Play@YSDC

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.

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.

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.

"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?"

"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!"

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..."

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.

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"

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.

"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.

"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?"

"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.

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.

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..."

"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."

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"

"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. .."

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."

"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.

"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.

"I agree with you, Mr. Baxter, my letter is most odd," said Burton apprehensively.

~

He listened to the following conversations with his habitual raised eyebrow, even attempting to read great grandpa's Arabic, which he cannot make head or tail of. When Sidhom mentioned a trip inside a Pyramid he jumped at the opportunity, "Now that would be fascinating." And when Sidhom drank some alcohol he frowned and turned away, hiding a smile.

Sidhom seemed to suck cold air into his lungs at the suggestion.

"The Pyramids?" he said, pale. "Why, they are fascinating, no question. A monumental feat of architecture, perhaps an impossible one, at least unaided..."

Disgusted with himself, he turned away from the wine bottle, now nearly drained.

"As curator of Cairo Museum, I can easily arrange for us to go to the Pyramids, and even inside them. And yet, I confess I fear to do so. I have avoided them, they fill with me with dread!" he said, his gaze avoidin the bound book of his ancestor.

Baxter, apparently lost for words, notes the sudden desire of his companions to look at the book, if it can be called such, as well as their apparent fascination for Pyramids. His mind is not subject to either desire.

He shrugs, well as long as I'm being paid... the thought being quickly displaced as he spies the waiter hovering a short distance away, "You there, a refill my good man" he glances around the assemblage, "Anyone else for a refill?" he seems to focus his question on the pale faced Sidhom.

"Yes. Finest brandy for me, please," said Burton; "and another bottle of wine, ours has all gone." He noted Baxter's lack of enthusiasm for a Pyramid visit. "Not something which interests you, Mr. Baxter?"

"Yes, the Pyramids are truly a wonder to behold," says Percy wistfully. "I've seen them from the outside before, but I've never had the chance to see them from within. I'd also like to visit the library at some point before we depart for the interior."

Rich smoky brandy was served, and Sidhom stoutly refused to partake. He had regained a little composure, and without looking, quickly stuffed the fragments of his ancestors writings into his Jacket. It did not escape his notice that Baxter was both liberal with his own drinks and giving a pertinent glance his way.

"Of course, gentlemen. Preparations for the expeditions will take a few weeks anyway, and I will do my best to arrange for provisions and logistics and so on. I am at your disposal; as is the museum of Cairo and the fair sights of our city. I will assist in any way I can!"

Noticing the disaproving glances he is getting from Sidhom, and guessing it might be something to do with his drinking, Baxter makes a uncaring shrug. "So we get to visit the dusty Pyramids or the equaly dusty library"

He tosses the remains of the spirit down his throat in one gulp, stare for a moment at the now empty glass and briefly considers refilling it, before with another shrug he places the empty glass on the table top. "Well whatever you choose is fine by me gentlemen, no doubt for some" he looks pointedly toward Percy, "Either is too great an attraction to miss. Me I'm more interested in seeing what this city has to offer", he laughs.

Munshi Singh, the handsome Sikh manservant, is standing behind Burton's chair.

"Sir," he said, "a memsahib wishes me to escort her to the river." He acknowledged, with a curt bow, the other gentlemen. "I will see you in the morning?" Burton assents and Singh retreats.

A gay laugh; a middle-aged tourist with flushed cheeks; and Singh, exiting the restaurant arm in arm.

"Good God!" muttered Burton.

He replied to Baxter. "I can always take an excursion into the Pyramids when I return from the expedition. But," he added to Carstairs and Sidhom, "let's visit the Cairo museum and Mr. Sidhom's library?"

Percy watches Mr. Singh and the tourist leave, raising an eyebrow. If he wishes to, I'm sure he could make her Mrs. Singh, he thinks. "Yes, the museum and library first, please," he says.

The Next Day...

August 21st

Mr Sidhom took great pride in guiding the intrepid explorers through the Museum of Cairo. It was not the most marvellous of architecture, one had to admit. It was still somewhat shabby and disorganised. And yet, despite this, it was wonderful. Ancient statues, trinkets, and texts filled its shelves and walls. Prized books littered the library, some academic, and some sensational. Some where even both.

