Barnabas Tew and The Case Of The Missing Scarab Page 3

  As he struggled to catch his breath and rise to his feet, however, he heard the shuffling sounds of the mummy directly behind him. He turned about to face his attacker just in time to see the horrible skinless thing as it bore down on him, arms outstretched.

  “Oooh!” he managed to peep one last time before the gruesome hands closed around his neck, preventing his breath from returning to him until a curtain of dark descended before his eyes.

  Chapter Three

  When Barnabas regained consciousness, he realized immediately that something was horribly wrong with him. To begin with, he felt quite light and airy, not like his usual self at all. Another problem was that he seemed to be lying on the floor of a dirty and decrepit boat made of moldy black wood.

  He heard the sounds one would normally hear whilst aboard a boat: waves lapping against the sides, paddles slapping against the water, wood creaking as the boat moved up and down with the water. All of these were normal sounds with which he was quite familiar, as was the rocking motion of the boat, a movement that would have been very relaxing under other circumstances. It was not relaxing now for three very important reasons.

  The first reason was that he had no idea how he might have got on a boat. The last thing he remembered was being attacked, remarkably, by an extremely ambulatory mummy that was (equally remarkably) seemingly directed by a man with an extraordinarily canine face. He supposed that he might have fallen, bumped his head, and experienced a very vivid dream; that theory, however, did not begin to explain his current provenance on this derelict boat.

  The second factor that bothered him was the sky. Instead of being a nice, pretty blue, or the more usual grey of a London fog, it was, instead, a brownish-red. The sky was like a particularly ugly sunset that didn’t darken into the black of night as sunsets normally did. Barnabas waited and waited for it to do so, but the hideous muddy smudge of a sky persisted.

  But the most important thing that weighed on Barnabas’ mind was a question: who was rowing this boat? That someone was doing so was not in doubt for, in addition to the sounds of the paddles moving in and out of the water, the boat hitched and lurched forward in a way that indicated the rhythmic strokes of a rower. Besides, Barnabas could hear the faint noises that one normally associated with the presence of another: a rustling of clothing as the person shifted, a soft whistling sound as he (or she) breathed in and out, the scratching of feet along the floorboards.

  Still, he couldn’t think of a logical reason someone would remove him from the museum. Surely, if he had fallen and hurt himself, a reasonable person would have taken him to see a doctor! A reasonable person would at least have helped Wilfred to get him bundled safely into his own bed in his own flat. Neither of these courses of action would require a ride in a dingy old boat.

  And so, Barnabas reasoned, the person sitting in the back of the boat must not be a reasonable fellow (or lady) at all. Therefore, he was somewhat nervous about confronting the person to see what they were about with all of this nonsense.

  But, Barnabas realized at last, he couldn’t just lie there on the bottom of the boat refusing to look at his companion forever. There was nothing for it but to see who was there and ask whoever it might be where, exactly, they were and why, exactly, Barnabas was in this craft instead of in the museum where he belonged.

  So, Barnabas sat up and turned to look towards the back of the boat. However, the moment he saw who was there with him (or, rather what, Barnabas thought with no small degree of consternation), he wished that he hadn’t looked at all. It would have been better if he had just stayed still and feigned sleep, and if he had done so forever if that’s how long it took for the thing that sat in the back of the boat to go away.

  Barnabas blinked, thinking that perhaps his eyes were mistaken, that maybe some trick of the odd reddish light had deceived him. When that didn’t work, he closed his eyes for a bit longer before opening them. But, to his chagrin, nothing had changed when he opened them again. Everything was just as it had been before.

  The problem was that the person who sat on the bench, pushing the oars and looking entirely relaxed as though nothing at all was amiss, was not exactly a person at all.

  The person, or rather the thing, in the boat with Barnabas put him in mind of the jackal-headed man from the museum, except this creature was possessed of a falcon’s head rather than that of a jackal. His (its?) torso was (mostly) that of a man; although this creature had wings (which was a strange thing, thought Barnabas irrelevantly, because how on earth could one pull on an oar if one had only wings but no hands?), but the rest of him was entirely birdlike.

