#26th Dynasty

[theancientwayoflife]

~ Pair of Eye Inlays.

Place of origin: Egypt

Period: Late Period, 25th-26th Dynasty

Date: 722-525 B.C.

Medium: Stone, alabaster, pigment.

[blueiskewl]

Egyptian Bronze Statuette of Osiris Egyptian · 26th Dynasty, Saite Period, ca 600 B.C.

[egypt-museum]

Seated Couple: Mentuemhat's Ancestors

Late Period, 26th Dynasty, ca. 664-525 BC. Tomb of Mentuemhat (TT34), El-Assasif, Thebes. Now in the Cleveland Museum of Art. 1949.493 A deceased vizier, whose name ended in Nufer, and his wife seated before a table of offerings. Presumably they were relatives of Mentuemhat. The work is in the style of early 18th Dynasty. Mentuemhet is one of the most recognizable nonroyal names from ancient Egypt. He was a rich and powerful mayor and priest of Thebes and Governor of Upper Egypt who rebuilt the city after the Assyrians destroyed it. Read more

[dwellerinthelibrary]

On the coffin of Oudjarenes, Horus offers his father Osiris the was sceptre with a djed column and an ankh on the tip. (Should we read this as "life, strength, health"?)

[An Egyptian coffin. On the right, Osiris is enthroned, and Horus is holding out a very long was sceptre topped by a djed column on top of which is an ankh; the ankh touches Osiris's nose. Behind Horus is a ram on a standard, wearing the double feather crown. The goddess Nut spreads her wings over the chest of the coffin; she holds an ankh in one hand and a ship's sail in the other, and there's a sun-disc on her head with her name in it.]

Where: Louvre

When: Late Period, 26th Dynasty

[occvltswim]

Sarcophagus of Harkhebit "Royal Seal Bearer, Sole Companion, Chief Priest of the Shrines of Upper and Lower Egypt, and Overseer of the Cabinet", 595–526 BC, Saqqara, 26th dynasty of Egypt. It is very similar in style with the Phoenician Tabnit sarcophagus.

[fullslack]

gold signet ring of Sheshonq (Egypt, 26th dynasty, c. 575 BCE)

[lionofchaeronea]

Bronze statuette with precious-metal inlay of the 26th Dynasty pharaoh Amasis II (r. 570-526 BCE), shown kneeling. Now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

[memories-of-ancients]

Ushabti for the commander of the Royal Fleet, Egypt, 26th Dynasty, 664-525 BC

from Hermann Historica

[useless-bulgariafacts]

October 26th is Dimìtrovden/Mitrovden (Димитровден), or the Orthodox feast day of St. Demetrius of Thessaloniki. (Bulgarian: Свети Димитър Солунски) He is a 3rd-4th century Christian saint and great martyr (великомъченик) from the city of Thessaloniki in Greece, of which he is the patron saint.

Hagiographies refer to St. Demetrius as a young man of a senatorial family, who became proconsul and was tasked with persecuting Christians in the at the time still pagan Roman Empire. However, being himself Christian, he instead protected them, for which the emperor had him jailed. He was later speared to death as punishment for the defeat of the gladiator Lyaeus at the hands of Demetrius' disciple, Nestor. This marked the beginning of his veneration by Christians in the area, which grew in the following centuries, as he was said to guard the city against raiders.

Albeit not one originally, during the Middle Ages St. Demetrius came to be revered as a warrior saint, and iconography portrays him riding on a red horse, running a spear through various enemies — often Lyaeus, but also whoever was locally perceived as an enemy. In Greek icons, this is sometimes the Bulgarian tsar Kaloyan, while in Bulgarian ones — the Byzantine emperor Basil II The Bulgarslayer, or later on, a Turk. St. Demetrius is also associated with the founding of the Second Bulgarian Tsardom, specifically the uprising of the brothers Petăr and Asen, which broke out on Oct. 26th, 1185. The St. Demetrius church in Veliko Tărnovo (pictured above) was built in commemoration the event, and served as a coronation site of Asen dynasty tsars, who claimed him as their patron.

Traditionally, Dimitrovden marks the end of the seasonal transition from fall to winter, a period which begins on Oct. 14th with Petkovden. Bulgarian folk mythology casts the saints George and Demetrius in the role of twin brothers, whose respective holidays split the year into its warm and cold halves. The latter, elder of the two, ushers in the cold and darkness, as he rides in on his red horse and the winter's first snowflakes sprinkle down onto the earth from his beard. As St. George's opposite and counterpart, he takes on the qualities of a chthonic deity, and thus has connotations to death and the Beyond — under his patronage the so-called Dimitrovska Zadushnica takes place on the Saturday prior to Dimitrovden, one of several such holidays where food is given out in honor of deceased ancestors. Perhaps this is also why, in addition to St. George, folk imagination places him as a brother to Archangel Michael and nephew to St. Paraskeva/Petka.

Dimitrovden is the true end to the year's agrarian cycle — the harvest now over, it's time to put the farm tools away, make sure the animals have shelter and firewood is stocked up. It's also when farmhands and other labourers' contracts expire and they get rehired for the year ahead, which is why the day is also known as Razpust (Разпуст). As with other big holidays, a community-wide celebratory feast is held, and the customary ritual meal (or kurban) is mutton. The biggest ram is chosen, a pair of gold-painted apples are placed onto its horns and those present bow before it, after which it's slaughtered and cooked, and receives a priest's blessing before being served. Festivities are accompanied by music and horo (group dancing), which again has an intended matchmaking function. Namesakes of the saint celebrate the occasion, too — but they're traditionally served a chicken or rooster dish, according to gender. Other foods for Dimitrovden include corn, seasonal fruit and derived dishes, such as apple pita, pestil (a type of plum dessert), rachel (pumpkin syrup), etc.

Another activity which traditionally ends on Dimitrovden is construction work — a new house is supposed to have been completed by then, and the homeowners celebrate by throwing their own feast with a kurban, and inviting friends and relatives to witness the house being blessed by the master mason and the priest. The feast day has therefore been adopted as a career holiday of builders and masons.

