Pharaoh-Hound

This story is part of a set of short stories, all about dogs and the
people they find themselves with. The stories have been published in
their original language -German- and are currently in print as
"HundeTraum" by Oertel und Spoerer.
With these translations I hope to attract a publisher for the English
market.

PHARAOH-HOUND

GEORGE had finished his archaeology studies and, for his fieldwork, had
teamed up with a small group that had recently started excavations at a
site just south of the Valley of Kings. The group was led by John, an
elderly Egyptologist who was familiar with the area as well as with the
exertions of such an undertaking. The group was made up of his daughter
Pamela, three Americans, Cavin, Tom and Jane, as well as some students
from Cairo University.
Not far from the site where they had started excavating, hoping to find
the tomb of one of the many dignitaries resting here for thousands of
years near their divine rulers, lay a small village, built among and
even on the tombs of the ancient Necropolis, its houses the colour of
sand and stone, some chalky-white and decorated with frescoes depicting
everyday scenes. None of the villagers was interested in the activities
of the research group, they had been used to the goings-on for years
now.
Down in the valley the Nile passed wide and slow, flanked by a narrow
band of green, palm-trees, bushes and fields. Decorative feluccas
sailed slowly by. Right behind the cultivated land the sheer cliffs of
the Libyan mountain range rose from the desert, and on the bank across
shimmered the City of Luxor and the Ruins of Karnak in the noon
heat.
George had found his place in the research group through sheer
coincidence. He had applied with a project in the States which had been
postponed indefinitely so he had cut his losses and applied with his
university for a research-trip to Egypt.
But now he began to wonder whether it may have been destiny rather than
coincidence. Ever since he got off the plane in Cairo, he had been
strangely excited. The heat, the noises of heavy traffic, the endless
and often indefinable odours, the colourful masses of people bustling
through the streets, super modern and futuristic architecture flanked
by narrow alleys with its tea-houses, the old men smoking their water
pipe in silence, pushcarts filled with produce, vendors shouting the
merits of their merchandise, the slender minarets rising serenely from
the tumult - it all intensified George's sense of being alive to a
level he'd not experienced before.
There was way too little time to experience it all: the Coptic area
with its splendid churches, the many mosques, all different, the poor
and densely populated part of the city which had somehow retained its
rural character, and of course the Egyptian Museum with its amazing
collections and the incredible treasures from the tomb of
Tutankhamen.
The Pyramids of Gizeh, Saccra, the Necropolis, the majestic and
mysterious remains from the past, the tourists swarming noisily around
them, tourist guides offering their services, merchants selling
anything, handlers renting out their camels and donkeys, all this
hectic tumult somehow created a connection between the past and the
present, which George found fascinating and which presented an
impression of days long gone. The university team moved on to Luxor,
their final destination, way too soon.
George was disappointed by the first impression of Luxor. It was a
small town swamped with tourists. Cairo, that huge city, somehow
managed to swallow up the strangers, but here they dominated the
streets.
The grand and majestic temple, still the unchallenged centre of Luxor,
which, through the millennia had never failed to impress upon its
visitors a deep sense of awe and respect, was now captured at night in
colourful beams of light and turned into a fairy tale facade, a
romantic backdrop.
Early next morning, with most hotel-guests still asleep, George got up
and walked the still quiet streets to the market and the small shops
behind the temple where the locals and the farmers did their
shopping.
At the foot of the main column in the temple, a man in a long white
dress with a decoratively twisted turban was sweeping the court, slowly
and carefully. The morning sun shone onto the giant statues of Rameses
and a few early tourists were swallowed up by the row of enormous
columns. A dog crossed the forecourt, spotted the sweeping man and
George and disappeared shyly and silently into the gallery of Sphinxes.
Its colour matched the background perfectly, so that it barely stood
out from the walls, columns and statues. To George it seemed as if the
animal had come out of the stone of the temple and disappeared back
into it. Its elegant shape echoed the line of the hieroglyphs and its
gait was almost feline, graceful and other-worldly. The following days
George went on that same early-morning walk hoping to catch another
glimpse of the dog.
On one of those walks he had bumped into Pamela, and they had struck up
a conversation, in which she had invited him to come visit her research
team at the excavation site - better still, she managed to convince her
father of the need for another archaeologist with a good pair of hands.
They made the necessary arrangements.
The university team left Luxor without George, who had taken up
lodgings in the small hotel with his new friends. He applied himself to
his new job. He got on fine with his new colleagues, he liked his
assignment and was full of optimism. John had the knack of making each
small fragment from the past come alive by telling its history to the
smallest detail. John and the team had been digging at this site for
three years now, and having cleared a lower shaft they had uncovered a
small chamber full of rubble and shards, and under some more dirt and
rocks they had found parts of a sarcophagus, some human remains,
fragments of Canopic jars, small figurines and some jewellery.
A few men from the village helped with the excavations and the clearing
of the walls on which faint designs could be seen.
By now the team had been working for days with extreme care, cleaning
the masonry, and where the plaster was still preserved, colours and
shapes now slowly emerged. George was a dedicated worker and carefully
removed dust and encrusted dirt. Beneath his hands a lion could be made
out and behind the lion - a dog. George's heart jumped. It was the very
dog he'd seen in the temple. He called the others and showed them what
he had discovered underneath the layers of dust.
"Great!", said John, "a hunting scene, and completely preserved, even
the colours."
"What kind of a dog is that? I've seen it, in the temple of
Luxor."
Surprised, John looked at George. "In the temple of Luxor? There is no
dog depicted there."
"But it wasn't a picture, it was a dog, it walked among the columns,
and it looked exactly like this one here!"
John laughed. "The Pharaohs and nobles kept these dogs. They can be
found on the earliest Egyptian designs, so it's not surprising when you
occasionally see a dog that looks like the old race. There is even a
tomb for one of these dogs in the Necropolis, not far from the Pyramid
of Gizeh. Thanks to the inscriptions in the tomb we still know its
name, even today."
"Are you mad about dogs?", asked Pamela.
George looked at her and thought about it. Strange! He'd never cared
about dogs before, never seen them, never really paid attention to
them. So why should he suddenly be fascinated by this dog in the
temple, and why did he think the picture of the dog was more
interesting than the other wonderful designs in Egyptian
mythology?
The days became ever hotter. In this heat it was quickly becoming
impossible to continue with the excavation. It was the same every year,
the gap between digging seasons gave everyone the feeling of having to
turn back just before the goal was reached. Everybody redoubled their
efforts and were possibly concentrating even harder.
They were just having a break underneath the awning they had put up
against the searing sun. The faint breeze hardly brought any
coolness.
Ahmed picked up a rock and flung it expertly at the dog which by now
sat daily at the edge of the site. It jumped up and fled a distance,
tail between legs.
"Leave it alone!", shouted George and brusquely grabbed Ahmed by the
arm. He didn't understand George's rage, but his proud eyes glittered
dangerously.
"George!", Pamela cried, "George!". She pulled him along, gave him a
paper cup of lukewarm mineral water and said:
"We can't afford to have a fight here. We're in Egypt and have to
adhere to the customs here. A dog is considered unclean by Muslims, you
should know that."
George was still trembling with anger and hissed: "They don't deserve
their ancient heritage, these Egyptians now!"
Cavin and Tom looked up in surprise, but Jane smiled as though she
agreed.
And every day the dog returned to the excavation site and seemed to be
waiting.
Waiting for what?
It looked liked a statue, a delicately chiselled head with large
upright ears, a long and muscular neck, a lean and elegant body, just
like the design on the wall. Why was he so spellbound by this dog?
George approached the dog, offering a piece of bread in his open
hand.
"Better not do that,", advised John, "or we'll never get rid of him.
Those dogs live of the tourists' scraps, they're practically like
vultures."
Ahmed grinned widely and gave George a disdaining stare.
The dog retreated a few light footed paces and sat down again. Its
ribcage was showing clearly, but it was lean without looking emaciated.
It looked at George with those lightly slanted amber eyes, beautiful,
inscrutable and commanding.
"John's right", said Mahdi, "we all shun those dogs, they could be
dangerous, or sick, or they might have rabies." George went back to his
work, but before he could continue, new cement had to be mixed to fix
some loose pieces of plaster in place.
He went out to have another look at the dog. It hadn't moved, it still
sat motionless in the same spot. George now got a closer look. The
dog's fur shone golden in the harsh afternoon light, contrasting with
the sand, and it had a small fleck of white on its forehead, between
the eyes.
As he approached a few more paces, the dog got up again, ambled uphill
some more towards the rock face, turned and sat down again. It wouldn't
let George come any closer. It was heavy going in the loose, deep and
sometimes rocky sand, the afternoon sun beating down on him
relentlessly.
"I'm turning back", he thought to himself, "I must be totally mad,
climbing this rock face after some dog in this heat."
But he could not turn back. Something forced him to continue, a
gut-feeling that he was on to something, something big, mysterious and
exciting. His progress was only slow, and he paused for a while in a
small band of shade of a slight overhang.
Thirty meters up the dog now stood, looking down at him, so he panted
uphill some more, holding on to the sharp rocks to stop himself sliding
down. When he had finally made the top and sat down again to catch his
breath, the dog was nowhere to be seen. He wanted to call after it, but
how? Names of gods and Pharaohs sprang to his lips, every Egyptian name
he had ever heard. His own voice sounded strange to him.