It was still morning, the air had not yet acquired its heat. In fact, the day had an unusually sombre weather, with gloomy and oppressive grey clouds, most unusual for Egypt.

A few other tourists, academics and interested parties wandered through the museum. There were a few half-asleep attendants, standing or slumping, to ensure no prized item was pilfered. There was even one armed guard at the entrance, who looked a bit more alert than the attendants, but clearly bored with his endless days of simply standing around.

Burton walked by the armed guard. "صباح الخير--Good morning--English?" he said, "unusual for an armed guard to be posted here at this jumbled museum?"

At Burton's words, Baxter glances over at the bored looking guard, "I would imagine that there are things within that may be worth money on the antiquities market. The odd statue, vase etc." Almost speaking to himself he continues, "There are people I know in Europe who would pay handsomely for some ancient trinket".

Taking another look at the armed guard who it seems is working hard to stay fairly alert, he adds in a whisper almost nonchantly, "Like taking candy from a baby as the Americans might say"

"I say, this is very impressive!" exclaims Percy as he examines the exhibits. "I know it's probably not normally done, Mr. Sidhom, but would you allow me to take some photographs? I intend to include them with the newspaper articles I wrote. It could be just the thing to bring both more visitors - and wealthy patrons willing to donate," he adds, certain it would be just the thing to convince him.

Sidhom, baited by the prospect of more custom, needed no encouragement.

"You make an excellent point, Mr Castairs" he nodded in agreement, waving the armed guard back to a cup of much needed rich coffee.

"The expedition is not without its public interest, and certainly of greater still academic fame. I can hardly refuse an opportunity to take deserved advantage, can I?" he smiled.

The tripods and photographic equipment was duly waved through into the museum.

"And yes" he agreed with Baxter and Burton, "I am afraid we do have problems with raiders of antiquities" he said apologetically. "Although you fine fellows have my full trust!" he said, not quite avoiding a furtive glance at Baxter, whose reputation not so much proceeded him, but walked aside him hand in hand.

"I would imagine that there are things within that may be worth money on the antiquities market. The odd statue, vase etc."

"I suppose so, Mr. Baxter," said Burton; "though I must confess," he lowered his tone so that Sidhom and Carstairs were out of earshot, "there's a hell of a lot of dusty rubbish, what?" Burton glanced at Singh who was examining a bejeweled sword. "Ahem, Mr. Baxter," he hesitated, "you mentioned some photographs of natives?"

Baxter favours Burton with a smile, a knowing smile, "Later my dear Captain"

Turning towards Sidhom who seems engrossed in watching the arrival of Carstair's photography equiptment, the newness of which is apparent, Baxter takes him by the arm,"So my dear sir, do you have any artifacts which appertain to the endeavour upon which we embark?"

"Why yes, sir, I believe we do!" replied Sidhom, doing an admirable job of squashing his shame at drinking yesterday. Baxter now gave him uncomfortable reminder of his lapse.

He started getting more edgy as they walked through the museum, and he ended up unlocking a rather sturdy door to what he termed the "Haram Exhibits", that required special permission to view, kept from public eye.

In the dusty and unkempt special floor, a variety of blasphemous and offensive books where kept, alongside strange idols and statuettes, which were unnerving to say the least. They were preserved due to the great efforts of the Library, on the basis of academic and cultural value, but they were under considerable pressure. Engravings and carvings of beasts, men, and men-beasts, sometimes in unspeakable acts of violence, fornication, or both, were apparent.

In the library were some interesting tomes, and much academic work. It would take a long time to find one's way around, but fortunately Sidhom knew it intimately, and had an excellent memory. The Emerald Tablet, in Phoenician, the Beatus Methodivo in Latin, Pert Em Hru, in both Arabic and French translations (as well as a copy in the original Egyptian Heiroglphyics).

