Execration Text

by Machine Head

Note: This story is a work of fiction. Lara Croft, her likeness, and the Tomb Raider games are all © and ™ of Core Design and EIDOS Interactive. There is no challenge to these copyrights intended by this story, as it is a non-sanctioned, unofficial work of my own.



Any comments, whether complimentary or critical, would be much appreciated, and can be sent to machinehead@slayer.org



* * * * *



1. FORTNUM

“Great to see you Lara!” bellowed Charles Fortnum from his throne-like seat. His voice, although excessively loud, was not at its usually painful level. Lara smiled as she approached him, and kissed him on the cheek. Fortnum was a cheerfully rotund man with an imposing moustache like those of the British officers during the Boer War. He was clad in a grey tweed jacket and brown trousers, and his breath reeked of whiskey.

“Likewise, Charlie,” Lara greeted him. “How are you?”

“I think you already know the answer to that, my dear,” he replied with a chuckle. “Not too long now.”

“Well, you seem as hale and hearty as ever,” she lied, knowing that he would see through her comity yet not resent her for it. His age had once seemed to her somewhat like a logarithmic curve, proceeding towards the end with diminishing certainty, until it appeared as though he would never reach it at all. He had, however, aged considerably since she had last seen him nearly a year before, and he’d only recently recovered from a bout of pneumonia. This once wise, well-dressed, vivacious Rock of Gibraltar had become a decrepit old figure with a soiled moustache and a checkered scarf. The skin hung loosely off his throat, and his one real eye had become moist and grey.

“I can feel it, Lara. Not that I particularly mind – I need a bit of a change.” He took a swig from the bottle of whiskey he clasped in his right hand. “They’d bloody well better have enough of this up there to keep me company though,” he added, frowning vaguely at the nearly empty bottle. He seemed to be slightly drunk – quite uncharacteristic of him.

“Somehow, I don’t think you’re likely to end your innings at this stage. Not so close to your century,” she said, persisting with the forced politeness and employing a lame cricketing analogy in a feeble attempt to lighten the rapidly darkening mood. Fortnum had always appreciated sporting analogies, though they always sounded forced and awkward when Lara used them. Reticent by nature and of too frank temperament to be a good conversationalist, she much preferred silence to civil mataeology.

Fortnum smiled ruefully. “I don’t like to think of it as losing my wicket. I prefer to consider it as though they day’s play has ended.” Although visibly unwell, he was by no means a valetudinarian. In fact, it was largely due to his blithesome nature that Lara had once perceived him as almost immortal.

There was a brief and slightly awkward silence during which he wiped his dribbling eye with a white handkerchief. They weren’t tears – Fortnum was not one given to self-pity – it was the rheum that is common to many of his advanced age. Lara hoped so at least. For all she knew, Fortnum’s weakening over the past year may have been deeper than just physical deterioration. In the past half decade they had met on increasingly rare occasions, and predictably, perhaps, the threads of their once strong friendship had frayed with neglect. She couldn’t know for sure how much he had really changed.

“Well, for the real reason you’re here, Lara,” he said suddenly with a grin, dissolving any fears that his was an epiphoric outburst. She never quite knew how to appropriately console someone in such situations. He leaned forward and placed his hands upon his knees. “As I explained in the letter, I’m giving away the books in my library.”

Fortnum rarely made telephone calls. His chief mode of communication, bar direct conversation, was by handwritten letter.

“Pick out whatever you like – after all, it’s not likely my niece is going to make much use of all those arcane texts,” he continued with a wry laugh, followed by a series of expectorant coughs. Lara winced. She couldn’t appreciate the joke for she had never met Fortnum’s niece. Lara felt rather ambivalently disposed towards Fortnum today. Although fond him, she couldn’t help but feel slightly repulsed by the old man – not so much by the physical aspect of his current condition, but by the patent, alarmingly rapid erosion of his once brimming health.

“Others will be dropping in shortly, so I recommend you choose the books that interest you quickly, before the arrival of competition,” Fortnum said hoarsely after clearing the phlegm in his throat with limited success. “My butler will show you there.”

Lara nodded before following the butler out of the room.

“Feel free to consult me if you have any queries,” Fortnum called after her as she departed.



Lara followed the butler into the cavernous room that was Fortnum’s library. Fortnum had a keen interest in archaeology, and the vast collection of books and manuscripts – some several hundred years old – which he had accumulated over the years contained precious information.

Much like Lara, he was a celebrity archaeologist, though he was more famous than her and had a cleaner reputation. He had acquired his considerable wealth almost entirely from his archaeological finds and published chronicles of his journeys; his fame attained roughly two-thirds from his publications and archaeological finds, and the remainder from his library. Rather cleocentric, Fortnum had throughout his adult life always traveled to obscure locations in search of the most famous or mystical relics, more so for the attention that they brought him than for personal satisfaction or any recondite knowledge that could be gained. That he reveled in his fame had brought him some critics, most of these within archaeological circles, but they had barely detracted from his highly respected status among the majority of his peers.

Fortnum’s most cherished asset was his library. He had obtained many of its texts through not entirely honest or ethical means, often using his wealth to bribe influential people to let him keep original literary treasures that he had unearthed in some countries when the finds legally belonged to these countries’ governments. Although this was a well-known fact among many of Fortnum’s peers, it only intensified their interest and curiosity in his library. Indeed, there were many historians and archaeologists who salivated at the thought of browsing through his library, let alone at keeping some of its contents for themselves. Fortnum, however, had been very secretive in this respect, and had extremely rarely invited anyone to browse his extensive collection. Lara, out of sheer curiosity, had herself on occasions implored him to let her in the library, but to no avail. This is why his recent invitation stunned her so much; but not to the extent that she forgot to bring a capacious bag in which she could whisk away a selection.





* * * * *





2. UNAS, SLAYER OF THE GODS

Now that she was actually in the renowned room, surrounded by dozens of towering shelves of ancient books and scriptures, Lara realised that she wasn’t exactly sure of what it was that she was after. Upon reading Fortnum’s letter, she had felt slightly excited, but it was more at the fact that she was to visit one of the world’s most scopious collections of historical texts, rather than excitement at what specifically she could acquire from it. On the way to Fortnum’s mansion (a forty-five minute drive from the Croft Manor), she had vaguely pondered upon this issue without coming to a definite conclusion. She knew that she desired information regarding areas of interest such as supposed sites of ruins, tombs, etc. Not having been on an expedition in several months, she was getting quite bored languishing in her manor with only Winston to keep her company. There is only so much hunting, reading and training one can do, and she couldn’t bear the ennui of the numerous luncheons and cocktail parties that she was invited to by crusty, pretentious acquaintances who reminded her of her father. She longed for the excitement of another expedition, and perceived the invitation from Fortnum as an indirect opportunity to embark on one in the near future.



Taken aback by the sheer volume of books in the room, Lara wandered around the shelves aimlessly for a few minutes, not knowing where to begin her search, let alone knowing what she was searching for. The fact that there was only a minute chance that she would find any of the several hundred books relevant to her interests never struck her.

By now, a few visitors had trickled in, most not dissimilar in appearance to those crusty, pretentious acquaintances of hers who reminded her of her father. All were raptly perusing various hefty tomes from the shelf closest to the entrance, and ostentatiously adjusting their spectacles and muttering esoteric phrases as they did so. Not usually prone to procrastination, Lara admonished herself, and determined to capitalise on this rare opportunity, hastened to the end of the nearest shelf with the aim of examining the spine of each book in order to pick out anything relevant to her interests.