The day's connection to the mysterious and otherworldly has inspired various beliefs and rituals of prognostic or divinatory nature, and anything from the weather and moon phases, to the behaviour of farm animals is observed carefully and used to make future predictions. Characteristic is the custom, known as polazvane (полазване), wherein members of the household make note of the first person to visit them, to physically cross the threshold into their home, and interpret them as a portent of things to come. Also, according to old treasure hunting legends, Dimitrovden is when "the sky opens" and buried gold emits a blue-ish flame just above ground.

Dimitrovden is part of the group of holidays, based around the idea of transition and liminality; between fall and winter, between the world of the living and of the dead. The Christian and pre-Christian symbolism intertwine, the martyr death of the saint mirrors the "death" of nature as the earth is covered in snow and daytime engulfed by darkness. And crucially — for a people whose perception of time follows nature's cycles — the coming of winter brings not only a period of calm and rest, but the promise of spring and renewal.

[archaeologicalnews]

Elaborate underground embalming workshop discovered at Saqqara

Archaeologists at Saqqara have finally identified the many embalming ingredients used to mummify the dead in ancient Egypt. They also deciphered how those different ingredients — many of which came from distant lands — were used.

In 2016, an international team of archaeologists discovered the underground embalming workshop near the pyramid of Unas, south of Cairo. The complex of rooms held approximately 100 ceramic vessels dating to the 26th dynasty of Egypt (664 to 525 B.C.). While many of the vessels had inscriptions identifying their contents, some of the embalming substances remained a mystery.

Now, in a first-of-its-kind study published Feb. 1 in the journal Nature, researchers have used chemical analysis of the resins coating the vessels to identify the contents. Read more.

[theancientwayoflife]

~ Seated Baboon.

Date: ca. 1539–1075 B.C. or 664–332 B.C.

Period: New Kingdom or Late Period; 18th-20th Dynasty or 26th-31st dynasty

Medium: Wood

[blueiskewl]

AN EGYPTIAN BRONZE HORUS FALCON LATE PERIOD, 26TH DYNASTY, 664-525 B.C.

[egypt-museum]

Sarcophagus lid of the Vizier Sasobek

Late Period, 26th Dynasty, ca. 664-610 BC. Now in the British Museum, EA17

The lid is finely carved, showing the deceased wearing wig, beard and collar and with two vertical registers of hieroglyphic offering texts, surmounted by a figure of Nut. “It may have been found in Sais, the city from which Psamtik’s family came.

The sarcophagus is one of the finest examples of its type, and very well preserved. While many anthropoid (human-shaped) sarcophagi have rather exaggerated features, Sasobek’s face is naturalistic (although not a portrait) and serene. Sasobek holds the djed pillar representing the god Osiris in one hand and the tyet knot of the goddess Isis in the other."

Read more

[clazaries]

Karma in the Form of Justice -slightlydark!Steven w/ a hint of Marc x thief!reader

Summary: An opportunist thief takes their chances stealing from the wrong tomb and has to face their karma in the form of Moon Knight. Basically, don't get on the wrong side about Egyptian matters when it comes to Steven and if he teaches you something, you better remember it. w/c: 6.9k Warnings: none really, mentions of violence and murder :) and my horrible knowledge of ancient egypt. You are the bad guy in this a/n: first fic! I kinda wrote steven slightly differently to canon steven and made him a little darker ;) ENJOY

***

It started out innocent. Because, of course, you were only 7 years old at the time. When the class was emptying out through the doorway, little, dumb Timmy left his British Museum pencil sitting freely on his desk, begging for someone to claim it. That someone was you. The urge to take it was overwhelming and you succumbed to temptation, stashing the pencil deep into your pocket when no one was looking and when no one could figure out the mystery of the disappearing pencil, it was exhilarating knowing that you were the only one who held the secret as to where it went. 

The feeling followed as you got older. 

It started out with a pencil. Then a pencil case. From a pencil case to a school bag. Within that school bag was a purse containing a little over £1.50, but still, it was a treasured find. From purses to watches, necklaces, rings, valuables, anything that could be pawned and make you that slightly bit richer. When you were old enough to realise about the illegalities of your little habits, guilt and paranoia began to make themselves known to you. But they were equally matched with the feeling of euphoria and the adrenaline of getting away with it, so although you did try to tone it back, you never really stopped. 

By your late teens, the routine grew tiresome and you endeavoured for something bigger, better, flashier and ten times more riskier. You had to look no further than your very first pilferage. 

