In Cairo, anything and everything is obtainable, provided one is prepared to pay the price.
You want someone to disappear? There are people who can arrange it quietly and without fuss. A woman? How many, what kind, and where? Gold, diamonds, a jeweled ankh; just show your credit card. Anything at all.
I happened to be in Cairo because it is one of the best places to obtain a rare codex and ancient bound books. I did not want just any book. I collect exotic works on mythology, legends steeped in mysticism, and the occult. The older and weirder the better, and some of my most prized pieces came from the Middle East.
Forget old Greek, Egyptian, Roman, or even European lore. Compared to some translated Sumerian material, all those other places have nothing. My Songs of Ancients, a battered old codex I found in Alexandria’s old district, a copy said to have been made from even older papyrus rolls supposedly held in the famed library of the same name before Julius Caesar set it on fire in 48 BCE. In the 4th century, after the Council of Nicaea, the rising Christian movement under Bishop Theophilus in 391 CE, left its destructive march. Arab conquerors in the 7th century pretty much levelled the remains. Priceless knowledge lost forever.
The Book of Hours, a 2nd century BCE Mesopotamian codex of magical incantations, made my hair stand on end. I am not superstitious and don’t believe in any of that wooly stuff, but my research opened a window into humanity’s past that most established anthropologists and scholarly institutions don’t pay much attention to, or pretend it does not exist. I ought to know. With a PhD in Comparative Middle Eastern Literature from Melbourne University, as an Associate Professor, my papers invariably generated controversy and heated debates among the learned, not always favorably, Damn them all anyway.
I did not care if the University refused to offer me tenure. Comfortably well off with a sizeable investment portfolio, boosted by early speculation in Bitcoin, I could afford to support my own research. The Vice Chancellor in particular had a bone to pick with me, but she swallowed her angst and left me alone. I attracted students—paying students—who contributed to the bottom line, something paramount in the hierarchy of her thinking.
To find what I wanted, I scoured old hole-in-the-wall bookshops, cluttered curio shops that packed unbelievable stuff into tiny places, and bazzars. They were undiscovered treasure troves. I always meant to peruse Cairo’s famed Khan el-Khalili alleyways in the Islamic Quarter, and the El Fustat souk, salivating at the prospect of finding something exotic. With the academic year over, I set off in mid-November on a two-week sabbatical.
Cairo is a madhouse of cars, crawling and honking along narrow, winding streets, accompanied by a pungent stink of pollution that left my eyes burning and throat sore when I returned to my hotel late in the day, the pyramids visible from my window, shrouded in brown goo. Then there were the people, an endless multitude doing who knows what. I found it easy to spot tourists. The men generally wore overly casual outfits, holding camcorders, tablets, and smartphones, capturing everything in sight for posterity, material they probably would never watch again. The women were often colorful, a contrast to the more restrained garments worn by locals, but hardly any local woman wore the traditional burka. The country endured 1300 years of Islam rule, but they always considered themselves Egyptians first.
In the old part of the city, small boutiques and eateries lined the streets, catering to satisfy any bodily desire. In many places, local men sat around small tables puffing from a glass hookah and sipping sweet chai. Every now and then, a kid, usually only twelve or fourteen, hand bulging with foreign bills, would offer to exchange currency for you. I never understood that part, but they tell me nobody bothered them. Just another enterprising business.
Morning clear and surprisingly fresh, I entered the Khan el-Khalili alley, an entrance into the Aladdin’s cave. A bewildering array of souvenirs, two-day-old antiques, papyrus paintings, crystal balls and glass pyramids to promote spiritual, and supposedly physical, healing, gold and jewelry glittering under bright lights, silk garments—lady tourists lingered at such places—swords, imitation guns, exotic foods, piles of colored spices, CDs of Egyptian music, and lots more my mind found difficult to absorb and comprehend.
Storekeepers did not stand, shout, or wave arms to drum up business. They sat quietly in the back reading the Quran, sipping tea or thick coffee from small tin tumblers, or patiently fingered beads on a prayer string. Time seemed to flow at an easier pace for them. Stall after stall crammed with goods packed the alleyway. I shook my head at it all.
The place noisy, hot, crowded, I pushed my way through the throng, my eyes open for a sight of a book merchant.
I stopped in front of a cramped shop stuffed with ancient books, their binding cracked, gaping like tongues, covered with dust of centuries, and papyrus rolls that might have been written in Khufu’s time. I was hooked, certain to find something in this cave of wonders.