But no-one appeared. There was only the solitude of sky, rocks and sand
around him. An empty, burning solitude. He repeated every name he could
think of, but the silence remained.
He squeezed into a small cleft in the rock face, to get out of the sun
for a while. The crack widened further in and led him into the
mountain. As he descended it became cooler and their was a faint light
at the end. As he felt his way forward, his hand suddenly touched the
dog that had accompanied him silently. The dog's fur felt smooth and
warm and George breathed easier.
The corridor suddenly opened into a large chamber. Square columns,
completely covered with hieroglyphs, supported a dark blue dome, filled
with yellow stars. There was some light in the chamber but George could
not locate its source. The walls of the chamber were papyrus-yellow and
covered with life-size figurines in bas-relief. The colours seemed to
glow as though fresh and alive. George stopped and looked around him in
disbelief and awe. Then he slowly approached the first figurine and
found himself suddenly eye to eye with himself. His image -he- was
wearing a white loincloth, an impressive gold necklace and wide arm
bands, holding an arrow in one hand. In front of him his dog bounded in
perfect grace after a herd of gazelle. George was gripped by an eerie
feeling. Here, in this chamber, two worlds met, past and present, life
and death, and became one, seemingly transcending time.
He and the dog walked along the walls with the designs and the memories
came flooding back: hunting hippopotamus, going fishing, hunting birds,
the colourful geese and the silvery heron, he remembered the banquets
and the delightful girl-musicians, and he remembered Anubis taking him
by the hand and leading him and his dog to Isis, who was seated on a
throne, her head adorned with the Sun-disc-bearing horns of the sacred
cow, he remembered offering her his gifts. And he saw before him his
judgment, his heart on the scales, counterbalanced only by the
ostrich-feathers of the Goddess Maat, behind her Thot with his scroll,
his head that of an ibis, flanked by Osiris, his flail in one hand and
the crook in the other. Finally awaited him the terrifying
crocodile-headed demon who could do him no harm now. The ritual finally
over, he stood in front of his own huge statue in pink granite, a
handsome young man with his noble dog. Behind the statue he could just
make out some Canopic jars and two sarcophagi, one large, one smaller.
Gold inlays glimmered weakly in the last ray of light in which danced a
myriad dust particles.
Distant voices started coming through to him and although he still kept
his eyes tightly shut, he could feel the brightness of daylight. He had
a splitting headache, was reeling and felt sick and wanted nothing more
than return to that soft darkness where there was no pain. But yet that
place was now receding ever further. The bright light now forced itself
through his eyelids painfully. Vague shapes moved through his field of
vision. And somebody was holding his hand. "George", he heard,
"George!"
He knew that voice. But from where? Even thinking was difficult and he
strained to make sense of his surroundings. All that white around him,
and somebody was leaning over him. Slowly that shape swam into
focus.
"Pamela?" He tried to remember everything and slowly some images came
back to him.
"Pamela, where's my dog?"
"Your dog? George, you don't own a dog, you must be still
hallucinating." She looked up helplessly at her father.
"Unless you mean that mongrel that was hanging around the site. It was
with you when we found you, but he took off as we approached. For
Heaven's sake, what were you looking for up there in that afternoon
heat?"
George tried to make sense of it all, but only fragmented memories
clouded his head. He couldn't piece together any explanation and fell
asleep again, exhausted.
It was dark when he woke up. The night nurse kept an eye on him, and
the next morning he was told by the doctor that he was suffering from
hyperthermia, that in this country one had to respect the climate, and
that a heatstroke was no laughing matter.
John and Pamela visited him again that afternoon. They had halted
proceedings at the excavation site until the autumn, and wanted to
spend a few more days in Luxor. They invited him to come and stay with
them in Cairo.
George was thankful for their presence, for although he was still
suffering from his headache, he now had a lot to tell them. The
memories strung themselves together slowly and he saw the tomb with its
well preserved and vibrant decorations and the huge statue clearly in
his mind again. He sat up with a start.
"I've discovered something, it sounds incredible, but I found a cave by
coincidence which led to a tomb which no-one has entered before." And
he described in meticulous detail the detailed designs, the
hieroglyph-covered columns, the monumental statue and the sarcophagi
inlaid with gold.
He noticed that John and Pamela knowingly exchanged sympathetic
glances. After a long pause, John asked him: "So how did you get in
there?"
"I was so hot, I was looking for some shade, so I squeezed through a
crack in the rock, and the dog was there, and through a low and narrow
corridor I got into the chamber with the beautiful artwork."
Again, John and Pamela exchanged glances, but unsure this time - maybe
there was something to this fantastic tale after all.
"And where was this crack? Do you think you can find it again?"
"Yes John, I think I can, and even if I can't, the dog knows the way,
it led me there."
"He's still not quite with us" , thought John and Pamela said: "Cairo
will do you a lot of good."
After he was released from the hospital, George found it difficult to
convince Pamela to leave him behind in Luxor. He couldn't say of course
that he wanted to stay because of the dog, she wouldn't
understand.
When they said goodbye, she kissed him. "You take care now, and don't
do any more silly things," she said, "and call us when you change your
mind and want to visit us after all."
Early the next morning, it was still reasonably cool, George returned
to the excavation site, which lay deserted now and barely discernible
from its surroundings.
He didn't have to wait long. The dog emerged from between the village
houses and came his way. It stopped at the usual safe distance and
looked at him.
The dog stood motionless for a long time, but finally approached
slowly, crawling almost. George took a meat and salad sandwich from his
pocket and offered it to the dog, which still wouldn't budge. Why
didn't it take the food. Was it afraid? But it knew him.
"Sahib," he said quietly, "come on Sahib."
The dog pricked up its ears just barely, closed the final distance
carefully, and delicately and attentively took the bread from his hand,
dropped it on the sand, sniffed it intensively, and, its lips curled
back, took a small bite, then another, and then quickly wolfed down the
entire sandwich. George moved up and softly stroked its silky fur,
underneath which the individual ribs could be made out clearly. The dog
licked his hands.
Now they sat on the sand side by side and looked down at the river
Nile. The ferry was just disgorging its first load of tourists.
"Come on Sahib, it's getting hot, let's go."
The dog got up and walked by his knee. He'd found his master - and
George had found his dog.
They crossed the river on the ferry and first went to George's bed
&; breakfast, but Sahib was definitely not welcome there. The
landlord refused point blank to let Sahib into the house. He looked at
George as if he was possessed, and money nor reasoning could make him
change his mind. George was forced to find a different place to stay,
and with Sahib left the courtyard where the landlord's six cats were
basking in the sun and purring or licking their paws. One of the larger
hotels on the west bank was willing to accommodate them, the season
being almost over, they were happy to rent out another room.
He now had time to kill and in the early hours of the day or the
evenings, he hung around, Sahib by his side, at the temple of Luxor,
the huge complex at Karnak and the monumental edifices of the once
sprawling city of Thebes. He wandered the still lustrous and impressive
ruins and stared at statues of a culture long since lost. Occasionally
he would touch one of the columns lovingly or the massive remains of
one of the colossi, those expressive witnesses of a past that felt
strangely familiar. With his mind's eye he saw them turn into
unblemished majestic palaces, into sacred mysterious temples and
imposing statues of the Pharaohs. He strolled nobly among his
genuflecting subjects, his dog always by his side, through the bustling
streets. He dined with dignitaries from foreign and remote lands, and
took them hunting, his famed dogs outrunning even the gazelles and
winning praise for their valour exceeding that even of lions.
And every day he walked with Sahib to the now quiet excavation site,
and followed the same trail over sand and scree uphill to that place
where the cliff was so sheer, it was almost an overhang. Every day he
struggled his way onto the rocky promontory where Sahib had stood. He
clearly remembered the crack in the cliff that had led to the
mysterious burial chamber, but no matter how closely he looked, he
could not find the entrance again and Sahib could not show him the way
either.
October saw the return of the team to the excavation site. John and
Pamela arrived first, and, shaking his head, John arranged for George
to stay in the bed &; breakfast with Sahib. The others arrived
subsequently and after a few days the complete team went to work at the
site.
"What's that mongrel doing here?" Ahmed asked, and Cavin laughed:
"George has been adopted by the dog after we'd gone."
Ahmed made a disdaining gesture: "You Americans have some strange
habits. No one in his right mind would ever take such an animal into
the house."
"Ahmed," George said, "I just can't understand why you Egyptians
exchanged that fascinating and creative religion for Islam. Just look
back at that magnificent culture, those priceless works of art, and
your past, when you still respected the other creatures around you,
even worshipped some of them."
"George, you've turned into a nature-worshiper, that's amazing in our
age!"
But slowly even Ahmed, Mahdi, Gamal and Muhammad became accustomed to
the dog's presence and they accepted him as part of George. Sahib never
bothered any of them anyway.
The change was much more substantial for Sahib. He'd only ever known a
life under the skies, and had always walked around, looking for a bite
to eat. He was shooed off almost everywhere and had developed great
skill at dodging the rocks people routinely used to fling at him. He'd
also learned to appraise the tourists and knew exactly where to get
some food and where not. And then his world had turned around
completely, from one day to the next. He had a roof over his head,
there was always food for him and he had exchanged his freedom for a
master, for affection and warmth, all completely new concepts for
him.