The British Museum.

~~~~

If you ever tried to justify your actions, what sets you apart from the usual petty thieves is patience and intention. Thieves lack the former but embody the latter. They grow greedy and would plan and scheme and waste hours (the stupid ones don’t plan at all), throwing themselves into a situation that would inevitably result in handcuffs. You, on the other hand, were an opportunist, patient enough to know to pounce only when the moment presented itself on a silver platter. Why chase the thrill when you could let it find you? 

On one random day during the week while your parents were enjoying their two week vacation to Italy, you decided to skip school and take a trip to the Museum. You did very little research before entering (after all, less planning means less intention means less suspicion), so you were pleasantly surprised by the museum’s ongoing exhibition of artefacts from ancient Egypt. 

Your legs carried you in no certain direction, weaving in and out of the display cabinets of stone statues, plaques of hieroglyphics and crumbling pieces of sand. Despite it all being rather interesting, the artefacts weren’t the only thing your eyes were scanning for. Within the first room alone, you spotted 6 cameras and one patrol officer meandering just as casually as you were. There was no need to panic though, you were here to peruse. Not to steal. 

You couldn’t promise yourself any restraint should the opportunity arise…

“Ah! I see you’ve found the Ushabti of Pa-Di-Pep.” An enthusiastic voice from your left appeared behind you. You turned to see a man with black curly hair, donning an enthusiastic smile as his eyes bounced from the ‘ushabti’ and you. “26th dynasty,” he muttered a little quieter. “Very old. Well, I guess that’s obvious. Wouldn’t be an exhibition on ancient Egypt if it was modern.” As his laughter died, your eyes caught the glint of his name tag on his jacket. Steven. You gathered he worked here. 

“Oh, cool.” Your tone was rather disinterested and couldn’t be more sarcastic if you tried. “You know your stuff.”

“Oh it’s right up my alley actually. I’ve spent loads of time reading up on this kind of stuff. I could tell you anything about everything in this room. If you’d like?” The way he rolled on the balls of his feet like a child told you that he so clearly wanted to. You decided to indulge in him, only because you could get something out of it. 

“Sure. It would be a great help towards my school project.” A clever lie, one that is easily bought by the sad little man beside you, lighting up his eyes and rolling his enthusiasm back to high tide. “So what about this ushabti, then? Anything else you can tell me about that?” 

The man rambled on for a little while longer than you wanted, waiting for that perfect opportunity to segue onto the question that was hot on your lips. What was it worth?

“...figurines could also be inscribed with passages from the Book of the Dead, the intention of which was to secure safety for the deceased in the afterlife.”

“So not quite the ideal decoration to have in your house then?” 

“Oh no, no, not at all. These are funeral artefacts, usually left buried along with a tomb.” 

“Bummer. I was really looking into sprucing up my living room with one of these,” you jested, bumping a gentle elbow against his. 

He elbowed back, “would really take the ‘living’ out of ‘living room’.”

“Definitely not worth it.” You began to look around the room, gambling with the idea of whether or not an opportunity could be found here. The security might’ve been too much of a risk. But it didn’t mean you couldn’t window shop. “So tell me then, out of anything in here, what would be worth having in your living room?” 

“Where to begin? Oh! Here…” 

Honestly, you zoned out, not having the slightest interest in anything he was saying unless it had any relevance to you. The man droned on and on about the history and the magnificence of each piece he talked about but nothing about its worth. You were about to try and cut ties until you both came across an interesting piece that gained your attention. 

“And this is the bronze figure of the Egyptian God Ptah-”

“Ptah? Who’s he?”

He looked at you, dumbfounded, as if you'd just asked what day it was. “Who’s he? He’s only the Egyptian God of creation?! He was believed to have dreamt creation in his heart and gave it life with his breath.” 

Spare me the poetry, pal. What’s it worth? Give me a number. 

“So top shelf mantle material.” You feigned interest, smiling widely at him. 

“Definitely. A very expensive one at that. Would set you back at least 37 grand.” 

Interesting. 

You stayed for a little while until the number of witnesses dwindled into single digits. The museum was beginning to close up, staff were outnumbering visitors with the majority of them leaving through the gift shop which conveniently sold replicas of the bronze figure ‘Steven’ showed you earlier.

You always told yourself that you never planned, but another opportunity had opened up to you and you couldn’t help but call it fate. 

It went flawlessly. When no one was looking you swiftly snatched the real bronze figure, giving you the seconds you needed to make it to the gift shop before the panicked patrol officer alerted staff. The hubbub of the precious missing artefact opened up the second opportunity to swipe a replica from the shelf. 

“Oh, excuse me!” You had yelled, holding the replica up in the air, the real one encased in your rucksack. “I saw some kid walking out with this, I believe it belongs here.” Your sickly smile fooled the patrol staff, knowing none the wiser, and kindly took the replica with a relieved breath, placing it back onto its pedestal.

You walked out the museum 37 grand richer.

~~~~

Whenever you pulled something off like this, you tended to keep your head low for at least a week after, limiting the amount of times you left your home, and kept communication to an absolute minimum. Within a few weeks, you were back to your normal self. However, this time the euphoria was very short-lived. It had been a day after your theft when the paranoia settled in and you had never known it to be so all-consuming. With a pilferage worth 37 grand, it meant that the stakes were far too high to wager with. Finding rest was a rare luxury for at least a week. You tried to ease your way through the days feeling conflicted and, in all honesty, petrified of the foreseeable. With each day that passed, you found it harder and harder to keep your paranoia at bay and you didn’t dare leave your home and the mental torture plagued you with restlessness; having to check locks four, fives times before you left each room. 

Your home started to feel like less of a safe space. You couldn’t explain the feeling you had every morning when you woke up, itching with an unease that someone had been watching you, spying on you, observing you with resentment in their eyes with what you had chosen to do with your life. It was then you started to notice things being out of place; the ridge in your carpet had changed shape, curtains had been drawn wider than how you usually left them, a kitchen chair was facing just a degree or two out of place. That same night, you remembered standing in the middle of your bedroom with a cold breeze drafting around you, but it wasn’t the reason for your shivers. To your left a creak of the floorboards, to your right a moan of the wind. Something wasn’t right. Something definitely wasn’t right. 

It could’ve been your paranoia, it could’ve been your lack of sleep, but you were certain you spotted two glowing eyes peering through your window from across the street, staring directly into your soul. 

“Fuck this,” you whispered to yourself. Without a moments’ hesitation you reached for the bronze figure you had stashed within the hollows of your wall. “Time to get rid of this.” 