At the end of this particular shelf was a small table on which lay a tattered red exercise book. Curious, she picked it up. Scrawled on the front in black ink were the words, ‘Unas, Slayer of the Gods’. Lara knew of Unas. He was the last Pharaoh of the 5th Dynasty in ancient Egypt. However, she was not too sure why the label ‘Slayer of the Gods’ was attached to his name.

She opened the book to its first page, taking care not to drop any of the loose leaves within. At the top of the page was the single word ‘Notes’, written neatly in black ink with a double underline. It was Fortnum’s handwriting. Below this was the line:



Unas, ninth and last Pharaoh of the 5th dynasty of the Old Kingdom.



The rest of the page was blank. Mildly interested, she turned to the next page. This one was filled with some more of Fortnum’s writing, a great deal messier than that of the first page, but legible nonetheless. She began to read.



Unas ruled from 2356 – 2323 B.C. He is mostly known for his pyramid complex, which he built at Saqqara. The internal structure of his pyramid is known for incorporating several innovative features, but is most recognized for the inclusion of vertical lines of hieroglyphics on the walls of the vestibule and burial chamber. These are known today as the ‘Pyramid Texts’, and are the oldest religious writings known to mankind. These texts were designed to help ensure the safe passage of the Pharaoh into the next world. They told of Unas’ life, and according to them, Unas attained greatness by eating the flesh of his mortal enemies and then slaying and devouring the gods themselves. After devouring the gods and assimilating their spirits and powers, he journeyed through the day and night sky to become the star Sabu (Orion). Texts found in his successors’ tombs, indicate the Unas was the last Pharaoh who practiced cannibalism, though no clear reasons have been offered as to why this practice ceased so abruptly.

Unas was married to Khenut and Nebit. The only known child that he had is Iput I. At sixteen years of age, Iput I expressed to Unas her desire to marry a soldier, Teti. Unas forbade her to do so, and went so far as to demote Teti from his respectable rank of ‘One in One Thousand’, to a lowly sailor. Judging by surviving records, Unas was a powerful, just and ruthless king. He was loved by his subjects and the citizens of Egypt. His palace was situated in Elephantine. When Unas died of natural causes, Iput I married Teti, much to the anger of Unas close subjects, and in particular, the chief Vizier. Teti became the new Pharaoh, thus spawning the 6th dynasty. Seeking vengeance against Unas, Teti and his priests prepared an execration text for him, but before it could be destroyed, the men who had been Unas’ bodyguards stole it and escaped south with the Vizier and a small band those who had been Unas’ closest friends. They traveled down the Nile for two years, and eventually made their dwelling in the jungle in southern Sudan (approx. 4.96N 28.29E). There they kept the execration text – carved into a clay figurine of Unas – from being damaged in order to maintain Unas’ status as a star or demigod and prevent him from falling to the earth to be condemned to eternal damnation when his physical body died.

After 30 years, the partisans believed that they had accumulated an adequately sized force with which to overthrow Teti. They traveled back up the Nile and took the royal palace by storm. They slew Teti, ate his remains just as Unas had done of his enemies, and instilled a new ruler, Userkare. He, however, only ruled for a very short time before he was overthrown by Teti’s son, Pepi I. Unas’ supporters never regained power after that, and were banished from Egypt. All traces of their tribe disappeared soon after this.



Intriguing, Lara thought. The words ‘execration text, carved into a clay figurine of Unas’ had particularly caught her attention. She knew of these figurines, though she had never seen a choate one. They were usually made of stone, wax, or mud. The inscriptions found on them are called ‘execration texts’. They are spells that were used by the ancient Egyptians to bring suffering and death upon intended victims or, more often, to damn them to eternal torture in the afterlife. It was like a sophisticated form of invultuation. The spirits of those cursed were perceived as eternal supernatural threats. Those named in the execration texts were referred to as ‘mut’ – the dangerous dead. The figurines were therefore broken or burnt to both seal the curse and to prevent the spirits of the condemned from taking vengeance on their cursers.

What excited Lara even more than the mention of Unas’ figurine, however, were the coordinates scribbled in brackets after the word ‘Sudan’: 4.26N 27.89E. Here, she hoped, on the edge of a tropical rainforest, amongst the vestiges of a tribe of cannibalistic absconders from ancient Egypt, lay this numinous artifact. It was an expedition just waiting to happen. Some things would first have to be clarified though.



Fortnum was seated amidst several members of the press and a throng of boisterous, loudly chattering men, the vast majority of whom were garbed in tweed jackets and grey trousers, and were on the fat side of fifty years. In short, most of them looked like Fortnum. Many clutched books from his library in their fat paws, and all were eager to speak to him.

For Lara, there was no apparent chance to discuss her find with Fortnum, or to even bid him goodbye within an hour. She would have to telephone him later.





* * * * *





3. NOT ONE SHARD OF POTTERY

“Hello?” Fortnum sounded effete.

“Hello, Charlie, it’s Lara.”

“Hello, Lara!” Fortnum boomed, his voice immediately brightening, though still seeming a little strained. He was one of those mature men who felt the need to scream over the telephone, as though his collocutor would not be able to hear him otherwise. He continued after a brief pause, “Find anything interesting?”

“Yes, I did. A thin red exercise book. It contains notes about the Pharaoh, Unas. Do you remember it?”

“Why, yes,” Fortnum immediately replied.

“Intriguing, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

“When did you make those notes?”

“Oh, a long time ago. Sixteen… seventeen years I think. Why do you ask?”

“I’m wondering if it has been discovered yet.”

“You mean the vestiges of the tribe of Unas’ supporters?”

“Yes. And the figurine of Unas.”

Another silence, longer than the last.

“No, nothing’s been found – or recorded as found, at least,” he finally said, before being seized by a paroxysm of coughing lasting nearly half a minute. “I went in search of it a decade ago and found nothing,” he continued croakily. “Wandered through the jungle for days and didn’t see a scrap of evidence indicating that a tribe of ancient Egyptians once resided there.”

“Really?”

“Not once shard of pottery.” He chuckled, then asked condescendingly, “Why, you aren’t considering looking for the idol of Unas, are you?”

Lara didn’t reply.

“Oh come on Lara! You can’t be serious.” He paused, waiting for her to respond.

“Why not?” she finally asked, feeling a little silly before Fortnum’s patent incredulity.

“As I told you, I searched for it very thoroughly and found nothing. Chances are it would have been discovered long ago. Remember, we are talking about a tribe that supposedly lived four thousand years ago. It’s very likely that since then their little village has been pillaged, and its remnants plundered again.”

“Supposedly lived four thousand years ago?”

“Ah, yes. We’re not even sure that they did exist. For all we know, the whole story about Unas and his execration text could be a myth.”

“Well, you certainly had enough faith in it to journey to central Africa.”

“And I didn’t find a bloody thing!” Fortnum sounded exasperated. “The coordinates are probably incorrect anyway”

“What was the source of your notes?” Lara asked him after a short silence.

“I had many sources.”

“Such as…?”

“Oh, I can’t remember now.”

“Bullshit.”

“Fine. Various books, historical texts, and the like. It was a long time ago. Look Lara, I’m telling you, it would be a complete waste of time, money and effort for you to travel to Sudan.”

She didn’t reply.

“Trust me.”

“I do trust you, Charlie. And thanks for your help.”

“You’re going, aren’t you?” he asked resignedly.

Lara hung up without replying.





* * * * *





4. 20,000 DINARS INTO THE TREES?

A thick, dusty blanket of hot air immediately enveloped Lara as she stepped out of the ceiling fan-cooled Yambio Airport in Sudan, thirty kilometres from the border of Zaire.