The excavation was making good progress. More and more frescoes were
uncovered, scenes from everyday life and ritual proceedings of the cult
of the dead. The cleaning, photographing and copying was a very precise
and time-consuming job, but everyone was working with great interest
and dedication. Luckily, the underground chamber where they were
working was pleasantly cool. Sahib lay bunched up asleep near where
George was working. Suddenly he jumped up, raced to the far corner and
jabbed his muzzle into a heap of sand, rubble and plaster, sniffed the
air with deep snorts, his flanks heaving, and he began digging into the
rubble. What had he picked up? The scurrying of a mouse? He dug and
scrabbled and sent the dust flying.
"Keep a check on your dog!", an angry shout from John, "we can do
without that mess!"
"Stop that, Sahib!"
George went over to him, looked at the hole his dog had dug and
watched, as the loose sand disappeared swirling down a larger hole. The
hole opened wider, smaller rocks disappeared, then larger chunks of
rock fell down, and before he could do anything, a large part of the
floor broke off and fell down with a dark rumble, dragging Sahib along
with it. George was unable to move. Now they were all standing around
the hole in the floor, trying to see into the darkness. "Light!" he
cried, "dammit, where is that lamp?" Then he heard the dog barking and
was suffused with a warm and grateful feeling. Thank God, he's all
right. Sahib's alive!
"Stand back," said John, "get away from the edge. It's dangerous and we
can't risk more breaking off, we could ruin something down there. Who
knows what we could find."
"I have to get my dog, that's the only thing I'm interested in right
now."
So they fetched a ladder and after some effort found somewhere to place
it securely. John and George descended carefully, bringing the lamp.
They found themselves on a small platform, less than two square meters.
A low corridor sloped away steeply. It had to twist away at some stage,
because the beam of light didn't illuminate the dog, it just shone onto
a dark wall.
"Sahib! Sahib!", shouted George, but it was completely quiet, there was
no sound, no barking, nothing.
"Give me that lamp, John, I've got to find my dog. Maybe that corridor
turns into a vertical shaft and he's fallen into it."
"You're crazy! You're not going to risk your life for an animal!
Besides, we have to repair the hole in the floor first and support it
to stop it from caving in further. We're going up again and make sure
that everybody stays well away. And when your dog's still alive, he'll
find his way out. We'll see in the morning."
"No John!" George took the lamp from him and inched forward step by
step.
"Don't be an idiot, come back here!"
But he was already some distance into the shaft and out of earshot. The
tunnel made a sharp bend and he found himself in a long and slightly
larger corridor.
"Sahib, here boy! - Sahib!", he called again but the walls of the
corridor muffled the sound of his voice. He thought he could hear a
whimper in the distance. He quickened his pace, but the corridor went
on and on. The light of his flashlight suddenly shone onto a wall,
plastered white and partially covered in hieroglyphs and reliefs. A
steep stairway hewn into the rock led straight down but ended halfway
in mid-air, for the staircase had collapsed into a large heap of rubble
and scree flanked by toppled columns, on the floor of a high square
chamber. Deep below him he could see Sahib jumping up at the
wall.
"Easy, Sahib easy!"
The dog sat down and looked at him trustingly. How could he get Sahib
out of this chamber?
"Wait", he said, "stay."
Very slowly and gingerly he climbed down. When he reached the last
step, he sat down, looked around him and frantically tried to think of
a way out. He could return and get a ladder, but what use was that? He
couldn't get the dog up the ladder. On his right he noticed an opening
in the wall and shone the flashlight into it. Another shaft that seemed
to ascend. Where did this shaft lead to? Straight into daylight or
perhaps to another unknown mystery of the past?. Or he could jump down
into the chamber but how would he get back up again? At the same time
he realised that he didn't have to return on his own, since John and
Pamela and the entire team would come looking for him if he didn't
return.
Holding the flashlight high, he jumped and landed in the rubble-heap.
Sahib delightedly rushed over to him, wagging his tail so hard that he
stirred up even more dust. In his jump, George must have scraped his
arm on the sharp stones, it hurt and felt moist to the touch. He shone
the flashlight over his arm and saw his blood dripping onto the floor.
It trickled across the dry loam, the grey grains of sand and seemed to
have a golden glow in the beam of the flashlight. He gently trailed his
fingers over the brightest area, brushed away some sand and pulled out
of the dirt a glittering piece of jewellery, an amulet shaped like a
scarab, an intricate piece of work with lapis lazuli inlay. Sahib sat
down next to him and licked his wounded arm.
George looked again at the shaft. He could only move through the low
and narrow tunnel doubled up, it was more like crawling. The dog stayed
close behind him. It ascended lightly for a long while, and despite his
great effort he made only very slow progress. The shaft was so narrow,
he couldn't even turn around. He was hot and hoped that he didn't have
to crawl back down backwards.
He paused for a brief moment. There was a strange smell here, but what
was it?
It smelled of countryside. Suddenly he knew, he smelled goats. He must
have reached the end of the corridor. Now what?
The air felt thick and he could hardly breathe. The dog was panting. He
inspected the wall by the light of the flashlight. It was brickwork and
a crack was covered over with a sheet of corrugated iron. He breathed
easier, perhaps this was his chance! He pushed at the wall with all his
remaining strength. The sheet metal gave way and crashed to the floor,
ringing loudly and taking with it a bucket, some cans, assorted
utensils and general rubbish, and a crate with some wildly flapping
pigeons, everything toppling into a heap. George squeezed through the
gap and stumbled over the contents of the shelves, his dog
enthusiastically jumping after him. The goat pen was deserted, the
animals were out grazing somewhere in the green strip of land along the
great river. Only a few children who'd been playing near the shack, ran
off screeching.
George replaced the corrugated iron over the gap, put back the cans,
the bucket and the box full of pigeons, and walked out of the village
to return with Sahib to the excavation site. Two old men, seated in the
shade of one of the houses, smoking their water-pipe, didn't even look
up.
The site appeared deserted, no-one could be seen. John was waiting by
the ladder while, well back from the hole, the others were discussing
their options loudly and vehemently.
"George really has lost his marbles", said Ahmed.
"Will you stop picking on him all the time!" snapped Pamela, who was
pacing back and forth nervously, looking pale.
"Yes, but he's really acting up like a little child all the time and
he's almost hysterical where that dog's concerned." said Muhammad, who
agreed with Ahmed. "The mutt nearly ruined all our endless cleaning
work again, and repairing the floor will take at least a couple more
days."
But Cavin opined: "Well, who knows what comes out of this situation and
what we might find in the chamber below."
At that instant, George and Sahib quietly descended the staircase to
the underground chamber and seemed to appear to the astonished team out
of thin air.
"John, come quick!", called Pamela, "George is back!"
"Oh my God! How did you get here? Did you find an exit? Where is it? We
were so worried! I was ready to follow you down but you had the only
flashlight. So is there another exit?"
"There is, if you turn yourself into a mole, but I wouldn't recommend
it. But look!"
George dug into his pocket, took out the amulet and handed it to John,
who went very quiet and studied it closely from all angles. The others
gathered round, all reaching out for the scarab, all wanting to touch
it.
"Was there any more down there?", asked Ahmed. Pamela gave him a
sarcastic stare:
"You see, Ahmed, that mutt of George's is worth his weight in
gold!"
That evening they celebrated their discovery and the new possibilities
it offered over a glass of fine Egyptian wine. George told them in
detail about the staircase, suspended in mid-air, about the broken
columns, the rubble, the decorated wall and the dank, low corridor that
led him and Sahib first to a goat-pen and finally back to
daylight.
The next day Ahmed an Muhammad went to the village to find the men who
had earlier helped the team with their excavations. They enlarged and
secured the entrance, supported the roof and with rocks and adobe
completed the hanging stair down to the sloping corridor to facilitate
access.
They were now on a very full schedule. Their initial work had to be
continued, the new discovery carefully cleaned and studied and the sand
and rubble removed. The tasks were divided fairly and they rotated
regularly, for everyone was curious and excited by the unknown, and
they were dreaming of finding extraordinary treasures and transported
into a state approaching gold rush fever.
Sahib never left George's side. In his experience, every decent and
friendly person, who would throw him a bite to eat every now and then,
would suddenly disappear, never to return. The ones that remained he
knew all too well, they were the ones he had to steer clear of and
whose well-aimed rocks he had to dodge. So he was keeping a keen eye on
his new-found luck and affection, every day, every hour, every instant,
even while asleep. So wherever George was working, cleaning the walls
and sifting through the rubble, Sahib was there, copying him, sticking
his nose everywhere, scrabbling around , sniffing. Suddenly he shoved
something around with his nose, then put his paw on the object and
played with it as though it were a mouse he'd caught.
"Drop that, Sahib!"
