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- Herausgeber: WS
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: The Charles Stratton Mystery
- Sprache: Englisch
Jacques Gerard, the all-around man at the Château du Mont, a boys' school in France, made a terrible mistake. He agreed to accompany 12-year-old Charles Stratton on a trip to Egypt. How could he guess that his charge was on assignment for "Ghost Story Magazine?” Or that after boarding the night train to Luxor the boy would just disappear. What follows is a hair-raising tale of riding through the Western Desert on camelback, oases, mirages, poisonous reptiles, and the discovery of the Temple of Sobek with its terrifying crocodile pond. But this is just the beginning of this grand adventure which deftly weaves Egypt (1980’s) with the stories of the Pharoah Akhenaten (1250 BCE) carved in hieroglyphics, on stone walls, deep in the dark maze-like Tomb of a Thousand Names. Torribio blends facts, fiction, and theories, leaving the readers to discover which is which.
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Seitenzahl: 1016
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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The Ghost of Tomb 11, Tel el Amarna, Egypt ebook
Copyright © 2024 Penelope Torribio
Cover photo and design by Penelope Torribio
1World Publishing
ISBN 979-8-9888750-4-8ebook
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written
permission from the author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Dedication to Dr. Abd'el Hakim Awyan
Hello, I am Penelope Torribio, author of The Ghost of Tomb 11, Tel el Armana Egypt. I am dedicating this book to Dr. Awyan, an Egyptian Wisdom Keeper who grew up on the Giza Plateau. Dr. Awyan is founder of the School of Khemitology. The School of Khemitology 's mission is to bring together researchers from many different disciplines to discover real truths about ancient Egypt's sacred buildings and their possible connection to sacred sites all over the world.
I first learned about Dr. Awyan on my first tour of Egypt in 2007. Regretfully, Hakim passed on a year later, in 2008, before I had an opportunity to meet him in person. However, because of the many videos of Hakim telling his stories and sharing his knowledge, I grew to feel like I actually knew him. Nearly twenty years later—when I started writing my second novel in the Charles Dayton Stratton mystery series located in Egypt—Dr. Awyan just jumped into the novel, contributing his own stories and some of his theories and knowledge.
Thank you, Patricia Awyan Leymanbof Horus Rising Productions, for allowing me to use your photo of Dr. Awyan and for assuring me that Hakim would have been "tickled pink" to be portrayed as a character in The Ghost of Tomb 11, Tel el Amarna, Egypt. A surprise ending to this story is that my husband and I joined Patricia on a wonderful tour of Egypt in January and February of 2024. See khemitology.com if you think Egypt might be in your future.
Acknowledgement
A special thank you to my talented granddaughter, Ava Azarmi, whose illustration for the chapter heading of Tomb 11 has brought a unique and captivating visual element to the book. She completed her illustration just before graduating from high school. Now, at the publication of the Ghost of Tomb 11, Tel Amarna, Egypt, she is a student at Cal Arts majoring in animation.
Thank you also to my daughter, Sarah Torribio, a professional editor, talentedjournalist, songwriter, and screenwriter. Sarah's meticulous editing has not only polished my first novel in the Charles Stratton series, The Ghost of the Jangling Keys, but also my secondand longer novel, The Ghost of Tomb 11, Tel el Amarna, Egypt. I look forward to her continued editing on my third book, which I am just forming in my mind, with the possible title of Ghost of the Jaguar People, Palenque, Mexico.
I am deeply grateful to Linda Cook and Ann Broadbent for their invaluable feedback on Tomb 11 from the viewpoint of readers unfamiliar with ancient Egypt, and for Ann's encouraging email:
"Hello Penelope! I just finished your wonderful book...weeping the last 15 pages. A mixture of love for the sheer beaty of the story, the loving and dear characters, the depth of your incite and fascination for all things Egyptian, and a touch of bittersweet as I close the last page! There must be at least two or three more books to follow!!!Thank you for sharing this incredible journey.”
When I began writing The Ghost of Tomb 11, I was in a writer’s group associated with a local bookstore, The Book Bungalow, in St. George, Utah. I want to acknowledge my friends and fellow writers, Carolyn McDonald, Diane Richardson, and Valerie Paitoon. Thank you for supporting me as I began the journey of writing The Ghost of Tomb 11, Tel el Amarna, Egypt.
I must acknowledge the authors of hundreds of books and articles I have read about Egypt over the last twenty years. I would like to give special recognition to E.A. Wallis Budge's books, where I learned a little about writing hieroglyphics and the early Egyptologist, and Robert Feather’s book The Cooper Scroll, where he posed the idea that the treasures listed in the copper scrolls likely came from Akhenaten’s great treasure.
And finally, a special thanks to Phillip Glasses, a noted American composer, for his opera, Akhenaten, based on the translation of Akhenaten’s writing. This beautiful opera helped build an emotional bond between Pharaoh Akhenaten and me.
Contents
Wind
Charles Dayton Stratton III heard a strange rattling at the casement window of his third-story room at the Château du Mont, a boys’ school in France. Two windows attached in the middle by a brass latch moved in and out, in and out like they were breathing. Old Limbs’ branches were waving wildly outside as if the tree were trying to warn Charles about something like maybe he shouldn’t leave for Egypt tomorrow.
What! Why did he think that? Charles had dreamed of seeing the pyramids since he was a little boy. And now, just because there was this strange wind and things weren’t going the way he’d planned, he was thinking he shouldn’t go to Egypt. The brass latch rattled louder. Old Limbs’ branches reached out, tapping on the windowpanes so hard Charles thought the glass might shatter. Maybe Limbs just wanted to say goodbye. Charles flipped the latch. A strong wind pushed into the room with a whoosh, bringing with it a flurry of leaves and dust. His roommate David’s neatly-stacked homework flew up to the ceiling. The pages circled around and around like little paper airplanes.
