Ch 1: Cairo

[Supercape]

August 20th, 1880, Cairo

The heat hung heavy, like a lumbering old man. Cairo was alive with its peddlers and merchants, entertainers and rogues, all in defiance of the sun and dust.

The Winston-Smythe Expedition was underway. It would be a few weeks before the first part of the expedition - a leisurely cruise down the Nile as far as boat would take them. Then, the hard part would begin, a gruelling trek through the thick Jungle of Africa.

The Shepheard Hotel (founded 1841, Mr Samuel Shepheard), located by the banks of the Nile, was both convenient and pleasant, and was the heart of the Expedition. Captain Burton and his Manservant, Mr Singh had rooms (of admittedly differing quality) as did the doctor of the Expedition, a certain Henry Wessex, who seemed to spend most of his time, and indeed money, playing (and losing) cards in the evening.

A Mr Percival Carstairs also had a modest room, complete with Sholes and Gidden Type-writer and the expectation of regular updates to the masses of England about the heroic expedition. Sir Winston-Smythe had, for some reason, been most insistent on Mr Carstairs joining the expedition, feeling it vital that the scientific discoveries would be captured both on word and photograph for the world and prosperity.

For now, there was the question of logistics; buying supplies, finding a good boat (and boat), studying maps, and so on; the detail that was simultaneously mundane, exciting, and vital.

But on this evening, a dinner at the Hotel, where a Mr Fareed Sidhom would be attending; a Gentleman employed by the Cairo library and of considerable academic reputation in the field of Egyptology. Mr Sidhom was a friend of Mr Winston Smythe and was more than happy to lend his local expertise to the embryonic expedition.

[Supercape]

Eveningtime, the Hotel Shepheard, Dining Room

Mr Sidhom was an older gentleman, less so than the venerable Sir Winston Smythe, but still, one would estimate his age as approaching sixty. He was a small man, with a weathered face and black, neat moustache, and void like black eyes, juxtaposed with a most pleasant smile that revealed more than one golden tooth. He wore a well fitting suit and tie, and pulled it all off with a fez on top of head.

Whilst Mr Sidhom abstained from wine, a practitioner of the Muslim faith, he had it seemed no objections to the ingestion of alcohol by others. He had already ordered a fine, fruity, red wine from Southern France. The food had yet to be ordered, but as he waited for the Expedition, he sat drumming his fingers from time to time, and eating the occasional olive.

[Tabs]

He tapped Sidhom upon the shoulder. "Green olives for me, I think. A glass if you please, sir." He grinned and cut his formal tone. "Captain Richard Burton, at your service. You must be Mr. Sidhom, a follower of Mahomet I guess?" he asked after judging the wine bottle to be full still.

[Supercape]

"Fareed Sidhom, at your service"

Mr Sidhom gestured to the chair by his side, an invitation to sit. He did not object to Captain Burton drinking, but neither did he pour the bottle.

"I am indeed a faithful servant of Allah, grace be upon him. My faith springs from of the golden age of the Calliphate, I would say, where learning and wisdom ran more freely" he said, slightly uncomfortable at the thought. "Our age now is a more...complex time"

Mr Sidhom spoke excellent English, with a modest accent. He had a slightly tremulous voice, a peppering of anxiety and disturbed thoughts.

"I am most pleased to be of service. Sir Winston-Smythe has been a friend for many years. Our libraries often lean upon one another" he explained.

"I believe we are still waiting for Doctor Wessex and Mr Castairs. Will your manservant be joining us this evening?"

[Tabs]

"Yes, we await those gentlemen," said Burton. "We have not met each other, so I look forward to making their acquaintance. Singh?" he wondered; "he's around somewhere, probably the kitchens, chivvying the cook for a chapatti!"

[Priest]

Baxter, beard combed and oiled, crosses the dining room floor. He gazes around taking in the oppulence of the room, not quite comfortable in these surroundings. He raises his hand and unconsciously runs a finger around the stiff collar of his shirt, obviously unused to such formality of dress.
Spotting the familiar figure of his benefactor Mr Sidhom engaged in conversation with another well dressed gentleman, he crosses the room taking a few moments to speak to a passing member of the hotel staff, A few low whispered words followed by a quick nod of aknowledgement by the waiter, Baxter continues his journey toward the pair.
"...Oh and make it a large one" he calls back to the swiftly retreating waiter.

As he approaches the pair he extends one heavilly caloused hand, "Baxter, at your service Mr..."

[Supercape]

Mr Sidhom stood up and stepped in, giving a little bow.

"Captain Buxton, this was the gentleman I was telling you about. A Mr Baxter"

There was the slightest of pauses. Mr Baxter was not without a fleck of infamy in Africa. The pause was there to allow Mr Sidhom to gauge the Captain.