George, who was just sifting through a heap of rubble and shovelling it
into buckets, looked up, then looked more closely and gently took a
figurine from Sahib's mouth, the malachite figure of a cat sitting on a
pedestal. He held it up to the light and admired the smooth and
irregularly veined surface, the simple shape and the enigmatic
expression. George sat down on a fragment of one of the collapsed
columns in a heap of rubble by one of the walls and stared pensively at
the fragmented designs. Part of a funeral cortege, a shrine, women
wailing and the Goddess of Death Hathor with the Solar disc between her
horns and the ostrich feathers in Osiris' crown were still perfectly
preserved. A white robe, hands raised in mid-spell, a row of uraeus
snakes, hieroglyphs but also large areas of bare wall, the plaster
fallen off or still clinging on, with dark patches that suggested more
designs lay hidden underneath, fuelled his imagination.
What could have wreaked the havoc in this chamber? Earthquake? Tomb
raiders?
His eye rested on a spot behind the column on which he was sitting. Was
that another crack? Yes, there was a narrow fissure, about 50 cms high.
He held his flashlight close to the crack. No doubt about it, there had
to be another chamber there.
"John!", he called up the corridor, "John, could you come down here, I
found something interesting!"
John came hurrying down, followed by all the others. Crowding around
the crack they all tried to see something, but could make out no more
than a few colourful lines in the narrow beam of the flashlight. John
patted George on the shoulder.
"We'll have a passage cut through tomorrow."
Meanwhile, Sahib had taken up position by the figurine. He'd found it,
after all.
"What has your dog found?", asked Ahmed and approached the dog. Sahib
growled at him.
"Oh right, I'd forgotten about that. Sahib has dug that out, it's a
beautiful figurine in near mint condition."
John shook his head: "You and that dog! You two must have made a pact
with the devil."
The walls of the small burial chamber were covered in bas-relief,
painted in fresh and vivid colours and completely intact. All around
they showed the tomb's inhabitant, hands raised to a deity, Anubis on
one wall, Hathor on another and Isis and Osiris. The spaces in between
were filled with designs of rich offerings and with hieroglyphs of
spells to overcome the dangers on the way to the Kingdom of the Dead.
At the head of the space reserved for the sarcophagus sat two figures
hewn in almost black diorite. One depicted Hathor, resplendent in its
elegant simplicity, the solar disc between her horns, next to her the
dead woman. Smaller, but with a noble face, the nose finely chiselled,
the lips sensuous and full, but, similar to the frescoes all around,
the eyes were completely absent. A sarcophagus was nowhere to be
seen.
The discovery left them all guessing at a multitude of riddles. Why
were the two chambers, so obviously connected and close together, in
such a different state? What was the secret of the woman with no eyes?
And where was the sarcophagus? Was the tomb built and then never
occupied? Did the absence of eyes point to the occupant's being
blind?
"No", said George, "she wasn't blind, they have taken her sight,
probably because she'd seen too much or knew too much. She was a
priestess."
They all looked at him in surprise. Ahmed laughed. "George should have
been a poet, or better still, leader of a cult. He's missed his
calling!"
"Cool it, without George we would still be up there, happily restoring
away, without any idea of the existence of this mysterious tomb",
reasoned John.
"That was just coincidence, simple luck that the stupid animal fell
down a hole."
"You're just jealous, Ahmed!", snapped Pamela at him.
But the bickering could not diminish their joy at their discovery. They
had another celebration and John telephoned some friends and colleagues
in Cairo, who came over right away and studied everything closely. In
the evenings they would sit and debate, deliberate, venture theories,
speculate, only to reject everything again. The mystery remained.
The scientific journals published endless articles by archaeologists
and Egyptologist with descriptions, theories and guesswork, all
contradicting each other. The tabloids too had heard of the discovery
and were hounding all the team members, asking questions, demanding
interviews and digging for rumours. They were photographed, most of all
Sahib, and a few days later the whole world could read headlines
like:
"Pharaoh-hound plunges into abyss and causes exceptional archaeological
find."
"The missing mummy."
"The secret of the eyeless dead."
"Stray dog befriends archaeologist and sets him on trail to mysterious
ancient Egyptian tomb."
John was angry:
"Dammit! this nonsense is exactly what we don't need! You must be out
of your mind, telling these journalists such rubbish!"
The Archaeological Society and the Society for Ancient Egyptian
Monuments expressed an interest in the site and sent an additional
group of archaeologists and Egyptologist to Luxor.
The next days the site was besieged by hordes of curious tourists, come
to see the new discovery of which the papers had so excitingly
reported, but no one was allowed on-site. They were promised access at
a later stage, after securing and restoration, so they all filed to the
bed &; breakfast, at least to see the famous dog and take some
snapshots. The landlord made sure he at least profited from the
attention, demanding visitors buy tickets to get in, and selling tea,
coffee, baklava and other sweets in the courtyard. He praised George
and Sahib and thanked Allah loudly for sending these two to his humble
abode.
Initially George found it all very annoying, but he soon got used to
the constant attention and was particularly proud of Sahib who always
posed calmly and proud like an Egyptian statue for the cameras.
John and the other were very upset about the entire circus which, they
said, discredited the profession of archaeology. But worse still was
the fact that the newly arrived team claimed the tombs of the eyeless
woman for themselves and John's team was relegated to finishing the job
in the tomb above.
Not much later George received a letter from a Karen Smith, a breeder
of pharaoh-hounds from the USA. Friends had shown her an article on the
tomb, and she was keenly interested in the dog, his origin, genealogy,
even his size, weight and colour. She wrote that she had been breeding
this race in the States for ten years now and included some photos of
some of her best dogs.
She also mentioned that she thought that Sahib was an exceptionally
beautiful exponent of his race according to the standards, judging from
the photo in the newspaper, and that she hoped to be hearing from him
soon.
George was astounded. So pharaoh-hounds did exist even today, they were
bred according to a standard and looked exactly like Sahib. That he
didn't know this! But then, he had never been keenly interested in dogs
and nobody could know every race of dog.
He didn't feel like joining in the circus today and exhibiting his
dog.
"Would you come to the small restaurant behind the temple?", he asked
Pamela, "I'd like to have a chat in some peace and quiet." They found a
small table in the corner and put Sahib underneath, out of sight. They
ordered tea and George showed Pamela the letter.
"Funny!", she said as she studied the photos. Here they are poor and
half-wild stray dogs and over there noble pedigree dogs. I'd like to
see them next to each other, and I bet that Sahib would give these
pedigrees a run for their money."
"You know, Pamela, it's strange, I never cared much about dogs, I was
never interested, I never even really saw them. But with Sahib it was
different. When I first saw him, I felt like I knew him, that we were
meant to be together, and then, when we were in that tomb and when I
saw those beautiful paintings on the vaulted ceiling high above where
we were working, I recognised myself and the dog. It was like a
revelation, and I had the feeling of eternal life - no, that's not what
I mean to say, it's more like the certainty that there is no time, that
we were alive yesterday as well as today and in the distant future, and
that the ties of friendship, love and trust stretch eternal."
Pamela looked at him attentively with her big blue eyes.
"That's a beautiful thought, and I wish I could believe it."
"I don't understand why I couldn't find the entrance again, I have to
keep searching, and wouldn't it be wonderful if we could top off our
work here with a really important discovery? Can't you persuade your
father to do some echo-sensing at and around that place where you found
me. It would be possible, wouldn't it?"
Pamela said nothing and thought.
"It would do him some good. He's been depressed ever since Cairo
relieved him of the leadership of the project. I'll try, but right now
it'll be difficult to persuade him, and besides, he thinks you're too
much of a dreamer."
Sahib became restive, he needed a walk, so they left and strolled back
through the temple. As the sun set, it bathed the western horizon and
the Libyan mountain ranges in a reddish light. Holding hands they both
were quietly pursuing their own thoughts.

"Ridiculous!", said John. "Echo-soundings? Just like that, for no
apparent reason, just because George with his heatstroke had some wild
dreams? You know as well as I do how difficult it is to even get
permission, and then there's the cost."
George was disappointed. He still spent every free minute of his time
wandering around the rocks with Sahib. Whether he wanted or not,
something forced him to keep looking for the cave, for he knew it
existed and he was set on proving it. Occasionally now Pamela joined
him. The two were seen together more and more often so that the others
commented with jokes and innuendo. John, too absorbed by his own
troubles did not notice anything.
By now George was out every evening all evening, walking the area in
the hope of finding the narrow entrance to the cave again.
"Just give it up, George."
Pamela sat down in the sand and pulled him down next to her. They
stared through the hills down at the Nile.
"Just accept that it was a dream, it's now becoming an obsession!"
George gave no answer, looked instead towards Sahib who, some distance
below them, jumped around wildly. He walked down.
"A scorpion!", he shouted.
"Don't touch it, they're poisonous!" She got up and joined them, but
the scorpion had already scurried away into the sand. Sahib dug wildly,
but his claws scraped on something hard. They both looked and suddenly
George grabbed Sahib by the scruff of the neck, pulled him back and,
with his other hand, pulled a white plaque from the sand.
"Down, Sahib, and stay!"
Startled, the dog looked at his master and obeyed.
"Oh my God, Pamela, look at this! An ostrakhon!"
On it, a confused flight of birds could be made out, painted in a light
flowing hand with delicate black lines. Pamela took the stone plaque
from his hands.
"What's the matter? You're shaking!"
"This is the sketch of a fresco I've seen before, up there."