Charles yelled goodbye to his tree, his very first friend at the Château du Mont, and latched the window. Leaves, dust, and homework settled to the floor. Scowling, Charles picked up the debris.
The dark-haired boy wondered for the hundredth time why David’s mom and dad wouldn’t let his roommate go to Egypt with him. They said their son was too young to visit such an exotic place without his parents. But Charles’ parents didn’t think he was too young to travel to Egypt. They had arranged for Jacques, the assistant at the Château du Mont, to accompany the boys. David’s parents knew Jacques. They had heard Madame Constance say she couldn’t run the school without him. Certainly, he could handle two boys who were almost twelve years old.
But David’s parents wouldn’t change their minds, not even when Charles’ mother had called them from Nigeria to explain the wonderful and educational trip they’d planned for the two boys. A strange moaning sound now joined the rattling of the brass latch. Even the wind seemed to be in sympathy with the boy.
Charles cried out to no one, “It’s not right going to Egypt without David!”
The wind moaned and whistled louder, and the brass latch shook.
It was David who’d sent Charles’ story about the two ghost children on the fourth floor of the Château du Mont to Ghost Stories Magazine. If he hadn’t, Charles wouldn’t have sold his first story, “The Ghost of the Jangling Keys.” He wouldn’t have earned his first money from writing, five hundred dollars. The publisher of Ghost Stories Magazine had invited Charles to submit more articles. He’d even enclosed a list of One Thousand Famous Hauntings.
While Charles was looking at his check, David was reviewing the list. It was his roommate who recognized that Charles’ next story should be about The Ghost of Tomb 11, Tel el Armana, Egypt, because Charles loved Egypt so much.
David was right. Ever since Charles could remember, he’d loved everything Egyptian, especially learning about the discovery of ancient tombs by Egyptologists like Howard Carter, Margaret Benson, and A.E. Budge. Charles had even taught himself to read and write hieroglyphics from Budge’s books, First Steps in Egyptian Hieroglyphics and The Hieroglyphics Dictionary, Volumes 1 and 2.
Both boys agreed that Charles’ next story should be about the Ghost of Tomb 11. There was just one problem. How were they going to get to Egypt? Then, a miracle happened. At least, it seemed like a miracle. Charles received a letter from his mother.
Dear Chucky,
Next month, you will turn twelve years old. I cannot believe you are growing up so fast. Your father and I want so much to be with you on your birthday, but something urgent has come up. We must go to Central America.
We will be out of touch for nearly a month. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but it is a little bit dangerous, or we would take you with us. Don’t worry, we will have security.
I know this can’t make up for our missing your birthday, but you can have any gift you want, just write back soon.
Love, Mother
At first, Charles was mad. He had so many questions. Why did his parents have to go to Central America? Why couldn’t they take him with them? What kind of danger? What security? And what did he really know about his parents, who’d sent him away to school a year and a half ago and had each visited only once and never together?
Then Charles remembered something. He and David needed to get to Egypt. Charles immediately wrote his parents telling them the only thing he wanted for his birthday was a trip to Egypt with his roommate David. He suggested that Jacques, Madame Constance’s all-around man at the Château du Mont, would be a great chaperone.
Charles’ father wrote back, saying an Egyptian tour sounded very educational and that he’d make all the arrangements for the trip. It was perfect—except David’s parents said he was too young to travel to Egypt.
Charles looked towards the window at Old Limbs, who seemed to have calmed down a bit. His branches were now just gently waving back and forth, back and forth. It was too late to change his mind. The plane would leave tomorrow morning. Charles pulled his leather suitcase from the closet and tossed it onto the bed. He hadn’t used it since his arrival at the Château du Mont, which felt like a thousand years ago.
He unfastened the gold clasp on his light brown suitcase. As it lay gaping open on his bed, he tossed in clothes, toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a comb. He added an English-to-Arabic dictionary, a traveler’s guide to Egypt, and a copy of The Egyptian Book of the Dead his father had given him. Finally, Charles placed a book his mother had sent him into the netting on the top side of the suitcase.
The book was a collection of poems by Percy Bysshe Shelley, born in 1792. It was a small book, maybe six or seven inches high, but the maroon leather cover and the softly glowing gilded pages made it look important. Charles’ mom had placed a note inside the book, right where it opened to a poem called “Ozymandias.”
The poem was about a man who discovered a giant broken statue in the Egyptian sand. His mother said she thought of Charles when she read this poem, not just because he loved Egypt but because she believed one day he’d grow up to be a great writer like Percy Shelley.
Having read the introduction and a couple of long narrative poems, Charles wrote an essay about Shelley for his English class. He wrote in his paper that he particularly liked Shelley’s explanation of poetry: ‘Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.’
Charles didn’t know if he could ever learn to write like Shelley, but he thought he understood what the writer meant. A poet should write so people see things differently, even commonplace objects.
Outside the casement window, Limbs stood stock-still, like a statue. The wind had stopped. Charles went to the closet, stood on his tiptoes, and reached for a package in the far corner of the top shelf. It was wrapped in tan mailing paper and tied with a thick white cotton cord. Stamped on top of the package was an image of a purple crown and the words Royal Teinturier. What did that mean? Charles reached for his French-English dictionary and looked up the phrase. Teinturier meant dry cleaners; he should have guessed that.
His friend Farak gave him this package last Christmas, saying that since Charles loved Egypt so much, he might like to have a real Bedouin outfit. The Egyptian boy told him in a gloomy voice that he’d worn these clothes only once, the day his father brought him to the Château du Mont.