Being quite the weasel you are, you sold the bronze figure for almost double the money on the black market and made the very bold decision to get out of the country before you were consumed by guilt. 

~~~~

3 years later

“You ready?” Amon asks you, propping up his scarf over his face to fight against the sandy winds. You nod to him before following him into the entrance of the tomb that lies just beneath an alcove, hidden in the shadows of the dunes. 

Amon had already scouted the entrance of the tomb a few days prior, so he takes lead on the scavenge guiding the way with a bright white torch and the moment you step into the tomb, you become his shadow. The tunnel is narrow and carries a draft only a fraction of the winds outside and it’s something you’re thankful for, otherwise you would be dripping right through your clothes with sweat. Every step is with caution, every living breath is considered your last, both you and Amon are aware of the risks that these tunnels carry. 

Amon, being a local, had his reasons for entering the tunnel; he knows of the treasures and rarities of what lies inside, a conversation that caught wind and found your eavesdropping ears in the midst of a busy town outside Cairo. Not to mention, he’s as greedy for his share of the fortune if you are skillful enough to succeed. Unfortunately, being a local, he also has his reasons not to enter. On a spiritual level, this tomb is considered to be cursed, ladened with traps of an Egyptian mind that could easily kill you with one wrong step. He is too afraid to do it alone.

On a more realistic level, the structure is unsupported, tunnels weaving their way beneath tonnes and tonnes of ancient bricks, sand and rubble that could collapse at any given moment. That’s the real risk you’re more frightened of. 

“How much of this did you actually scout?” You ask.

“I go until no more.” His broken English rises above the low moaning whistle which Amon claims to be the voice of the dead, warning you to turn back while you still have a chance. You don’t heed his superstitions.

You both eventually reach the point that Amon had mentioned and honestly, you were expecting it to be a lot further into the tomb and not just a few minutes into the journey. Before you, a collapsed section of the tunnel with a small point of entrance between the ground and rubble. Eyeing it up, you realise it’s big enough that you could squeeze yourself through there if you held your breath but taking a second glance at Amon, there’s no way his 5'10 well-fed body could do the same. 

He gestures to the blockage, “I go until no more.” 

“Right.” You heave a sigh, considering your options; ignore the risks and do it alone, or turn around and walk away from it all. 

Alas, that small hole is an opportunity. And where there is an opportunity, there is possibility. 

You begin to strip yourself of your equipment until you are down to a few layers of clothing. You lower yourself onto your stomach heading face first through the opening. “When I get through, pass me my equipment, okay?” Amon nods in understanding, but not without mentioning how crazy he thinks you are. 

It’s an awkward shuffle through to the other side. Hands, elbows, knuckles and knees are scraping against the ground in an attempt to push your way through, aided by the breath of relief when you make it to the other side. Beams of white light shine through the cracks in the rubble and when Amon hears you made it, he passes through your equipment. 

You find his eyes through one of the cracks. “Will you wait?” You reluctantly ask, suddenly feeling vulnerable now that you have been separated. 

“Yes. I have walkie-talkie. Atamanaa lak al tawfiq.” You don’t know what he said, but from his tone and the way he looks at you with hope you guess that it’s along the lines of ‘good luck’. 

With a final nod, you head off into the unknown, your torch shining the way. 

There’s a million thoughts running through your head as you delve deeper into the tomb, but yet not one that gives you any comfort. What if there isn’t anything to find? What if you get lost? What if Amon doesn’t wait for you? What if you get trapped? 

What if you die?

They remind you that you are way out of your depth here, you aren’t an adventurer nor an explorer of any sort. You’re an opportunist thief who takes their chances where they shouldn’t. What the hell are you doing here?

You force yourself to swallow your growing discomfort, clinging on to the small possibility and Amon’s knowledge that you do find something worth your while. Besides, it’s that small possibility that motivated you to crawl through that opening and continue your journey. You have to keep going.

The tunnels eventually open up into a massive hollow cavern lined with broken paths and cliff edges, hanging over a substantial drop. You take a moment to collect yourself, eyes following the paths and finding that the only way is down. Down into the pit of darkness. There isn’t a sound to be heard, and if it wasn’t for your powerful torch, you wouldn’t be able to see a thing. The breeze has calmed to nothing, not a single wisp of your hair moving upon your head and the heat starts to become more of a nuisance. Your palms sweat as you cling onto protruding rocks along the wall and your torch threatens to slip from your grasp. It’s a challenging obstacle course, manoeuvring yourself from one path to another, planning and scheming as you go. 

“You there Amon?” The bleep of the walkie-talkie bounces against the walls of the cavern, its echo travelling for miles. You estimate that you’re about 50 feet down from where you started.

“Yes. Everything okay?” 

“Yeah, the tomb goes deep. I don’t know if the signal will carry if I get to the bottom…” you pause, hesitant over your next words. “This might take a while. If you don’t hear from me in 4 hours, then just leave.” 

“Leave you? No, no, no, I wait in car. You come back in 4 hours. Yes?” 

“Okay. I’ll contact you again when I get to the--shit!!” What stops you mid-sentence is the pair of glowing white eyes at the bottom of the cavern, floating, watching, observing. You’ve seen those eyes before. It was unnerving the first time but it’s even more terrifying the second time, a new wave of fear now rattling your bones. Your heart rate picks up, your pulse almost thrumming in your ears in sheer panic. No, no, no. It can’t be…

You shine your torch towards the eyes but in its deathly white glow, they disappear, reappearing only when you avert your torch.

“Hello? You okay? Hello?!” Amon’s almost yelling through the walkie-talkie. 

“I’m okay, sorry, just…” You have no idea what to say, eyes glued to the glowing ones miles below you. “Just got a fright.” 

“Be careful,” is that last thing Amon says to you before the line goes dark. When all is silent, you’re left to quietly battle against the glowing pair of eyes, unmoving and unblinking. You don’t dare take a single step, adamant on keeping your gaze locked firmly below you with two hands clenched around the torch in a white-knuckled grip. You quickly become stuck in a cycle of shining your torch onto them, repeatedly watching them disappear and reappear in the hopes that they’ll eventually vanish forever. 

“Fuck…just leave me alone,” you quietly murmur to yourself. When the eyes refuse to react, you bravely decide to take a single side step, closer towards your next descent where you know you will have to detach your gaze, but you know you can’t stay here forever. The eyes don’t move, they don’t blink, they just keep watching you. So you take another step, and another, and another…

Within a matter of panic-inducing seconds, you eventually reach the edge of a ridge when your torch begins flickering, the light dimming with each flicker. “No, no, no you have to be kidding me!” Stressed, you bang the torch against your palm in a nervous attempt to keep the light, it’s your only salvation right now, you can’t lose it. You could’ve sworn the batteries were fully charged. You had them charging overnight knowing you were going into a dark tomb, why aren’t they working? Fuck, why won’t they work?! 

Despite your distraction, you’re hyper aware of the eyes below you, eyes that you are not currently watching and having lost your composure, your paranoia floods you with thoughts that this was what they were waiting for; their moment to pounce. They could be scaling the walls towards your position. They could have moved and you wouldn’t know. They could be inches from you and you wouldn’t even notice until it was too late. You feel it. They’re crawling closer and closer and closer…

After a few heart stopping seconds, the torch finally flashes to life and with a desperate sob you shine the bright beam towards the eyes as if the light is your shield. Like before they disappear, but unlike before, they don’t reappear. They’re gone. You can’t see them anywhere. Not above, not below. Gone. 

The stress overwhelms you and you drop to your knees, passing a strangled whimper and letting your heart rate slow to an easy beat. Fuck. You’re still a long way to go, how are you going to manage? 

Against your better judgement, you continue at a slow and agonising pace, still very aware of your surroundings as if you’re expecting the eyes to appear again. Thankfully, about an hour and a half of descending down the multiple jumps and hazardous steps, you reach an opening. Finding another narrow tunnel that leads you away from the cavern seems like a saving-grace and you don’t give the glowing eyes another opportunity to appear before you follow the trail. 

“Amon, can you hear me?” Your walkie-talkie hisses a low frequency back at you. “Amon, are you there?” 

No response. You are truly on your own now. 

You readjust your rucksack straps, retie your bootlaces, wipe the sweat from your brow, and with feigned determination, you set off through yet another dark, narrow tunnel with your untrustworthy torch in hand. 

