Stories (2011)

  The beggar held out a hard, dirty palm.

  More out of disgust than charity, Nayland put a coin in the beggar’s palm. The beggar put the coin in his pouch, and his eye in its socket.

  Nayland thought: "Disgusting country." He remembered what he had been told about such beggars. From birth the man had probably been prepared for his "profession." He had been taught to massage the eyeball daily, until the sight died and it became nothing more than a rubbery pulp that could be pulled from its socket and dangled on the cheek at will.

  Nayland shivered. The whole country was full of crazies. Civilization had touched the place, but just barely. It was still a country of backward savages as far as he was concerned.

  But he hadn’t come to Cairo to study the people. He had come to purchase items for his unusual collection. Already he had compiled such rare things as a supposed Yeti’s scalp from Tibet; shrunken heads from the wilds of New Guinea; spears and shields from Africa; and a number of other rare articles.

  He kept all of these locked away in his private museum for his own personal pleasure. No one was allowed to see his goodies. They were his and his alone. And at night, he gloated over them.

  But one thing of importance was missing from his collection: a mummy. Well, he intended to remedy that. He had obtained a very substantial lead concerning a man who would sell him a mummy–a mummy from a Pharaoh’s tomb.

  The address he was seeking was off the main street–what was main about the street, Nayland failed to see–and down a dark alley bordered by leaning buildings that cast shadows on the cobbles below.

  Nayland didn’t like the idea of the dark doorways that bordered the alley on either side like hungry mouths, but he was determined to get his mummy.

  He walked along the alleyway counting doors. He was looking for the fifteenth on the right. On either side of him, partially hidden by shadow, were rows of beggars, cripples, eye-pluckers, and a few (Nayland couldn’t honestly tell if they were male or female) so infested and pocked with sores they churned his breakfast, which he nearly lost.

  But he came to the fifteenth door and his repulsion faded to enthusiasm as he entered the dark, foul smelling shop. It contained all manner of jarred and bagged items; a sort of apothecary shop. But from the looks of things, Nayland doubted if he’d buy anything for a headache here.

  A little man who seemed very much a part of the place shuffled forward from a corner, hands clasped together, head tilted to one side. The man’s face was very aged, or perhaps ravaged by some exotic disease. The flesh looked leathery. No, actually it looked wooden. The little man seemed to move with great difficulty, as if the old legs were too stiff or the bones too dry.

  "Might I help you," the man said in perfect English, recognizing Nayland for an American immediately. The little man’s voice was very deep, as if brought up from the insides of a hollow log.

  "Why... why, yes... I was told by a man named Jauhur that I could find someone here who would sell me... " His voice got very low as the purchasing of such an item was illegal, "... a mummy."

  "That is correct," the little man said. "For a price," he smiled his blackened stubs, "we can get you almost anything."

  "A mummy for my collection, that will do."

  "Yes. Shall we talk money... American dollars?"

  "I’m willing to pay a proper price, but not be cheated, mind you."

  "Of course, but a mummy is... shall we say, a rarity. They are scarce. Most of the tombs have long since been robbed... "

  "But you have one for sale?"

  The little man nodded his head.

  "I would like to see it first, before we discuss price."

  "Very well." The little man turned, shuffled toward the back of the shop, stopped and beckoned Nayland to follow.

  They went through a dark, curtained doorway and into a large room where half a dozen sarcophagi rested against the wall.

  Nayland licked his lips. The little man clutched the corner of one sarcophagus and opened it. "Inspect, but do not touch too much," the little man said. "They are fragile, very fragile."

  Nayland nodded, unable to speak. He walked carefully to the case and inspected the wrapped figure inside. The cloth that bound the mummy was yellowed with age, even black in places.

  "If it were unwrapped," the little man warned, "the air would soon crumble it. It would be advisable to put it in a glass case of some sort, and never move it or touch it."