  His smallish head was covered in dark brown feathers (which, if truth be told, looked a bit unkempt to Barnabas). A long orange beak extended from the man’s snout and curved down to end in a jagged, cruelly sharp point. Small black eyes darted about quickly so that the falcon man looked incredibly alert.

  The man (or falcon, Barnabas was not quite sure how to classify him just yet) somehow managed to ply the oars of the boat with his wings. The oars were jammed beneath them so that the ends disappeared from view into his armpit area. The falcon man rhythmically rolled his shoulders back and forth, which somehow, impossibly it seemed, moved the oars in a perfectly elliptical stroke. It was really quite impressive.

  As for the fellow’s feet… Well, they were most definitely bird feet, but the toes and talons were, for the most part, missing. It looked as if someone, or something, had lopped them off but made a shoddy job of it. Some of the stubs where toes had once been were longer than others. One of the smaller toes had escaped whatever misfortune had befallen the rest, however, and was possessed of a very long talon. From this single intact digit Barnabas could easily surmise how impressively large the rest of the talons must have been, and he shifted nervously on the boat’s floor.

  The falcon man cleared his throat, and Barnabas realized that he had been staring at those distressing feet for quite a long time. Embarrassed at his own rudeness, he flushed. He then pushed aside his consternation at his strange predicament and smiled politely at his companion.

  He wondered if he ought to say something to begin a conversation. However, it seemed to him that the onus of social responsibility in this case must fall squarely upon the falcon man. After all, Barnabas was at quite the disadvantage: he had no idea where he was, how he had got here, or why he was here at all. Surely the falcon man owed him some sort of explanation!

  But even as Barnabas determined that it was he who ought to be offended and not the other way around, his discomfiture at the uncomfortable silence began to overwhelm him. Soon he could take it no more, and he decided to take the high road and begin the conversation himself.

  “Well,” he said, “hello and good day to you, sir.”

  The falcon man merely nodded tersely in Barnabas’ direction. So, thought Barnabas, somewhat affronted, this was a fine situation indeed! Not only was he in the midst of the strangest predicament of his life, but it seemed that his companion was determined to be quite surly.

  “Well, then,” he began again. “I’m Barnabas Tew of Marylebone. I was at the museum, and I seem to have got turned about somehow.” He was trying to sound strident and forceful, but his voice quavered a bit. In addition, he had an unfortunate habit of raising his pitch at the end of his sentences. Both of these things conspired against him so that, instead of sounding confident, he came off as somewhat meek and apologetic.

  Mr. Falcon-head simply continued to look at Barnabas.

  “You can imagine my distress at finding myself in such an, um, unusual situation,” Barnabas continued, a bit desperately. Why wouldn’t the cursed fellow respond? His reticence was most impolite and was causing Barnabas no small amount of worry. The man’s rudeness made the possibility of a reasonable resolution seem quite remote. In fact, Barnabas was beginning to feel as though he might be in some considerable danger after all.

  An idea struck him, and he tried again. “I was with my assistant, Wilfred.
Surely Wilfred is looking for me and has of course roused the constabulary.” Still his companion offered no response. “Where is this boat going?” Barnabas demanded, losing his patience. “I demand to be taken to Marylebone this instant!”

  At last, the falcon-headed man responded, albeit in a less-than-pleasant way. He snickered (and it was quite a mean-sounding snicker, thought Barnabas). “Oh, calm yourself,” said the creature. “You’re quite beyond Marylebone. There’s no going back there now, so don’t worry on that account.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” asked Barnabas. “Beyond Marylebone? Where am I? And why am I here? Explain yourself, please!”

  It seemed that the falcon-headed man’s face softened somewhat. His next words were a bit less brusque, at least, and Barnabas thought that he detected a trace of pity in his tone. “Oh, you silly fellow,” said the falcon man. “I am Anti, Ferryman across the River of the Dead.” Anti paused, allowing the words to sink in to Barnabas’ mind.

  “River of the Dead?” repeated Barnabas slowly. “But that would mean… Surely you can’t mean to imply…”

  “That you are dead,” Anti finished the sentence for him, although not unkindly.