Puzzled by Fortnum’s expostulation, and by his uncharacteristically equivocal responses to her queries on the source of his notes, Lara had made numerous phone calls – some well-placed, but most not – and finally confirmed that the cardinal details of the story she had read about Unas were considered by the few reputable archaeologists who had heard it as receptary facts and not myth as she had feared. That was heartening. An arrant realist, Lara felt that traveling to another continent in search of a fabled artifact without much secondary – let along primary – evidence of its existence went utterly against her convictions. She needed to assure herself that her little expedition wasn’t simply a quixotic treasure hunt.



The bus lurched forward on its way to the village of Bwala, less than a second after Lara stepped aboard. The speakers almost immediately crackled to life, spewing forth painfully loud Death Metal. Cannibal Corpse’s “Post Mortal Ejaculation”. It seemed to Lara more like the sound of a hyperactive dog disporting in a storeroom full of crockery rather than any conceivable accordance of notes.

Unlike all the other buses that she had watched depart from the terminal near the airport during her one-and-a-half hour wait there, the one she was on was nearly empty. Wincing as she sat on one of the scorching metal seats, she lit a cigarette. The bloke seated opposite her grinned. He was a portly fellow with chubby cheeks who couldn’t have been more than twenty years of age; apparently a native Sudanese and garbed appropriately in a ubiquitous, off-white, collared, sheer cotton shirt. Also like many of the local men, he wore a thin electroplated gold chain with a cross around his neck. It seemed that the missionaries had done their work well. Lara smiled lightly back at him.

“Afternoon, missus,” he said.

“Afternoon.”

He continued to grin vacuously at her for a few seconds, then leaned forward, offering a fat hand.

“I’m Mbanefo.”

“Lara Croft,” she replied, shaking his hand. She offered him a cigarette. He declined with a smile and a shake of his head.

“Why you off to Bwala, Miss Croft?” The boy spoke with a slight lisp.

“I’m looking for something.”

“Looking for something in Bwala?” Mbanefo chortled. He rested his arm on the metal transom of the pane-less window. “There’s nothing in Bwala.”

Lara considered telling him what it was she was looking for. No harm could be done, and maybe, if she was lucky, he would provide some information regarding its whereabouts.

“I’m looking for the remains of a tribe,” she told him. “In the forest.”

“A tribe in the forest?” Mbanefo’s smile faded and was replaced by a look of alarm.

“The remains of a tribe,” she corrected him.

“You don’t want to look for no tribe.”

“Why not?” she asked him, mildly amused at the sudden change in his expression.

“The tribe in the forest is very bad.”

“Bad?”

“They kill people, Miss Croft. For no reason, they kill. Earlier this year they killed the schoolteacher.”

“How often do they kill people?”

“Whenever person goes too far into the forest.”

“Well, I’m not looking to meet this tribe. I’m going to search the forest for the remains of a tribe.”

“Don’t go wandering too far in the forest,” Mbanefo warned her.

“Have you seen any remains of dwellings in the forest?” Lara asked him, avoiding the word ‘tribe’.

Mbanefo thought about this for a while. “Yes,” he finally said. “When I was a boy, me and my friend went into the jungle. Our parents told us not to go, but we went.”

“Was the tribe terrorizing Bwala’s population back then too?” Lara interjected.

“Yes,” Mbanefo said, not appearing to detect any flippancy in her question. “We were only boys, and so we were stupid and curious,” he continued. “We wandered more far than we ever wandered before and we came to a empty place with huts made of twigs… I don’t know how you call them.”

“Thatched huts?” Lara offered.

“Yes, yes. Thatched huts.”

“Did you see any people there?” she asked, hoping dearly that he was speaking of the huts of Unas’ votaries, though doubting it. They were much more likely to be those of the tribe that Mbanefo spoke so fearfully of. There was a chance, however, a tiny and understandably improbable hope – and fear – that alighted in Lara’s mind, that these were one and the same thing.

“No,” said Mbanefo.

“Any signs of people having recently stayed there?”

“Don’t know. You see, when we saw the huts we got very scared and we run away.”

Lara shifted uncomfortably in her seat and tipped the ash from her cigarette out the window. The bus was crawling at a torturous pace over the rutted dirt road. So slowly that the movement of air through the gaping windows failed to generate a breeze strong enough to provide even slight relief from the withering heat.

Lara hadn’t paid much thought to how she was to go about her search, mainly due to the frustrating lack of information she had. Now she admitted to herself that she had embarked upon this expedition more out of boredom than genuine scholarly interest. But then again, she embarked upon most expeditions in this manner, and had met with a fair degree of success.

“Do you think you could lead me to the place where you saw those huts, Mbanefo?” she asked him suddenly. It would be as good a start as any. Certainly better than roaming the forest by herself, hoping to stumble upon ancient ruins.

Mbanefo, however, began to shake his head even before Lara had finished her question. “Sorry, Miss Croft …”

“I’ll pay you,” she added casually.

“Twenty thousand dinars,” replied Mbanefo immediately, sitting up.

“Okay.”

A wide grin spread across his face. “I must warn you, Miss Croft, it was long time ago and I’m not sure where I saw the huts.”

She smiled. “Don’t worry Mbanefo; I trust you’ll do well.”

Ten minutes later, the bus slowed to a halt amid a billowing cloud of yellow dust at the Sudanese village of Bwala. Its few passengers trickled out, and all but two of them dispersed among the scattered huts and squat buildings.

“You have a place to stay, Miss Croft?”

Lara shielded her eyes with one hand and surveyed the tiny village. Most families appeared to dwell in either mud-walled, thatched-roofed hovels, or small brick and concrete houses. There were a few small shops and an open-walled tavern.

“Do I?”

Mbanefo laughed. “You can stay with me at my mother’s place.”

Lara looked more carefully at the houses. They seemed awfully small.

“Sure that that wouldn’t be too much trouble?”

“Not for twenty thousand dinars,” he laughed again.





* * * * *





5. WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE

The forest was sweating. Moisture inspissated the air, and the trees exuded dew. Lara blindly followed Mbanefo through the surprisingly sparse undergrowth. She had never bushwalked through central African rainforest before, and had expected to trudge through a dense layer of creepers, herbs and grass – not bare, black earth. The absence of verdant flooring, however, did not translate into a lack of larger vegetation. On the contrary, the forest – as any forest should – was thick with shrubbery and trees. The shrubs and vines climbed up to fifteen metres, twisting and convolving to form a snarled, sun-shrouding canopy, above which towered sprawling, copiously branched trees.

Although she wasn’t one to stand back occasionally and appreciate nature’s intrinsic beauty, Lara could not help but admire the splendour of the jungle. For a change, someone else was navigating, and thus, she could travel without need for her usual sedulity. Mbanefo appeared to remember exactly where he had seen the huts all those years ago, and trekked with deftness and stamina that seemed to defy his stocky frame. He had seemingly forgotten his earlier reluctance to venture too far into the jungle, and now, armed with a machete that his mother had forced him to take along, was his former riant self. Lara – who had not brought any firearms – was also armed with a machete, though it was quite blunt. She had learned that Mbanefo worked and resided in Yambio and visited his mother in Bwala once a week.



They had walked perhaps eight or nine kilometers when Lara heard the sound of movement to her left. Mbanefo did not seem to notice it, and he continued his jovial chatter. Lara paused, but upon hearing nothing more, continued on her way, only to again sense movement, this time to her immediate right.

