Mr Alfred Glynt had, truly, been an exceptional host. And, as we all sat around the dinner table, dressed in white tie and finishing off an assortment of digestifs, I could not help but ponder on how spectacular the night had been.
Was it the perfectly cut, perfectly cooked, medium rare Ribeye that I had devoured? Perhaps it was the exquisite red wine which had turned my awkward, mumbling self into a man that could exude some semblance of charm. Or, had it all in fact been Mr Alfred Glynt himself? – for he had seen it all, and was able to transport me to and from the past and present with his conversational abilities.
Indeed, while Mr Glynt now spent his twilight years acting as a consultant for small-town archeology firms across England, he had been a renowned archaeologist in his time. His highest, and most famed accomplishment, was his uncovering of the tomb of Saqqara, the resting place of King Unis (last of the fifth dynasty of Egyptian pharaohs). Hearing his tales on this particular matter was like getting lost in a book, or like reliving a memory that had never been yours.
The setting of our dinner certainly aided his storytelling, too. The walls to my left and right were adorned with various artifacts that Mr Glynt had (presumably) dug up in Egypt. There were daggers, pots and other memorabilia, forming in of themselves a miniature museum.
Behind me, 4 sarcophagi casings. I had been assured earlier, by Mr Glynt himself, that these sarcophagi were in fact vacant of human remains. However, despite this knowledge, they did make me feel uneasy, like someone was watching the back of my head throughout the course of my meal.
Still, it wasn’t enough to spoil my mood. If anything, this all enhanced the experience of the night.
Behind Mr Glynt’s chair, at the far end of the antiquated oak the table, was a spectacular, marble mantelpiece. On it, a plain white whale tusk, a ship in a bottle and a few photographs of, what I assume, was a young Mr Glynt on various archaeological digs and expeditions.
Around the table itself, my work colleagues, who were taking turns in asking insightful questions of our gracious host, as they passed round the wine, sherry, and port. A truly marvelous evening.
And then
I spotted it. Above the mantel, on the left of a shelf. An ordinary looking book that caused me an unordinary sense of dread. It was the colour of skin, looked to be bound my bone and on its center, an eye of Horus. It made me feel sick, yet ravenous, it filled my head with utter rage until my brain erupted and I felt calm again. What in the fuck is that? I thought to myself, as I began to feel dizzy.
I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream.
“Mr May? Are you quite with us? Or has the sherry gone to your head?” I was abruptly ousted from my daydream as Mr Glynt laughed from the head of the table.
I stared down at Mr Glynt, thankfully averting my gaze from the book. Wondering how long I had been absent from the conversation, I sheepishly replied: “I do apologise Mr Glynt. I was just erm, admiring the book on your mantelpiece - a find of yours”?
Mr Glynt seemed to wince in pain.
“Ah, erm, yes, you have a keen eye Mr May. That is a finding from the tomb of Saqqara itslef. Now please, if you will, do try to ignore the book.” He clicked his fingers twice before raising his voice. “All of you, stay focussed on your drinks and do not listen to Mr May, for I haven’t told you about the Boukoloi uprising of 171.” He again, clicked his fingers twice and began to mumble.
A very odd response, I thought, and it caught me so off guard that I felt like I had just been awoken from a long slumber.
I looked around the room and, to my suprise, everyone was still feasting, and not in fact drinking the gorgeous sherry and port that I could have sworn had just been in their hands.
In fact, they were doing more than ‘feasting’. I froze in horror as I witnessed my colleagues ripping the charred flesh off of one of our fellow colleagues; a woman that I knew well: our site director Estelle Maguire. For she lay, dead and cooked in the middle of the table. Her head was perfectly preserved – or, at least preserved enough that I was able to recognise her.
In a manic moment, my eyes did not know where to look. I looked down at my plate, but saw hair, blood, bone and skin. I’m not ashamed to say that I vomited - and no one seemed to fucking notice.
I jumped up, startled, not seeming to attract the attention of anyone around the table, for they were otherwise occupied in their devouring of an ex-colleague.
Mr Glynt continued, “The people, called the Boukoloi, began a disturbance in Egypt. Under the leadership of a certain priest, they caused the rest of the Egyptians to revolt. At first, arrayed in women’s garments, they had deceived a Roman centurion, causing him to believe that they were women of the Boukoloi and were going to give him gold as ransom for their husbands.”
In a spate of anger, I swept my hands across my immediate area of the table, sending glasses flying and shattering against the walls. I was in hell.
“And this, my friends, is where the tale turns”, Mr Glynt continued. “For the Boukoloi struck the centurion down when he approached them. They sacrificed his companion, and after swearing an oath over his entrails, they devoured them both.”
I lost my shit. “What the fuck is this. What the fuck is this. What the fuck is going on?”
Mr Glynt finally acknowledged me, and so did the other guests who had stopped gnawing on medium rare skin.
In a state of panic, I turned to see the 4 sarcophagi looking back at me. And that’s when it struck me.
Where the fuck was the door.