried with joy at the thought of sleeping on an actual bed with an actual mattress instead of a carpet thrown on the sand and a blanket that smelled of camel or petrol; Izzy had a cabin of his own.
And Alex… Alex was supposed to sleep with his parents, but somewhere around eleven, Jonathan heard the door handle of his cabin jiggle, followed by the sound of feet padding across the floor.
Alex dropped his mattress and covers next to Jonathan's bunk, rubbing his eyes. He must have thought his uncle asleep, because he gave a start when Jonathan mumbled, "What's the matter, Alex?"
"Can't sleep," the boy muttered. "And I can hear Mum and Dad talk. Y'know, whispering and things."
Jonathan knew for a fact that Alex could sleep through a thunderstorm and a snoring Rick with a head cold. If a few whispers kept him awake, the state of things was bad indeed.
"Well," he said, "you're welcome to share my humble abode. Are you sure you'll be quite comfortable down there, though?"
"I brought my mattress, Uncle Jon. It's actually nice."
"If you insist…"
Once Alex was cosily nestled under his blanket, he looked up at Jonathan, eyes wide open and bright in the dark.
"Uncle Jon? Did I wake you up?"
"I should say so. Oh, you mean right now?"
Alex stared at him, shocked, then dissolved into snorting giggles.
"That's not funny!"
Jonathan replied with a smirk that evolved into a smile.
Sometimes he saw Evy, Rick, and Alex every day, and sometimes he didn't see them for two or three weeks in a row. The last time he had talked with his nephew had been last Friday, but somehow he had missed their little conversations more in the past week than he had the last time Evy and Rick had taken Alex with them on a month-long dig.
Silence fell, comfortable despite the unusual surroundings. The cabin still smelled slightly like paint; the balloon rustled above them and a slight breeze sang in the ropes tethering it to the rest of the airship. It felt a little like being on a docked boat without the gently swaying sensation that could turn one's stomach more easily than a three-foot swell.
"Uncle Jon?" came Alex's hesitant whisper in the dark.
"Hm?"
"I'm sorry I thought you were a mummy."
"You thought I—" Jonathan blinked at the ceiling, then rolled on his side to stare at his nephew. "A what?"
"When I… When you woke up earlier. You had a blanket over you, I didn't know you were all wrapped up in that white stuff." Alex bit his lip. It wobbled a little, and so did his voice. "I got scared I'd got the spell wrong. I kinda yelled, too."
"Oh…" That part had, admittedly, been a bit of a nightmare, and would probably fuel his for a number of nights to come. But at least he had woken up. "That's all right. You did a great job. If you had got the spell wrong I wouldn't be talking to you right now, would I?"
"I guess not," said Alex pensively.
Jonathan watched him cogitate for a few seconds, heart brimming with affection. If someone had told him, about a dozen years ago, just how amazing being an uncle could be, he'd have laughed in their face – and he would have been a prize idiot.
Alex looked at him again, frowning a little.
"Uncle Jon?"
"Yes?"
"Did you… Did you see something? When you, er… You know."
When I died.
That kind of thinking would take some getting used to.
"I mean, pearly gates and whatnot. And a city with streets of gold, like they said in Sunday school."
Jonathan thought about it, then gave a small shake of his head.
"Saw nothing of the kind, I think. It's still awfully fuzzy up here, to tell the truth."
Alex gave him a long, hard look, as though he wanted to stare the mystery out of him. Then he grinned, bright eyes twinkling in the darkness.
"Always knew you were going to hell, Uncle Jon."
Jonathan shook his head. Then he snorted. Then he laughed out loud.
A few minutes later, as Alex's eyes started to flutter closed, he reached down to ruffle his hair gently.
"Thank you, Alex," he said quietly.
Alex's only reply was to close his hand on his pinkie and his ring finger.
He didn't let go all night.
Tom hadn't closed his eyes all night.
Actually, that was a lie. He had tried to sleep; had tried closing his eyes and letting go of every conscious thought; had tried telling himself that everything – the awful trip, the nightmare inside the pyramid, Jon being dead – was over. Sure, he had no idea what would happen from now on, whether Liz was all right, whether he would still have a job back in England, but…
Or maybe it was not that surprising he hadn't slept, after all.
