The Mummies of Blogspace9 (9 page)

June 19, 2011
Seville, Spain
Bruce Wheeler

voice activation mode:
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GPS:
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Every other fucking goddamn app:
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(by Bruce Wheeler who is angry)

Michelle, it’s me. I wish I could talk with you. I asked for a phone, but I’m told that’s not possible. Apparently all cell phone traffic in Europe is recorded, and it wouldn’t be a good idea for you to be in contact with me right now. Because you see, Michelle, I am a wanted man, a murderer if you believe the police. They have made my “confession” public. I read about myself in the newspaper today. My mother always told me I’d be famous, and you know what? She was right.

I can’t reveal where I am, of course. But I am among people who I now, for reasons of having no goddamn choice, consider friends.

It’s two in the morning; I slept most of the day. I suspect I was medicated but I don’t really care at this point. I’ve just consumed three frittatas and three liters of beer, so I think I’m up to the task of telling you about my rescue.

Melchor Negromonte, remember him – the old gypsy who shoved me into the room with the dead man last week? Well, he’s my new best friend. I asked him if he wanted me to keep his name out of this, and he just laughed. He’s accustomed to police harassment, he told me. And if the police want to come around his place talking nonsense about some lunatic American claiming he met with him, he’ll deny it straight away.

But it was he who had me rescued. He sent his trusted associate Radu, who is my new second best friend. Do you know where I was being held, Michelle? In the Alcazar itself, the old palace fortress of the Moors, right in the heart of old Seville, not five hundred yards from the Archive.

When Radu came through the door of my cell, I was terrified, but little did I know that my terror was only going to get worse. We ran out through the servants’ quarters, through parts of the Alcazar not visited by tourists. Dusty hallways with scuffed tiles and centuries of paint curling up along the walls, the smell of mildew was overpowering.

Escape proved to be a time-intensive activity as Radu dragged me from one shadow to the next, smashing through door after door while rogue policemen searched frantically. You’d think that would be loud enough, smashing through door after door, but it wasn’t. The doors were thin, and the wood so damp and worm-laden that you could push a finger straight through without much effort.

We climbed more stairs than I thought possible, tripping more often than not on loose or broken tiles, nearly tumbling to my death on several occasions. Finally we came out onto a little garden, the likes of which I have never seen. It was completely overgrown. Vines hung everywhere, weaving in and out of the eye sockets of the skulls that littered the ground. The decapitated enemies of the Caliph, Radu told me. I didn’t remember that part from the audio tour.

I heard footsteps all around us. The policemen were near, and I didn’t know which way to go. Radu grabbed hold of my arm and swung me through a door. It was by far the most solid door we had yet encountered, and it nearly cost me a rib, but we broke through. We found ourselves in a long hallway. I started to run but Radu held me back. “At this point,” he said, “you must keep moving. Do not stop for any reason. Do you understand?”

I nodded, and we sprinted the length of that hall, turning the corner and entering into the private recesses of the harem, where the Caliph kept his 800 women. “Keep moving,” Radu spat at me, pulling me along, but I could not. My legs betrayed me. My mind betrayed me. I thought I might die before I took another step.

It was still dark, but there was ample moonlight to see the stirrings in the harem rooms. Curtains were being drawn, intricate carpets were unrolled on tile patios. Chairs were dragged outside, and tea was being poured as the concubines awoke and began to move around. Even with just the moonlight, Michelle, it was clear that they were long dead.

“I’m leaving now,” Radu spat. “If you come, come. If not, you stay here. Police won’t enter, but ladies will soon notice you. I’ve seen what happens when they take concubine of their own.”

I moved as fast as my rubbery legs would carry me. We passed through a maze of dim hallways before we pushed through a door in the fortress walls. A car was waiting.

We found Melchor Negromonte at his flamenco restaurant. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, just a hole in the wall. But inside, it’s painted every color of the rainbow and then some. It was packed to the rafters. It’s a flamenco dinner theater with musicians and dancers on stage, and old gypsy women carrying trays of steaming food from table to table.

I followed Radu through a tiny kitchen and into Negromonte’s office. He was alone, sitting at a carved desk drinking brandy and playing with a pair of dice.

“I just saw eight hundred dead women walking around,” I told him.

Negromonte frowned. He turned to Radu. “That many?”

Radu shrugged. “I did not count, but no more than two or three dozen.”

“See, it’s not as bad as you thought.” Negromonte came out from behind the desk and hugged me. “Don’t worry, payo. We’ll be fast friends, you and I. We have much to talk about.”

June 20, 2011
Seville, Spain
Vasco Cuellar

Sancti daemones…

Latin to English translation module:
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Holy demons…

Insolent fool, can you feel the sun on your skin? Can you feel the soil under foot? If such can yet be said of you, you have lived too long. I cannot beg you because I have centuries ago shed my own fragile mortality, and begging requires at least a beating heart.

Nor can I command you because I no longer command armies of men and tortured souls both. And in truth, I never did.

But I can counsel you, young fool called Bruce, that the time is at hand to drink what poison you must, sharpen any nearest blade and cut deep, because Sopay has already cast his unholy gaze upon you. And he can extinguish your soul as effortlessly as putting breath to a candle’s flame.