You quickly find that this one isn’t like the one you and Amon travelled through at the entrance, this one feels like a maze. Despite it having only one path and being completely linear, there is a tight 90 degree corner every 5 or 6 steps. Left, right, left, left, right, left, right, right, left. It’s unnerving because even though you know you can’t get lost and you know exactly where you came from, there’s no way of telling what lies ahead of you, no way of telling what lurks just around the corner, waiting for you in the darkness. What’s worse is that there’s no way of telling if anything is following you until it’s exactly five steps behind you which, by that point, there’s no outrunning it. You’ve never felt paranoia like it and the deeper you trail, the more anxious you become. 

After fifteen minutes, you feel you’re going in circles. Logically, you know it isn’t possible but the disorientation you feel convinces you otherwise. You’ve taken so many left and right-hand turns that you’ve lost count and you just can’t map it out in your head. There has to be an end, this can’t go on for much longer. 

After another five minutes, you stop to gather your sanity tucked neatly into one of the many corners of the tunnel, keeping track of where you came from and where you intend to go. You cleanse your mind with a refreshing drink of cold water, splashing some sparingly across your forehead and the back of your neck, revelling in the small relief it brings you. The droplets on the ground are the only evidence of your travels and you figure it would be a good indication should you succeed in making it back. Just a couple of more hours, you tell yourself. You can do it. 

Composed, you rise to your feet ready to take another step but before you do, your torch flickers again, subjecting you to intermittent seconds of pure darkness. Your heart stops dead in your chest. The last time that happened the eyes were watching you and you can’t bear to think that time is repeating itself. 

Your strategy from last time fails you and no matter how hard you hit the flashlight against your palm, this time it doesn’t come back to life. Flicking the switch off and on again does it no good either and your breathing becomes panicked. Crouched in the corner, you’re enveloped in darkness. It’s so dark that you begin to see swirls of your imagination floating in front of your eyes, so dark that you can’t even see your hand inches from your face, yet still your eyes flicker around frantically as if you could see. 

Helpless, you turn to your other senses, feeling around the rocky sandy ground in search of your rucksack where you know you packed emergency flares. It’s a struggle to rummage for them and until you do, you keep on high alert, listening out for anything out of the ordinary. 

That’s when you hear it; the crumbling of sand, the crunching of footsteps and the soft ruffle of fabric. Someone’s here. There’s no doubt about it. Everything in you is screaming to just abandon the flare and just run but fear keeps you rooted with your hand deep into your rucksack. Your heart feels like a weight in your chest, banging against your rib cage to escape the situation you’re in but your brain tells you to stay, hoping that whoever, whatever, is here is just as blinded by the darkness as you are. If you move, it’ll hear you. 

Your hand eventually knocks against the flare, feeling the familiar cylinder encased in your hand. Alarmed, you pull it out and set it alight, its red flare bursting to life. It gives light to the corridors to your right and to your left…where a tall, daunting mummified figure in white stands, glaring its glowing white eyes on you. Its sudden presence kick starts your reflexes and adrenaline pumps through your veins, pushing you to your feet with a hysterical whimper escaping your throat, and before you even know it, you’re running almost blindly through the tunnel. There isn’t a second thought spared to the broken flashlight and the rucksack full of equipment you mistakenly left behind, running further and further away from whatever is stalking behind you. With the flare outstretched, red walls zoom by you as you try to cut every corner, scraping shoulders and elbows against the walls in a desperate attempt to increase the distance between you and that thing. 

You can hear it behind you, marching at a quick pace, its footsteps drumming into your ears gradually getting closer and louder. Oh God. It’s right behind you. Keep running, keep running, fuck just don’t stop running!

Tears and sweat glide down your cheeks and you begin to worry that it’ll be the last thing you feel before this being captures you. However, you're granted one last chance of salvation when you turn a corner and see that the tunnel stretches out into a long, straight, narrow path, giving your legs a chance to break into a full uninterrupted sprint. Towards the end you see an archway leading you into the heart of the tomb where a sarcophagus lies in the centre of the room; the very one Amon described as being a goldmine of treasuries. If you can just make it there…

You pick up speed at the moment the tunnel surrounding you begins to rumble, tremors setting your feet off course and pushing you off balance. Little stones and flecks of dust fall from above you and land in your eyes but you know you can’t afford to stop, knowing that that being is still behind you. Little did you know that you had set off a trap, stepping on a plate that triggers the corridor to collapse, no doubt a preventative measure to stop people like you from pilfering the tomb within. But you had been running so quickly, you barely even noticed. Perhaps if you keep running just as fast, you might be able to escape from being crushed to death…

The rumbling becomes so loud that it drowns out the footsteps from behind you and you put all of your remaining strength into sprinting as fast as you can, pumping blood and adrenaline to your legs as they carry you closer and closer to the tomb. Every step is paired with an exhausted pant, your own voice crying out with exhaustion and fear. You have to make it. You can do it.

You dive into the tomb just milliseconds before a large solid rock closes off the entrance, separating you and the being. 

All is silent in the tomb. The rumbling ceases and the footsteps are long forgotten. When a shred of sense returns to you, you take the dying light of the burning flare to the wooden torches dotted around the tomb, not only giving light to the room but giving light to the very, very fucked up realisation you’ve just had. Four solid walls surround you. 

There’s no relief to be had, because although you had just escaped being crushed to death, you now face death in a far more morbid way. There isn’t another way out. You’re beginning to think that you’ve made yet another mistake; being crushed would’ve been a quick and painless death. Now, with no other means of escape, you’ll be subjected to a long, agonising, painful torment, forever waiting for the moment that starvation, thirst, suffocation and time consumes you.

You didn’t just enter any tomb, you entered your own tomb. 

“Fuck!” You scream, falling to your knees, already bloody, bruised and scraped but the pain doesn’t translate when you’re deep in despair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” The walls swallow your cries, accepting your defeat. 

If it wasn’t for the situation you find yourself in, you would be revelling in the numerous pieces of ancient artefacts around you, gushing over the rusted gold that shines on the mantles on the walls, laughing with hysteria about how your discovery had just made you a thousand times richer. But no, all you can think about is how claustrophobic you feel, how your lungs burn in your chest and how you will never see the light of day again. 

You spare a thought to your parents whom you had failed to keep in contact with. For the first few months you kept it to just once a week; a picture of your face with an unidentifiable background and a message telling them you were safe. They learned pretty quickly after your sudden disappearance that you weren’t going to answer any of their questions and soon accepted that your weekly message would have to suffice. It was all they needed to know; you were okay and you were safe. Despite the numerous ‘how’s, ‘where’s, ‘what’s, and ‘when’s, there was only ever one ‘why’. 

‘Why did you do it?’ 

Your parents knew exactly why you fled on the day the British Museum had reported a missing bronze figure alongside a grainy picture of your profile captioned ‘number one suspect’, but the one little detail that left them mentally spiralling over their own parenting techniques, wondering where they went so wrong was…why? 

Why did you do it? 

Why indeed. 

The pencil, the pencil case, the rucksack, the purse, the £1.50, watches, jewellery, everything you had ever snagged in your life, was it all worth it? Was this your karma? 

You aren’t sure how much time has passed before you have no more tears left to cry. Completely numb from crying you come to a stand, quickly arriving at the anger stage in the five stages of grief over your own inevitable death. You begin kicking the sarcophagus, knocking things off the mantles and punching anything your fist can connect with with reckless abandon that you don’t even care for how much your temper tantrum is costing you. Everything hurts but you just. Don’t. Care. 

Hours later, exhaustion begins to creep up on you just when the fire of the torches begins to flicker to nothing and before they completely die out, you take one last look around your tomb. You think it’s been more than four hours now which means Amon will be long gone. You are all alone.

Lying in the corner surrounded by the remains of your temper tantrum with all hope lost, you close your eyes. 