He gave up trying to sleep as a bad job some time before dawn and left the tent.
Jon and the O'Connells had retreated to the dirigible for the night; the tent Tom had found them in had been left for him, furnished with a few cushions and a blanket. It wasn't the cosiest digs, but he had slept in worse conditions, and he appreciated the unexpected freedom he'd been granted.
The desert was cool, the camp mostly silent. A few Medjai stood around some of the tents, probably watching over important people or prisoners. Most of the others appeared asleep; as Tom walked along the rows of tents, though, he could make out quiet sobs and whispered words of people in mourning. The fire rings were dead and cold, and a chilly breeze meandered around the tents.
He made inquiries after Hamilton, only to be told that his state remained unchanged. Then, moved by a strange, morbid curiosity, he asked whether Gabriel Baine was still alive, and got a complicated twist in his gut when told he indeed was.
It was that feeling he followed up on a little later, at a more reasonable hour, just before sunrise. Baine was kept in a tent with a few other prisoners. The Medjai guarding it must either know him by sight or have received instructions, because when Tom asked if it was possible to see Baine for a minute, he was let in.
It was warmer inside the tent. The cloth blocked the wind and kept the body heat of the half a dozen people inside. A few were still asleep, and Tom couldn't help but resent them a little for that. Baine, though, was wide awake, and stared at him as he entered.
"Well," he said. "Look who finally got caught. Did you get here by way of the infirmary?" he added with a jerk of his chin towards Tom's bandaged hands. "Or did you just get lost in that pyramid looking for a way out? That would be more your style."
One of the hit squad sniggered. Tom ignored him.
"Why?" he asked quietly.
Baine rolled his eyes. "I've always known you were thick, Ferguson, but if you can't understand a simple joke –"
"I mean why did you follow Hamilton once it was clear he was no longer fit to be in command? You could have done literally anything, and what did you do? Order your men to kill Jon, O'Connell, and then me. Why?"
"Because I am a professional," Baine huffed. "Unlike you, apparently, I can follow orders. And my orders were clear: assist Hamilton in any capacity and get rid of any obstacle he might encounter."
"Get rid of – in what world does that mean murderin' people!?"
"Oh, grow up, you naive twit. How do you think half the artefacts we're protecting ended up in our custody?"
Tom's jaw dropped open. Baine made a face.
"Oh, I know you agents upstairs like to call us 'the hit squad', but what do you think we do? Ask nicely? Discuss prices over tea? We all do our bit for the Crown, Ferguson. You get to push paper, I get to actually move things along, and the Empire gets to make the world turn like it always has."
Tom closed his mouth with a snap and shook his head instinctively.
"Don't give me that rubbish," he growled. "Hamilton wanted to unleash an army of undead jackal soldiers on the world because he thought they would listen to him and only kill a few select people. What was your angle? And don't tell me it was 'orders'. I don't think you've ever obeyed a single order you didn't want to."
"You know, you're right. That's why Hamilton was such a good boss: he never gave me a single order I didn't want to obey." Baine unexpectedly shifted from a glower to his customary smug smile. "He knew it would be useless to explain to you that people like O'Connell and Carnahan couldn't be allowed to live. Nothing had to be traced back to him, you understand? Whether he was successful or not. That is why he put me in charge in case something happened to him. Because, unlike wet idiots like you, I was willing to make the hard choices without knowing whether I'd be rewarded or not. Now that is loyalty. Not that you'd understand that." And, just as Tom opened his mouth to tell him exactly what he thought of his 'loyalty', he added as an afterthought, "Shame about your wife, though."
Tom's stomach dropped. In the space of a second he had lost all feeling in his limbs, and his head was spinning.
"What about her?" he asked, suddenly breathless.
Baine shrugged.
"Well, you didn't think they intended to keep her in that basement for ever, did you? I did say nothing had to be traced back to Hamilton in the end. She served her purpose well before O'Connell and Carnahan did. Collateral damage, you might say."