  "Yes," Nayland said absently. He looked the mummy up and down, greedily. A mummy for his collection; for him to feast his eyes on alone. No one would ever know...

  Hello! Nayland thought. What’s this?

  On the left hand of the mummy, where the arms were pulled across its chest, was a break in the cloth, a slight bulge on the left ring finger.

  Nayland looked over his shoulder at the little man who was watching him with patient, black, bird eyes.

  "Perhaps you would rather be alone," the little man offered, sensing Nayland’s nervousness.

  "Yes... yes, if you don’t mind."

  "No problem." The little man turned and shuffled away.

  When Nayland was alone with the mummy, he returned his attention to the bulge on the mummy’s finger. Perhaps he had found something of importance, like a ring; a ring of priceless gold and jewels; a ring that had resided on a dead man’s finger for centuries. If the proprietor became aware of it, he might drive the price up; if not, Nayland felt certain he could make a nice purchase. He’d have the mummy for his collection, and the ring to sell for no telling how much.

  Carefully, he reached up and touched the bulge. It was very hard. He saw through the break in the wrappings that something glinted. Yes, by golly, he’d found a mummy equipped with a ring. Of course, it could be bone, nothing more.

  Nayland leaned forward and peered at the rent in the wrapping. Still uncertain, he carefully reached up and began to peel back the wrappings from a finger, and then he saw it.

  Yes, a ring... a... He looked closely. God! No! But there was no denying it. It was a ring all right, and on it he read: SENIOR, ‘69, GLADEWATERHIGH SCHOOL.

  Nayland, suddenly aware that someone was behind him, turned.

  Too late.

  Nayland saw the little man s arm and the hatchet descend in a blur, and then he saw no more.

  The hunchback brought Nayland’s nude body out of the steaming vat of chemicals with a long-handled hook, pulled the corpse onto the wrapping slab with expert ease.

  He was about to begin the wrapping when the little man came into the smoky chamber.

  The hunchback hoped he wasn’t still angry.

  The little man said, "I hope you inspected this one, Kuda. No rings or watches... and remember the one you wrapped still wearing his glasses? What am I to do with you? We have to sell these mummies to stay in business. We can’t keep making them out of potential customers just because of your idiot mistakes."

  "Yes, master."

  "Remember the bulge those glasses made beneath the wrappings? And if I hadn’t looked in on the American, I might not have seen him or the ring you forgot. Had I not caught him in time it might have led to the police. Robbing graves is a nice neat method of supply, but making our own corpses first could get us in trouble, Kuda. You understand?"

  "Yes, Master. Forgive me, Master. I understand."

  The little man shook his head. "The help these days." He turned and shuffled back to the front of the shop. A man was coming soon to buy a mummy.

  NIGHT DRIVE

  It had been a very bad night. The rain was blasting away and the wipers and lights were hardly worth the trouble. It had been a sudden rain, and I had failed to check the weather report. That had been stupid of me. It should have been a priority.

  I was considering this bit of stupidity when I noticed the man.

  He was little more than a blur in the night. He stood beside the road with his thumb extended, a sloppy leather hat washed down over his face. For some reason I had a gut urge against it,
but I had picked up hitchhikers in the past, and was not overly sensitive to the fears generally associated with them. Not me.

  I pulled over just past him and braked. He would have a distance to run because I had hesitated a bit before stopping. I didn’t back up to make it easier for him. I sat and half reconsidered. There was something about this guy that bothered me. Perhaps it was just the surprise of seeing him out in this kind of rain, but then again it had been sudden. It had taken me by surprise, why not him. Nothing mysterious in that.

  I put my arm over the backseat and looked through the rear glass. In the fuzzy, pink glow of the brakelights I could see that he was a huge man, made to look all the larger by the blurring effect of rain and light. Rain and light or not, he was larger than I was. If he meant harm...

  I had considered too long. The deed was done. In one smooth motion the door was open and he was sliding wetly against the seat on the passenger’s side. Cold wind and rain blew in with him.

