The curse of Kalaan (17 page)

“I tell you every time. No leather, just loose fabric!” Lil’ Louis scolded him, wearily shaking his head.

Kalaan shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Then he looked at the table where, to his surprise, he saw several papyrus scrolls, papers and books as well as a few Egyptian statuettes. What on earth could his friends be doing with all this?

“I see you’ve visited the Egyptian room
.”

The ‘room’ in question was a meticulously maintained imposing annex adjacent to the longhouse where Kalaan placed all the objects he brought back from his travels to Egypt. His precious treasures were not only interesting from a historical point of view, but they all had a story to tell. The black pyramid stone could have had a place among these treasures, if it wasn’t cursed.

Kalaan went over to the table, intrigued by Salam’s notebook, while Lil’ Louis brought out a bottle of whisky and three bronze goblets. The Tuareg slid his work over to Kalaan whose eyes got wider and wider as he looked through the pages. There he found the inscriptions and hieroglyphs as well as drawings representing the wall at the entrance to that strange monument on the west bank at Amarna. But more than just the drawings, Salam had carefully transcribed everything, right to the very last detail that Kalaan told him about the chamber with gold walls. The accuracy of his notes was positively baffling, almost as if the Tuareg had been in the chamber with them. Kalaan was transfixed by the page bearing the drawings of the pedestal, with its hieroglyphs and the black stone.

“Your work is a marvel to behold, Salam.” A cold shiver ran through Kalaan’s body, making his muscles even tenser.

“Unbelievable, don’t ye think?” Lil’ Louis grinned and scratched his beard with satisfaction. “Salam’s been r’viewing everything since this mornin’ hopin’ te find answers to our questions.”

Kalaan was far from sharing in his old friend’s euphoria. He felt as if he was suffocating and the stone, even though just a drawing, had kept its evil power over him.

“Everything is here.” He forced himself to speak as naturally as possible and continued to leaf through the notebook. “You also have the translations and the curse. Did you find these in my scrolls?”

“No, my brother, the ancient documents helped me with the style of the scribes but the rest is in my head.” Salam touched his cheich with his index finger as he spoke. “I have a memory for images and can easily reproduce them.”

Kalaan could not believe it. They spend a lot of time together, and yet he was discovering another side to his Tuareg friend. He had known Salam for years, ever since the young count saved his life after an attack by Arab mercenaries who had killed Salam’s entire family and clan. Out of fury and pain, Salam turned his back on Islam and never prayed to his god again.

The two men buried the dead Tuareg and left the bodies of the assassins lying in the burning sun. Since that day, they have been inseparable, except when Kalaan returned to France on business or to see his family. After all these years Salam was still a mystery to him in many ways. His notebook was a perfect example.

“Let us drink!” Lil’ Louis’ cheerful voice broke the silence that set in. He passed a goblet to Salam who accepted it with pleasure. Kalaan, rather than taking the goblet, drank straight from the bottle, taking several large gulps.

“Dousik
[53]
, lad, ‘tis strong stuff!”

“I confirm that,” added Salam hiding a cough. The drink had set his mouth and belly on fire.

Kalaan remained impassive, with his sly grin and eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Bunch of sissies,” he said chuckling, before going into his room for a minute.

When he returned, he had changed his clothes entirely. His thigh boots, trousers and jacket were black, emphasizing the whiteness of his unbuttoned ruffle shirt. The charismatic count of Croz, buccaneer, Egyptologist and adventurer was back in all his splendor.

“It is time to go to the druid Jaouen. He is expecting us,” he announced as he tied his golden chestnut hair back on the nape of his neck. Then, pulling on a pair of dark leather gloves, to hide the burn mark, he observed their reactions.

Salam remained expressionless, but Lil’ Louis turned very pale.

“Right now?”

“The sooner the better,” Kalaan answered as he went to prepare an oil lamp. “Jaouen came to find me earlier, while I was walking with Virginie. It was when I was the
thing,
but
curiously, he immediately saw who I really was.”