~~~~

“Tut tut tut.” A male voice murmurs, arousing you from your slumber. The room is dark when your eyes flicker open, so it’s impossible to miss those glowing white eyes standing at the far end of the room. Fuck. Not again. They startle you so much they jolt your body to full attention, your chest feeling heavy as if you had been defibrillated back to life. “What a waste.” The footsteps lurk around the sarcophagus, scuffing against the shards of the ceramic artefacts you smashed earlier. How he can see, you have no idea. Yet, you still feel the need to push yourself further back against the wall.

You take a shaky breath, mustering the courage to speak. “Please…” The eyes sway casually as the being walks nearer, standing over you cowering in the corner. Before either of you say another word, something drops at your feet. It’s your rucksack. 

“Open it,” he instructs smoothly, a hint of an American twang interlacing his words. “It’s much too dark in here, and I’d prefer to see the fear in your eyes when you get what you deserve.”

Keeping your eyes rooted to the being in front of you, deja vu runs coldly through your veins as your hand sneaks into your rucksack to find the flare. However unlike last time, you’d rather face him in the dark, not a single cell in your body wishes to greet the mummified adonis standing inches before you, threatening you. 

“Go on,” he encourages, eyes flitting to your bag. He knows you don’t want to. It’s pitiful how much you don’t want to. 

When the red glow illuminates there you see him, in fact it’s all you can see. The intimidating being you had only seen for a split second before in full display. His silhouette is so all-encompassing, the red glow doesn’t reach far past him. He’s wrapped neatly in white bandages with gold embellishments on his chest with a flowing cape cascading down his back, resembling warrior regalia. Shadows flicker behind the contours of his hood that hangs over his masked face, giving away no emotion. Everything about him is a mystery and you can’t help but feel vulnerable knowing he can see everything about you, reading the terror in your eyes as if it was written out for him. 

You pull your legs to your chest as he crouches down, levelling with you. 

“I usually don’t deal with petty thieves until they start messing with things that shouldn’t be messed with.”

“Who are you? How did you get in here?” 

He chuckles menacingly, tilting his head. “Looking for an escape? Don’t bother. You won’t be leaving here. At least not until I’m done with you.” 

“What…” Your voice scrapes against your dry throat. It’s been hours since you last had a drop of water. “What are you going to do to me?” 

He doesn’t immediately respond, but instead looks into his own reflection in the gold plating of an artefact you smashed, muttering a tense “not now, Steven.” Steven? What? 

He turns back to you. “The same thing I did to your partner on the surface.” Amon. Shit! 

“Is…is he dead?” 

“Almost. I left him with just enough of a heartbeat to keep him alive, enough to teach him a lesson I know he will learn. You - however - I have no hope for.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie, “I was only exploring.” 

