Egypt Page 6

  All right, it’s getting late and we have some pretty tough days ahead. Time to extinguish the lantern and get some sleep.

  GANNON

  FEBRUARY 27

  CAIRO

  Last night was pretty much torture, thinking about the fellowship and all. Didn’t sleep a whole lot. Tried, but couldn’t. There were so many thoughts moving through my head that they got all backed up like the Cairo traffic.

  Just after the sun was up, my mom walked into my room. Judging by the way she tilted her head and squinted her eyes, I must have looked like one of those mummies we found at A1.

  “You feeling okay this morning?” she asked, concern in her voice.

  “I’ve felt better,” I said.

  “I have an idea,” she said. “I know you’re interested in learning Arabic. I thought maybe you would enjoy helping me at the school today.”

  I sat up in bed and shrugged my shoulders. I mean, normally I would have been totally into something like that, but this morning I didn’t feel like doing much of anything.

  “Come on,” she said. “It will be fun. The kids are great. You’ll love spending time with them and they’ll teach you some Arabic. What do you say?”

  My dad had left for Giza before sunrise to work on his paintings, and it was obvious that sitting around the room wasn’t going to do me a whole lot of good, so I agreed.

  Downtown Cairo apartments

  The cab dropped us off in front of a concrete building on a busy street a few blocks east of the Egyptian Museum. The building was dirty with pollution and in total disrepair. It had all kinds of Arabic signs hanging from it and there was this little tree standing in front of the building, just growing out of the sidewalk and covered in dust and looking all alone and sad in this congested, concrete jungle.

  Inside the lobby, we made our way to the elevator.

  “We’re going to the fourth floor,” my mom said.

  I pressed the button and the doors opened. The elevator was the size of a tiny closet with a cracked mirror and a flickering bulb hanging from a wire in the center of the ceiling.

  “Um, I think I’ll take the stairs,” I said.

  “I’ll join you.”

  Up the granite steps four stories was a yellow door.

  “This is it,” my mom said.

  A wooden sign engraved in Arabic hung over the doorway. It looked like this:

  “What does that say?” I asked my mom.

  “School,” my mom said.

  “Can you spell it phonetically?”

  “M-A-D-R-A-S-S-A-H.”

  When my mom walked in, the kids went wild, jumping up and down and clapping their hands and pulling on her dress. I wondered if teachers were always greeted like this, or maybe it was just that she was so different, tall and blonde and blue-eyed, a rare thing to see in the Arab world. Either way, I’ve never seen kids so excited to begin a day of school.

  “Sabah el kheer,” I said to the kids as they gathered around me. That means, “Good morning.” I sat on the edge of the table and a boy climbed right up on my lap.

  “Kaifa haloka?” I asked him. This translates to: “How are you?” when speaking to a male. When speaking to a female, it’s “Kaifa haloki?”

  Instead of answering, the kids would just smile and giggle and talk to one another, looking at me like I was the most curious thing they’d ever seen.

  Their teacher was a young Egyptian woman who looked like she had just graduated from college. She came over and introduced herself.

  “You must be Gannon,” she said in perfect English. “I’m Mandisa Mahfouz.”

  “Pleasure to meet you,” I said and we shook hands.

  “Your mom has been a tremendous help. The kids are making great progress. As you can tell, they are thrilled to be learning how to read and write. Most of them will be the first in their family to do so.”

  The room was pretty simple with low ceilings and long cracks that ran all the way up the walls, most likely caused by the earthquakes that are common in Egypt. The windows along the far wall were open and you could hear the sound of the traffic below, only at a slightly lower volume because of the fourth-floor location.

  None of these distractions mattered to the kids. They were there to learn. Ms. Mahfouz spoke to the class in Arabic and pointed to the blackboard where she had sketched the Arabic alphabet in bright white chalk. It looked like this:

  Abjad Hawaz Hotty Kalamon

  The children read it aloud together as Ms. Mahfouz pointed to each letter. And just like that, the day was underway.