There were also some writings on the cults and sorcery of ancient Egypt, from lesser known academics, written in French, English, and Arabic. Of the even more obscure tribes of Africa, there was less, although in millenia past, there was an uncanny hint of similarity between the cults of ancient Egypt and those supposed an rumoured to live on in deepest Africa.

Percy thanks Sidhom and begins taking pictures of exhibits that he finds the most intriguing: a mummy (of course), a statuette of Anubis, the jackal-headed Egyptian god of the underworld, an ancient sarcophagus, and the like. When they get to the Haram Exhibits, he cannot resist taking photographs of some of the less unsavory items there too, though he does not intend to use those to accompany his articles. They are far too disturbing, though he is sure Baxter will be very interested in them. When they visit the library, he takes a look at the Arabic version of Pert Em Hru and the English and Arabic books about obscure tribes and cults.

"Why the Haram Exhibits?" wondered Burton. "These men-beasts, Mr. Sidhom, related to the classical centaur I presume?" He examined the engravings of fornication, even jotting down a few impressions in a marbled notebook.

Also, he gently opened the French edition of the Pert Em Hru, and then the Arabic edition, after Carstairs--"May I, sir?" to see if he could follow the text.

He asked: "These cults of Ancient Egypt, do you know about them, Mr. Sidhom?"

"Much and Nothing" replied Sidhom; a cryptic answer. He was both proud and uncomfortable at the special section of the library.

He paused by one stone statue of two men and a woman with mottled flesh engaging in act that could be of lurid sexual nature, or of violent cannibalism. Quite probably, it was of both. The three figures had hypertrophied sexual organs and protruding mouth full of gibbering lip, tongue, and massive teeth. The eyes somehow seemed black and mad.

"Here for instance. This piece is of undetermined age, found in a market in Cairo. I think the seller was actually relieved to be rid of it. We believe it originates from central Africa. You will notice similar pieces I am sure..."

One could not help but do so; despite the maddening heterogeneous nature of the exhibits, there was a subliminal crawling feeling of a pattern.

"There are various cults that may or may not have existed. It is certain that there were relatively benign ones, stemming from a common heritage, the cults of Set, or Bast, for instance. And others, whose very existence is unknown; let me see, the Cults of T'Murbique, Kuthlu, or Duggon, for instance. Perhaps the most infamous is the cult of the Toad-King, Tsugga Tsoth, word of which seems to pop up every few centuries, and is perhaps the origin of Sir Winston-Smythes disturbing rumours..."

Baxter smiles as he notes Burton's quick study of the risque engravings. Another book in the offing perhaps, he thinks, his smile broadening as he noted the young Englishman's behaviour being akin to a small boy found looking at pornographic drawings in an art class.
"You may find these photograph better with more light, Mr Carstairs"

As Sidhom explains the nature of the strange cults and their respective deities to the intrigued Captain, he nods in agreement as he fondles a odd carving with a preposterously long penis, turning it this way and that in order to catch the light.
"Indeed I have heard it said that deep within the interior of Africa their is a tribe that worships a strange toad like god which they present seated on a low stone table." he glances up to see if his words are being noted, "It is told that these people carry out acts of vile sacrifice to this creature when the moon is full".

He looks at each of his companions in turn, "Of course this is only something I have heard, I haven't seen it myself"

Percy can't make much headway in the Arabic version of Pert Em Hru. However, with Sidhom's help, he is able to track down information on the Toad-King when they visit the library.

Sidhom peered over the shoulder of Mr Carstairs as he mined the special section of the library.

"You are not wrong, Mr Baxter" he commented solemnly as the writing was read. He was not fond of the way Mr Baxter handled, or some would say, fondled, the outrageously hyperphallic statuette he had found.

"The Toad King...see here, and here..." between Carstairs inquisitive mind and Sidhom's familiarity, aided perhaps by Mr Baxter's experiences, tracts could be seen; often cryptic, sometimes contradictory. And yet, like the vile art in the forbidden aisles they stood in, a pattern of source could be seen.

...With the dawn of men, the great Tsathoggua birthed the first Toad-King, to die and live...

...He ever lives, ever breeds, ever dies...until his father awakens from undying sleep...