“Quiet,” she ordered, concentration making her tone sound harsh. Mbanefo complied.

She hefted her machete and coolly scanned the surrounding forest. It was most likely an animal, though she wasn’t going to take any chances. Though the foliage at ground level was very sparse, the thickly dispersed trees and shrubs made visibility quite poor.

Suddenly, a scream – sounding very much like a war cry – split the silence, and a figure crashed through the undergrowth, approaching Mbanefo from his right. A fraction of a second later, five more similar sounding screams followed, and their respective owners irrupted onto the scene. Mbanefo cried out in fright and took a few paces back apprehensively. Lara looked about her with her usual phlegm. They were surrounded by six naked men. Lara noticed with some revulsion that all six were crudely infibulated. They were muscular in stature and did not have much body hair. Three wielded hefty clubs, and the others were armed with spears.

They attacked without delay. The man nearest to Lara – a spearman – charged forth, thrusting his weapon at her chest. She easily dodged him, and sticking a leg out and shoving him in the back, used his own momentum to send him crashing face-first into a tree trunk. One of his cohorts immediately dashed toward her. Lara kicked his spear, which snapped. The kick followed through and hit the man on the chest. He staggered backwards and in one motion Lara kicked him in the head with her other foot, killing him.

A fellow with a club took a mighty swing at her head; however his speed was hampered by the substantial weight of his weapon, and Lara managed to duck out of the way in time. Sensing movement behind her, she instinctively sidestepped to the right, causing the third spearman to miss his mark and accidentally pierce his club-wielding companion through the throat. Before he was able to wrench his weapon free from his friend’s unwilling grasp, Lara plunged her blunt machete several inches into his gut. She twisted it and yanked it out; a fountain of blood briefly spouted from the wound, before dwindling to a steady stream. The two men collapsed together, the chap skewered with the spear dying before he hit the ground.

Lara turned to see one of the attackers clobbering Mbanefo’s prostrate form. She swiftly advanced upon the boy’s assailant from behind. Less than two metres from him, something struck the back of her head with great force and she instantly blacked out.





* * * * *





6. GODDESS OF HEDONISM

Lara awoke with an excruciating headache. While unconscious, she had lain supine and the back of her severely bruised head had rested upon the hard earth. Covered in scratches, bruises and cuts, the rest of her body also smarted abominably. She did not know how she had attained these myriad minor injuries – they certainly weren’t received during the skirmish with the six naked men. She must have been dragged some distance through the forest.

Sitting up, she gingerly touched the base of her skull, wincing and immediately removing her fingers from the spot at the sudden jolt of pain that the contact provoked. She was in a small room with a doorless doorway at one end. It was dark outside. As dark as the ninth plague of Egypt, she thought, absently recalling a line she had read somewhere in the vague past. She dimly wondered what had become of Mbanefo. She hoped he was alive, but she did not feel much guilt for periclitating him. Unsteadily, she rose to her feet and staggered toward the doorway.

Low voices in what seemed like a foreign tongue could be heard outside. Four indistinguishable figures entered the room. It was a tight fit. One of them carried a torch, which was risky considering the hut that they were in was constructed largely of sticks.

Lara waited for her eyes to adjust to the sudden light, and then surveyed the four men in the room. They were naked and their edea were defaced in a similar fashion to the six who had attacked her and Mbanefo earlier. Three of the men before her resembled those six attackers. The fattest of these three wore a leopard’s skin draped around his broad shoulders and held a spear with its shaft painted red. The fourth man was white. He was perhaps sixty years of age, bald, mustached, and much plumper than the other three. He carried a torch. A revolting, knotted mass of veins sprawled across his broad forehead, bulging beneath his skin like the protuberant roots of a senescent tree. He had no neck, but that was taken care of by his chin, which rested, quiescent and irresilient upon his chest. Unlike the majority of the world’s large-chinned populace, this man’s chin was a single expansive slab of unblemished flesh, not a stratified multitude of quivering mini-chins. It lent him a kind of gross majesty, like that of a hideous mansion.

The man clad in the leopard skin said a few words in a language that, to Lara, sounded much like ancient Egyptian, though she couldn’t be sure, as she possessed only a rudimentary grasp of the language. She did not, however, need to know the ancient Egyptian vernacular to recognize the trepidation in the man’s voice.

The white man smiled at Lara, then spoke with an English accent, “Behold Lord Amkebu, descendent of Lord Intef, the chief Vizier of Pharaoh Unas.” There was no trace of fear in his voice. In fact, he sounded and looked rather smug. “The lord says,” he continued, “‘I am Lord Amkebu; ruler of the land; friend and protector of his holiness, the immortal Pharaoh Unas, Slayer of the Gods.’”

It was confirmed. The four men standing before her were members of the tribe of Unas’ votaries. Descendents of Unas’ chief Vizier and of his bodyguards. They had survived here for four thousand years, and from Lord Amkebu’s self-proclaimed role as the ‘protector of the immortal Pharaoh Unas, Slayer of the Gods’, Lara deduced that the figurine of Unas with his execration text had remained intact. They had lived in the jungle for millennia to save their bloodthirsty, cannibalistic leader’s soul. She was surprised, but not shocked; disconcerted, but not afraid. Most of all, she was excited.

Amkebu again spoke, this time at length. His initial unease faded as he spoke, and he grew angry, till, at the climax of his oration, he drove his spear into the earth, screaming the last few words with rage. The other two Egyptians remained silent and motionless in the back of the room, their faces obfuscated by darkness.

The Englishman again translated, visibly suppressing a seemingly insane compulsion to laugh as he spoke, though it seemed to Lara that she was the only one who noticed. “Have you, libidinous Hathor, enemy of the virtuous, vile godmother of Teti, returned after such a lengthy absence to once again attempt to lure us with your despicably full breasts and wicked curves; to blacken our souls with lust; to have us denounced by Anubis, scorned by Asar and condemned at the weighing of the heart; to exile us from the netherworld, with serpents falling upon us, dragging us away to Ammitt, who tears apart sinners; to cut our souls to pieces with knives; to have us tortured and devoured, consumed in everlasting flames?

Lara looked at the Englishman blankly.

He smiled – not evilly nor kindly – but with genuine amusement that seemed bizarre in the circumstances. “He thinks you’re Hathor,” he explained, “The Egyptian goddess of hedonism.”

Before Lara could reply, Amkebu spoke again; and once again, the Englishman translated while suppressing laughter. “Know you not that we, the righteous supporters of Unas, will not fall prey to your salacious inveiglement?”

Before she could stop herself, and despite the rather precarious situation, Lara sniggered at the archaic mode of speech. Although she was fairly sure that it was a rhetorical question, she answered. “No.”

This time the Englishman did burst into laughter. Amkebu glared at him fiercely and demanded something in Egyptian.

The Englishman replied, his translation only serving to intensify Amkebu’s anger.

Lara continued before he could embark upon another sententious discourse. “I am not Hathor.”

The Englishman translated, struggling to choke his cachinnation, though this time it was Amkebu who laughed. It was an evil, patronizing laugh, not at all like the Englishman’s. The two men in the background also laughed, incorrectly interpreting their leader’s mirth for a permit or perhaps an obligation to plumply follow suit. Amkebu abruptly cut his laughter short, and whirling about, he struck the nearest one on the neck with the flat side of his spearhead. The man cried out and clutched his neck. Much to Lara’s alarm, the torch fell to the ground, perilously close to the thatched wall. The other Egyptian in the background immediately ceased his laughter and stood erect, staring straight ahead. His less fortunate colleague sulkily picked up the torch and did the same, a nasty welt already forming on his neck.