Old as time, brown skin wrinkled by age, bony hands that looked like claws, a grimy white keffiyeh on his head bound with black rope, the man lowered his glass of tea and slowly looked at me. Black, impenetrable eyes gave an impression of dark depths and mystery, and something else—a touch of malevolence. Those eyes were not just devoid of color, they absorbed everything they focused on. My imagination running in overdrive, I told myself. The sounds and endless chatter along the alley behind me faded as I stared at the ancient figure.
“Can I help you with anything?” His deep, resonant voice broke the momentary uncomfortable silence in surprisingly good English. I sensed education and culture in that voice.
“I’m looking for ancient manuscripts and any codex you might have that deals with old myths and the occult. Sumerian or Mesopotamian writing would be best.”
“Are you a scholar with familiarity of those subjects?”
“I am a university researcher,” I told him simply. He would not be interested or impressed with my academic qualifications.
He pursed his lips, nodded, and with a weary sigh, pried himself off the stool. Bottom lip clamped between stained teeth, he grunted and peered at a row of various-sized books that packed a shoulder-high shelf.
“I may have something for you,” he murmured, pulled on a pair of dirty white cotton gloves, and reached for a slim volume bound with blistered, frayed, green leather. He blew off the dust, turned toward me, then hesitated as though uncertain he should sell it.
“What is it?” I asked intensely curious, eager to get my hands on the thing.
“Runes of the Undead,” he spoke curtly. “It’s an old Mesopotamian text copied from original Sumerian cuneiform. Very powerful magic. It is said to be from the first century CE. My family has held it for generations.”
“If it’s that valuable, why sell it?” I demanded, wary of being the butt end of a sales pitch.
“You look like someone who needs self-redemption,” he replied crisply.
The inference eluded me as I reached for the book. He gave me a smart rap on the wrist.
“Never touch it with your bare hands!”
“Why not?”
“Just don’t.” He leaned forward and peered at me. “Are you a believer?”
“Believer in what?”
“In forces beyond your ken. You must believe a little, or you would not be on this quest.”
“I’m a scientist gathering information. I don’t believe in spirits or magic.”
The old man gave a deep sigh and shook his head. “La yuhimu, no matter. Wait, I’ll get you some gloves.”
Devil worship, astrology? A mumbo-jumbo sales pitch, I figured, suitable for the gullible.
He placed the book on the stool, turned, and rummaged in the back of his shop. My gaze was drawn to the innocent volume on the stool, and I wondered why I must not touch it. My curiosity got the better of me. I bent forward and reached for the thing with my right hand. It’s only an old book, I told myself.
I grasped the slim volume and gasped in shock as unbelievable cold shot up my arm. I instinctively tried to drop the thing, but it remained glued to my hand. Small, red flames appeared from the book and licked around my hand. My vision faded and I shivered. Alarmed, I tried to shout, but nothing came out, not even a gurgle. Desperate, I shook my hand, but the book stuck to me.
The old man turned, cotton gloves in hand, saw me, and gaped.
“You have damned yourself, fool!”
I reached with my other hand to snatch the book from my grasp.
“Don’t touch it!” he yelled in desperation. His cry froze me.
Then it started.
Horrors from the depths of my soul burst forth unleashed. Serpents—my most dreaded fear—from the dark, basement corridors of my mind, coiled around me, hissing, yellow eyes ablaze with malevolent fire, long fangs bared. Transfixed with terror, I screamed, desperate to shake them. As soon as one fell, others took its place, coiled tight around my legs, and pinned my arms to my body. Then they struck and kept striking. The needle pricks from their fangs made me writhe in agony. I felt the poison course through me even as my flesh colored crimson, then purple from the fires inside me. I longed for death and the relief it would bring, but it did not come. The pain intensified until I felt my head would explode. All I could do was scream endlessly, begging for release.
That’s when the spiders came, my other nightmare nemesis.
Giants the size of dinner plates, their soft, furry legs sent my skin on fire where they touched my bare arms and face. Black fangs glistened as they struck repeatedly. Different poisons shot through me, each with its own set of agonies and intolerable anguish. I writhed and clawed to get them off me, but the snakes were there, ready with their strikes.
I screamed and sobbed and pleaded for help, but the horrors I unleashed would not be appeased. Part of me wondered why I hadn’t died already.
