The Adventure of the Red-Handed Acolyte

Professor Champion was not a man who went to great lengths to curry the favor of others. In his personal dealings, particularly when they involved members of his own profession, it would not be far from the mark to describe his attitude as disdainful. As a result, he had few close companions, among whom I am honored to consider myself, though naturally our relationship rarely strayed beyond the bounds of a master and his beloved servant. I credit my tolerance of his eccentricities and occasional incivility to a thick skin and an admiration of forceful personalities. It is often the case that those who possess a broad and liberal outlook are paired with companions of the most fanatical and monomaniacal nature. Were I a religious man, I might see a Divine hand at work, supplying us with a study in contrast that we might better understand ourselves.

As I was saying, in disputes of an academic nature, the Professor often disregarded the opinions of his colleagues entirely, preferring to let the facts prove him correct, which they invariably did. At times I wondered if Creation itself feared the man's intimidating glare and adjusted itself accordingly. It was just possible, however, that this supreme self-confidence, though without a doubt justifiable, overrode honest dissent and practical suggestions which ran contrary to the Professor's own thinking. Our current predicament may furnish an illustrative example.

"But Professor..." I began again.

"No, Hardings, the evidence is incontrovertible." The Professor strode ahead, his lean shadow swinging wildly along the cavern walls in the light of his lantern. "The hieroglyphs clearly indicate that whatever the case may have been, these catacombs were abandoned long ago. The mentions of "living dead" are no doubt references to their elaborate funeral services." His tone became more measured. I was being lectured to. "We often portray ancient man as primitive since he did not enjoy the benefits of civilized society - the steam engine, say, or indoor plumbing. Still, it is rituals such as the one described in the Um Thuman scrolls that display a sophisticated awareness of life's brutality and beauty."

By this time, I had managed to break free from the mummy's grip - literally, as it happens, since I secured my release by snapping off its arm at the elbow.

Champion called back over his shoulder. "I say, watch your step, man! These are the bones of warriors and kings. It would not do to trample them underfoot."

The mummy seemed oblivious to his injury and pushed his attack. I struck back with the only weapon at hand, the mummy's own forearm! The thin and brittle bones had little effect on the brute, but the yellow nails of the hand caught on the bandages near his mouth and tore the rotten cloth, revealing gnashing black teeth. I was beginning to feel a bit fed up with the whole thing.

Retreating backwards and wielding my ineffectual weapon, I raised my voice. "For God's sake, Champion, it's a mummy! And it's trying to eat me!"

There was no response. Frantically, I cast a glance over my shoulder and saw Champion standing framed in the light of his lantern. He stood frozen, his gaze slightly elevated. He faced a figure at the edge of the circle of light which surrounded him. Rotting bandages barely covered the rotted flesh beneath. It was tall; the head was shrouded in darkness beyond the range of the lantern.

Something caught my heel and I tripped, sitting down hard. I could hear Champion musing. "Must have been an error in the translation. I knew that edition of Schleiden's Dictionary was worthless. Why, I told him as much at the conference in Cologne last year..."

It was then I noticed a low sound beneath Champion's ramblings, a sort of hum which grew into a tortured moan. It seemed to be coming from all around us. I peered into the darkness. There were shapes, stumbling and hunched but moving with purpose. Then the light caught their burning eyes and I saw them for what they were.

Mummies! Hundreds of them!