Even if you took refuge in the golden temples of the Hindoos or the hallowed minarets that Sultans climb, or worse yet, should you cling to the silken hems of a papal gown in a painted Roman sacristy, it would still not suffice. Touch Sopay’s sacred books, will you? Walk his halls? Cast your gaze on his wives? He’ll come for you now.

For such insolence I would kill you myself, and I bear him no mournful nor generous consideration. But for the sake of all that is Holy, climb to a noble place, Bruce. Climb to the top of Giralda Tower. Once there, set your foot atop the highest ledge, make your last prayer to God, and push off into his embrace before opportunity dims.

June 20, 2011
Segovia, Peru
Leon Samples

And a fine good morning to you too, Vasco Cuellar. Always good to hear from you!

Leon, here. It’s morning on the north coast, and we’re gearing up for another exciting day of Peruvian archaeology. I thought I’d take this rare moment of electrical connectivity and mental clarity to take stock of our current situation.

Let’s see, our director Cyrus has deserted us, having fled the country. Bruce is an international fugitive, possibly a murderer, though unlikely. Kim is paralyzed with dread, concerned about the deteriorating condition of our diminutive gaucho bodyguard who is currently convalescing from an encounter with what we all now agree was an animated mummy returned from the dead.

Have I missed anything? Not to whine or anything, but I’m almost out of mescaline. When it rains, it pours.

Before I forget, Kim asked me to upload the second entry of Sebastiano Gota’s journal, so here it is:

Anno Domini Nostri Iesu Christi 1580, 20 Junio
// year of our lord 1580, 20 June

You will surely think me a fool for bringing my concern to light, but please consider my predicament. Though nearly one hundred souls live within earshot of my poor mud house, and though I sleep in the holy bosom of Our Lord, I am ashamed to say that I feel quite alone. Notwithstanding that I spent many weeks in Trujillo upon my arrival in the Americas, studying with the native tutors, I confess I speak the Indian tongue quite poorly, nearly not at all.

Now, several months into my appointment at our church here in Santa Segovia, I am hard at work bringing the word of Our Lord to this land. Even though our church is built of baked mud, and can hold but twelve bodies at a time, I can already count a score of eager converts. Notwithstanding my concern that the Indians indignantly refuse my sermons if there is no sacramental wine on offer, I believe they hold me in great esteem.

No, my concern plagues me each night as I tidy my sacred church, sweeping the floor with my poor broom, as if it might do more than simply pool the spills of the fermented beverage the Indians consume habitually. Dutifully I sweep away the chewed bones of the rodents they gnaw at during my service, along with the scraps of Indian bread which I daresay is tastier than that with which I am accustomed.

It is this sweeping that causes my Indians much distress. Initially I suspected they cherished some measure of filth, as did in fact my own grandmother, may she rest in the womb of Heaven, no fan of chores was she. But recently I have come to understand that it is the late hour of my sweeping that is of issue.

I confess I am remiss in my own chores, and I make my own prayers and my own writings before I undertake my tidying. And when I tarry in the church after the sun has set, my Indians become quite serious in demeanor. They will usher me quickly to my poor house not fifty paces away, not retreating until my latch is set.

One night, they grew cross when I had cause to return to the church, having forgotten my Breviary. With great urgency and torchlight they ushered me home. It was on this night that I first sighted Them, the lurkers who watch from the edges of the village, those who step back quietly into the fields, or who take plodding refuge behind what wall or donkey might suffice to shield them from plain view.

No queries about these individuals would be abided. But late one night I took to foot about the village, lest these be souls craving knowledge of Our Lord yet be too timid to seek it directly.

And in this assumption, I proved dead wrong, my words being most carefully chosen. Once approached, and followed around the back of the church, I caught up with one such individual. It was not difficult in that they move quite slowly. No sooner had I placed my hand on his arm, did he turn and place his own hand on mine and look deeply into my eyes.

You’ll think me a fool for saying this, as did Father Vasco who has since counseled me on such encounters, but I found great solace in that moment. For what stood before me was not a living soul, not a soul at all, but a hell-sent demon loose in our world.

I knew at that moment that the existence of such a being manifestly laid to rest any doubts I might have had about divinity itself. And I confess that those doubts did arise from time to time arise. Because if such a spectral being is neither too alien nor cumbersome for this world, then neither is the Lord God I serve.

- Santa Segovia, 20 June, Year of Our Lord 1580 SEBASTIANO

June 21, 2011
New York, NY
Rafael Duran
http://www.harqubusier.blogspace9.ex

You call yourself Perdido now? They think you’re a demon, but you’re not, not quite that. I remember you, brother. I can still smell your stinking breath across the centuries. And your litany of terror and damnation has little changed.

Who would remember Vasco Cuellar after such time has passed? I fought alongside you that day in Cajamarca when the world was won, yet no book pays homage to me, the great conquistador Rafael Duran.

No swordsmen were we, Vasco. No, we manned the Captain’s guns. And what guns they were, do you remember? Half as heavy as a dog, the harquebus was a tortuous weapon. Two minutes it took to load, half again if your hands were shaking, and our hands were shaking. Louder than an Andalusian whore on All Souls Day, and you couldn’t hit the broad side of the Andes even if you shut both eyes.