Something black slithered from the bottomless pit of my mind, and two blazing, orange eyes focused on me. A cavernous mouth filled with small, needle teeth, opened and fire spewed forth. The flame transcended all previous pain, not believing such agony was possible. I contorted in total shock and felt my spine breaking. My skin bubbled, turned black, and fell off me in large flakes. My polyester T-shirt melted and took flesh off me as it burned. I danced in total anguish, screamed for help, wishing it to end. Why did my horrors torment me like this?
I saw the old man rush toward me, a broad sword in hand. He brought it down and exquisite sharp pain lanced through my wrist. The terrors retreated. I gasped when I saw my severed hand on the dusty ground still clutching the book. I moaned, fell to my knees, cradled my wounded arm against me, and sobbed uncontrollably. My skin was normal and my T-shirt unmarked. It was all in my mind, but my severed hand was all too real.
Part of me stared at the raw wrist and I pondered at lack of blood. The wound seemed cauterized and without pain. The horrors of my mind faded into wherever they came from, but I knew they were still there lurking, malicious, ready to spring forth should I be foolish to evoke them again.
Around me, total silence. Tourists, vendors, children, men and women, clustered in the narrow alley, eyes wide with fear and horror as they stared at me. A little girl clung to her mother’s jeans and sobbed. The woman picked her up and pushed through the crowd. Gradually, the others dispersed, not wishing to be involved, throwing me puzzled glances as they walked away.
The old man helped me to his stool and offered me some yellow drink that burned on its way down, but cleared my head. In shock, I began to tremble. He forced me to drink more of that vile liquid. Satisfied, he shifted his gaze to the book and the severed hand that held it. Slowly, his fathomless black eyes peered into my soul. It felt as though everything I was lay open to him.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” he rasped in a thin, reedy voice, removed from the confident baritone he used to greet me.
I did not say anything as I slowly stood on wobbly legs. I wiped my eyes and sniffed, then shuddered at the terrors now only a horrible memory. Without saying anything, I looked at the old man and punched out his lights. He fell, arms flailing, and lay buried beneath his smelly books, then I stared at the fallen sword. After an endless moment, decision made, I picked it up, stood back, and thrust the point through the book. Little blue flames writhed around the cut, then faded, taking the menace and the magic with them. I let the sword fall from my nerveless fingers, then slowly bent, picked up the book, and shoved it into my little backpack, my desire to search for more manuscripts totally slaked.
The hotel arranged for a doctor. He clucked and hummed, and bound the stump with a clean dressing. Curious how I came to lose my hand, I could not tell him anything. What could I say that would sound believable? To tell him the truth would probably mean an extended vacation in a nice, padded cell. The other thing I insisted on, no police. I had enough horrors for the day.
Airport security gave me a little trouble when I tried to leave. My face did not match the picture in my passport. No wonder. Somewhere in that alley, I aged thirty years. Inside, I aged a thousand. Eventually, supported by other documents I carried, they let me go. I went through a similar process when I landed at Melbourne Airport, but I was home.
In my Southbank apartment, the evening enchanting from lit skyscrapers, I sat relaxed in my black leather recliner, a tumbler of bourbon at my side. Three months since that horrid episode, my demons sometimes ventured forth tentatively, but did not fully show themselves. I had gotten used to them with the help of some counseling.
Color had returned to my face and I lost that gaunt, haunted look. I hardly saw my parents or friends, tired of their forced sympathy and my lame explanations. Soon, I hoped, I would be my old normal self. Frankly, I had gotten weary walking around like a damned geriatric.
In another month when the stump healed completely, they would fit me with some bionic prosthesis. I saw it in action and was impressed. The thing would not give me full dexterity, but better than a pirate hook. My students and faculty were understandably curious to see me without a hand. I told them my usual line—an accident, and left it at that.
My gaze shifted to the library shelf and focused on the green book and its cracked binding. I had not touched it since I put it there and never opened it. Why did I bring it at all? After everything that happened, I still wanted to read the thing. Call it scientific curiosity. I took a sip of bourbon, stood, and padded to the bookshelf. Did I believe? I only had to look at my severed hand for my answer.
The leather felt dry and warm as I carried the book to my recliner. The sword cut had disappeared and I had no idea how that happened. Another sip and I opened the hard cover. My fingers slowly slid across the faded yellow page. Intense cold immediately surged up my arm and I gasped in total horror. Unlocked, my demons came for me in a rush. This time, I had no one to cut off my hand. All I could do was scream endlessly as the snakes and spiders struck me. Perhaps a neighbor would hear my screams and rush in to help me, only to be damned himself when he touched the open book.
In Cairo, anything and everything is obtainable, provided one is prepared to pay the price.