When he arrived at the school in his brand-new Bedouin clothes, Madame Constance told Farak that all of the boys were required to wear uniforms. Farak despised the Château uniform with its short navy-blue trousers, matching navy-blue jacket, white shirt, and short blue-and-white striped tie. The uniform was topped off with a ridiculous blue cap, with a small bill and the school’s initials, CDM, embroidered in gold thread.
Farak said it was the saddest moment of his entire life. He never wore his Bedouin clothes again. He even remembered the date of the last time he wore them, September 30, 1975, nearly ten years ago. He’d kept the clothes for some reason, even though he’d outgrown them. Farak said he thought it might be a kind of fate, so he could one day pass them on to Charles.
Regarding the uniforms, Charles knew exactly how Farak felt. When he’d arrived at the Château du Mont, Madame Constance told him he had to give up his white tennis shoes, corduroy pants, and colorful polo shirts for that exact same silly-looking uniform.
When Farak gave Charles this package, he’d meant to try the Bedouin clothes on, but the Christmas holiday was filled with events. Then David and all the other boys returned from vacation, and the new classes began. Charles forgot about the Bedouin clothes, but he was thinking about them now.
He tried to break the cotton cord that tightly bound the package, but it was too strong. Pulling open the top drawer of his dresser, Charles found his red multi-purpose Swiss Army knife. He cut the cord with the knife’s tiny scissors, then tossed the knife with a little white cross on its handle into his suitcase, thinking you never knew what you might need when traveling through Egypt.
Charles looked at the empty bed across the room. He couldn’t even say goodbye to his roommate. David was captain of the Château du Mont’s soccer team, and thoroughly devoted to le football, as the French call the sport. He and his team were at a three-day tournament in the town of Giverny, outside of Paris. Charles decided to write his roommate a farewell note.
Dear David,
Jacques and I leave tomorrow. I’ll keep a journal so that, in a small way, you’ll be with me as we travel through Egypt. And when I meet the Ghost of Tomb 11 in Tel el Armana, I’ll tell him about my friend David Montgomery, the bravest boy I know. If I ever need courage, I’ll think of you. When we are grown, we will go to Egypt together.
Sincerely, Charles Dayton Stratton III
A Bag of Gold
Sitting on his bed, Charles pulled back the brown paper wrapping from the package Farak had given him last Christmas. At the top of the pile of clothing was a beige-colored gallabiyah. He pulled the flowing robe over his head. Its hem fell almost down to the floor, exposing just the toes of his white tennis shoes. Next on the pile was a sleeveless overcoat called a tob. Charles slipped the blue-and-white striped cotton tob over his gallabiyah. He walked to his closet, where a mirror was attached to the back of the door. When he saw his reflection, he gasped. The boy in the mirror looked like a real Bedouin.
He gave a little twirl, feeling exactly like Peter O’Toole in “Lawrence of Arabia.” That was the movie of the week Jacques had shown the boys in the ballroom of the Château du Mont several months ago. Charles loved that movie. It was about a real person, Thomas Edward Lawrence. Lawrence was an archeologist and British military officer stationed in Arabia and the Sinai Peninsula during WWI. He grew to love the desert and the Bedouin people. He even began dressing like a Bedouin.
Thomas Edward Lawrence was a noted military strategist and leader, but it was his writing—his description of the beauty of the desert and the heart of the Bedouin people—that made him famous all over the world. Jacques introduced the movie, saying “Lawrence of Arabia” was considered by many to be the greatest motion picture ever produced. After seeing the movie, Charles agreed. When watching the film,he actually felt like he was riding a camel deep in the desert with Peter O’Toole beside him.
Now, standing before the mirror, Charles thought he looked almost identical to Lawrence, except for one thing. He was missing a kufiyah or head cloth. Walking back to the package on the bed, he found a long cloth matching the color of his gallabiyah. Throwing on the kufiyah, Charles ran back to the mirror.
He looked ridiculous. One side of the cloth was much longer than the other. But when he pulled on that side to make it even, the other side became too short. After quite a few attempts, the kufiyah looked pretty straight. Charles remembered he’d left the aghal on the bed. An aghal ties the headscarf onto the top of the head. Keeping his hand on top of the kufiyah, he walked back to the bed. Without looking down, Charles felt for the aghal. Where was it? He knew he’d seen it when he picked up the headcloth. Maybe it fell under the bed. Charles tried to locate it with the toes of his shoes, but no luck. In fact, the effort caused him to trip on the hem of his gallabiyah. To keep himself from falling, he dropped his hand from the kufiyah. The headcloth slipped forward, completely covering his face.
“What is this, a Charlie Chaplin movie?” Charles shouted to no one.
He finally found the aghal. It was under his pillow. He had to start all over. Picking up the aghal, he noticed that it was no ordinary aghal, because Farak was no ordinary Egyptian; he was a Bedouin prince. The inch-wide leather was covered with lapis lazuli, red coral, and gold beads. Charles thought it was beautiful.
Returning to the mirror he arranged the kufiyah, fastening the aghal around the top of his head. He studied his reflection and decided that, except for his dark blue eyes, he could truly pass for an Egyptian boy, a Bedouin boy. He thought, you never know when you’re going to have to not look like a tourist—when you might need to blend into your surroundings. Then, whispering aloud, Charles said, “This is especially true when looking for ghosts.”
All that remained in the package were a large beige shoulder bag and cloth sandals with leather soles. In the shoulder bag, Charles placed a notebook, black, brown, and blue fountain pens, some brown ink, and the large Egyptian map his butler had sent to him from his room back in Newport, Rhode Island.
Charles jumped in surprise when he heard a knock at the door. Who could it be, and how could he explain why he was dressed like an Egyptian? While he was thinking this, there was a second knock, a little louder this time. If it were Madame Constance and she thought he wasn’t in his room, she might do what she frequently did, barge right in to make sure Charles and David were “keeping their quarters tidy.”