Now they both were rummaging in the sand and rocks, eager for more
discoveries.
Over the communal supper, Pamela announced: "We've found
something."
"Eternal happiness, I bet!" Ahmed grinned.
George gave him a dark look and showed John the ostrakhon. "I believe
we can find more of this up there."
"Up where?"
"Near the tomb I told you about and which we absolutely have to
discover again. The design on this slab is exactly the same as what
I've seen inside, only there it is larger, fills the entire wall and is
in colour."
John thought for a while. "We have to finish our work here for the
season. If there is any time left, we can use it to look for your
tomb."
"But by then it'll already be too hot over by the rocks. Daddy, George
experienced that last year, remember?"
He nodded: "Very well, George and Ahmed can use these coming days to
check whether there is more to be found up there."
The next morning the two set off.
"My God, what have I done to deserve this, scrabbling around in the
dirt in this heat, with you?" Ahmed groaned. But otherwise he was
tolerant and in no way malicious.
"Probably because he hasn't got an audience up here", muttered George
to himself.
They dug and dug, and carefully shovelled the sand to one side, but
apart from a few tiny fragments which may or may not have belonged to
the ostrakhon, they found nothing. Sahib, with no shade to sit in, had
positioned himself on the newly turned cooler sand and panted.
"Come on, it's been enough for today. Let's go!" Ahmed reached for his
pick which lay somewhat to one side.
"Oh!", he lifted his foot high as if he'd stepped on a scorpion or a
snake, but then he bent to the ground and carefully extracted a large,
flat, very thin stone from the sand.
"I've found your dog!", he said and held up the ostrakhon. George
stared at the figure, fascinated. "It is him, it really is him! It's
the dog from the tomb and it's Sahib. The two are one and the same
dog!"
Ahmed looked at him with incredulous sarcasm.
"It really is incredible, the way you can fantasise away! Just use your
common sense man! You're making yourself into a laughing-stock with
your ridiculous theories. A dog is a dog, then and now. You don't
really think that dogs, cats, monkeys, hippos or birds changed
completely, just in a few thousand years? The ancient Egyptians looked
just like us, it's just the fashion that changes, and maybe the
buildings a bit, although the temple of Hatsepsut could have been
designed today."
George didn't answer. Ahmed was from another world, he would never
understand, and how could he explain it anyway, if he didn't have the
sense to pick it up?
He sought Pamela's company more and more. She didn't laugh at him, on
the contrary, she listened attentively and even if she had trouble
believing him, at least she found his theories fascinating and his
thoughts deep. He could turn a daily job into a fairy tale experience
or an exciting adventure and he led her into a strange and mysterious
world.
Her father could tell stories and describe things in fascinating
detail, but with George figures and objects seemed to spring to life
and the past seemed like today. Occasionally she shuddered, it was so
real, but at the same time she felt safe and protected with him.
John had had some good news. The next season would see his return as
the leader of the expedition to the tomb of the eyeless woman. His team
would be expanded with some of the Egyptologist from the Cairo
group.
"Dad, can I buy you a drink?" Pamela asked one evening, "a drink in a
small restaurant with a nice view over the Nile."
"Oh my God, this always means you've got something on your mind!"
"Well, you could call it that."
John drank his whisky and Pamela ordered orange juice. They sat
silently and looked out over the wide, slow river that glittered golden
red in the setting sun, stirred by the evening breeze.
"So, out with it!"
It took a long time. She didn't know where to start, but then she
pulled herself together and said:
"Daddy, George and I want to get married."
John jumped up as though stung by a wasp. "Are you out of your mind!
Are you totally blind? How on earth did you get this idea? I can't even
understand how a flake like him can come down to earth for long enough
to even propose to you!"
"He hasn't."
John's jaw dropped even lower.
"I asked him, and he didn't seem to object."
"Pamela, what on earth do you see in him? Don't get me wrong, I like
George as well, a lot, he's a good man and a highly gifted Egyptologist
with great instinct, a sixth sense where our job is concerned, but to
marry him! The man is a dreamer, an irrational romantic with religious
delusions, that doesn't fit in with you!"
Pamela's blue eyes darkened.
"What do you mean, religious delusions, tell me, what? God, Christ and
the Holy Ghost, Allah, Buddha, every religion is a delusion, created by
people so they could deal with their disappointments and didn't have to
be afraid to die. You taught me that and I believe it too, but tell me,
what's the difference between a good catholic, a Muslim, a Buddhist or
whatever and George who follows his own thoughts and is fascinated by
the religion of the ancient Egyptians. Tell me, what?"
"You know as well as I do. Faith today, whichever, is alive, it's
carried by a mass of people, is rooted in history and long tradition.
And one day even our current religions will be nothing more than a
history lesson, a relic from an ancient past, but that moment is still
far away. But George's ideas are ridiculous, crazy even, and I can't
imagine you will be able to live with them in the long term."
"That's my problem", she said, her eyes filling with tears. John took
her hand in his.
"So how do you see your future?"
"Simple. First George and I will go back to the States, to meet his
parents, and then we come back here and work with you here in Egypt,
just like we are doing now."
"But don't think for a minute that I will take care of the dog while
you two are away, because that's out of the question!"
"Well, no worries there, Sahib is the most important thing in George's
life and he would never leave him behind."
Helplessly, John shrugged. "If you ask me, I don't think you're going
to last through this."
The season had come to an end. They celebrated the end of their yearly
work with a festive meal, and toasted the next project, for which they
would all gather together again in the autumn.

John was in a gloomy mood as he took Pamela and George to Cairo
airport, and George was completely beside himself after all his begging
and pleading with the airline and even with the captain of his flight
had been in vain; he had not been granted permission to take Sahib with
him in the cabin, he would have to pass the flight in a cage inside the
pressurised hold of the aeroplane.
A great panic beset Sahib as he was forced into his cage and locked in,
and then was taken further and further away from his master. No
reasoning or sweet talk had calmed him down and George could hear his
frantic howling become weaker with distance. Now he wasn't so sure
whether he was doing the right thing, forcing this trip, this change on
his dog and on himself. He would give anything now to turn back time
and to return with Sahib to their familiar Luxor.
For Sahib, everything was strange and threatening, the noise, the
smells, but most of all these planks enclosing him, taking away his
freedom. This frightening jail that prevented him from fleeing these
unknown dangers that could assail him at any time, from any direction.
He curled himself into the tiniest bunch possible and squeezed himself
tightly into a corner where he shook so heavily that he and his prison
started inching out of place. A worker at the airport noticed this and,
peering through the bars, tried to calm Sahib down, but he only added
to the panic.
And then the sudden rolling, shaking and pitching began. Sahib thought
that the ground was being sucked from under him and that he was taken
up by a storm and blown away. His heart beat so heavily that he could
hardly breathe anymore, and he was thirsty, immeasurably thirsty,
exhausted, his limbs aching. The horrible droning surrounded him and
shook his insides. Now he occasionally dozed off, only to be plagued by
angry dreams, and when he woke up with a start, everything was still
the same, fear gnawing at him while the strange and frightening noise
did not let up. Finally he was so exhausted that he fell asleep, a
final deep, bottomless sleep.
Pamela meanwhile was happy, excited and full of expectations. She
talked and talked like a waterfall, touching now on this subject, now
on that, and hardly noticed that George was staring nervously at his
book, but not paying it any attention.
"What's with you? You're not even listening." She looked at him sharply
and then noticed he looked white as a sheet. "Are you feeling all
right?"
He looked at her in torment.
"I'm not sure whether it was the right thing to do, to make this
trip,maybe we should have stayed in Cairo, I'm worried about
Sahib."
"Worried? Why? He's hardly the first dog to make a trip in an
aeroplane, he'll be fine."
She ordered two glasses of sparkling wine.
"Tell me about Chicago!" she said happily.
George tried hard, but he could think of nothing to tell her, his
thought always drifted away. He leaned back in his seat and closed his
eyes, so he could think in peace and did not have to say
anything.
They waited at their conveyor belt in the packed arrivals hall for
their luggage. George spotted his parents behind the thick glass,
joyfully waving their arms, he gave them a quick wave and disappeared
again to enquire where he could find Sahib. He'd best wait back there,
said a friendly man from the airport service. It took a very long time.
George paced the room and nervously bit his fingernails - still
nothing. Was something wrong? Had they loaded the dog into the wrong
aeroplane? A thousand scenarios found their way into his head. Time and
again he inquired. Finally he was taken into a room full of boxes and
crates by a uniformed man. Their was his crate.
"Sahib, Sahib!", he cried and rushed over. There was no movement
inside, nothing stirred, no sound.
"Sahib", he said again and a great fear tightened around his throat.
With shaking hands he tore the crate open. Inside lay Sahib gasping,
rolled into a ball, lying in vomit and excrement, afraid and
stinking.
Tenderly and ever so careful, George lifted him out, took him in his
arms, petted him and quietly repeated over and over:
"You'll never have to go through this again, not ever, not ever, not
ever, d'you hear Sahib? D'you hear?"
The dog pressed himself to him, tail between legs, still trembling.
George took him to the toilets, washed and cleaned him, offered him
some water to drink in his cupped hands and Sahib drank, drank, drank.
