Brood of the Witch-Queen by Sax Rohmer (the top 100 crime novels of all time .TXT) 📕

They had just passed a village, amid an angry chorus from the pariah dogs, and were now following the track along the top of the embankment. Where the green carpet merged ahead into the grey ocean of sand the desert began, and out in that desert, resembling some weird work of Nature rather than anything wrought by the hand of man, stood the gloomy and lonely building ascribed by the Egyptologists to the Pharaoh Sneferu.

Dr. Cairn and his son rode ahead, and Sime, with Ali Mohammed, brought up the rear of the little company.

“I am completely in the dark, sir,” said Robert Cairn, “respecting the object of our present journey. What leads you to suppose that we shall find Antony Ferrara here?”

“I scarcely hope to find him here,” was the enigmatical reply, “but I am almost certain that he is here. I might have expected it, and I blame myself for not having provided against⁠—this.”

“Against what?”

“It is impossible, Rob, for you to understand this matter. Indeed, if I were to publish what I know⁠—not what I imagine, but what I know⁠—about the Pyramid of Méydûm I should not only call down upon myself the ridicule of every Egyptologist in Europe; I should be accounted mad by the whole world.”

His son was silent for a time; then:

“According to the guide books,” he said, “it is merely an empty tomb.”

“It is empty, certainly,” replied Dr. Cairn grimly, “or that apartment known as the King’s Chamber is now empty. But even the so-called King’s Chamber was not empty once; and there is another chamber in the pyramid which is not empty now!”

“If you know of the existence of such a chamber, sir, why have you kept it secret?”

“Because I cannot prove its existence. I do not know how to enter it, but I know it is there; I know what it was formerly used for, and I suspect that last night it was used for that same unholy purpose again⁠—after a lapse of perhaps four thousand years! Even you would doubt me, I believe, if I were to tell you what I know, if I were to hint at what I suspect. But no doubt in your reading you have met with Julian the Apostate?”

“Certainly, I have read of him. He is said to have practised necromancy.”

“When he was at Carra in Mesopotamia, he retired to the Temple of the Moon, with a certain sorcerer and some others, and, his nocturnal operations concluded, he left the temple locked, the door sealed, and placed a guard over the gate. He was killed in the war, and never returned to Carra, but when, in the reign of Jovian, the seal was broken and the temple opened, a body was found hanging by its hair⁠—I will spare you the particulars; it was a case of that most awful form of sorcery⁠—anthropomancy!”

An expression of horror had crept over Robert Cairn’s face.

“Do you mean, sir, that this pyramid was used for similar purposes?”

“In the past it has been used for many purposes,” was the quiet reply. “The exodus of the bats points to the fact that it was again used for one of those purposes last night; the exodus of the bats⁠—and something else.”

Sime, who had been listening to this strange conversation, cried out from the rear:

“We cannot reach it before sunset!”

“No,” replied Dr. Cairn, turning in his saddle, “but that does not matter. Inside the pyramid, day and night make no difference.”

Having crossed a narrow wooden bridge, they turned now fully in the direction of the great ruin, pursuing a path along the opposite bank of the cutting. They rode in silence for some time, Robert Cairn deep in thought.

“I suppose that Antony Ferrara actually visited this place last night,” he said suddenly, “although I cannot follow your reasoning. But what leads you to suppose that he is there now?”

“This,” answered his father slowly. “The purpose for which I believe him to have come here would detain him at least two days and two nights. I shall say no more about it, because if I am wrong, or if for any reason I am unable to establish my suspicions as facts, you would certainly regard me as a madman if I had confided those suspicions to you.”

Mounted upon donkeys, the journey from Rekka to the Pyramid of Méydûm occupies fully an hour and a half, and the glories of the sunset had merged into the violet dusk of Egypt before the party passed the outskirts of the cultivated land and came upon the desert sands. The mountainous pile of granite, its peculiar orange hue a ghastly yellow in the moonlight, now assumed truly monstrous proportions, seeming like a great square tower rising in three stages from its mound of sand to some three hundred and fifty feet above the level of the desert.

There is nothing more awesome in the world than to find one’s self at night, far from all fellow-men, in the shadow of one of those edifices raised by unknown hands, by unknown means, to an unknown end; for, despite all the wisdom of our modern inquirers, these stupendous relics remain unsolved riddles set to posterity by a mysterious people.

Neither Sime nor Ali Mohammed were of highly strung temperament, neither subject to those subtle impressions which more delicate organisations receive, as the nostrils receive an exhalation, from such a place as this. But Dr. Cairn and his son, though each in a different way, came now within the aura of this temple of the dead ages.

The great silence of the desert⁠—a silence like no other in the world; the loneliness, which must be experienced to be appreciated, of that dry and tideless ocean; the traditions which had grown up like fungi about this venerable building; lastly, the knowledge that it was associated in some way with the sorcery, the unholy activity, of Antony Ferrara, combined to chill them with a supernatural dread which called for all their courage to combat.

“What now?” said Sime, descending from his mount.

“We must lead