He cracked open the old wooden door. Ciel de Nuit, Madame Constance’s black cat, meowed loudly, pushing his way through the narrow opening. Behind the cat was Francis Bacon Bernstein, the eight-year-old mathematical genius who’d taken to following Charles around the school. No one talked to Francis. Charles guessed it was partially because of his bright red hair and freckles and partially because the students found it disconcerting to know a boy so young who understood more about math than the math teachers—and wasn’t afraid to point this out.
Charles opened the door to allow the small boy in, but Fran didn’t move. He just stood there with eyes open and mouth gaping.
“Come on in, Fran, and hurry,” Charles said.
“Wow! You look great, just like an Egyptian sheikh,” the boy said, his words tumbling over one another. “Where did you get those clothes? Is that what you’re going to wear when you get to Egypt? I came to say goodbye. I wish I could go to Egypt with you and wear Egyptian clothes just like you.”
“I’m not going to wear Egyptian clothes in Egypt unless I have to—unless there’s a need for me to blend in, you know, to not look like a tourist.”
Fran nodded, indicating he understood.
“Sorry you can’t come to Egypt with Jacques and me, Fran,” Charles said. “Madame Constance thinks you’re too young to travel without your parents. David’s parents won’t even let him go to Egypt with us, and he’s nearly twelve years old.”
Fran held out a white sack. “This is film, black-and-white. My mom sent it to you. She thinks you’re a great photographer, and so do I.”
“Thanks, I was just going to pack my Leica,” Charles said, pulling a silver metal camera from the top drawer of his dresser. “This was my father’s camera when he was a boy.”
“Wow!” was all eight-year-old Fran could say.
“I promise I’ll take interesting photos and tell you all about Egypt, especially anything having to do with mathematics. But for now, I have to get out of these clothes and finish packing.”
Fran picked up Ciel de Nuit, whose name meant night sky, and walked out the door. Before Charles could take off his Egyptian clothes, there was another knock on the door.
“What is this, Grand Central Station?” he mumbled to himself.
Opening the door a crack, he saw the Egyptian teen Farak. He opened the door wider. Farak stared at Charles for a few seconds, then said quietly, “You look just like a Bedouin boy, Charles. More than I imagined you would. I came to bring you this notebook with the names and addresses of some of my family members, my tribe. If you are in any trouble, you can contact any of them. Just show them the pyramid replica I gave you during the winter break and they will do anything for you, even lay down their lives.”
Charles wondered if Farak was kidding about laying down their lives, but he didn’t look like he was joking. Actually, he looked both serious and sad.
“Can’t you go home to Luxor before you go off to Brown University?” Charles asked the Egyptian boy.
“No, my parents are sending me with my brothers to tour the United States. They think it will help me to know more about your country. I wish, with all my heart, I could go with you instead, Charles,” Farak said, handing him a small black notebook. The Bedouin prince bowed slightly and walked out, shutting the door.
A few moments later, there was another knock.
“What?!” Charles whispered. This time he was certain the person at the door would be Madame Constance, but it wasn’t. It was Farak again.
He said, “I was so startled when I saw you looking like a Bedouin, I forgot to give you this.”
He handed him a small blue velvet bag. Charles thanked him, and Farak bowed again and walked out the door.
Charles was very curious about what was in the blue bag, but he was determined not to do one more thing until he was out of the Bedouin clothes. Removing each piece, he carefully folded it and placed it into the shoulder bag. Then, sitting next to his leather suitcase, he reached for the pouch and poured the contents into his left hand. There, shining like pirates’ doubloons, were eight gold coins, each larger than a quarter.
Examining the coins, Charles discovered they bore the image of a young man wearing a fez. He thought it was probably Farouk, who became an Egyptian king at the age of sixteen during the 1920s. Charles had written a report about King Farouk in his International History class. The ruler’s full name was “His Majesty Farouk I, by the Grace of God, King of Egypt and the Sudan.” Charles had read that some Egyptians loved this boy king, while others, including world leaders, believed he was a self-centered boy who greatly abused his power. In Charles’ report, he had wondered what kind of king he might be at sixteen years old.
Charles’ attention went back to the coins. He guessed they must be very valuable. His first thought was he should give them back to Farak. Then he remembered something Farak told him. In the Bedouin culture, one should never return a gift freely given. To do so was some kind of terrible insult. Maybe he could take the bag of gold to Egypt, and then, if he didn’t need to spend the coins, he could return the gold to Farak. Examining the shoulder bag, Charles discovered a small pocket sewn inside. He carefully placed the blue velvet pouch into this secret hiding place.
Charles needed to pack one more thing: the replica pyramid. He hadn’t planned on taking it with him for fear it might be lost or stolen. But at Farak’s suggestion that he might need it, should anything happen, he went to his top drawer and pulled out a white stone pyramid wrapped in red cloth. He tucked the pyramid with its gold capstone into the shoulder bag. At that moment, he heard another knock.
“Who’s there?” he asked. Ciel de Nuit meowed, calling for attention. He opened the door. The black cat slipped into the room, his tail held high. Behind the cat stood Madame Constance.
“Good evening, Madame Constance,” Charles said, relieved he was no longer wearing the Bedouin attire.
“I just came to check on you, Charles. Jacques says that you will be leaving by taxi at 3 a.m. Do you have your passport?” Madame Constance asked with tight lips. She did not believe this trip to be a good idea. She added, “Remember to stay with Monsieur Gerard. Do not wander off.”
“I will, I mean, I won’t,” Charles assured Madame Constance.
Shaking her head in concern, the headmistress picked up Ciel de Nuit and walked out the door.