Then they went out into the arrivals hall where Pamela was waiting by
the conveyor belt with their luggage, lost among a few
stragglers.
His parents' faces, still glued to the glass wall in the arrivals hall,
lit up when he finally came into sight.
"Look, he's not only got a girl, he's got a girl complete with dog!",
said Kate.
Ralph remarked dryly: "at least it's not a girl with a kid."
The welcome was warm and heartfelt though, and while George took Sahib
for a little walk by the side of the road, Pamela and George's parents
went ahead to the car.
"George has obviously got his taste from me.", said Ralph and smiled
broadly and appreciatingly at Pamela. "And he's taking wonderful care
of your dog.", added Kate.
"My dog? No, no, that's George's dog, he's crazy about Sahib, that's
his number one, I still have to get used to that."
The parents looked at her in surprise.
"Where did you pick up that poor, frightened animal?", Ralph asked his
son, who had just managed to wedge Sahib in the backseat between
himself and Pamela.
"I'm not sure you'll ever understand." George looked thoughtfully at
his father. "The dog and I were reunited. The second I saw him, I knew
that he was meant to be with me, that he had been my dog before, in a
previous lifetime."
Pamela, noticing the worried glances exchanged between Ralph and Kate,
interrupted: "This is probably hard to understand, but our work
invariably confronts us every day with the past, with beautiful ancient
cultures, peoples, rulers, religions and practices that existed
thousands of years ago, so that we often have the feeling of moving in
two different worlds."
"Yes", added George, "we've got so much to tell you, incredible things
and curious discoveries."
"But not now, please," said Pamela enthusiastically, "tell me about the
city, tell me about the buildings we're passing, this is all new to me,
it's fascinating!"
Ralph answered before George could: "You'll see, Chicago is the
brightest, liveliest, most happening metropolis, it's cosmopolitan,
huge with countless and different areas that each have their own
character. And then there's the architecture! Did you know that the
first skyscrapers were built here, but you can find anything here, the
charming Victorian-style suburbs, neoclassical structures, buildings
with the stylised shapes of Art Deco, steel, glass and concrete
structures with simple and functional lines, and our current buildings
in post-modern style. Many famous architects like Sullivan, Frank Lloyd
Wright, Mies van der Rohe, Jahn, to name but a few, have give this city
its face. Over there, to the left is the Sears Tower, which you can see
from anywhere. Chicago used to have the highest tower in the world, but
we had to concede first place recently to Kuala Lumpur. And if you want
to go shopping, you'll find everything you desire in the Magnificent
Mile, where you can become poor in an instant. The best bookstores are
grouped around the University of Chicago, but George can tell you
everything about that, since he studied there. If you ask me, there is
no better city in the world, and once you get to know it, you won't
want to leave."
"That's what I used to think," interrupted George, "but ever since I
got to know Cairo and Luxor, even right from the start, when I got off
the plane there, I knew I'd found my roots, and that my real home lay
there."
"Ralph?", suggested Kate, "shall we show Pamela the Pullman or drive by
Lake Shore Drive?"
But George answered: "No, please not today, we've only just arrived,
and Sahib will need some exercise. I'd like to go home as soon as
possible, it'll take a long time, even without detours, and we're
tired."
"We?", whispered Pamela, but said nothing more when she saw his
face.
Chicago seemed like an endless city. They drove from one suburb to the
next, and they'd been going for a good two hours, when Ralph finally
turned off the highway and followed a b-road through some small
villages, until they came to the wide driveway, flanked with bushes, of
quite a modern country-house at the edge of a small town.
"Welcome!", he said and with a wide gesture invited them in.

Time passed quickly, one day turned into the next. There was so much to
see and so much to experience, friends and family visited, and Ralph
and Kate never tired of proudly showing everyone the newspaper article
about George and his dog from Egypt. They also got on very well with
Pamela, who was positive, intelligent and practical, and, to top it
off, very pretty. They had the comforting feeling that now they didn't
have to worry so much anymore about their son, the dreamer with his
wild ideas and weird fantasies. And George was pleased that Pamela and
his parents got on so well. Only the countless programmes and meddling
of his parents annoyed him, and he was happiest when he could wander
through the dunes, or just sit thoughtless in the sand and stare out
over the blue-green expanse of Lake Michigan.
But he was worried by Sahib. In Luxor he had been a confident dog,
careful and wary, yes, but never afraid. He had steered clear of
strangers but had never feared them, and he had never once shown any
aggression. But the flight had changed him. Now he followed George
everywhere and hardly dared to distance himself from him, not even a
few meters, and only George was allowed to touch him. He growled
aggressively at everybody else and even snapped at them. He saw danger
lurking everywhere and at night he would wake with a start and only
George could ease his trembling by holding him close for a long
time.
"That dog's crazy'" said Ralph, "why don't you go and look for a normal
one."
Kate offered tranquillisers.
"Try these, they might help."
But Pamela had a better idea.
"I think the dog is beginning to get on your parents' nerves. We should
rent a camper and have a holiday. Why don't we go see Karen Smith and
her pharaoh-hounds? What do you think?"
Pamela arranged everything and a few days later they were on their way
to Iowa in a modern well-equipped camper van. It was a new experience
for them to traverse the country in this way and to see the vast fields
stretching away, as far as the eye could see. The land, reaching for
the horizon in seeming endlessness, this giant plain and the
magnificent monotony gave them a feeling of peace and relaxation, which
was also having its effect on the dog. Only occasionally did they see a
village or a farm stead, spread like small specks on a giant green
tapestry, cut into two by the straight highway. And they cruised
through cities and towns, that were mostly nothing more than industrial
parks with some suburbs, always situated by one of the many rivers or
canals that crisscrossed the country.
The day was drawing to a close as they pulled off the highway near a
small town, continued for a few kilometres along a dirt-road and
finally stopped by a few buildings flanked by fields and trees, in the
middle of the cornfields. In a huge pen several dogs, all similar to
Sahib had been cavorting but now they rushed up to the fence where they
jumped up and down, barking loudly. A youngish, sporty woman exited the
house, followed by a tall, tanned and sinewy man with snow-white
hair.
"Hello George!", cried Karen from a distance, "I recognise you from the
newspaper clippings. Great that you could make it! And where is Sahib,
your beautiful and famous dog, I'm dying to meet him."
George and Pamela walked over to introduce themselves but it felt like
they had known the others for years already. Ian's heartfelt handshake
confirmed this, for it held them in a vice-like grip for a while.
"You did bring the dog, didn't you?" asked Karen again, looking around
her.
"He's still in the van. The trip in the aeroplane has left a big
impression on him, I'm afraid. He's still jumpy and frightened and
sometimes aggressive to strangers, something we had never seen before,
in Luxor," explained George.
"Yes, tell me about it. The Pharaohs are dogs from the old world,
they're complicated and sensitive characters, easier to upset than our
American pedigrees, like the retriever and the Newfoundlander, who are
generally more stable and less easy to upset. And I'm always amazed at
the difference in character among my own dogs."
By now they had reached the camper van and George opened the door.
Sahib appeared in the doorframe, immobile like a statue, only his nose
gave a hardly visible twitch. He was scanning the new surroundings, the
many dogs, the people, with all his senses, to form an image in his
mind and to react to it.
"Your dog is even more beautiful than he looks in the pictures, he's
slightly larger than ours, perhaps more muscular, and his colouring is
lighter with a golden sheen and Allah's kiss is a real gem on
him."
"Allah's kiss? What do you mean by that?", asked George in
surprise.
"That's what we call the white fleck on his forehead, just above his
eyes."
"Allah", said George, almost in derision, "These dogs lived a long time
before Islam was even invented. It had better be called the kiss of
Amun-Ra."
Karen approached Sahib, who jumped down from the van, sniffed her up
and down and then wagged his tail lightly. Then he sat down next to
George who said relieved:
"Well, it seems you've found a friend."
They now strolled easily toward the house, passing the dogs, still
barking excitedly, and took a seat on the verandah. Ian went in to
fetch drinks, Sahib pressed himself close to George, and Karen took
Pamela by the elbow and said: "Come, I have to show you
something."
They went into one of the smaller outhouses behind the house. In one
room, where a door opened to an outside pen, a couple of round puppies
with bare pink bellies tumbled over one another. The mother lay by the
door, keeping a keen eye on her offspring. One of the pups ambled over
to Pamela on unsteady little feet. She picked it up. The pup was so
soft, warm and cuddly that it awoke motherly and protective feelings in
her.
"Have you ever considered breeding with Sahib?"
"No, we can't really do that, he's got no papers, no pedigree. He was a
stray, you know, when George met him. They've been inseparable ever
since."
"I just don't get it. He's got all the hallmarks of a pure and
exceptionally beautiful pharaoh-hound, it simply can't be a
coincidence."
"Of course it isn't! The ancient Egyptians kept these dogs long before
Christ was born, and the dogs in the antique pictures look exactly like
Sahib. It's all in the genes!"
"Not really, Pamela. I've been breeding dogs for a long time now and I
know that something like that is not possible. Except maybe on an
remote island so that cross-breeding could be prevented. Believe me,
this is either a huge coincidence, better still, a miracle, or your dog
is an unusually beautiful example from an exceptional breeding
programme, maybe a runaway, or abandoned or lost. I can't think of any
other explanation. I'd love to have him stud one or two of my best
bitches and I'm pretty sure that combination would produce some
excellent dogs."