  “But,” wailed Barnabas, “that cannot be! Surely I would remember, um, becoming dead!” But even as he said it, the uncomfortable memory of being attacked by the insane mummy presented itself. He quickly pushed the thought aside as a ridiculous impossibility. “It is quite impossible,” he said.

  “Well, it’s not impossible because here you are,” said Anti, somewhat defensively. “I didn’t kill you, if that’s what you mean to say next. I just ferry the dead across the river.”

  Barnabas realized that Anti must heartily tired of reluctant dead people taking their frustrations out on him, and he decided not to berate the poor chap any further. But still, he was quite upset at the news that he was dead and having a hard time believing it to be true.

  “Perhaps there’s been a mistake,” he said. “Maybe I’m not really dead. Is there someone I could talk to? Someone who could straighten out this mess?”

  “Sorry,” said Anti. “But this is how it is. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t dead.”

  “I just would have thought that dying would be, well, more noticeable,” said Barnabas sadly.

  “So does everyone,” said Anti. “Almost no one really believes they are dead at first. And it must be especially hard for you, to have gone in such a, well, an unexpected way.”

  “So you know about the mummy?” asked Barnabas. Anti nodded. “Yes, well, I had quite hoped that I had gone mad and imagined that whole thing,” said Barnabas tersely.

  Anti laughed for the first time, a real laugh that made him seem a somewhat more pleasant fellow. “I’ve seen some strange things in my time,” he said. “People die from all sorts of odd happenings. But yours most definitely is in the top ten of strange deaths that I’ve ever seen.”

  Barnabas, oddly, felt proud at this, as though this statement validated his sufferings somehow. He nodded and sat up straighter, attempting to appear noble and proud in the face of his remarkable travails.

  “So,” he said, after a long silence. “Where do I go from here?”

  “I’m taking you to the Land of the Dead,” said Anti, “where you will be judged. Your heart will be weighed against a feather. If it’s lighter than the feather, you’ll be ushered into the Land of the Dead, where you can live happily ever after.”

  “Hmm,” said Barnabas doubtfully. He didn’t think it physically possible for a heart to weigh less than a feather, and so he was worried anew about what might befall him next. “And who will be doing this judging?” he asked.

  “Anubis, King of the Dead,” replied Anti tersely.

  At the mention of Anubis’ name, Barnabas thought he perceived a sneer twitch on Anti’s face. (It wasn’t much of a sneer, merely a small twitch of the upper beak, but Barnabas imagined that even that had to be quite difficult to manage when one’s upper lip was so rigid; indeed, it was quite impressive that Anti had been able to even give the impression of a sneer with that big beak of his).

  He wondered what it was about Anubis that had reawakened the irritable side of Anti’s personality. He noticed that, at the mention of the name, the boatman had begun to curl and uncurl the stumps of the talons on his feet.

  Barnabas wondered again what had happened there, but it would be incredibly rude to just come out and ask. So, instead, he directed his thoughts towards his predicament and what he might do to get out of it.

  “But wait!” cried Barnabas, remembering now what he knew about Egyptian mythology. “Anubis is the one with the jackal head. He was there in the museum. It was he who made the mummy attack me!”

  “Ah,” said Anti, “now you are beginning to understand.”

  “Um, yes,” agreed Barnabas, who did not understand at all what Anti was getting at. “Except that, well, perhaps you could explain it to me? Just to see if we have come to the same conclusions, is what I mean.”

  Anti laughed and rested his wingtip upon Barnabas’ shoulder for a moment. “Don’t you see, my dear, innocent fellow? Anubis wants you for something.”

  “Wants me? What could an Egyptian god of the dead possibly want of a modest detective?” Barnabas was more perplexed than ever.

  “The ways of the gods are inscrutable,” replied Anti cryptically. “But be aware. Keep your eyes and ears open. If Anubis wants you, then you’re going to have an adventure, that much is certain. And just pray that said adventure is not too bad.”