A red mist seemed to fall in front of Tom's eyes, like a curtain.
Next thing he knew, three agents were on top of him, trying to pull him away from Baine, who looked as though he had picked a fight with a steamroller and lost. Then he felt the edge of a cold blade on his Adam's apple and stopped short.
"I let you in to talk," hissed the Medjai who had been on guard duty outside in Arabic, "not attack our prisoners. You will leave this tent and not come back, is that clear?"
The blind rage was leaving Tom in waves, gradually replaced by nausea and the sensation that his heart was hammering on the top of his stomach. The dark tent felt suffocating all of a sudden. He stumbled out, seeking out air and the open sky, and started running, only stopping when he had passed the outskirts of the Medjai camp.
The sun had started rising on his right, making the dunes look soft and blurred, stretching out their shadows. The wind was still cold. Tom shivered without noticing, too busy gasping for breath and trying to keep his mind from spiralling.
Liz and her sweet smile, her surprisingly sharp humour, her frizzy dark red hair, her off-key humming, her gentle heart and all-encompassing love…
"No," he moaned, "no, you didn't… They couldn't…"
Through the ringing in his ears came a strange sound, like a rumble, and he raised his eyes to the horizon, where a cloud of dust was rising.
Tom, worn down to the very bone, weighed down by sorrow, stared at the cloud and wondered what the universe was throwing at them this time.
One minute later, he found himself in the centre of a desert race as lorries and cars roared past him and towards the camp, leaving him gaping, wide-eyed, unable to comprehend what was happening. In the midst of his shock he barely registered a car pulling up roughly in the near distance, with the passenger making wild gestures at the driver.
But he heard someone call his name. His eyes followed the sound.
Through the dust, he saw a figure scramble down from the car still in motion, somewhat hampered by the skirt twisting around her legs. The woman made a couple of striding steps, then stopped, shucked her shoes, and ran towards him.
"TOM!" he heard, and the sound of the one voice he never expected to hear jolted him out of his dark daze. "Tom, it's me – oh, darling, I can't believe I –"
And then she was there, throwing her arms around him, her frizzy hair all over the place, her hazel eyes large and luminous in her dust-streaked face. Her body was warm and full of life, and – incredibly, inexplicably – right there. Tom buried his face in her hair, eyes wide open, shaking badly, while Liz – prim, self-conscious Elizabeth Ferguson, who blushed when he kissed her in public – frantically ran her hands on his sides, in his hair, all over his body, as if to make sure he wasn't some kind of mirage.
"…around the pyramid and thought the worst – but then there were people with swords and things almost got silly because Lieutenant-General Wilkins insisted on drawing weapons, but then they told us were this camp was and there you were, oh Tom, thank goodness you're all right – Tom? Love, are you all right?"
Something snapped in the vicinity of Tom's brain. His legs liquefied and he dropped on his knees like a sack of potatoes, his arms still around his wife's waist, his head pressed against her stomach. The terror and anxiety that mounted every time he thought of Liz, the horrors in the Pyramid, Jon's death and the Black Book, Baine's awful nonchalance when he'd stated Liz had to be dead… Everything came crashing down on him like an avalanche, and he found himself sobbing convulsively, tears and snot dripping down, gripping Liz's body like it was the very last thing that kept him anchored.
Hazily, he was aware of Liz kneeling down and shifting his grip so they were both sitting on the ground, wrapped around each other, practically entwined. The last cars passed them by, leaving them behind in a ball of dust, now slowly descending.
"I love you too," she whispered, and her smile shone through her own tears.
Notes:
A "Napoleon" is a gold coin issued under Napoleon I (1800s and 1810s). The 20 francs coin was 2 centimetres in diameter and weighed 6,45 grams (0,23 ounces), including over 5,8 grams of pure gold.
You didn't really think I'd let my favourite terrible lad stay dead, did you? ;o) And real talk, how many of you had forgotten about Elizabeth? Wouldn't blame you if you did, it's been 14 chapters (and, depending on if you read chapter 15 when it was first published, almost 14 years)!
See you next Friday!