"You'll have to take that up with George, Karen. But we won't be here
long. We're returning to Luxor in about two months, back to
work."
They decided to park the camper underneath the tall trees, some
distance away from the houses, so that they could stay a while and
enjoy a holiday with their new-found friends. Pamela helped Karen
enthusiastically with the care of the dogs and never got tired of
playing with the pups. George meanwhile went for long walks with Sahib,
who slowly regained his confidence although he still avoided other dogs
and people whenever he could. During the day, Ian was working the
fields together with his neighbours, whose farm was some kilometres
away and with whom he shared machinery and labour. The evening however
was a time when they all sat together and discussed agriculture and
breeding dogs, Egypt, life in Luxor and the work and excavations over
there.
Especially when George related his anecdotes they all fell silent and
listened attentively. They were spellbound when he described in
painstaking detail how he had stumbled on the mysterious tomb with its
perfectly preserved artwork in which he recognised himself and Sahib,
or when he told of the eyeless woman, who protested against the
politics and machinations of her fellow priests and was branded a
heretic and blinded, and probably murdered too, for they had found her
tomb empty, without any trace of a sarcophagus.
"You should have become a novelist!" Karen shook her shoulders, "Your
stories really give me the creeps!"
"Stories? That is all real, just as real like I'm sitting here!"
Ian and Karen looked questioningly at Pamela, they didn't know what to
believe anymore.
As they drove back to Chicago, George was even more silent than usual,
while Pamela was bubbling with enthusiasm about rural life, breeding
dogs and especially about the fat little puppy she had had such a hard
time saying goodbye to.
"So why didn't you take it with you?"
"But that's impossible, George, how do you picture us with two dogs at
the excavation in Luxor, and one of them still a pup?"
He didn't answer and muttered under his breath for a while. After a
long silence he finally managed to say:
"Pamela, I've thought very long and hard about this: we're not going
back to Luxor, Sahib would not survive another trip in an
aeroplane."
"What? - What're you saying?" She was so perplexed she could hardly
breathe. "You cannot be serious! This can't be true! Tell me it's not
true, tell me you're joking! We can't do this to Dad, he's counting on
us! And what are we going to live on here? - where are we going to
live? I hope not with your parents! You're crazy! - completely
crazy!"
And she shook him by the arm violently.
"Stop that! We'll talk about it later, when you've calmed down a
bit."
They drove on in silence.
The following days neither of them dared touch the subject. Pamela felt
George's parents getting on her nerves. They were so anxious to know,
and did not stop asking, whether and when she and George were planning
to get married. It only made her homesick for Cairo, her father, and
Luxor.
"George", she said one day, as they were walking with Sahib along the
lakeshore, "we've got to start thinking about going back, I'd like to
go home, no matter how beautiful it may be here."
He looked at her, not understanding.
"I'd love to, there's nothing I'd rather do, but you know it's
impossible because of Sahib."
Tears welled up in her eyes.
"Everything you do is geared towards that dog, you don't even take me
into consideration anymore!"
He put his arm around her.
"Pamela, we're going to the University tomorrow, to see my professor of
oriental studies, he'll help us find work here, then we'll rent a
camper and live right here in the park, until we've found a place of
our own."
"But you've got a contract!"
"And yet I'm not sacrificing my dog for it!"
"And yet I can't do this to Daddy, he would never understand."
They sat down on the sand and stared out quietly over the lake,
seemingly large as the sea and meeting in the distance with the
horizon.
Slowly, step by step, and after many long phone calls with her father,
Pamela got used to the idea of staying in America. George's professor
had gotten her a job as curator's assistant at the museum, where she
and an Egyptologist designed a travelling exhibition of ancient
Egyptian jewellery and figurines. She liked her new job which took up
all of her time. George passed the days in the camper writing articles
for an archaeological journal about his fieldwork, the newest
discoveries in Luxor, and restoration techniques and materials. Sahib
lay stretched contentedly at his feet and slept. They went for regular
walk in the dunes and in the evening they picked up Pamela from the
train. For all three, Egypt faded into the background more and
more.
George wrote with great zeal. His documentaries grew longer and ever
more elaborate, and became more like detailed descriptions and stories
about every aspect of life in ancient Egypt. They ended up more like a
captivating novel than a scientific editorial.
His editor told him one day: "Our readers won't accept this any longer.
I can't publish your latest manuscripts in our journal, but I've given
them to a publisher, a friend, who thinks they're very promising and he
would like to meet you."
But George was disappointed. His editor had simply got rid of him with
a friendly excuse. He felt useless and lost, used and empty.
Sahib's antennae picked up his master's disappointed mood, and together
they trudged through the park and along the lakeshore every day now, in
any weather, two lost souls.
Pamela did not notice much of this, as she was too busy with herself,
her work preparing the exhibition, and all the new things that assailed
her. She was wondering why George was in such a bad mood all the time,
but as she never got an answer, she stopped worrying about it.
A few weeks later George received a draft contract from the publisher,
and the invitation to come and visit him. This meeting produced a close
friendship, a contract for a number of books, a generous advance, and a
new life for George as a novelist.
He and Pamela found a small yet modern apartment near George's parents
with a great view over the park and Lake Michigan, and they planned to
get married the following summer so that John could be present.
George wrote and wrote. He was happy in his world, the world he was
familiar with and knew inside out and could describe endlessly. He
wrote of this rich, colourful past of the ancients full of love and
hate, power and deception, friendship, treason and death, rise and
fall. He put all great deities, pharaohs and people to paper and
brought them to life with their grand dreams, small rancours and their
never faltering belief in eternity.
His books became popular and were frequently on the bestseller list,
and the momentum of his success let him create novel after novel.
Sahib meanwhile had become sire of many nests of pharaoh-hounds, and
since Pamela had given up her job at the museum and concentrated more
and more on the breeding of dogs, they decided to move to the
countryside. They rented one of the empty buildings on their friends
Karen and Ian's farm and converted it.
These were happy and contented years.
Sahib was still the ideal pharaoh-hound, the perfect result that Karen
and Pamela tried to obtain in their breeding, but he was getting older.
It was a gradual process, very slow, so it was hardly noticeable. He
was still the beautiful Sahib, perhaps thinner, his coat not as silky
and glowing, his head maybe held lower and his eyes dimmer and tired.
The walks shortened a little. George always noticed when his dog had
had enough and turned back. Then they would sit together in front of
their home, shaded by the trees, happy and content in the security of
their togetherness.
Winter came and Sahib now tired more quickly and his breathing was
laboured.
"It's just old age", said the vet. But no-one knew exactly how old
Sahib was, including George. He remembered when he had first seen him,
as he walked early one morning through the temple at Luxor. The dog had
suddenly appeared from between the columns and had vanished again. He
remembered how they had slowly got to know each other and then finally
had stuck together. (74) How old could he have been then? Two years,
five or six perhaps? George thought more often now of his time spent in
Egypt.
It was snowing outside. Inside he poked the fire.
"Come on Sahib," he said, "One last small round and we'll call it a
day."
Sahib breathed heavily. He tried to get up, but couldn't. George tried
to help him. The dog gasped for air, fought to breathe, looking at him
with eyes filled with panic, his entire body shook and he fell back
trembling. George could hear the gasping and rattling get weaker and
slower and then it ceased altogether. He kneeled down, grabbed the dog
and shook him.
He wanted to scream "No! - no!", but no sound came over his lips. He
looked at Sahib who lay motionless, put his arms around him and held
him.
But then he jumped up and ran outside. He shouted: "Pamela! come! -
Karen! please come quick, before it's too late!"
The two were just putting the dogs in their pens for the night and they
rushed over in alarm.
"Sahib", he managed, "it's Sahib."
Inside, Karen bent over the dog, touched him and looked up: "I think
he's dead, George."
George turned white as a sheet. "No! - You can't say that! How can you
know! Call the vet! Please hurry!"
"Come with me." said Pamela and dragged him to the telephone. She
dialled the number and handed George the receiver. The vet couldn't
make much sense out of the confused stream of words, but he did realise
he was needed urgently. He promised to come over as quick as he
could.
George sat beside Sahib and did not take his eyes off him. He had the
fleeting impression he could see movement, a breath. He put his ear to
the dog's chest but could only hear his own heart beating. It took
forever for the vet to arrive, who told him what he knew already, but
refused to believe.
Pamela took his hands in hers:
"George, Sahib was old and he's had a long and happy life with you. And
he's got any number of descendants, all very much like him."
He looked at her and said nothing. Sure, she meant well, but she would
never understand the special bond he had had with this dog, and this
dog alone, a togetherness which made time into an irrelevant thing. He
remembered her saying once, laughing:
"That sort of story is fine for a novel, but maybe you shouldn't talk
about it too much."
That night he dreamed that Sahib was walking ahead of him, bouncing.
They were descending a long steep slope of scree and sand. His feet
found no purchase and progress was difficult. The dog ran faster and
faster. The sun burned and he could hardly make out anything in the
shimmering light. Sahib was just a diminishing speck in the distance,
until he disappeared completely. The searing heat pressed down on him
and seemed to stifle him.