The Gift of a Pyramid
Charles reached for the pyramid inside the Bedouin-style shoulder bag Farak had given him, removing its red cloth cover.
What did he know about it? According to Farak, it was said to be an exact replica of the Great Pyramid of Giza, except it was only about five or six inches tall. On the top of this little pyramid was a capstone covered in gold. If this replica were accurate, it meant the Great Pyramid also once had a golden capstone, an idea mocked by many of the so-called experts in Egyptology. But this pyramid had something on it that Charles had never heard anyone mention or write about. He turned the little pyramid over and over in his hands. If it were an exact replica, the Great Pyramid must have once had some kind of writing on all of its sides, even the base.
Farak told him the relic had been in his family for hundreds of years. But no one in his tribe knew how to read the symbols on its sides. It appeared to be a language, but what language no one in his tribe knew. It was not hieroglyphics, that was for sure, as both Farak and Charles were well-versed in this ancient Egyptian form of writing.
When Farak gave Charles the pyramid replica last Christmas, he’d told him the story of how he acquired it. Afterward, Charles went straight back to his room to capture in writing a story that sounded straight out of The Arabian Nights. When Charles was young, his mother used to read to him from her collection of The Arabian Nights: fairy tales, poems, fables, parables, and anecdotes from the East and Middle Eastern cultures. Of course, this was before she and Charles’ father tired of him and shipped him out to the Château du Mont.
Since he was all packed, it seemed a perfect time to read his journal containing Farak’s story. Charles reached up to the top shelf of his closet and pulled out a leather-bound notebook. Thumbing through its pages, he found the title, “The Bedouins of Thebes and the Pyramid Relic.”
He’d written the story in brown ink with the gold fountain pen his father had given him. Charles thought the brown ink made it look more ancient and exotic. Sitting down next to his open suitcase, he read Farak’s story aloud.
I was seven years old. My mother called me out of my room and told me my grandfather wished to speak to me in the Tarabin Room. I knew I was in big trouble. My grandfather is the Sultan of the Tarabin Tribe. The Tarabin Room is a vast building adjacent to Grandfather’s quarters. It is the pride of our tribe and is where all the great business of the Bedouin Nation of Thebes is conducted. Children are never allowed in the Tarabin Room; that is why I knew I was in big trouble.
The reason I was summoned to the Tarabin Room was my refusal to follow the commandments of my parents. To live, to survive, in the harsh desert, the Bedouins have developed strict rules everyone must follow. The people must abide by the decrees of their leaders, and children must follow the dictates of their parents. To fail to do so threatens the survival of everyone in the tribe. Even though Egypt’s Bedouins are no longer allowed to live in the desert, the ancient rules still apply.
Charles had wanted to know more about the Bedouin code of conduct, but Farak had waved him away.
“Do not ask me, Charles, what happens if a commandment is broken. Every man, woman, and child has heard terrible stories of the consequences. Everyone agrees that if we are to stay together as a tribe, these commandments must be obeyed.”
Charles continued reading the Egyptian teen’s story.
I was supposed to accept, without complaint, all of my parents’ decisions. However, I was only seven years old, and my father had just told me I was being sent to a boarding school in France. I could not believe it. I could not fathom that my family would abandon me.
I begged my mother to try and change my father’s mind, but she would not stand between my father and me. I did not want to leave my parents, my people. I did not want to leave my Egypt, my horse, my camel. So, I said I would not go. I refused to leave my room, refused to eat, and if my parents came in, I would shout at them to get out. I was certain my parents had told my grandfather of my behavior.
Charles couldn’t help but remember when his parents had informed him that he was going to the Château du Mont. He was nearly ten years old, and he’d acted the same way Farak had, maybe worse. He continued reading:
My mother escorted me to the Tarabin Room and stood there while I opened the ornately carved wooden door. It led into the cavernous space my cousins and I called the Room of Swords.We called it that because when there was a dispute between tribal members, my grandfather, wearing the Sword of the Sands, would call all those involved in the dispute to the Tarabin Room. He would lock the door, and no one could come out until a resolution was achieved. Sometimes this took several days. As kids, we would put our ears to the door and listen to the thunderous battles from within. Finally, an agreement would be made, and the door unlocked.
I was certain Grandfather was going to lock me inside this room until I agreed to go to the Château du Mont. It is said that once my grandfather takes a position, he never loses.I stepped through the doorway. It took my breath away. This was the most beautiful room I had ever seen. The floor was made of marble: blue, golden-yellow, and white tiles weaved together, forming amazing geometric patterns. As I stared down at the floor, I felt like I was entering another world.
My mother must have shut the door behind me. I stood like a statue, just inside the doorway. I could not move. I could not go forward, and I could not go backward. I lifted my gaze from the floor to the walls. They were covered by intricately designed tapestries in rich reds, blues, browns, greens, and yellows. The ceiling was twenty feet above my head. It is a replica of a night sky, painted indigo blue and sprinkled with white stars, linked together by gold lines. The stars and lines form animals and gods, many looking like they are battling each other.
Finally, I looked ahead to where my grandfather was sitting on a giant gold throne, about sixty feet ahead of me. He was wearing the regalia of a Bedouin king. Beside him was the Sword of the Sands. It’s a daunting weapon, curved like a crescent moon well over three feet tall.
The Sword of the Sands belongs to the head of the Bedouin nation, the ruler, my grandfather. However, the man sitting before me didn’t look like my kindly grandfather. He didn’t look like the gentle-looking man who often came into my bedroom at night to tell me stories of when we were the Tarabin Tribe of the Western Desert.