“Hmm, I highly doubt that - shut up Steven!” Your brows furrow with confusion, who the hell is Steven? Looking around, you can’t seem to see anyone else here in the room with you and this being. He doesn't give you a second to question his weird antics, coming very quickly to a stand with a grunt and pulling what looks like a gold, crescent shaped weapon from his chest and into his hand. “You’ve been thieving from the moment you knew you could. You know yourself you’re never going to change, so I’m here to put an end to it, to make sure you never get away with something like this again - dammit Steven, fine! But don’t let her get away. She’s mine.”

“What the fuck-” Before another word leaves your lips, the being morphs, or rather, his regalia does. The bandages unravel, withering away to reveal a white tux, donned by the same glowing eyes peering down at you. 

“Exploring, eh?”  

You’re taken aback by the minor change in his voice, his inflection. All Americanisms smoothly disappear and in place a British accent shapes his words. One that seems far too familiar for your liking…

“What…” 

“Gathering research for your school project?” He crouches down again, leaning closer and invading your space. “Or scouting the place out for a heist.” His tone isn't questioning anymore. They’re words of a statement, of a fact he knows is true. It’s really starting to shake your nerves. Something about all of this feels disconcerting. 

“Who the fuck are you?” 

“It’s a shame, really.” He stubbornly ignores your question, picking up a fractured piece of artefact. “This statue would’ve looked really nice on a living room mantle. Really would’ve spruced up the place.” 

Your heart stops and your breath catches in the back of your throat. The conversation throws you back into your memories, images of the British Museum flashes through your mind. The Egyptian exhibition. The bronze figure. The bumbling staff member who showed you it all. The name on his badge was…

“Steven.”

“Ah, so you do remember. See, you’re smarter than you look. That’s what fooled me all those years ago when you manipulated me into thinking you were just an innocent student looking to learn. You bloody well used me, didn’t you? Cost me my job.” 

“Look, Steven, I’m sorry, o-okay? I was young and stupid, I didn’t know-” 

“Young, yes. Stupid? No. You knew exactly what you were doing when you walked out with that figure. You knew exactly what you were doing when you stashed it in your bedroom walls. I looked everywhere for that statue, waiting for you to reveal where you hid it. And you fucking sold it!” So you weren’t seeing things that night. You know that feeling of being watched wasn’t just a figment of your imagination, it was Steven. “You knew what you were doing when you walked into this tomb. But I bet you don’t know whose tomb you walked into, or what ancient artefacts you recklessly broke. Still ‘willing to learn’? I hope so, ‘cos I think it’s fucking hilarious.” 

Steven comes to a stand and begins marching over to inspect the side of the sarcophagus. At that moment, the light of the flare illuminates the rest of the room and your eyes dart to the entrance where the stone that locked you in here no longer exists. How? Never mind. Survival first, question later. As ever, you take the opportunity and make a dash for the entrance, your legs a little lethargic from your lack of sustenance. 

Sadly, you only get so far. A broad arm wraps around your neck and pulls you flush against Steven’s body. “Ah, ah, ah. Not so fast.” His crushing strength borders dangerously between cutting off your oxygen but keeping you conscious enough to hear the words as he mutters them down your ear. “See this sarcophagus here? Do you know who it belongs to? 

“No!” You ball, kicking up a fight. You barely push him off-balance. “I don’t give a fuck, let me go!” 

“See this is why I find the irony of this hilarious. Go on, have a guess. I’m intrigued to see if you’re capable of learning a lesson.”

Steven man-handles you, gripping your jaw to fore to look at the large sarcophagus in front of you littered with inscriptions of a language you can’t translate and decorated with hieroglyphics you don’t understand. You get the feeling it’s something that Steven had already told you about during his ramblings at the museum. But he talked so much about shit you didn’t care for and you didn’t retain any information unless it had to do with its price. Fuck, whose sarcophagus is this? 

“I…I don’t know. Please, just let me go, I promise I won’t steal anymore.” You’re sobbing now, your tears rolling down your cheeks to be absorbed by Steven’s white suit. Frustrated, Steven tightens his hold on you.

“No, come on. Focus. I need to know that you didn’t just use me, I need to know I taught you something. Now what was it? I’ll give you a clue, it was one of the first things we talked about.”

Fuck. It was about some Ushabti thing, right? 

“The Ushabti?” 

“God, you butcher the pronunciation. But well done. The Ushabti of who?” 

You really can’t remember, and you feel it will be the death of you if you don’t. So overrun with hopelessness, you completely give in to defeat and fall weak in Steven’s arm. “I just want to go home.” 

“No, not the Ushabti of I-just-want-to-go-home. Who. Was. It?” 

Come on, think! Who was it? Da…Fa…Pa-something. Pa…Pa…

“I’m going to be reeaalllyyy disappointed if you don’t get this.” Steven’s harsh voice vibrates down your ear, his mask pressing firmly against the side of your ear. 

“Pa…”

“Yes?” 

“Pa-Di…” 

“Almost there, darlin’” 

Finally, the knowledge springs to life and the syllables roll off your tongue. “Pa-Di-Pep?” 

“See? You did know it, which means you’ll know what these inscriptions are on the side of this sarcophagus and on all the relics in this tomb, which means you know why I find this so funny.”

If you had the breath to sigh, you would. He’s right. You do know why. The scraps of information he fed you come whizzing back with a stab of irony. You understand it now. 

“Passages from the Book of the Dead, the intention of which was to secure safety for the deceased in the afterlife.” You relay his words back in your voice, Steven chuckling maniacally behind you.

“And you just broke them all. Bad luck, eh? No safe passage to the afterlife for you. My buddy Marc will make sure of it. If you haven’t already realised, I’m the brains of this body. Marc is the brawn. Never misses a kill that one. Do you, Marc?” 

Steven suddenly shuffles behind you, maintaining that iron steel grip he has around your throat. When the material of the mask traces the shell of your ear and his voice returns, his tone has changed. Deeper, lower, threatening. 

American. 

“Kind of you to say, Steven. Y’know, it’s a shame Steven isn’t kind enough to let you live. So, little thief, what’ll it be? Shall I kill you where you stand, or do you want to join Pa-Di-Pep in his sarcophagus?” 