  The literacy program was really something. I mean, not only were these children learning to read and write in Arabic, they were learning English as well, and the way they reacted to the lessons with such enthusiasm, well, it was just awesome.

  I have to say, my time at the school was really fun, and under different circumstances I would have come back day after day to help, but something was eating away at me and when something is eating away at me so bad that I can’t focus on anything else, there’s only one thing to do, and that’s to address the problem head on.

  It was late afternoon and my mom and I were back on the sidewalk trying to hail a cab when I finally worked up the nerve to voice my feelings.

  “I want to rejoin the fellowship,” I said.

  My mom looked at me and I could see what she was thinking. It was in her eyes. She was thinking that I was crazy. She was thinking that I’d probably just end up dropping out again when things got tough. She was thinking that I was setting myself up for another failure.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “Dr. Aziz said it’s only going to get more difficult for the fellows. The complex outside Alexandria is much more elaborate and built much deeper into the earth.”

  “I know, Mom. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, but I have no choice. I haven’t stopped thinking about this since I left Luxor. I let Wyatt down. I let Dr. Aziz and the other fellows down. I can’t live with that. I have to overcome my fears. I know I can do it. I’ve done it before.”

  “Well, Gannon, this is your call. You know your dad and I will support whatever decision you make.”

  “I’ve already made it, mom.”

  Tomorrow, I’m taking the first train to Alexandria and rejoining the expedition.

  WYATT

  FEBRUARY 28, 4:49 PM

  TOMB COMPLEX

  22° CELSIUS, 72° FAHRENHEIT

  SKIES CLEAR, WIND CALM

  At first, I thought I was seeing some kind of mirage. An optical illusion among the waves of heat. But, it wasn’t a mirage. It was Gannon!

  In typical grand fashion, he came riding up on the back of a camel, his desert scarf trailing off in the wind. The camel topped the dune and lumbered into camp. The man captaining the camel was wrapped in a long white robe and a kaf-fiyeh, a swath of material worn over the head. This man, I assumed, was a Bedouin, one of the nomadic tribesmen of the desert. He barked some orders and the camel knelt down, first on its front knees, then back, before coming to rest on its belly. Gannon slid off and paid the man his fare.

  “Shokran, Abdulla,” Gannon said, bowing his head.

  Abdulla bowed in return.

  “Well, look what the camel dragged in,” I said.

  Gannon turned to me and opened his arms to the desert.

  “Call me, Gannon of Arabia!” he said, and flipped his scarf back around his neck.

  I laughed.

  “You have something against taxis?” I asked.

  “Why take a taxi when you can take a camel?”

  “You sure know how to make an entrance. I’ll give you that.”

  “So, bring me up to speed. What’s going on with the dig? Things look promising?”

  “When Dr. Aziz arrived the excavation kicked into high gear. We’ve already managed to clear away lots of sand in the two areas where he thinks there might be a chamber. We haven’t found anything yet, but he’s pretty sure we will. It’s just a matter of time.”


  “So,” Gannon said, “this is really happening, isn’t it?”

  “It is. And here’s the best part. Not only are we part of the dig, we’re on the front lines. If there’s a find, we’re going to be right there. You made a great choice coming back. This fellowship is incredible!”

  I held a pickaxe in my hand.

  “Dr. Aziz lets you walk around with that thing?” Gannon asked, pointing.

  “I told you. We’re on the front lines.”

  “I might have to question Dr. Aziz’s judgment on that one.”

  Gannon hopped up on a flat stone and surveyed the complex. The uniformed men caught his attention.

  “Who are all the guys with guns?” Gannon asked.

  “The Egyptian military police. They’re here to protect the site.”

  Gannon stared at the policeman nearest us. Like all the other military police, he wore a black suit, black boots with white gaiters and a red beret. Each member of the police squad carried an AK-47 submachine gun and had a pistol on their hip.