‘Come, come,’ my grandfather said, waving me in. He was not smiling, and it took me some moments before I could convince my feet to move forward. As I did, I saw Grandfather was wearing an amulet as big as a dinner plate on his chest. It was made of gold with various colored gems surrounding a figure of the sun god Ra, portrayed in the form of a falcon with a sun disk on his head. I had never seen Grandfather wearing this amulet before. I thought, I am in huge trouble.
In a deep voice, Grandfather said, ‘So, you don’t want to go away to France, to the school the Château du Mont? Is this true, Farak?’
‘Yes, Grandfather, it is true. I do not want to go away from my family and my Egypt.’
My grandfather reached down and pulled me up onto his lap. I was small then, and he was very large. I sat on his lap, staring at the amulet. He spoke more gently then.
‘You were chosen to go to school to become a financier. Do you know what a financier does?’
I said I thought it had something to do with money.
‘You have shown, even at your young age, that you are brilliant at mathematics and analysis,’ Grandfather said. ‘I am going to talk to you like a grownup, Farak, and I want you to listen very carefully. I have told you many times about our history. When I was young, we lived as nomads in our desert. We slept in the sand, moving like a river from oasis to oasis, a separate nation, free. It was our belief that no one and everyone owned the land upon which we lived and traveled.
Then, a decree was passed, a terrible decree. It claimed that the rulers of Egypt owned all the desert land. The decree determined that we could no longer live as free Bedouins of the Western Desert. Many of our young men and women fought this edict, and many lost their lives. The Egyptian government was too powerful; they had too many soldiers and allies from Europe. We moved our people to the city of Luxor, bringing with us our great skill of raising and training camels and Arabian horses.
Unlike many nomadic tribes that were absorbed into the society where they were forced to move, our people have been able to sustain themselves and even thrive with God’s gifts to us, camels and Arabian horses. However, the world is changing again. We can’t keep our money under our mattresses. We must learn how to manage our wealth if we are to help our people stay together to preserve our own culture, our own music, and our own laws.
Unfortunately, we are not prepared. We are not educated in modern economic ways. You have been chosen to help us, to help your people, by going to school and learning the modern ways of finance. Know this, Grandson. As much as you wish to stay here in Egypt, we wish this even more. However, in life, we sometimes have to make hard choices. Great leaders, great men and women, and, in your case, a great child, must put what is best for their people over personal desires. Do you understand this, Farak?’
I nodded. Grandfather smiled, and I was no longer fearful of him.
‘Good. Now I have some gifts and a story for you. The first gift is a bag of gold coins. They are very valuable. They symbolize our future, your future. You can’t spend this gold in a store, but if you should need currency for a very great cause, you can exchange this gold for money in any country. Be very careful and don’t tell others about this gold, for it is said to be a corrupter of souls. It is our secret. Do you understand this?’
I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone, not even my father and mother. Grandfather looked pleased.
‘Next, I will show you something few people have ever seen. It is called Aten or the Pyramid of Aten. As you know, Aten is the power behind the sun, the power behind all that is.’
Grandfather held out a small pyramid, five or six inches high. On top of the pyramid was a gold capstone. He said this pyramid was a relic that had been passed down from leader to leader of the Tarabin Tribe, for hundreds of years. A story and instructions were passed down with it. The story is that the relic pyramid is an exact replica of the Great Pyramid of Giza.
Examining the relic, I asked if that meant the Great Pyramid once had a capstone made of gold. Grandfather laughed and said, ‘Yes, and it is said that when this gold capstone was upon the Great Pyramid, the morning sun would cause it to send out brilliant rays of light in all directions. The sunrise called men in fields and shops, and women in houses and gardens, to come together to celebrate a miracle: humankind’s ability to create great beauty.’
‘What do these symbols say?’ I asked, turning the pyramid around and around in my hands.
‘As of yet, no one has identified the language, so we do not know what it says. However, instructions to help discover the pyramid’s secret are passed down from leader to leader. Every ten years, several replicas are allowed to be produced. These are to be given to special people who will take on the search for the relic pyramid’s messages. I believe you are one of these people, Farak. Today, I am going to give you two replica pyramids.’
Grandfather gave me some directions. He said one pyramid was for me to keep. The other was to be given to someone I believed would help find the secrets of the relic pyramid. He warned me to be very careful who I gave the second replica to because I would be bound to them forever.
I asked him how one could tell the difference between a replica and the real relic. Grandfather said that was a good question. He showed me all four sides of the pyramid, then turned it upside down, revealing its base.
‘Everything is the same on the four faces of the pyramid,’ he said, ‘but on the bottom, these particular symbols are only found on the original pyramid.’
I promised Grandfather I would discover what the writing said. He put me down off his great lap. Our talk was over.
I determined to discover the key to interpreting the Pyramid of Aten. However, the next thing I knew, I was flying to France to become a student at the Château du Mont. I found the school, the change in language, and the change in culture so different and so challenging that the memory of the Pyramid of Aten became fainter and fainter.
When I met you, Charles, that very first time in that little museum in the Egyptian artifact area, it was as if my mission had been dug up from a deep, deep tomb and a golden light shined down upon it. Your love of Egypt, Charles, brought the Aten Pyramid back into my life. And that is why I am giving you one of the replicas my grandfather gave to me.
Charles closed his journal and placed it back in the closet. It seemed to him a miracle that he, who had loved Egypt all his life, would be given such a gift by a real Bedouin prince. Maybe in his travels in Egypt, Charles could discover something that would help unlock the secret of the Pyramid of Aten. He wrapped the replica in its red cloth and placed it in the cotton shoulder bag, then locked the brass clasp of his suitcase. By seven o’clock a.m., Jacques and he would be on a plane headed for Cairo, Egypt.