Amkebu cleared his throat and delivered another speech, lengthier and more powerful than his previous addresses. It was stirring to his Egyptian companions, hilarious to the Englishman, and nonsensical to Lara. The speech lasted five minutes, and afterwards, Lara almost expected Amkebu to bow. The faceless Egyptians in the background murmured their approval. The Englishman crowed hoarsely. Amkebu left the room; the man with the torch handed it to Fortnum before following Amkebu and the other man outside.

Lara walked to the doorway and stuck her head out. She could see nothing. A spear roughly prodded her back inside the tenebrous hut.

The Englishman laughed gaily. “You can’t escape from here.”

“What did he say?” she asked him.

He smiled. “Now, you can’t possibly expect me to remember all of what he said?”

Lara did not return the smile.

“Well, my dear, to phrase it unequivocally, you’re going to die.”

“Really? What about Mbanefo?”

“The black boy? Oh yes, him too.”

Lara remained silent for a long time. As in many of the tight situations in which she had found herself throughout her life as a ‘tomb raider’, she had no idea as to how she was to deliver herself from this predicament. She was used to acting on impulse, but here there seemed to be little that she could do but ask questions and discover what exactly was going on.

“What’s going on?”

“I told you. They think you’re Hathor, and so they’re going to kill you.”

“Why didn’t they kill me immediately?”

“They have to prepare an execration text.” After a short pause, the Englishman continued, “It’s an inscription carved onto––”

“I know what it is,” Lara interrupted him. “Why are they trying to curse me if they think I’m a goddess?”

“Because they believe that that’s the only way they can kill you. Killing you outright without cursing you would simply result in the death of your current earthly manifestation. By making an execration text and then destroying it, they think they can permanently kill you and prevent you from returning as a disembodied spirit to torment them.”

“If they’re going to make an execration text, why are they going to bother killing me?”

The Englishman chuckled. “Do you think that these fellows would pass up an opportunity to eat human flesh? No, they’ll be taking theophagy to a whole new level with you, my dear. After breaking your figurine with the execration text, they’ll eat you alive – something reserved for only their most respected and feared enemies. You should feel honoured.”

The Englishman squatted then sat cross-legged on the ground. The sight of an old, corpulent, naked white man sitting cross-legged on the bare earth with seemingly natural ease almost made Lara smile.

“Have a seat,” he said.

Lara sat down, leaning her back against the flimsy wall of the hut, her legs outstretched. She didn’t believe in all that nonsense about being cursed; however, she did believe that the tribe members wanted to eat her.

“Well,” the Englishman began cheerfully, “Do you know the story of this tribe?”

“I know that they were the followers of Unas and that they fled south with his execration text.”

“I’ll get straight to the point,” he said. “They still are the followers of Unas. They still possess and guard his execration text – in fact, keeping it safe is their sole aim in life. They are still strongly against anything pertaining to pleasure for the sense organs – apart from, of course, the culinary delights of human flesh. And so, they still despise and fear Hathor. Which leads us to the terrible mistake that you have made.”

Lara waited for him to continue, but when he did not, she asked, “What mistake?”

“I thought you would know, my dear. It seems I have overestimated you. But then again, I had so little with which to make a judgment.” He paused, then added, “It was wrong to do that.”

“To do what?” she asked, irritated.

“Why, to make a judgment, of course. Not just because of the small amount of information that I possessed, but because as a rule, it is wrong to make judgments about people. It can lead to all sorts of trouble.”

“What was the mistake I made?” Lara asked wearily.

“The mistake that you made, my dear–” he cut himself short. “I don’t know your name,” he said softly in wonder, as though he had just realised that he had committed a nefandous sin.

“Lara Croft.” She didn’t bother to ask him his.

“Lara Croft,” he repeated slowly. “The mistake that you made, dear Lara,” he continued suddenly, “Was to wander this section of forest with your white skin and huge breasts, and then, when confronted, dispatch four brawny tribesmen within seconds.”

“Well, that’s pretty self-evident.”

“Then why did you ask me?”

Lara didn’t reply. It was all but apparent that she would not be able to extract much useful information from this man. He seemed to be crazy. No harm in trying, though, she told herself. She would have to start from scratch.

“What’s your name?” she asked him.

“Gaspar. Gaspar Carvajal Fortnum. Well, that wasn’t–”

“Fortnum?” Lara cut him off.

“Yes. Fortnum; but please, just call me Gaspar. I don’t see the importance of family names.” He grinned. “That used to always get me in trouble in school; I would never write my surname on my work. Just ‘Humphrey’. Yes, I was originally Humphrey Fortnum, but I couldn’t stand the name. It had very pejorative connotations. Connotations of stuffiness and bombast, you know. It would have better suited my brother – not that he was stuffy or bombastic, but it would have fitted him, strangely enough. So, as soon as I could, I changed my name to Gaspar. I don’t know why I chose that name. It just came to me at the moment. I really should have thought about it, though. You know, it’s what I am going to be called for the rest of my life. I’m not saying it’s a bad name – no, I like the name a lot – it’s just that I’m surprised I didn’t think about it before I made the decision. A very important decision, that. I could just have easily chosen a terrible name – something even worse than ‘Humphrey’. Something with affected connotations like ‘Art’ or ‘Lance’, or something with psychotic connotations like ‘Hagar’.”

Lara wasn’t listening to his vacuous ramblings. He eventually noticed.

“What’s the matter, dear?”

Lara glanced at him sharply, as though she had observed his presence for the first time.

“What’s your brother’s name?”

“Charles; but everyone always called him Charlie. Why? Do you know him?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not surprised. I knew he would eventually send someone down here – not for me, mind you, but for the figurine. Though I thought he would have at least told you about me.” He shrugged, and then said with a dry laugh, “He probably thinks I’m dead.”

“Charlie didn’t send me. I came of my own accord. He actually discouraged me from coming.”

“Really?” Gaspar made a peculiar sound in his throat, a cross between a self-deprecating snigger and an unconscious murmur of contemplation. “And I thought I had the bastard figured out.”

Lara was puzzled. Why hadn’t Fortnum told her about this? “Tell me the whole story.”

“The whole story?”

“How you ended up here.”

Gaspar tenderly scratched his vast expanse of chin. “I am a missionary,” he said, his voice completely serious for the first time. “Are you religious, Lara?”

“No.” Lara was agnostic. To her, organised religion had always had a streak of absurdity. Though she was born a Catholic, she had never taken her religion seriously, considering the notion that all one had to do was be good in order to live forever in Heaven rather delusory. Nothing in life was that easy, so why should it be in death? So she categorised most seriously religious people as either escapist stargazers or canting zealots.

“That’s good,” said Gaspar gravely. “One should be sincerely pious or self-admittedly impious. There’s nothing worse than a hypocritical acediast. Like me. You see, Lara, I was once a very earnest young priest. Once, I attended a speech given by a famous missionary – I can’t, for the life of me, remember his name. He had traveled to the ends of the earth, spreading the word of god to reprobates everywhere. That man became my role model. I decided to become a missionary, and a month later, I was in Yambio, converting like crazy. Back then, the population of Yambio, was, for the most part, comprised of a multitude of homogenous indigents having no apparent chance of transcending their squalor, bar greatly increased Western intervention. The big chaps back home promised assistance, but none ever came. I disgustedly called it ‘ecclesiastical parsimony’, though when I think of it, I realise that it wasn’t really the church’s fault. Anyway, proselytizing the masses was a bit tedious, and more importantly to me, quite impersonal, so I decided to transfer to Bwala – you know, that little village on the edge of this forest. There, I taught children, helped the sick, and educated the populace. I felt that a lot of good could be done there, if only there were adequate funds. I pleaded, but none ever came. To cut a long story short, over the years I grew rather disillusioned. I was conscious of this, and this made me all the more appalled at myself. I was losing faith and consequently, interest. Then one day, Charlie contacted me. We hadn’t spoken in two decades. He told me something about an ancient relic sitting somewhere in the jungle, near the border. He wanted my help to get it – god knows why. I think it was something to do with getting into the region, I don’t know, my memory is fading, you know. Anyway, I was bored so I accepted. We went into the jungle, got captured by this tribe, Charlie escaped, I didn’t, and here we are now!” Gaspar laughed cheerfully.