...The Cult of the Toad-King was cast from Egypt by the servants of Ra, down the holy Nile to sunken cities and sunless ruins...

...The black and purple toad, whose skin was moist with a [poison?/drug?] that drove men to madness, lived only in the depths of the Jungle, rare and precious to them, giving visions and driving men to furious murder and orgiastic rites...

...Reference in 1865 of new rare species of toad, Purpura Diabolus, whose skin had a profound and unwholesome effect...

...Cult of the Toad King, believed to practice cannibalism and use hallucinogens, which they termed the Spawn-Kiss, considered with fear and loathing by other African tribes. Stories of Shaka, Est 1820, leading raid on cult...

...Sampling the clear and damp liquid, it tasted vaguely of a sickly scent becoming of a putrid flower, or infected wound...yet was not fully unpleasant to the palate...within minutes I was gripped by convulsions, maddening visions of undersea cities and dark things that slept in them, whose architecture was disturbing in itself...and was I not alone I fear for my actions, for I was overcome with bestial urges of violent and sexual nature that I fear I would have been compelled to act...and toads, toads, before my eyes and on my skin...I fear I will never forget the madness of the drug, and yet despite its unwholesome effect on me, I find myself contemplating repeating the experiment...

...August 1972: Khaleed Yaseen, arrested for illegal trade of hazardous pharmacological agent, causing...outbreak of madness and delerium...3 dead...Mr Yaseen committed suicide in Prison, scratching the name Tsugga Soth in the walls with his bleeding fingernails...? Paranoid Schizophrenia?...

There were many other pickings from a variety of sources, Arabic writings often, but also the testimony, theories, and accounts of French, English, and other European explorers and anthropologists.

"Well" says Baxter still handling, almost absent mindedly, the statuette, "I've heard of peoples from all cultures licking things. Isn't that so Captain?" he favours Burton with a wink, "But never toads, fat or otherwise". It is obvious that he is beginning to get to Sidhom, and is enjoying the sense of power, real or imaginary, that it provides.

Then with a visible twitch of his face, he seems to adopt a more serious look, "Mr Sidhom. While Mr Carstairs here satisfies his obvious interest with these dusty, and almost unreadable, books, might I suggest that the rest of us continue to look at these pyramids you mentioned" he turns aside and whispers to Burton, "Unless he has other delights to show us?"

"Mr. Baxter," Burton returned, "despite what you obviously think, I am a serious scholar. Ecstasy is an aspect of love, and love is divine. Sex is for animals"--his words were heated, but he calmed down. "We shall be together for many weeks so I'd like us to be friends, sir, I only wished to make my viewpoint clear: I detest pornography. I possess a bottle of superb single malt, I'll have Singh bring it to your rooms?"

He said to Sidhom: "I've heard of natives licking toads to induce a frenzy or hallucinogenic state, and quotes 'The black and purple toad, whose skin was moist with a [poison?/drug?] that drove men to madness, lived only in the depths of the Jungle, rare and precious to them, giving visions and driving men to furious murder and orgiastic rites,' interesting, what?"

Baxter turns to Burton a mixture of sadness and hurt swiftly animating his features. He removes his hat, "Sir, if I have in some measure given you offense - then I apologise. I never for one moment thought of you as anything less than a serious scholar of often misunderstood cultural practices. I too wish us to be friends, for I have a feeling that in the none to distant future we may both be in need of a friend. Your kind offer of a single malt would be most acceptable, though I would hope you would accompany it, for I feel it might be a pleasant way to spend a few hours perhaps in discussion of the continent and its mysteries?".

He replaces the cap, and glances to the young journalist. Spending a few moments in contemplation as Carstairs rushes from this book to that with all the enthusiasm of a lad on his first trip to a museum.

"Mr Sidhom, since it appears that we may be here some time, may I suggest we repair to a nearby coffee shop for a brief relaxation?"

Tabs wrote:"I've heard of natives licking toads to induce a frenzy or hallucinogenic state, and quotes 'The black and purple toad, whose skin was moist with a [poison?/drug?] that drove men to madness, lived only in the depths of the Jungle, rare and precious to them, giving visions and driving men to furious murder and orgiastic rites,' interesting, what?"