  Barnabas was alarmed at these last words, and he begged Anti to explain further, but the falcon-headed boatman either would not or could not. And so Barnabas arrived in the Land of the Dead under a cloud of anxious thoughts and was deposited there, alone on the black rocky shore, by Anti, who wished him well and then paddled off on business of his own.

  Chapter Four

  Barnabas, confused, stood on the beach where Anti had left him. Although the boatman did not look back, Barnabas waved at the retreating figure as he paddled away. After all, Anti was the only person to whom he had spoken since being dead, and therefore Barnabas considered him as his only friend in this horrible place.

  He wondered why the boatman was so grumpy. Why he didn’t give Barnabas the common courtesy of a farewell wave? He hoped that he hadn’t said anything to offend Anti. Perhaps it was the business with the feet. Barnabas wished that he hadn’t stared at the fellow quite so rudely, but really, was he to be blamed for that? It wasn’t as if one woke up every day to find oneself in a boat with a falcon man. Anyone at all would have been quite shocked at such a thing, and Barnabas thought that he had comported himself quite handsomely. Indeed, he thought that he had been remarkably calm, considering the circumstances.

  Besides, Barnabas did not have the time to worry about whether or not he had ruffled Anti’s feathers. (He smiled to himself at the slightly snarky little joke and told himself that he must remember to tell it to Wilfred when he next saw him.) Right now, his most pressing problem was to figure out where he was and how he might get back to London.

  The black rocks of the beach were extremely jagged and sharp. Indeed, they were quite uncomfortable to stand on. Barnabas looked about. It seemed that the rocks smoothed out somewhat about a hundred yards from the shore.

  Barnabas glanced back at the water, thinking that perhaps he should stay there, find another boat, and thus go back the way he had come. But something about the water unnerved him. It was very dark, for one thing, so that one couldn’t see beneath the surface in the slightest. It was also tinged with red and seemed to be very viscous, so that it looked a great deal like semi-dried blood. The waves didn’t splash against the rocks so much as they slurped, so that each goopy heave of the stuff oozed up the rocks slowly before retreating again, leaving a slimy stain of deepest red on the sharp black rocks.

  No, Barnabas did not think that he’d like to stay near this water at all. Besides, he could still see the water (and the
refore any boats upon it) from the edge of the beach just as well as he could whilst standing here directly beside the river. If a boat came by he would have plenty of time to run across the beach to intercept it.

  Thus decided, he tiptoed carefully across the strand until he got to the smoother part, then carefully sat down to think, heedless of the gravel that dirtied the back of his pants.

  Anti had said that Anubis, the Egyptian god of the dead, wanted him for something; but the thought that an ancient, foreign, made up god could be behind his abduction was absolutely absurd. But then, equally absurd was the idea that an actual falcon-person had ferried him across a river into the Land of the Dead.

  As Barnabas thought it through, it became more and more clear to him: Anti had obviously not been a real falcon at all but merely a real man dressed as one. It followed then that he was not dead after all but had merely been knocked senseless so that he might be abducted and henceforth led to believe the bizarre charade that his malefactors had so adroitly performed for him.

  So who, then, was this Anubis character who had gone to such lengths to create the terrifying scene with the mummy in the museum, knocking out Barnabas and allowing the man in the falcon costume to kidnap him?

  He must, thought Barnabas, be a scoundrel, a scallywag, an outlaw of some unknown sort. No one else would resort to such chicanery to apprehend a law-abiding detective who, whilst maybe not the most successful of his kind, was still an upstanding, perfectly respectable citizen.

  Or, he thought, perhaps a Member of Parliament had instigated this nefarious plan! Perhaps, unknowingly, he had stumbled onto a plot of some kind, a sordid, top-secret government affair, and now the conspirator (conspirators, even!) was going to great lengths to throw him off the trail.

  He swallowed hard with a mixture of fear and pride at the thought of it. He drew himself up, blinking rapidly, to sit stiffly upright so that he looked a figure of regal, stoic heroism (or thought he looked, rather. In reality, he looked a bit more like an alarmed meerkat, eyes darting back and forth whilst sitting up stiffly to attention).