"Mr Baxter, I am pleased to introduce Captain RIchard Burton, a most intrepid explorer of both land and philosophy" he said, giving a little smile.

"Please do take a seat, Mr. Baxter. I am most pleased you have come. I was about to explain to our Captain here that there is no finer gentleman in Egypt when it comes to dealing with the savage tribes of Niger and Sudan" he said. He gave a little shudder. There was a brief moment when he glanced at the bottle on the table, before he grew a smile again.

A little bead of sweat rolled down his neck to his collar.

[Priest]

Baxter smiles, a charming inofensive smile, "Ah Captain Burton, I feel as if I already know you. I have long been a most avid reader of your books"

The smile turns from one of simple afability to one of deeper amusement. He gazes at the bottle temptingly placed upon the table, notices its label and turns away The collar of the shirt is tighter than he likes, and the fit of the borrowed jacket is a little snugger than he would wish. Where is that waiter chappie with his drink? How long does he need to splash a measure of gin into a glass? He thinks irritatedly.

"So Captain, may we soon look forward to another of your works? Perhaps the obscure rituals of the lesser known tribes of the interior" before the Captain can answer he continues, "I myself am an admirer of the native peoples and their cultures. If you will permit me I have in my luggage a selection of photograhic studies I made on a previous mission amongst the tribes of the Sub-Saharan interior. I hope that I may have the opportunity to share the images with yourself at your convenience"

[Supercape]

Baxter's drink was accompanied by the aforementioned Doctor Wessex.

He was a tall, thin man, with handsome clean shaven features marred by heavy sweat. He mopped his brow and gave a nervous grin, sitting down by the other fellows.

"Sorry I am late, gentlemen..." he said, his lips squirming to find a suitable excuse, and failing. His position was rescued by Mr Sidhom, who slid into the conversation.

"Doctor Wessex, please meet Mr Baxter and Captain Burton, our heroic adventurers!" he declared. The word heroic seemed to set off Doctor Wessex's nervous disposition, and he gave a short shrill laugh.

"Jolly good show!" the doctor blustered. "I can see that in these capable hands, my skills will surely be redundant! I hope you don't render my employment void! Ahahahaha!" he japed, clearly nervous at the concept of loosing what was, surely, extremely gainful employment.

[Tabs]

"He is clearly no gentleman," thought Burton of Baxter and his ill-fitting suit. Normally, if it was a chance meeting, he would "cut the man dead"; however he nodded a salutation, and raised an eyebrow at mention of Baxter's photographs. Burton doesn't think much of the doctor either.

[Priest]

"Ah, at last" mutters Baxter as he picks up the glass from the waiters salver, though whether he is referring to the gins arrival or the heat afflicted Doctor it is impossible to tell.

He tosses the glass of clear liquid down his throat in one go seemingly unaffected by the raw liquor, "Another" he speaks to the waiter as he replaces the glass, now empty, on the tray.

"Pleased to meet you" he speaks to the Doctor without moving his eyes from the rapidly retreating waiter, "Doctor of what, may I ask old boy?"

[Supercape]

"Hahaha!" giggled Doctor Wessex. "Why, of medicine. Graduate of the London Hospital, no less. My speciality is tropical diseases, which is, I imagine, why I ended up in this Gorfosa----" he coughed into his wine ungainly, stopping his tongue at the expense of his shirt.

Daring a sideways glance at the stony faced Mr. Sidhom, the Doctor continued, his cheeks rosy red.

"I mean, that's how I ended up here" he finished meekly. "Tropical diseases are rife in Central Africa. Malaria particularly. But I have arranged for ample supplies of Quinine that, with good fortune and balanced consumption, should steer us from an untimely end" he said, with certainty. Whatever else, Doctor Wessex knew his business well.

[Mr. Handy]

Percival Carstairs enters the room. He is unused to formal attire, or mixing with wealthy company at all for that matter, but he tries not to let it show. He approaches Sidhom and greets him with a slight bow. "Salaam Aleikem, Mr. Sidhom," he says.

[Supercape]

Adventurers assemble.

Introductions made, meal orders were taken, for what turned out to be a decidedly mediocre meal (not in keeping with the excellence of the hotel in other areas). The wine selection was not much to sing about, either. The after meal coffee, however, was excellent, rich and aromatic.

Talk swayed around the practicalities of the mission; logistics, maps, and so on. Rather formal, to begin with, but necessary. Everyone needed to be familiar with the basic principles.

When this was done and dusted, and more alcohol flowed, then talk became, once more, less formal.

Mr Sidhom did not smoke, either, although fine rich tobacco was passed around. "I am, gentlemen, at your service. Mr Winston Smythe did write, in detail, about the mission, and I must confess I was left both engaged and disturbed. There is still much we do not know, or can only guess at, regarding the tribes of central Africa. And you may have heard unpalatable rumours...I confess that I am glad it is you, rather than me, who ventures forth..."