  The overhead light, the brief instant that it glowed while the door was open, showed him to have a leathery, Indian-type face. Hawk nose, high cheek bones, a full but hard mouth. His age could have been thirty or fifty. He had that kind of face. The coat he wore was thick and ankle length, the wet blanket odor of it carried in with him. His leather hat drooped and dripped water.

  Something about him made my skin crawl.

  He shut the door. A car went by, tires whining, cast its lights across my Plymouth, winked on and away. The man said, "Thank you."

  Simple enough, but I almost went through the roof of the Plymouth. The words were kind, but that voice...

  I managed to reply kindly enough—some nonsense about where are you going, the usual chatter, and his answers were civil... but that voice.

  Another car went by with its tires singing and threw water against my door with a sound like scuttling claws. I checked the rearview and pulled back onto the highway.

  The man sat silent, hands in his pockets... perhaps he was plotting... waiting for the right moment.

  Hell, I told myself, and gave that part of my brain that frightens so easily a few mental lashes. Look straight ahead and drive carefully, I thought. Don’t be silly.

  But my gaze wandered often to the stranger, and on one of my peripheral glances I saw that he was staring at me.

  Just sitting there like a big wooden doll with its head cranked my way. His hands were still buried deep in his pockets. I wondered what those pockets contained. A razor? A knife? A gun?

  With as much calm as I could muster, I took my right hand from the wheel and rolled my fingers together in a manner that suggested that I was trying to shake cold or numbness from them. That didn’t keep my hand from trembling as I casually dipped it into my GI jacket, traced my fingers over the fine, bone handle of the razor I kept there.

  Now! I told myself.

  With one swift motion I brought the razor out, flicked it open as I leaned away from the wheel towards him. Its expertly honed edge caught his throat and passed through, deep. The man fell back against the door.

  I closed up the razor and put it away, pulled the car over to the side of the road, got out and rushed around to the passenger’s side. I jerked the door open and drug him out on the roadside. His throat was a scarf of blood now.

  I used his hat to clean a few drops of blood off the seat, then checked his pockets. No weapons. Christ! I was getting jumpy as of late. This damn weather.

  I got his wallet out and picked the two dollars out of it and slung the wallet as far away into the blackness as I could. I got my camera out of the backseat floorboard and took a few flash shots of him for my collection and put it away. They probably wouldn’t be among my best pictures. I put the camera away and went around to climb in behind the wheel.

  Laughing at myself, I started up the Plymouth. He hadn’t been a bit different than the others. A piece of cake. "To hell with your imagination," I said aloud and drove away from there trying to shake the chill of the rain.

  OLD CHARLIE

  Hi there. Catching much?

  Well, they're in there. Just got to have the right bait and be patient. You don't mind if I sit down on the bank next to you, do you?

  Good, good. Thanks.

  Yeah, I like it fine. I never fish with anything but a cane pole. An old-fashioned way of doing things, I guess, but it suits me. I like to sharpen one end a bit, stick that baby in the ground, and wait it out. Maybe find someone like yourself to chat with for a while.

  Whee, it's hot. Near sundown, too. You know, every time I'm out fishing in heat like this, I think of Old Charlie.

  Huh? No, no. You couldn't really say he was a friend of mine. You see, I met him right on this bank, sort of like I'm meeting you, only he came down and sat beside me.

  It was hot, just like today. So damned hot you'd think your nose was going to melt off your face and run down your chin. I was out here trying to catch a bite before sundown, because there's not much I like better than fish, when here comes this old codger with a fishing rig. It was just like he stepped out of nowhere.

  Don't let my saying he was old get you to thinking about white hair and withered muscles. This old boy was stout-looking, like maybe he'd done hard labor all his life. Looked, and was built, a whole lot like me, as a matter of fact. He comes and sits down about where I am now and smiles at me. That was the first time I'd ever seen that kind of smile, sort of strange and satisfied. And it looked wavery, as if it was nothing more than a reflection in the water. After he got settled, got his gear all worked out, and put his bait on, he cast his line and looked at me with that smile again. "Catching much?" he asked me.