Sidhom nodded in response, loosening his collar at the thought. The perceptive might have noticed his veins throbbing at his neck. "I have heard of the Purpura Diabolus. Every now and again its venom is found on the less reputable markets of Cairo, along with opium peddlers and dens of inequity" he explained. "But almost invariably they are false to their claims"

Priest wrote:""Mr Sidhom, since it appears that we may be here some time, may I suggest we repair to a nearby coffee shop for a brief relaxation?"

"An excellent idea" he replied, wiping his brow. "I confess staying to long in the Haram wing always unsettles my mental balance" he sighed thankfully. "Mr Carstairs is no doubt more robust by nature, the blessing of a hardened Journalist, no doubt..."

And with that, a swift retreat to the pleasant aroma of the excellent cafe opposite the museum was in order!

Burton salvaged several coffee grounds with a spoon. "Some say that for it to be strong enough to drink one's spoon must stand up--disgusting I say!"

"Of course, Mr. Baxter," he said, "I would be delighted to accompany you with the single malt." He took a hookah pipe and puffed thoughtfully, pondering about the expedition.

"I'll gladly come along," says Percy, the room starting to get to him as well. "The books will still be here when I get back."

The Great Pyramids of Egypy

Exterior...

The day was still hot, but it was past midday. The sun was lower, the shadows longer. With the Nile cooling the air that extra degree or two, it was actually pleasant. The red sunlight illuminated the pyramids magnificently. They were truly a wonder of the world.

Sidhom had been less than keen to come along, but he had bowed to pressure. Clutching a latern, he had guided the group to the base of the largest pyramid.

"Gentlemen, behold!" he said with a touch of theatre. "They are as magnificent inside as outside, but please be careful, the corridors are dark and small, and it is not beyond imagining that one can get lost. Keep your wits about you!"

"The Great Pyramid of Cheops," said Burton, standing at its base and feeling insignificant. He stared up at the Pyramid's pinnacle and whistled appreciatively. At mention of the narrow corridors within, Burton patted his pocket containing a stick of chalk. "Any choice of route," he thought, "and I must blaze a trail."

Although Mr Sidhom did not object, he raised his eyebrows slightly at the chalk.

"I...ah...whilst safety is paramount gentlemen, I need not remind you that this is an ancient piece of Egypt's history. One would not..ah...lightly deface it!" he said, giving a polite bow.

"I understand," replied Burton.

Baxter stands hands on hips trying to understand the majesty of the construction, he searched for a fitting quip, but was unable to find one. There was something about the building that made any lighthearted remark unecessary.

"Makes you wonder how they were able to construct such an edifice", he glances around quickly at the others, "I mean without access to modern scientific thinking of course"

"Ah, yes," says Percy, "but of course the ancient Egyptians were advanced in their own right. There is some speculation that they were highly advanced, but the priests hoarded technology and made it appear to be magic. Just look at the Great Pyramid before us! It was built so perfectly, we could not replicate it with modern technology. It was built first, before the other pyramids, which are mere inferior copies of the original. It makes you wonder, indeed."

Inside the Great Pyramid...

Sidhom was clearly nervous as they ascended through the tunnels. The air was cooler, and would have been almost pleasant if not for the dank, dusty quality that seemed to claw at throat and lungs. The tunnels were smaller than one would have liked. The lamps gave sufficient light, but it was an eerie, incomplete light. This was not a trip for the faint of heart.

"My ancestor talked of the power of these pyramids, gentlemen, in his ramblings..." he patted his jacket, where the makeshift book was kept. "Perhaps he alluded to the mystery of its construction...perhaps, perhaps..."

He ran his hand over the cold masonry. "I have never trod in these halls; I have dreaded them in my waking hours, and had strange dreams of them. Of hidden angles and bizzarre corners, of shifting stone..."

He shook his head and pressed on. They went past the great gallery, past the Kings chamber, into the lower and more mysterious Queens Chamber - nobody was quite sure what this chamber was for.