  “That’s some serious protection,” Gannon said. “You think it’s totally necessary?”

  “I guess so. Who knows what kind of treasure might be buried at this site? I’m sure there are tomb robbers out there who would love to get their hands on it.”

  Gannon didn’t say anything for a minute. He just looked around the site, adjusted his scarf.

  “Gannon!” came a booming voice. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t be able to stay away!”

  Dr. Aziz jogged to my brother and gave him a hug.

  “I’m here for good this time,” Gannon said. “That, I promise.”

  “Very happy to hear it.”

  “So put me to work. If memory serves, we’re searching for a Queen. Is that right?”

  Dr. Aziz laughed and the two of them walked off toward the excavation site.

  Sure, Gannon can drive me nuts sometimes, and I’m already anticipating more drama now that he’s rejoined the fellowship, but all that said, I couldn’t be happier to have my brother back. An adventure like this wouldn’t be the same without him.

  Desert transportation

  GANNON

  LATE NIGHT

  By way of train, foot, and camel, I arrived at the excavation site and found the place bustling with activity. From the hilltop it looked almost like a colony of ants, just with men instead of ants, all carrying shovels and pickaxes and carting away piles of rock and debris. I broke a sweat just watching them.

  Well, with all this going on, Dr. Aziz wasted no time putting me to work. This afternoon I probably shoveled enough sand to build my own pyramid. My back aches. I can hardly lift my arms. My hand shakes as I write. But I’m not complaining. At least, not out loud. I’m here to redeem myself and will do whatever’s asked of me with a huge smile on my face!

  WYATT

  MARCH 1, 11:28 AM

  TOMB COMPLEX

  21° CELSIUS, 70° FAHRENHEIT

  SKIES CLEAR, WIND 5-15 MPH

  We’ve just made an amazing discovery! Three steps buried in the sand! And more below it, I’m sure. A workman on break found the steps when he tossed his shovel aside and heard it hit something hard. Now, that’s luck, pure and simple. But, hey, like I said, we’ll take it.

  Right now the men are clearing away the rubble. The plan is simple. Follow the steps and see where they lead. Dr. Aziz has also ordered radar scans of the area to see if there might be a tunnel or chamber underground.

  The military police have taken a serious interest in our work. Several of them are huddled around the steps, closely monitoring our progress. Earlier, Dr. Aziz had an argument with the police commander. I wasn’t sure what they were shouting about, since they were only speaking in Arabic, but it was pretty heated. When I asked Dr. Aziz if everything was all right, he acted as if there was nothing to worry about, but it’s obvious there’s some tension between them.

  GANNON

  MARCH 2

  We reached the fifteenth step and have started to clear the area around the walls that run down either side of the staircase, which are carved up with all these cool hieroglyphics. At first Dr. Aziz got really excited about the carvings, thinking that maybe they’d tell us something about Cleopatra, so he went right to work copying down and translating everything. Of course, I convinced myself the hieroglyphics were some kind of curse, the kind that says, “A swift death will come to all who enter this tomb,” or some horrible thing like that.

  Turns out it was a message to Osiris, the ruler of the afterlife. Dr. Aziz was a little upset it wasn’t something more specific. He’s anxious to find some kind of proof that this is really Cleopatra’s tomb.

  Okay, that’s all for now. I need to grab a quick snack, chug some serious water, and get back to the dig.

  Egyptian carvings

  WYATT

  MARCH 3, 7:57 PM

  TOMB COMPLEX

  32° CELSIUS, 90° FAHRENHEIT

  WIND 70 MPH, GUSTS TO 90 MPH

  This morning, the sky turned blood red on the horizon.

  Dr. Aziz ran from his tent with Khalid and they climbed to the top of a dune to assess the approaching storm.

  “I’m afraid this may be worse than the meteorologists predicted,” he said. Then he turned to the crew and shouted orders. “We must make sure the camp is secure enough to hold when the winds arrive! Everyone hurry! The storm will be here soon!”