He woke drenched with sweat, a great weight on his chest, his heart
beating wildly. He paced the room uneasily beset by an inexplicable
fear. Pamela woke with a start and looked at him, worried. She fetched
him a large glass of water and a tranquilliser. Then they sat up all
night and talked, as George was too afraid to fall asleep again.
He was restless. He wanted to write, but his usually boundless
imagination had dried up and he fled out of the house to walk in the
fields but couldn't stand that either, for everywhere he could hear
Sahib's footfall and his breath clearly next to him. He tried whisky
and sat staring dead ahead. Pamela and Karen selected a pup for him, as
similar as possible to Sahib, but he did not take any notice of it, he
didn't even look at it.
"Pull yourself together!" Pamela scolded him, for now she was getting
really worried about him. His face had no colour, had bags under his
eyes and looked completely exhausted.
The fat envelope that arrived a few days later was a welcome
distraction. Her father had sent it.
"George! George!", she cried excitedly, "Daddy wants us to come visit
him in Egypt! Here, read this!"
John wrote that Luxor had some very special, very major news. Prof. Dr.
Ahmed Hassan had succeeded after painstaking research and
echo-soundings in locating a sealed tomb. From the descriptions, if he
remembered rightly, John thought that it might be the tomb that George
had always talked about and described in such detail, and they had
never managed to find despite their efforts. The included photographs
were the first ever made of the tomb, and he was curious whether George
might recognise anything. The tomb would not be open to the public for
a long time, but Ahmed, who knew them both very well, would be happy to
show them around.
But the letter had the exact opposite effect Pamela had expected.
George jumped up and paced the room in agitation, turning now red, now
white.
"Of all people it has to be Ahmed, that sneaky character, who discovers
my tomb, and all on the sly, without even informing us or your dad
before he went public. Him of all people, who always mocked me and
never believed me, he stole my discovery!" He screwed up the letter and
flung it and the photographs to the ground.
"Please, George, be fair!" Pamela picked up the photographs and the
letter again. "We've been away from Egypt for ages, we're not even
working in archaeology anymore. It was you who didn't want to return.
Just look at the pictures, they're beautiful! And look here! That's
Sahib, that looks exactly like Sahib, just like he used to be."
He trembled as he took the photo from her, in which Sahib danced after
the gazelles in a perfect graceful arc. And he looked at the other
pictures and saw his mirror-image again, the dog by his side, and
Anubis taking him by the hand, leading them both to Isis. He knew them
all, these beautiful frescoes, to the smallest detail. The hunting
scenes, the banquet, the girl-musicians, the judgment at which his
heart was weighed, Thoth with his scroll and Osiris, admitting him to
his realm, and the statue in pink granite, magnificent in its light and
shade. It was all exactly like he remembered it. Pamela looked over his
shoulder.
"It's incredible! It's just like you've always described it to us. Why,
why, why didn't we search more intensively then?"
George was far away, lost in thought. He was in Luxor, walking through
the afternoon heat, climbing up the scree-slope, and pressing through
the gap in the rock-face...
He started, when she suggested:
"Well, what do you think? Are we off to Egypt? I'd love to see Dad
again and this is the perfect opportunity."
He considered, and as he thought about it more, Egypt, Cairo and
especially Luxor and all the memories from those places emerged again.
He felt again the heat, smelled the rich mix of odours, saw the steep
cliffs of the Libyan mountain range, and the Nile flanked by the broad
band of green. He saw again the excavation site where he had worked,
resembling a desert with its sand-heaps and rubble, and he saw a young
and playful Sahib running happily, and he longed for that land where he
felt so utterly at home.
"Yes", he said, "you're right. Will you make the arrangements?"
She embraced him. "You'll see, it'll be wonderful!"

When they got off the plane in Cairo, and driving through the city with
John, on the way to his house, George felt like he'd never been away.
It wasn't hot yet, the air was mild, the sunshine was bright, the
countless cars pressing through the narrow streets all seemed to honk
their horns at once, trying to drown out their neighbour. In their
midst, horse drawn carts struggled and everywhere he looked a mass of
brightly clad people was moving slowly along.
They stayed overnight at John's place and flew on to Luxor the next
day. There they were picked up by Ahmed who took them to one of the
classy hotels by the Nile, where he was staying and where he had
reserved a room for them.
Later they got together for a pleasant drink and lively conversation.
Ahmed turned out to be a confident and charming host.
"Times have changed", mused Pamela, "when I just think of the bed &;
breakfast we used to stay in."
"Yes", laughed Ahmed, "these days the government is more willing to
invest in its past, and especially in this tomb which houses truly
unique artifacts."
But tell me about yourself and what you are up to nowadays."
"George has become a famous writer." said Pamela.
"And what do you write? Scientific editorials on archaeology?"
"No, George writes novels, and his stories invariably are set in
ancient Egypt."
"Novels?" Ahmed shook his head and looked at George with slight irony.
"Well, you've always had a lively imagination. But when I found that
ostrakhon, I thought that there might actually be something to your
tales. But then it still took me several years to convince the
authorities to give me permission and a license to excavate, and even
then I had to spend more years gathering the necessary funds. Well, it
was worth it. It's a pity really, that you two went back to America and
our team fell apart, just as we were becoming successful."
John nodded in agreement.
"And you Pamela, what do you do?"
She laughed. "You'll never believe this, but I breed dogs,
pharaoh-hounds, you know, like Sahib, I'm sure you remember him?"
"You bet! George was crazy about the animal, but I'd never have thought
the affliction would be contagious!" But he looked at her in doubt, not
sure whether she was serious.
"Here comes the old Ahmed", thought George to himself. "But he seems
changed. He reminds me of someone."
He couldn't work it out, but his reluctance grew. He sat silently,
downing glass after glass of whisky while the others were still
conversing animatedly about any number of subjects.
They decided to get up early the next day in order to travel the long
way up in the relative morning cool. But it was early afternoon when
they finally got going as George was feeling miserable.
"He's sick with excitement, Daddy."
"Rubbish", argued John, "he's simply had too much to drink
yesterday."
It was already warm as they ascended the scree-slope. Ahmed walked
ahead with Pamela and John. They were chatting and laughing, looking
over their shoulder occasionally to see whether George was still
keeping up. He felt tired and breathless, his legs were like lead. An
inexplicable fear, a reluctance to continue made him climb ever slower,
but at the same time some inner excitement urged him on. Pamela walked
back to where he was struggling.
"Oh, come on, you're being ungracious to our host Ahmed."
He coughed and wiped the perspiration off his forehead. She looked at
him in concern.
"What's with you? Are you feeling all right? Or is it the excitement
perhaps?" But when she saw how pale he looked, she said: "Maybe we
should turn back and try again tomorrow?"
He shook his head. "No, just go on ahead, I'll rest a bit here, and
follow you in a few minutes. It's nothing, it must be the hangover, I
think."
Reassured, she continued up. George sat in the sand, lost in thought.
Suddenly a thin, whirring sound cut through the air. He jumped up, but
everything around him was quiet. There was nothing unusual to be seen,
but he had the eerie feeling he was being followed.
Slowly he continued his ascent. Where once he had had to clamber over
rocks, there was now a stairway hewn into those rocks, but still it was
slow going, he hoisted himself up step by step. The entrance was roomy
now and a pleasant cool surrounded him.
"There you are, we can start with the tour. Look at this", said Ahmed
and took Pamela's arm, pulling her along. John followed. George's eyes,
fresh out of the harsh sunlight, still needed time to get used to the
darkness. He saw a faint light in the distance and descended the very
same corridor that led to the chamber with the square columns that
supported the blue dome. From a distance he could hear Pamela's, John's
and Ahmed's voices. The bright light, shining from an unseen source,
increased and allowed him to see again the painted walls in all their
bright splendour. His heart beat faster, it was racing, for he saw
Sahib, bounding after the gazelles. The dog stood for a moment, looked
at him and wagged his tail before continuing after the gazelles. An
immense feeling of happiness suffused George as he admired the poetry
in motion. A thin, whirring sound again whizzed past his ear, and in
that same instant his dog reared high, an arrow between its shoulder
blades, then collapsed. Right then, George caught a fleeting glimpse of
Ahmed's face, the evil, leering expression of his arch-enemy, the high
priest. Then a pain gripped his chest, a pain so great it dissolved
everything.
He did not look back. He approached the wall and stepped into his
image, becoming one with it. Sahib was by his side and Anubis took him
by the hand to lead him and the dog to Osiris.
He was impervious to the cries of alarm and panic he caused. Pamela,
wondering what kept George, had turned back and found him lying
motionless on the floor.
"Dad!" she screamed, "Ahmed! Come! Come quick!" Her voice echoed
hollowly and rolled along the walls of the corridor. She threw herself
onto George and shook him and pulled at him. The two came racing. Ahmed
ran as fast as he could to the nearest telephone to call for an
ambulance which took forever to arrive. And while George was being
carefully carried down the slope on a stretcher, Pamela took a last
look at the painting, that George had always called his mirror-image,
and indeed she thought that she could recognise certain features of
his. Now she waited, perhaps for a sign, but the image remained what it
had always been, a beautiful and noble witness to the past.