[Tabs]

"And you must be Mr. Carstairs . . . ?" enquired Burton.

" 'Unpalatable' " he repeated, "I should say so! Gentlemen"--addressing everyone--"I received a letter from our--er--benefactor, Sir Winston-Smythe, regarding the expedition, which makes me question his sanity." Burton produced a letter. "Take a look at the missive, and tell me what you all think."

[Priest]

Baxter stands and peers over the capatains shoulder at the letter.

For a few moments he scans the neat handwriting, then a puzzled expression crossing his face he speaks, "That tells us nothing. It does little more than make a vague reference to some book"

Stepping back from Burton's seat he looks at Sidhom, "I trust you are in command of better details than this" he gestures at Burton's letter, "Letter provides? As for 'unpalatable' rumours, it is impossible to step more than a few miles beyond the civilised areas of the continent before becoming aware of more 'unpalatble' rumours than you might shake a stick at"

[Supercape]

"Not merely some book" said Mr. Sid home, his voice quiet like a tombstone, and with the same gravity that seemed to such levity from the air.

"It is the dread Necronomicon that my friend refers. He is one of the few that have read it's pages. We can only hope that my dear friend is insane, for the alternative is beyond unpalatable".

He turned to Mr. Baxter. "My dear sir, you are of course correct. It is but a thin veneer we place over ourselves that elevates us from the unspeakable and barbaric. God willing, I hope that veneer remains!"

"Although you may judge me as insane as Sir Winston Stanley, let me say I share his fears. I have heard and read of similar things. Most particularly, my own great grandfather, an apothecary and alchemist, wrote about the dreaming cults of deep Africa. There is much alluded to in poetry, writings, an art, in the museum of Cairo. Perhaps, even, buried in the tombs and pyramids of ancient history. .."

[Mr. Handy]

Percival peruses the letter, his eyes going wider as he reads each sentence. "I consider myself well-read and well-traveled," he says, "and I've been to Arabia on multiple occasions, but I've never heard of this Necronomicon or the mad Arab who apparently wrote it. It must be a rare book indeed. Do you know the name of the author? That might help in tracking down a copy, or at least finding out more about it."

[Supercape]

"The Necronomicon? I am not surprised you have not heard of it. It is rarely spoken of, and more rarely read. It is said that it can drive a man to madness" he said, a quiver in his voice.

He choked his words for a moment, and his normally still face tensed, with razor tightness.

"It was written by an Arab named Abdul Alhazred, of which little is known, at least by me. A poet, a mystic, a sorcerer, maybe all of these and more. A visionary, perhaps, who wrote down his visions and worshipped the strange Gods he saw. Cthulhu,Yog-Sothoth...so many names, so many horrors...."

He shook his head violently. "Even if you would read the Necronomicon, an act I would not press on friend or foe, it is not available. There is a copy in the British Library, a rare German transcript. Other copies lie in the Americas, in Paris...but none in Egypt" he said, without sadness.

Doctor Wessex interrupted, the whole turn of conversation unnerving him. "I heard of this book. It was a whispered rumour amongst certain...ah...circles, when I was practising in Paris. The Biblioteque nationale de France. Under lock and key" he added, with some relief.

Mr Sidhom pressed his knuckles to his temples and clamped his eyes shut. "An awful book, written by a madman, although the worst of it is; it persuades the mind of its truth!" he said, eyes springing wide open. "The Cairo library does have many strange tomes, and partial copies of the Necronomicon may be found within its depths...but I may have something else to hand!"

"Gentlemen, I have in my possession the notes of my Great Grandfather, Fariq Sidhom, who was, I believed touched by the same affliction of the Mad Arab Abdul Alhazred, though mercifully to a lesser degree. He speaks of the Necronomicon, and mentions the same strange cults".

He tapped his jacket pocket, and carefully brought out a small bound leather book. It could not have been more than fifty or so pages, all ragged and of different sizes. A fragile, hand written book full of shaky arabic writing.

"I have spent years putting together my ancestors poems and writings. They form no cohesive pattern, but their insinuations are clear. You are men of science, I am sure, a product of fine English education. Christian men, too, I have no doubt. Your instinct and inclination is to doubt all I have said. I was of the same disposition, until slowly, like a malignant cancer, my research and reading lead me to a gnawing and unshakable conviction that there is more to these words than mere madness!"

His will snapped, Mr Sidhom snapped up a glass of wine and, with shaking hand, supped it dry.

"God forgive me!" he cried.

[Mr. Handy]

"Thank you, Mr. Sidhom," says Percy. "I shall treat this book with caution." He carefully examines the writing, but his knowledge of Arabic is too limited to decipher the ravings of a madman.