Charles and Mr. Smith
The plane was sitting on the runway of the Charles de Gaulle International Airport in Paris. Charles was in seat 224C. He stared out the window at an unexpected thunderstorm. Bolts of lightning danced around the plane. He heard someone in front of him say it was the biggest thunderstorm he’d ever seen, and this guy was pretty old. Then, there was this huge crash of thunder. It shook the plane, and the sky opened. It looked like it was pouring the entire Nile River directly on the jet. The only thing Charles could see out the window were some blurry blue runway lights. Suddenly, he had an uncontrollable desire to jump out of his seat and dash out of the plane and into the rain. His old fear of adventure, which Charles thought he’d left behind in Newport, Rhode Island, reared up like a bucking horse.
“Run!” his mind screamed. Charles stood up. Pale and with eyes wide open, he looked to see if he could find Jacques. They’d been sitting together when they got on the plane, but the stewardess had separated them. She’d explained that Jacques was sitting next to an emergency exit, and children were not permitted to sit in these seats. She’d made Charles change places with some guy twelve rows forward. Evidently, he was too young to sit in the emergency row, but not too young to sit by himself as he flew all the way to Cairo, Egypt.
Charles felt cross and tired. He began to think dark thoughts, like nobody in the world really cared about him. He’d just about decided to get off the plane, with a plan to run away and join a circus, when the stewardess started talking about oxygen masks and floating seat cushions. It was too late. His adventure to Egypt was set to begin, ready or not.
The man seated beside Charles asked where he was from.
“Timbuktu,” Charles mumbled.
The man smiled and said, “That is very interesting, young man.”
Charles tried to remember where Timbuktu was, or if it were even a real place, but his mind was blank. The plane tilted up and up and up until the captain came on the loudspeaker and announced that they’d reached thirty-five thousand feet. Charles began to think about his trip to Egypt. He should have waited until David could go with him. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to meet any ghost in Tel el Armana, not without his bold roommate. The ghosts at the Château du Mont weren’t that bad, but you could never tell about ghosts.
The pilot came back on the loudspeaker announcing it was alright to move about the plane if necessary. Charles stood up to look for Jacques. Before he could find his chaperone, his eyes met those of a man sitting in 254C. When Charles looked at the man, all he could think of was the color gray. The man wore a gray suit. He had gray hair, expressionless gray eyes, and a gray complexion. Even the hat he held on his lap was gray. Without a break in expression and without blinking, the man stared straight into Charles’ eyes. It felt like the guy knew or recognized him.
Charles had a creepy feeling about the man in 254C, but nature called. He got up and walked past the Gray Man toward the restroom at the back of the plane. The man got up, pulled his hat low over his eyes, and followed Charles.
“What is your name, boy?” the man asked Charles in a low, gravelly voice.
“My name is John Smith,” Charles answered confidently.
“Are you going to Egypt?” the Gray Man inquired.
Charles wanted to say, “We’re on a nonstop flight bound for Cairo. Of course I’m going to Egypt!” Instead, he asked the man his name.
“Robert Smith,” the man answered with a tight smile. “Where are you from, Mr. Smith?”
“Paris, France,” Charles answered. Looking directly at the man beside him, he returned the question. “Where are you from, Mr. Smith?”
“Chicago. Do you know where that is?”
Before Charles could answer his question, the red light on the bathroom door turned green. The conversation came to an end. Charles entered the miniature bathroom and locked the door. Why was that guy asking him all these questions? Why did the Gray Man sound like he already knew the answers? And why did they have the same last name, even if Charles was made up?
Slipping out the tiny metal door, Charles was relieved to see the Gray Man was no longer waiting there. Returning to his seat, Charles passed Mr. Smith without looking at him. He reached for his backpack, stowed under the seat, then secured his seatbelt.
Pulling out pen and paper, Charles wrote a note to Jacques: ‘The man in 254C is acting very suspiciously. We’d better keep an eye on him. P.S. I call him the Gray Man.’
Jacques came up to ask if Charles was okay. Charles handed him the note, whispering, “Don’t read this until you get back to your seat.” Then, in a loud voice, Charles said, “Thanks, Uncle Bruno. It will be great meeting my parents at the Cairo Airport, won’t it?”
Jacques went back to his seat, confused. Reading the note, he wondered what Charles meant about keeping an eye on the man in 254C. How had the boy met him? Jacques concluded that Charles had a great imagination and was a very suspicious young man. Suddenly, out of the blue, Jacques remembered his meeting with Charles’ mother. It was the ten-year-old’s first Christmas at the Château du Mont. Mrs. Stratton had shown up unexpectedly. She requested that Jacques join her for tea in the writing room.
When he walked into the small room, a dark-haired woman wearing a maroon suit stood up. Crossing the room, she held out both her hands to greet him. It almost felt like she knew him. Up close, he noticed she had striking deep green eyes surrounded by long eyelashes. Strangely, behind those eyes, he thought, lay secrets and sadness. Jacques’ mind turned back to the words she spoke.
“Mr. Gerard, I know my coming is unexpected. Even Charles does not know I am coming. I flew in from Morocco this morning. My husband and I are staying there for a few more days, then we will resume our travels down the coast of Africa in our yacht. Still, I just had to see Charles, even for a few hours. May I ask you to do me a favor?”
“At your service,” Jacques responded. He had no idea why he would say such a ridiculous thing to Charles’ mother.
“I plan to take Charles to Notre Dame de Chartres, the cathedral in the city of Chartres. My mother took me there when I was his age, and I still remember everything: walking the labyrinth following my mother, the rose window, the whole atmosphere like moving inside a giant and most wonderful kaleidoscope. It was so dark, with shards of rich color dancing all around me. I want Charles to see this, too.”
“What is it that you would like me to do?” he asked.
”After Charles’ and my tour of the cathedral, I must leave for Morocco immediately.”
“So fast?”