“Why didn’t they kill you?”

“Ah, that’s the funny part, you see. Because of our white skin and Charlie’s gun, they thought we were gods. I know, it sounds awfully clichéd, but you must understand that they had never seen white people before.”

“Why did you not successfully escape if you had a gun?”

“They caught us by surprise. Charlie was able to kill one of them, but they took him down before he was able to reload. Anyway, after Charlie escaped late the next day, I sort of settled in. I actually got almost chummy with the tribesmen. I enjoyed myself, apart from, of course, this little procedure,” Gaspar said, glancing down at his crotch. “But then again, I’d never need the sucker – I’m a priest, you know.” He laughed.

“Why did Charlie not escape with the figurine?”

“He couldn’t get near it. It’s guarded heavily, you know.”

“More heavily than this hut?”

“Much more. You’ve no chance of even laying eyes upon it.”

“Can you help me escape?”

Gaspar once again burst into laughter. He laughed paroxysmally, rocking back and forth, his tongue loose in his gaping mouth, a long sliver of drool hanging from his bottom lip.

Lara did not bother do hide her disgust, but she did not move, for there was nothing she could do.

“Nothing can be done!” gasped Gaspar finally, voicing her thoughts. “The hut’s guarded, you have no weapon or compass, your guide’s as good as dead, and it’s as dark as a rabbit’s arse outside.”

The crazy Englishman poking fun at her predicament angered Lara. Impulsively, she jumped to her feet and snatched the torch from his loose grasp. Fortnum immediately sobered.

“What are you doing?” he asked, startled.

Lara didn’t reply – she didn’t really know what she was doing. She strode through the doorway, brandishing the flaming torch before her, and bumped into someone into whose face she thrust it. The person screamed and fell onto his back. Beside his writhing form stood a spearman. He seemed startled, frozen to the spot. Lara burnt his face too, then picked up the spear that he had dropped.

She could hear alarmed cries coming from the darkness all around her. Surrounded by hostile tribesmen armed with spears and clubs, with her position lit like a beacon by the torch she held, Lara was not in the safest of situations. Suppressing a sudden urge to run blindly into the night in the hope of escape, she waited for some of the villagers to light torches and shed some light on the area. None did. Although she couldn’t see much further than a dozen metres around her, Lara could hear them closing in. She heard heavy footsteps behind her. It was Gaspar. Without turning fully, she kicked him, burying her boot in the thick folds of his stomach. He squealed in an almost girlishly high-pitched voice at which she would ordinarily have laughed, and crashed heavily to the ground. This infuriated the tribesmen and several of them charged towards her with what seemed like cries of indignation. Lara thought she was done for.

As they came within the light of her torch she saw that they were unarmed, and she wondered with incredulity if they planned to tackle her. That was indeed what they did. The nearest one pounced, but only managed to impale himself on her spear. With a frantically thrashing man stuck fast on the shaft of her weapon, Lara was forced to discard it. Another tribesman attempted to tackle her; she dodged him and he fell on his face. The rest advanced, rapidly, but with eerie quietness. Feeling the first traces of panic, Lara began to run desultorily into the thick darkness, zigzagging to avoid the diving tackles of the tribesmen. It was rather like playing rugby; only in the dark, and gripping a burning torch instead of a ball. She found herself sprinting past a row of huts, so she lit them on fire as she passed. Made of sticks, they almost immediately burst into flames, lighting the area with a flickering orange glow that made the shadows of her pursuers dance – she fleetingly imagined in her state of mind – as though in homage to some infernal igneous deity.

The burning huts seemed to distract some of the tribesmen, as a number of them melted away into the darkness with cries of alarm. Having now distanced herself from her pursuers by some ten metres, Lara could, in the light of the loudly crackling fires, see the edge of the forest fast approaching. Her extemporaneous flight for escape was working out better than she could have hoped for; however, there seemed to be no viable way for her to nab Unas’ execration text on her way out of this little village in the middle of the jungle. She would have to return for it later. With firearms and after confronting Fortnum.

Lara reached the edge of the clearing with the pursuing tribesmen at least a dozen metres behind her. As she began to tear through the undergrowth, she remembered Mbanefo. However, she was so heady with the notion of escape from what she had perceived as a likely death at the mouths of cannibals, and the adrenaline was so delightfully coursing through her veins, that she felt scarcely a twinge of remorse for leaving him to die.

Forced to drop her torch – she needed two hands to clear the assortment of vines, branches and shrubbery from her path – Lara was now stumbling around in darkness. She could no longer hear her pursuers. Maybe they had given up the chase? She certainly hoped so, though it seemed very odd that people who lived in the forest would be reluctant to set foot amongst the trees at night. Perhaps these primitive tribesmen have a superstitious fear of the dark forest, thought Lara with a smirk. Then the ground beneath her gave way.

She fell on her arse with a painful thud onto soft earth. It was completely dark. There was silence apart from the sound of heavy breathing. At first, Lara thought it was her own. Then an animal growled in her ear. Whirling around, she instinctively belted the creature in the head with a closed fist. It roared – in pain, not anger, Lara hoped – and before it could retaliate she was upon it. It bucked wildly beneath her, jaws gnashing together ferociously. She momentarily felt some relief, for she could tell that it was not a leopard, as she had initially feared; but this gave way to dread as she realised that it must be a gorilla or a chimpanzee. With one hand gripping its thick bristly neck, she searched with the other for the primate’s eyes, narrowly avoiding getting her fingers chomped off. Upon finding an eye, she dug her forefinger into it, causing the animal to thrash even more wildly. Lara now had both hands tightly wrapped around the beast’s neck. Its struggles subsided as she choked the life out of it. Exhausted, she rolled off its lifeless body and sat on the ground, regaining her breath and her senses. Feeling around with her hands, she could tell that she was in some kind of pit. It was deep, for she couldn’t reach its top. Jumping as high as she could, she caught the edge of the pit, hanging by her fingers. She pulled herself up, and had hooked her forearms onto the surface earth, when a torch dimly lit the area and the sharp end of a spear was pressed against her cheek.





* * * * *





7. THE DANGEROUS DEAD

Lara bit into a piece of Mbanefo’s charred flesh with obvious disrelish. It was very salty.

“That’s a piece of the most unsavoury part of the human body,” said Gaspar. “The feet.” He picked his teeth with a fat finger, holding a chunk of meat in the other hand. “It’s like eating beef jerky.”

After being found in the animal trap the previous night, Lara had been escorted back to her hut, which was then assigned six guards. She had been awoken in the early hours of morning by agonized screams from Mbanefo, but had fallen asleep a while later and only woken up again not long before noon. It was now early evening, and Gaspar had just entered the hut with roasted scraps of the unfortunate Sudanese boy.

“Why can’t we just eat that animal I killed yesterday?”