“
Satordellik,
[54]
” the old man swore, nervously pulling up his trousers, which had a tendency to slide down over his round belly.

“Jaouen mentioned your name, Salam. He wishes to meet you.”

The Tuareg’s dark eyes got a faraway look in them for a fleeting moment, then he slowly walked over to the little goatskin bag he always carried and put his notepad in it.

“What? You are not bringing your weapons?” Kalaan teased.

“Weapons are useless against magic.” Salam replied in his usual dry tone. Truly, nothing could unsettle the man.

“I’m just now recoverin’ from being told off by Madame Amélie, and now ye want me te follow ye to see the crazy ole druid?” Lil’ Louis whined.

Kalaan took pity on his friend. He’d teased him enough.

“No, you’re not coming. I’d rather you went to the lighthouse to see if the Godik brothers aren’t three sheets to the wind. They must light the lantern properly. We do not need a shipwreck tonight. Then you can rest, for you certainly deserve it.

“Really?” Lil’ Louis’ face lit up with a hesitant smile.

“Yes, of course,” Kalaan answered and winked at him.

The old sea dog’s face darkened. “Ye were pullin’ me leg from the b’ginnin’! Ye knew I dinna have te see Jaouen with ye!”

“Yes, and you know how much I enjoy telling you yarns.”

Lil’ Louis muttered under his breath and put on his coat.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Kalaan asked, laughing.

“Yer a spoiled brat,” Lil’ Louis, couldn’t hide his fatherly smile. “But Oy like ye t’way ye are.”

The next minute he disappeared into the windy night, leaving both the door and Kalaan’s mouth open. The old sea dog’s words touched him deeply and he regretted having played a joke on him.

“Ahem,” Salam cleared his throat to bring Kalaan back to the present.

“Let’s go!” Kalaan’s boot heels hammered the wood floor before reaching the cobblestones of the courtyard. From there he guided his friend on the paths weakly lit by their lantern.

The cold wind lashed them without pity and in the distance they could hear the waves crashing into the bottom of the cliffs. Fortunately for the two men it was not raining. Kalaan greedily breathed in the sea air, filling his lungs as they walked between the stone walls. Salam followed him, silent as usual.

They would soon reach Jaouen’s cottage. Kalaan was impatient to be there, yet at the same time he was apprehensive. Could the druid help him? Or better, free him from the curse? Maden always believed in his powers and often went to consult him before leaving on a mission.

“We have arrived,” Kalaan said as they approached a small old stone house surrounded by bushes and tall grass. A weak light shone through the window. Were it not for the light in the window the house could easily have appeared unoccupied. As the friends approached, the heavy door creaked open and the druid ushered them in, closing the door behind them, leaving the night outside.

“You are late,” Jaouen observed. He turned to the fireplace and with a wooden spoon stirred a steaming liquid in a cauldron. “Please, be seated,” he added, showing them two wobbly old stools near the fire.

Salam hesitated at first, but then obediently sat down. Kalaan preferred to remain standing and look around the druid’s home. He had already come to the house with his father when he was a child; but this was the first time he set foot inside. The house only had one room with a bed in one corner and shelves on a wall, all just as wobbly as the stools. The shelves were sagging under the weight of all the books and cooking pots. Something looking like a table assembled from a hodge-podge of pieces sat in the middle of the room. The table was full of earthenware bowls, bouquets of dried herbs and other items Kalaan didn’t dare analyze. The floor was beaten earth, covered with straw and dried aromatic plants.

Just above his head, Kalaan saw old beams from which hung more bundles of various plants, among which he only recognized one, mistletoe. This place was really a wizard’s sanctuary, as we might have imagined when we were children. Despite the lack of comfort and incongruous décor, the house was clean, no spider webs or rats to be seen, and it smelled of fresh straw.

“When you finish inspecting the place you can come join us around the fire,” remarked Jaouen who was also seated on one of the stools.