“It is necessary, Mr. Gerard. We should be done with our tour around four o’clock. I want you to meet us outside the cathedral. I wish for you to come in a taxi, not in a school vehicle. You are to return Charles to the Château du Mont, but first you must drive by the Eiffel Tower, and maybe stop for a croissant and tea. Meanwhile, I will take another taxi to the airport.”
Jacques had wanted to ask why she was making something that could be easy, like him picking up Charles in the school car, so complicated. However, something in her eyes stopped him from asking.
Then she said, “Oh, yes, and Charles is not going to like this arrangement. He will not want me to leave.”
Mrs. Stratton was right; Jacques had to drag Charles into the taxicab. Charles was yelling at the top of his lungs that he was being kidnapped. Charles’ mother must have warned the taxi driver that the boy was a bit difficult, because he turned around and said, “Your mother told me to tell you that you must behave.”
At that Charles began kicking, then opened the door, attempting to jump out of the moving taxi. When Jacques and Charles returned to the Château du Mont, the boy was so angry he didn’t talk to anyone for an entire week. Jacques felt Mrs. Stratton’s visit made no sense, so he decided not to think about it.
Now, what wasn’t making sense was why Jacques was remembering her visit when he was on a 747 heading for Cairo. Since Charles had asked him to keep an eye out for the passenger in seat 254C, Jacques decided he needed to see what the man looked like without raising suspicion. Opening his briefcase, Jacques pulled out the copy of TheEgyptian Book of the Dead Charles’ father had given him. Hewalked casually past Charles’ seat, then turned around so he could get a view of the Gray Man.
“Here is The Egyptian Book of the Dead you asked for,” Jacques said to Charles.
“Thank you, Uncle Bruno,” the boy replied in a loud voice.
Jacques scanned the people behind Charles. He found the man in gray with a gray hat on his lap. Now that he knew what the man looked like, he’d keep an eye out for him when they reached the Cairo Airport. The man looked harmless enough, but for some reason, Jacques, who never had premonitions, felt a sense of foreboding.
The Taxi Driver and the Mena House
Jacques and Charles walked out of the sliding glass door of the Cairo Airport. Immediately, a plain black car pulled up with a homemade cardboard sign taped on its side saying, “Taxi, American Spoken.” A sturdy man in a green Hawaiian shirt with white flowers on it jumped out of the taxi and opened the back door.
“Where are you headed, dudes?” the taxi driver in the Hawaiian shirt asked.
Jacques answered, “The Mena House Hotel. How much?”
With a toothy grin, the man answered, “We will both know that when we get there, won’t we, dude?” Grabbing their suitcases, he tossed them into the trunk of the car.
Charles looked at Jacques. Jacques shrugged his shoulders, then pointed toward the open door of the black cab. Charles climbed in. Jacques went to the other side of the car and slid into the backseat.
“My name is Samy,” the taxi driver said as he pushed a cassette into the tape player. The taxi pulled out of the airport to the squeal of tires and the harmonies of “Surf City.”
“It’s Jan and Dean,” Samy yelled out over the music. “Do you know them?”
Jacques said he wasn’t familiar with them. Charles said nothing. Samy sang loudly along with the tape.
Going to Surf City ’cause it’s two to one,
Going to Surf City, going to have some fun.
Going to Surf City ’cause it’s two to one,
Going to Surf City, going to have some fun.
Two girls to every boy.
The taxi driver in a Hawaiian shirt, the modern airport, and the freeway were not what Charles had expected. It looked like any other airport.
Samy turned down the music and craned his head toward the back seat, asking, “How long are you going to be in Cairo?”
Jacques reached for his itinerary, but Charles answered before he could pull it out of his pocket. “Five days.”
Turning his attention back towards the road, the driver said with enthusiasm, “Five days? Five days! You are in luck. It just so happens that my next job is six days away. I will be your driver. No worries. I know this city like the back of my hand. Just yesterday, I was driving this American around and he said to me, ‘Samy, you know this city like the back of your hand.’ What are you interested in? I know the best place to buy gold and silver jewelry, not cheap stuff like that tourist jewelry, 18 carats.”
Jacques said, “We are not interested in jewelry.”
“How about real antiques, Egyptian relics?” the driver asked. “Many people in Egypt will cheat the tourist. Not me; I am the real thing. My family has been in the antiquities business for almost a hundred years. We know the real stuff from the fake stuff.”
Jacques said, “We are not here to shop.”
“We are here to study and to learn,” Charles explained. “After visiting the Giza Plateau, we plan to spend four days in the Cairo Museum.”
Samy whistled. “Four days in a museum with all that old stuff? Most people can’t take more than four hours. I’ll take you to some exciting places. Do you like dead people, boy? Look at that area on your left. That’s the City of the Dead, with miles and miles of tombs. It was a cemetery, but now it is home to thousands of people, no one knows exactly how many.”
“The government came into a poor section of Cairo with bulldozers and pushed over their homes,” the driver continued. “Men, women, and children had no place to live. The government didn’t think about this, or they didn’t care. Anyway, many families had to move in with relatives—dead relatives,” Samy said with a chuckle. “What’s your name, dude?”
Charles thought about saying his name was John Smith, but Jacques answered first. “This is Charles, and I am Jacques Gerard.”
The driver spoke to Charles as if he were an old friend. “Chuckie, I have a cousin who lives in the City of the Dead. I could get you in there.”
“You seem to have a lot of relatives here, don’t you?” Charles asked. He looked at the hundreds of mostly small buildings, some square and some round. But Charles wasn’t interested in modern Egyptian tombs, or anything modern, for that matter. He was only interested in ancient Egypt.
“You are from America?” Samy asked.
Charles answered, “We are from France, but we prefer to practice our English.”