"Now I am here, it is impressive. The ancient stone, and ancient art; it cannot but drive home a sense of awe. And yet, I feel peculiar, as if something is amiss, or hidden. Maybe it is my over-fertile imagination; this pyramid is the tomb of the tyrant pharaoh Khufu, and I recall that the sorcerer Kotep lived in his time, the sorcerer Kotep that my ancestor wrote of..." he nervously patted the book once more.

"You are right to feel peculiar, Mr. Sidhom," said Burton, "after the daylight and outside temperature it does feel odd in here--deliciously so," he chuckled mirthlessly. "The atmosphere of this chamber. . . . You must read aloud a passage about this Kotep who your ancestor writes of--and make me shiver!"

Baxter laughs, a laugh of pure bravado. He surepticiously pulls his large hip flask from his jacket pocket, pulls the cork and takes a long, nerve quitening, pull on its contents. Then without offering he re-corks it and replaces it where it had come from.

in the flickering light, with some hesitancy born of both darkness and fear, Sidhom reads out the garbled messages of his book, translating from poetic arabic to cold English.

"<The sorcerer Kotep had sworn never to die. He sealed himself with his King, the tyrant Khufu, in the greatest of tombs. In a chamber beyond space, and time, hidden and eternal, in the cracks...>" he paused, trying to decipher the undecipherable.

"I do not understand it all, but it seems there is a chant, a ritual, to open up the tomb of Kotep..." he gulped, looking around the chamber fearfully. Cold sweat stood on his forehead and he looked ready to faint at the prospect.

Percy examines the contents of the Queen's Chamber, but they are beyond him. "I thought I'd heard that nobody was actually buried in the Great Pyramid," he says. "This is the first I've heard of a burial chamber in some other place, but it would make sense. In the cracks, though?" He looks around to see if he can notice any. Then he sets up his camera and snaps a picture of the chamber, being careful to adust for the poor lighting.

Burton noted Baxter's private swig of alcohol.

"When the plate is developed, Mr. Carstairs," he said, "we will examine the photograph most carefully, and search for those cracks."

"Continue with the chant, sir,--one must not be afraid of spooks--we shall meet with Kotep!" he cajoled. Burton found the shiver he desired beginning to tremble in the pit of his stomach; he thought of asking Baxter for a pull at his flask, but decided better of it, the flask was sure to contain an infernal brew.

Again Baxter laughs nervously, his hand straying to the pocket of his jacket that contained his flask. He thought better of it.

"Um I have seen some strange things in this continent, particularly amongst the inhabitants further in. Although not a Church goer or a believer I think that there are things that are sometimes better left alone" He glances at Sidhom and notices the discomfort that he is exhibiting, "I do think there is a time and place for further investigation of Mr Sidhom's ancestor's book, but" he looks around at the shadows and feels a strange cold breeze, "let it be in more comfortable surroundings than here"

Mr Sidhom's hand's held the book away from him, as though it was on fire. He gazed from Carstairs to Burton to Baxton, unsure of what to do.

"It is true that much is left better unseen or undiscovered, gentlemen. And yet what is man but a moth to a flame? Why do we dig into the earth, brush away the sands, and, in your case, laudably, carve through the jungles of Africa?" he asked.

"I do have the chant here, and am loathe to sing it; although perhaps I would also end the uncertainty. I do not believe in spells and magic, old superstitions - and there would be undoubted relief in the words having no effect. I am torn, gentlemen, between fears"

"Mr Burton, you are the confidante of Mr Winston-Smythe, I suggest the decision is yours! shall I read?"

"Ha ha!" he barked into the silence which followed. "Mr. Carstairs shall have the deciding vote."

"I must concur with Mr. Baxter," says Percy after careful thought. "Disturbing the dead is not a good idea. I know I would not want some strangers calling up my spirit after I die, and if anyone did I'd be in a rather foul mood. You would not want to encounter me in such a state, and I'm not even a powerful sorcerer as Kotep was reputed to be. I think it's best to let sleeping dogs lie."

Mr Sidhom puts away his book, and even in the dim light, his face was a picture of relief.