  We all went to work, checking the ropes and stakes that held our tent camp to the desert floor. Most of the support ropes were grounded by large rocks, some weighing as much as fifty pounds.

  Soon, a purple and red haze reached from one end of the horizon to the other, like a wall of sand slowly consuming the earth. Storms like this are not uncommon in these parts. They come off the Mediterranean Sea, picking up desert sand and dust as they roar eastward. I had read that these storms are sometimes bad enough to bring all outdoor activity to a halt, forcing people to take shelter until they pass. But even reading of such accounts, I wasn’t at all prepared.

  “Everyone to your tents!” Dr. Aziz shouted. “The storm is nearly upon us!”

  I was putting one last rock over a stake supporting the kitchen tent, when a strong wind charged up the hill from the west. The wind was hot, like a wind coming off a distant forest fire, and carried with it a thick plume of sand. I lifted my scarf over my mouth and turned my back to the wind. The sand hit the exposed skin on my forearms like tiny needles. At first I thought the initial gust would ease enough for me to gather my things and run inside the tent. But the wind didn’t let up. Actually, it increased, blowing harder and moving up the dune with such force that it pushed me back a few steps. I had to squat down to keep from being blown over.

  Visibility was no more than a few feet. Through the thundering wind, I could hear shouts of men and see the occasional worker making a break for his tent. The wind continued, refusing to let up, even for a second. I needed to get to shelter.

  Staggering, half-blind, my arm bent around my eyes to shield them from the driving sand, I found our tent and quickly made my way inside. Gannon, Serene and James were seated on the floor in the center of the tent.

  “Sorry, I didn’t want to say it,” Gannon shouted, “but I’m starting to think we’re cursed!”

  Serene remained silent.

  “It’s just a sandstorm!” I yelled.

  “No, this is not just a sandstorm!” Gannon shouted back. “It’s the mother of all sandstorms! Listen to that wind! The whole camp’s going to blow away! We’ll be buried alive! Just like the shopkeeper’s grandfather!”

  “The tent will hold!” I yelled, though I wasn’t so sure.

  The inside perimeter of the tent is lined with heavy rocks for added support. With all of that weight, it will take a tornado to blow our tent away, but the wind is pounding at the canvas walls with such force, I’m afraid it might rip apart at the seams.

  “I never thought I’d say this,” James said, “but I’m with Gannon! Maybe we got t
oo close to the tomb and now we’re cursed!”

  Serene has not spoken, but there is fear in her eyes.

  I’m not buying into the curse theory. Fact is, a desert storm is upon us and we’re helpless to do anything, but wait it out.

  GANNON

  MARCH 5

  For two days and two nights this storm has raged. I’ve never seen anything like it! By some miracle, the tent has managed to hold up somehow, but the constant battering has definitely taken its toll. Last night a rip appeared in one of the corner seams and started to grow with each rush of wind. We were scared that the tear might open more and if that happened the entire roof would be blown off, so we raced around looking for anything that could be used to patch it up. What we ended up doing was using a pocket knife to cut a slit into the canvas on either side of the tear, then we taped a couple pens and pencils together, pushed them through the slits, and twisted them around until the tear was tightly closed off.

  So far, it has held.

  The sound of the wind whipping against the tent has us all on the verge of a breakdown. I’m not joking, it’s like a thousand drums pounding in our ears all at once … for days on end! And to make matters worse, we haven’t slept now since before the storm hit. The air inside the tent is terrible and hot and swirling with dust, making it really hard to breathe. My outlook on this whole thing isn’t good and I’m not the only one.

  “I can’t take it anymore!” James yelled, as he paced the inside of the tent.

  “Stay calm, James!” Serene yelled. “There is nothing we can do!”

  “All this noise! It’s driving me crazy!”

  I thought he’d totally lost it and was afraid he’d run out into the storm and never be seen again. But Serene came up with a great idea and grabbed two pillows from a cot and handed them to James.