“That, Lara, was a bonobo.”

“So?”

“You know,” Fortnum continued at her blank expression, “The sex ape. It’s like a docile, concupiscent chimpanzee. One of the gentlest, friendliest creatures on––”

“I know what it is,” Lara snapped, cutting him off. She felt a little sheepish for having throttled the bonobo.

“Eating a bonobo is taboo for this tribe. Even though you’re their prisoner, they have to treat you with respect. You’re supposed to be a goddess, you know.”

“Doesn’t the bonobo represent everything they’re against?”

“Yes – that’s why they won’t eat it. They believe that they become what they eat.”

“Then why do they want to eat me?”

“Eating a god or a goddess is, for them, the highest form of spiritual gratification.” He took a hearty bite out of the piece of flesh he held. “And they love human flesh,” he added, his mouth full of meat, its juices dribbling down his enormous chin.

“Listen, Gaspar; don’t you want to get out of here? Return to civilised society?”

“This society is quite civilised, you know.”

“They’re cannibals, for God’s sake!”

“Now, there’s no need to bring God into this,” said Gaspar sternly. “In fact, I’d say you’re the uncivilised one. You came here to steal a tribe’s most cherished possession – an idol of their venerated leader for which they sacrificed much blood. You led an innocent young fellow to his death, and are now eating him for lunch––”

“I had no other choice,” interjected Lara sharply. It was quite close to the truth. She hadn’t eaten in about thirty-six hours and needed energy if she was to escape when given the chance.

“You viciously kicked an old missionary in the stomach,” continued Gaspar. “You burnt down huts while women and children slept inside them. And you murdered a harmless ape.”

“I didn’t know it was harmless. And I certainly didn’t know that there were women and children inside those huts. Not until you told me just then.”

“Anyway,” she continued after a pause, “They’d have eaten me if given half a chance.”

Gaspar regarded her through half-closed eyes, one hand holding the scrap of meat, the other slowly rubbing a large bruise that had developed on his bloated belly at the place where Lara had kicked him earlier. He was decidedly glummer than he had been the previous night.

“Lets escape,” said Lara, involuntarily lowering her voice to a conspirational whisper.

“I don’t need to escape. I can walk away from here at any time I want.”

“Then why don’t you? It’s not like you have any respect for these people’s beliefs and practices.”

“I’ve become attached to this place. And I’m respected here.”

“Then help me to escape.”

“Why should I?” Gaspar asked angrily. “Because you have white skin?” He scoffed. “All you’ve done is kick me in the guts.”

So he still resented her for that, Lara thought. She gave up. She would have to wait for an opportunity to escape on her own, though she doubted one would come.

Lara sat silently on the ground for five minutes, sweating in the suffocating heat, with Gaspar sitting naked and cross-legged before her. He would stare at her for about fifteen seconds at one-minute intervals, and then return to picking the meat clean off the large bone he held. When he finished his meal he began to loudly and studiously lick his fingers and palms. Strangely, it was this that sickened Lara rather more than anything that had happened thus far. She tossed her half-eaten piece of meat out the door of the hut.

“You fat piece of shit,” she said slowly, distaste thick in her voice. Startled, Gaspar looked up at her, a finger still in his mouth. “Why are you sitting here? Fuck off.” Lara continued. She wasn’t sure why she was so angry. After all, she did think him to be quite mad. Gaspar’s hand dropped limply away from his mouth. A look of dismay crossed his face, changing to one of misery at Lara’s persisting severe expression.

“Lara, I…I…I can’t help you,” he stammered, tears welling in his eyes. “It’s too risky. They’ll kill me.”

Lara didn’t reply.

“I’ve got no guts, Lara,” said Gaspar dolefully, his hands nervously rubbing his vast expanse of gut.

Lara remained silent, looking out the door. Gaspar slowly picked himself up and thudded out of the hut, tears trickling down his cheeks.



Two hours later two tribesmen entered Lara’s hut and motioned for her to follow them outside. She did so, squinting in the late evening sunlight. It was her first clear look at the village of Unas’ followers. It consisted of a cluster of thatched and mud-walled huts scattered across a clearing of approximately seventy metres in diameter. One of the huts was guarded by several men; therefore she safely guessed that it contained Unas’ execration text. In the center of the clearing, numerous tribesmen were gathered around a fire. ‘A pyre,’ thought Lara grimly.

She was led to the fire by an escort of six hefty tribesmen. After her nearly successful escape attempt, they weren’t taking any chances, she thought. She was made to stand before the roaring fire while a heavily decorated Lord Amkebu held aloft a clay figurine – of her, Lara assumed – and vehemently chanted incantations in Egyptian. It reminded her of a documentary she had seen several years ago about glossolalia, though Amkebu’s voice sounded a great deal more hostile than your run-of-the-mill expression of spiritual ecstasy. A man slightly less gaudily garbed than Amkebu fed the fire tree branches, and at intervals poured blood into it from a clay pot. About thirty very solemn looking tribesmen surrounded the fire in a large circle. Gaspar was nowhere to be seen. Nor were any women or children.

There seemed to be no way of escape. Lara had lived through many near-death situations, but afterwards, had rarely dwelt upon these for very long. She knew that owing to her lifestyle, she was quite likely to meet a premature death, most probably during one of her expeditions; but the thought had never frightened her. She had never, however, expected to be eaten alive by cannibals.

Amkebu suddenly began to chant more loudly and at a higher pitch. The surrounding tribesmen caught the excitement; murmurs went around the circle and they slowly closed in. Over Amkebu’s voice, Lara heard a familiar, unmistakable noise, and she felt a flicker of hope. She turned her gaze to the sky and saw a helicopter some distance away but steadily approaching. Lara hoped it was Fortnum. If it wasn’t, it would almost certainly not land even if its passengers spotted the clearing. Amkebu was now screaming hoarsely. Lara could see the spittle flying forth from his mouth. All the tribesmen were now highly excited, and two members of the escort gripped her tightly by the arms. The helicopter drew near. Lara, who rarely grew nervous, involuntarily tensed. No one but her seemed to hear the helicopter. Amkebu abruptly ceased his chanting and in one swift movement swung his arms down from above his head and broke Lara’s figurine in half. He glared at her, eyes wild and his torso glistening with sweat, then dropped it to the ground. A hush fell over the circle of tribesmen. Lara wasn’t paying much attention – her eyes were on the helicopter, which, to her relief, seemed to be making straight for the clearing. In the sudden quietness, it could be clearly heard. All eyes followed it as it approached the clearing, hovered above it, then slowly descended, landing in a great cloud of dust.

When the dust settled, Charles Fortnum was standing beside the helicopter, fitted out cap-a-pie in his old khaki expedition clothes, pointing a handgun at Lara. He fired six times in rapid succession, hitting each member of Lara’s escort in the head, spattering blood and bits of brain on her face. For a moment there was silence, during which Fortnum calmly reloaded his weapon. Then he shot Amkebu in the chest, and there was chaos. The circle of tribesmen broke up and ran about wildly, some making for the forest, some for Fortnum. He neatly picked off several of them, causing the rest to flee.

His aim is excellent for an octogenarian, thought Lara numbly. Women and children began to stream out of the huts and disappear into the forest. As Fortnum continued to mercilessly shoot fleeing tribesmen and their screaming wives and children with deadly accuracy and his face a mask of glacial indifference, Lara saw the man who had been feeding the flames with wood and blood enter the hut that housed Unas’ execration text. She sprinted towards it, reaching it just as the man stepped out of it clutching a clay figurine to his chest. Lara felled him with a punch to the jaw. She snatched the figurine from him then turned to Fortnum. The clearing was littered with bleeding bodies, most dead, the majority of the rest well on the way.