Kalaan looked at him and then at Salam. He could not keep himself from laughing at the Tuareg; his stool’s legs looked ready to collapse under his weight. Yet, he sat straight up, like a schoolboy facing his tutor. If Salam wasn’t dead from the ridicule, then Kalaan could do the same thing... and sit with as much dignity as possible.

“That object is older than I am and much stronger than you think,” murmured Jaouen, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief under his snow-white eyebrows. “Stop judging and start trusting,” he added as Kalaan carefully sat down on the stool.

“I am not judging. It is simply my instinct telling me to be careful.”

“Your instinct has often helped you through difficult circumstances. And many a time you should have listened to it more carefully. But now it is not your instinct speaking, but your fear.”

Kalaan winced, injured in his pride; even more so when he caught a sly smile on Salam’s lips.

“I am afraid of nothing!” He growled in reply.

“It would seem that is not quite true, else why would you be here in my humble abode, seeking my assistance?”

Once more, Jaouen saw through him. The old druid took a wooden bowl and filled it with a ladleful of the steaming liquid in the cauldron. He offered it to Kalaan, who looked at it suspiciously.

“What does your instinct tell you?”

“That it could be poison!”

“Ahhhh…” Jaouen seemed to be enjoying himself. “Perhaps, or perhaps not. Will you have the courage to taste it?”

It was a challenge, and Kalaan always rose to challenges!  He took the bowl and sniffed it, but there was no smell. Frowning, he drank. The taste of sugar and fruits filled his mouth, but left a slightly bitter aftertaste, on swallowing the liquid. It was a pleasant surprise and Kalaan was going to take another sip when Jaouen tore the bowl from his hands.

“Enough! Let Salam drink now!” the old man scolded.

Kalaan sat up straight and tried not to scowl at his friend who made no effort to hide his amusement at all. Salam, in turn, drank the strange liquid and the young count smiled at the astonishment on Salam’s face. He too, was going to drink a second time, but again Jaouen quickly took the recipient from him.

“It is my turn now, and thus, your thoughts and memories will blend with mine.”

“
Whaaatt
?” Kalaan choked and tried to take the bowl from the druid’s hands, but lost his balance and fell to the floor.

His head was spinning and the room was getting warmer. Cross-eyed, he tried to lift himself up on his elbows. Jaouen, sitting across from him, held out his hand and placed it on Kalaan’s forehead. Salam, meanwhile, appeared to have fallen into a trance. His head was bobbing right and left, forward and backward.

“I knew… the...s.s.tool... was rotten,” Kalaan managed to say, his baritone voice echoing in his ears. His tongue felt thick and furry.

“No, young man,” replied Jaouen whose nose and head, in Kalaan’s hallucination, were constantly swelling and shrinking. “The wood did not fold, but you did, and in the blink of an eye. Let us begin… Allow me to touch the magic that has taken control of you.”

Did he have a choice? In a few seconds, with the druid’s help he traveled back to Egypt, into the nightmare with the jeering harpies. But this time he felt slightly stronger thanks to Jaouen. With him at his side to help in the fight, Kalaan was sure to beat the dickens out of those furies!

              Kalaan did indeed fall back into his nightmare, but the druid was not there. Once again, he was alone to face the unleashed harpies in the bleak cold universe he thought was hell. Once again he was wounded and died but this time, instead of coming back to life, he was catapulted into the chamber with golden walls.

He was lying on the strangely warm white sand of the antechamber and he sat up to look around him. Everything was there, intact — the hieroglyphs, the hymn to Aton — everything except Champollion. Kalaan stood up and, moving in slow motion, he examined each drawing and every inscription, while the mournful voices he had heard before in the monument returned, to assault his eardrums. They grew gradually louder and more aggressive, to the point where Kalaan covered his ears with his hands and bent over as if he were being hit.

The scene suddenly changed again and he traveled further back in time. This time, when he opened his eyes, he was no longer the main character, but a hidden spectator. He was fourteen years old, kneeling, petrified, on the bridge of
Ar Sorserez
. In front of him lay the lifeless, bloody body of his father.