  "No," I say, "Nothing. Haven't had a bite all day."

  He smiled that smile. "My name's Charlie. Some folks just call me Old Charlie."

  "Ned," I say

  "I sure do love to fish," he says. "I drive out every afternoon, up and down this Sabine River bank, shopping for a fresh place to fish."

  "You don't say," I says to him. "Well, ain't much here."

  About that time, Old Charlie gets him a bite and pulls in a nice-size bass. He puts it on a chain and stakes it out in the water.

  Then Old Charlie rebaits his hook and tosses it again. A bass twice the size of the first hits it immediately and he adds it to his chain.

  Wasn't five minutes later and he'd nabbed another.

  Me, I hadn't caught doodlysquat. So I sort of forgot about the old boy and his odd smile and got to watching him haul them in. I bet he had nine fish on that chain when I finally said, "That rod and reel must be the way to go."

  He looked at me and smiled again. "No, don't matter what you fish with, it's the bait that does it. Got the right bait, you can catch anything."

  "What do you use?"

  "I've tried many baits," he said smiling, "but there isn't a one that beats this one. Came by using it in an odd way, too. My wife gave me the idea. Course, that was a few years back. Not married now. You see, my wife was a young thing, about thirty-two years younger than me, and I married her when she was just a kid. Otherwise, she wouldn't have been fool enough to marry an old man like me. I knew I was robbing the cradle, impressing her with my worldly knowledge so I could have someone at home all the time, but I couldn't help myself.

  "Her parents didn't mind much. They were river trash and were ready to get shed of her anyway. Just one more mouth to feed far as they were concerned. I guess that made it all the easier for me.

  "Anyway, we got married. Things went right smart for the first few years. Then one day this Bible-thumper came by. He was something of a preacher and a Bible salesman, and I let him in to talk to us. Well, he talked a right nice sermon, and Amy, my wife, insisted that we invite him to dinner and buy one of his Bibles.

  "I noticed right then and there that she and that Bible-thumper were exchanging looks, and not the sort to make you think of church and gospel reading.

  "I was burned by it, but I'm a realistic old cuss, and I knew I was pretty old for Amy
and that there wasn't any harm in her looking. Long as that was all she did. Guess by that time, she'd found out I wasn't nearly as worldly as she had thought. All I had to offer her was a hardscrabble farm and what I could catch off the river, and neither was exactly first-rate. Could hardly grow a cotton-pickin' thing on that place, the soil was so worked out, and I didn't have money for no store-bought fertilizer-and didn't have no animals to speak of that could supply me with any barnyard stuff, neither. Fishing had got plumb rotten. This was before the bait.

  "Well, me not being about to catch much fish was hurtin' me the most. I didn't care much for plowing them old hot fields. Never had. But fishing... now that was my pride and joy.

  That and Amy.

  "So, we're scraping by like usual, and I start to notice this change in Amy. It started taking place the day after that Bible-thumper's visit. She still fixed meals, ironed and stuff, but she spent a lot of time looking out the windows, like she was expecting something. Half the time when I spoke to her, she didn't even hear me.

  "And damned if that thumper didn't show up about a week later. We'd already bought a Bible, and since he didn't have no new product to sell us, he just preached at us. Told us about the ten commandments and about hellfire and damnation. But from the way he was looking at Amy, I figured there was at least one or two of them commandments he didn't take too serious, and I don't think he gave a hang about hellfire and damnation.

  "I kept my temper, them being young and all. I figured the thumper would give it up pretty soon anyway, and when he was gone Amy would forget.

  "But he didn't give it up. Got so he came around often, his suit all brushed up, his hair slicked back, and that Bible under his arm like it was some kind of key to any man's home. He even took to coming early in the day while I was working the fields, or in the barn sharpening my tools.