“Hello, Lara.”

“Hi, Charlie.”

“You still shoot fine.”

“Well, I still practice.”

“Not one shard of pottery, you said.”

“I lied.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want you to get that,” Fortnum glanced at Unas’ figurine in Lara’s hands, “if I couldn’t.”

“Why didn’t you come back for it? You had a decade.”

“I was terrified. These people are bloodthirsty maniacs. Sadists. Just like Unas. He was a rotten bastard. The first time I came here, they infibulated me with a sharp stick and some plant fibers; then, for a bit of fun, they made me eat my own eye. It was hell.”

Lara stared at his glass eye. He looks remarkably like his brother, she thought. “Gaspar didn’t find them so bad.”

“Gaspar?” Fortnum sounded genuinely surprised. “Is he still here?”

Lara looked around the clearing, but couldn’t see him. “Should be.”

“Gaspar’s crazy.”

An awkward silence.

“You should have warned me about these people. I’d have brought a gun,” Lara didn’t hide the anger in her voice.

“I’m sorry. But you know how greedy and competitive I am.”

“Not till now.”

“Well, at least I came back to help you out. And believe me, it was hard. I had nightmares about this place for years.”

He coughed violently then breathed sinustically through his thick moustache. “I was looking at that red exercise book just before you arrived. I meant to hide it so no one would read it – just as I did with all my other good books – but I must have forgotten. My memory’s failing me, you know.”

There was a moment’s silence. Lara didn’t have anything to say to him. She was both angry and grateful.

“Well,” said Fortnum finally. “Let’s depart then. But first, place the figurine on the ground and take ten steps backwards.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Fortnum’s voice had an unusually icy edge and his expression was uncharacteristically stern. “You should be thankful that I saved you from being eaten. So you’ll place the figurine on the ground, I’ll take it via helicopter to Yambio then by plane to my home. You’ll go home the way you came – I can’t trust you in the helicopter with me after this. Then we’ll be even.”

Lara took a few seconds to reply. She saw Gaspar peering out from inside a hut about ten metres directly behind Fortnum. “Fuck you,” she said.

Fortnum chuckled. “You don’t have a choice Lara.” He pointed his gun at her. “I know we’re friends and all, but business is business. I’m going to count to three. Then I’ll kill you.”

Lara could see Gaspar very slowly and stealthily approaching Fortnum from behind, his lips drawn back in a crazed grin, his eyes red and bulging out of his head. It was a funny sight: two very similar looking fat old fellows near each other, one seemingly calm, and the other with an almost cartoonishly murderous expression slapped on his face.

“Why the sudden mood swing, Charlie?” Lara asked, trying to buy time. “A minute ago you were telling me that you overcame your intense fear of this place to return to save my life. Now you want to kill me.”

“I love you, Lara. But I can’t have you tramping into central Africa to pluck out an artifact in a couple of days when I once spent weeks and found jack shit.” Lara knew that the fact that he said ‘shit’ meant that he was losing his head a bit. Fortnum hardly ever swore. “Besides,” he said, “You owe me it.”

“You know, Charlie, when I get out of here, I’m going to tell everyone what you did.”

Fortnum burst into laughter. “No one’s going to believe you, dear! You don’t have much of a reputation, you know.” It was true.

“Now, I’m going to count to three,” said Fortnum, serious again. “One.” He leveled the gun at her chest. “Two.” Gaspar was right behind him now. “Three.” Gaspar threw himself at Fortnum as he fired. Lara threw herself to the ground, the shot whizzing past her. The gun had been knocked out of Fortnum’s grasp and lay a few feet away from him. Fortnum and Gaspar rolled around, locked in a mortal struggle. Gaspar appeared to be winning – he was straddling his brother with his hands around his throat. As Lara stood, the head of Unas’ figurine toppled to the ground and shattered. Almost immediately, a fireball crashed from the sky into the earth near her with a stentorian bang that sent her tumbling to the ground. Gaspar and Fortnum froze in their struggle, eyes towards the crater that the fireball had created. As the smoke cleared, a tall naked figure stepped out of it. He had an afro and a goatee, an impeccable physique, and his enormous penis was somewhat crudely sewn up.

“Unas,” Lara said in awe.

With a soft groan, Gaspar rolled of his brother’s supine form and onto his backside.

The large naked man appeared furious, so Lara slowly edged towards the gun.

“Halt!” he bellowed in Egyptian. Lara understood, and the combination of astonishment at seeing a four thousand year old pharaoh standing before her and the sheer authority in his voice made her comply.

“It is I, Unas, whose name is known afar,” he boomed. Lara again understood him.

Unas launched into a flurry of words, none of which Lara understood. Though Gaspar seemed to.

“You brought him back, you crazy bitch!” he screamed, glaring at Lara. His eyes were so wild that Lara almost thought they would pop out of his head, and his mouth was gaping in a rictus of terror. “We’re going to die,” he whimpered, before prostrating before Unas and blubbering supplications in ancient Egyptian.

Fortnum, who until now had been propped up on one arm, regarding Unas with abject horror, began to do a leopard’s crawl towards the gun, which lay on the ground two metres away. With three huge strides, Unas had planted a foot on Fortnum’s back. He bent, picked up the gun, and bashed Fortnum’s skull with it, splitting his head open like it was a coconut. He apparently didn’t know how to use the firearm.

Meanwhile, Lara had picked up a spear that lay near a prostrate tribesman. Unas turned to face her. He roared something in Egyptian.

“What did he say?” Lara asked Gaspar, her eyes still on Unas who was steadily advancing toward her. She took a few steps backwards.

“He said, ‘Prepare to face Unas, the wrath of God’.”

“I thought he’s the slayer of the gods.”

“He became a god himself through much theophagy, remember?” said Gaspar through sobs of fear.

“But now he’s fallen from grace.”

Unas charged at her, arms stretched before him. Lara threw her spear like a javelin at him, and it lodged itself in his head. But to her horror, Unas continued to run. He crashed into her, flattening her to the ground, then lay motionless over her. Lara pushed his body aside with some difficulty and leapt to her feet. She half expected him to rise, but he didn’t.

“Not so godly now, are we?” she asked aloud without a smile. After a moment, she knelt and felt his pulse.

“He’s dead.”

“Lara Croft, slayer of a god,” said Gaspar softly. He picked himself up, standing unsteadily.

Lara scooped up Unas’ headless figurine. She stared at it for a few seconds then looked at where her broken figurine lay between Amkebu’s dead body and the still roaring fire.

Gaspar seemed to know what she was thinking. “I’m sorry, Lara.”

“Eternal damnation, eh?” she thought aloud.

“Possibly.”

“I can’t hope that gluing it back together will do any good, can I?”

“I’d give it a shot.”

Lara gazed around at the carnage that had happened in the past few minutes. Scores of corpses. Egyptians with bulletholes; an Englishman in khaki with brains spilling out of his smashed skull; a pharaoh with a spear through his head.

“Thanks, Gaspar.”

“Where are you off to, Lara?”

“I think I’d better inform Mbanefo’s mother that her son’s dead.”

“Goodbye then.”

“Bye, Gaspar.”

Gaspar Carvajal Fortnum slowly walked away and disappeared into the trees.

Lara collected both halves of her figurine. She couldn’t understand the execration text carved into it. With a small shrug, she clambered into the helicopter with both figurines in her arms and started the engine. She didn’t care to dwell on life after death.





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