"Gentlemen, I am relieved to say the least. I am sure Kotep is dead and buried in this monument, perhaps in a hidden and as yet undiscovered chamber. And I think it wise to let him rest in peace. Whilst I do not entertain the thought of him rising from the dead, I would find even his preserved corpse and unsettling notion - forgive my lack of scientific heroism" he explains.

The dim light made inspecting the chambers of the great pyramid difficult. But even so, much could be gleaned and admired. Cracks there were, but presumably of the more mundane variety. Much writing covered the walls, in Egyptian hieroglyphics, which Mr Sidhom had some robust expertise in.

"And yet, perhaps, in light of my ancestors writings, we might re-examine some of these writings?" he explained. It took some time, but the lamps were not yet flickering.

"<The Sorcerer...worshipped the God of many...black...faces...the black pharaoh>" he began, tracing his line over an carved statue of some ambiguous man.

He mumbled something to himself in Arabic
"<...sealed inside....cursed...dead forever...sealed with dust...from the holy dead...kept entombed...and so on, and so on!>"

He paused. "Forgive my inadequacies in a dead and unspoken tongue, gentlemen, but it seems these writings to refer to Kotep being sealed in this tomb. And of some protection, or ward, against him, a dust or powder, toxic to spirits and undead. Presumably it is hidden by more conventional means in this chamber!"

Baxter nods to Carstairs, relief evident in the excess sweat that trickles from his brow, "Absolutely, hardly the time or the place" at the word 'place' he looks around him, "For any form of spooky entertainment"

He watches enthralled as Sidhom caresses one of the carved statues, the usual Egyptian depiction of one of their many gods, though either through the erosion of time or by design this character's face was blank devoid of marking. The almost loving way that Sidhom ran his hands over the statue made him shiver, he pulled the flask free of his pocket and took a liberal swallow of the raw spirit.

As Sidhom paused in his caress to half whisper something about bringing back the dead. He gave thought to why he had agreed to accompany this expedition in the first place. With trembling fingers he replaced the cork in his flask...

Burton masked his disappointment by busying himself with examining the Queen's Chamber.

"Your translation of hieroglyphs is excellent, sir, no need to ask for forgiveness."

Burton traced his finger along the stepped arch, stretching as far up as he was able. With his arm high above his head Burton felt a gap--a crack? He held the bullseye lantern aloft to see better, there was certainly a gap, so ran his finger tip along it, feeling a line of sand; he was rewarded by a sprinkle of silvery dust which floated down upon his upturned face. "Gentlemen," he coughed, his head twinkling from the quartz and the lantern beam reflecting off of it, "maybe this sand blew in here before this chamber was capped--five thousand years ago, think of it!" he added with wonder.

He crouched and scooped at the silvery dust, dropping a few thimblefuls into his pocket.

Sidhom's words in Arabic are too fast for Percy to understand. but he does at least hear them. He is too preoccupied searching the chamber anyway.

Watching Burton makes Baxter think of a small boy on an adventure weekend. He shakes his head, and suddenly has the feeling that it might be time to leave.

Ignoring the icy shivers that run up and down his spine, he moves towards the exit, "Right, shall we be off then?"

"Yes, I think we've seen everything there is to see here," says Percy.

Chalk in hand, Burton surreptitiously marked an "X" near to the spot where he discovered the silvery dust.

He rejoined the group. "Ready when you are," he said.

To the relief of Mr Sidhom, the four men retreated out of the unnaturally cold Pyramid into the low sun of a Cairo evening. It would still be a couple of hours to night.

The Shepheard hotel awaited the three adventurers, with Mr Sidhom deciding to accompany them for the evening. He would not drink, despite the temptation to do so, but he put on his fez and bow tie for another meal and cigar at the bar and restaurant.

Percy's Bantu lessons go quite well, but he doesn't have time to learn much more. He is unable to learn how to make the mysterious dust detailed in the fragments, but he is able to translate them into English with some help from Sidhom. Part of him wishes he hadn't. He finds Pert Em Hru completely unintelligible.