[thethirdromana]

Van Helsing's misinformation

I took a look at some of the claims Van Helsing makes in his "immortal parrots" speech on the 26th of September.

Why was it that Methuselah lived nine hundred years, and 'Old Parr' one hundred and sixty-nine...

The oldest authenticated age that anyone has ever reached is 122 years (Jeanne Louise Calment, 1875-1997). Thomas Parr ('Old Parr') allegedly lived from 1483 to 1635 (which is 152 years, not 169) but the 1895 Dictionary of National Biography, which has an entry for Parr, is very sceptical about his claim, noting that his exact age was "attested by village gossip alone."

Here's Old Parr, painted by an unknown artist:

Do you know the altogether of comparative anatomy and can say wherefore the qualities of brutes are in some men, and not in others?

Comparative anatomy is a perfectly reasonable field, but coupled with "the qualities of brutes" and it being the 1890s, I strongly suspect this is some racist physiognomy bullshit (see p550 here for an example of how this looked in contemporary writing, if you must).

Can you tell me why, when other spiders die small and soon, that one great spider lived for centuries in the tower of the old Spanish church and grew and grew, till, on descending, he could drink the oil of all the church lamps?

This one is delightfully weird. It seems to be a telephone-game version of this story, printed in a variety of magazines and miscellanies (e.g.) since 1821:

The sexton of the church of St Eustace, at Paris, amazed to find frequently a particular lamp extinct early, and yet the oil consumed oil, sat up several nights to perceive the cause. At length he discovered that a spider of surprising size came down the cord to drink the oil. A still more extraordinary instance of the same kind occurred during the year 1751, in the Cathedral of Milan. A vast spider was observed there, which fed on the oil of the lamps... It weighed four pounds, and was sent to the Emperor of Austria, and is now in the Imperial Museum at Vienna.

Here's a photo of St Eustache:

In 1894 the story was reprinted in Notes and Queries, with the question: "Are the statements therein pure fiction? If not, can any one tell me how much we may safely believe? A spider weighing four pounds [1.8kg] is indeed a heavy tax on the reader's credulity."

In reality, the largest spider in the world is the Goliath birdeater, which weighs 175g.

Can you tell me why in the Pampas, ay and elsewhere, there are bats that come at night and open the veins of cattle and horses and suck dry their veins...

Vampire bats are real, and live in parts of South and Central America. The prey of the common vampire bat can include cattle (source). The quantity of blood that they drink is small - in the region of 100g, or about a fifth of a typical blood donation. Vampire bat predation can result in the death of much larger animals, but from infection, not draining them dry.

Here's a common vampire bat:

... how in some islands of the Western seas there are bats which hang on the trees all day, and those who have seen describe as like giant nuts or pods, and that when the sailors sleep on the deck, because that it is hot, flit down on them, and then—and then in the morning are found dead men, white as even Miss Lucy was?

From Wikipedia:

West Sea or Western Sea may refer to:

Atlantic Ocean

Pacific Ocean

Indian Ocean

Mediterranean Sea...

So that's not the most helpful starting point. I don't know which bats these are supposed to be, though hanging in trees like giant nuts makes them sound like fruit bats. In Van Helsing's defence, bats do carry a lot of viruses.

Can you tell me why the tortoise lives more long than generations of men...

Lovely to reach something that's just straight-up true. The current oldest living land animal is Jonathan, a 190+-year-old Seychelles giant tortoise.

... why the elephant goes on and on till he have seen dynasties...

Asian elephants live to be 50 or so; African elephants, 60-70 years. Weirdly, it seems to have been widely believed in the 1890s that elephants lived for a century; e.g. that's cited as fact in the 1894 Encyclopaedia Britannica. Either way, "dynasties" feels like an exaggeration.

... why the parrot never die only of bite of cat or dog or other complaint?

I've tried but I can't find where Bram Stoker got this one from. Maybe he made it up. The English Illustrated Magazine, 1897, contains an article complaining about how easily grey parrots die after being imported and sold as pets.

Can you tell me why men believe in all ages and places that there are some few who live on always if they be permit; that there are men and women who cannot die?

I've also got no idea what's going on with this one. I can't figure out how to look into it without coming up with lots of 1890s Christian literature on the immortal soul, which is not what Van Helsing is getting at.

We all know—because science has vouched for the fact—that there have been toads shut up in rocks for thousands of years, shut in one so small hole that only hold him since the youth of the world.

This was a wildly popular myth in Victorian times (see this article for more details). An article in The Gentleman's Magazine, 1877, entitled 'Some Facts and Fictions of Zoology' (reprinted in several other places) went into the question in more detail, and concluded:

These tales are, in short, as devoid of actual foundation as are the modern beliefs in the venomous properties of the toad, or the ancient beliefs in the occult and mystic powers of various parts of its frame when used in incantations.

Here's a toad:

Can you tell me how the Indian fakir can make himself to die and have been buried, and his grave sealed and corn sowed on it, and the corn reaped and be cut and sown and reaped and cut again, and then men come and take away the unbroken seal and that there lie the Indian fakir, not dead, but that rise up and walk amongst them as before?

This seems to have been widely believed in the late 19th century - e.g. this 1897 book references "two undoubted cases... one of whom had remained alive under the ground for six weeks, the other for ten days". This 1880 magazine says that it "will appear incredible" but relays the story of a fakir "buried alive for forty days, then disentombed and resuscitated" as fact.

The longest verified case of someone surviving without drinking water is Andreas Mihavecz, an 18-year-old bricklayer who was mistakenly locked up by police for 18 days. Even then, he drank condensed water from the walls, and was very close to death when he was found.

So in summary:

Old Parr: false

Physiognomy: false

Enormous oil-drinking spider: false

Vampire bats: partially true

Bats killing sailors: partially true

Long-lived tortoises: TRUE

Long-lived elephants: false

Immortal parrots: false

Belief in immortality: ???

Imprisoned toads: false

Buried fakirs: false

I guess there are some disadvantages to having an "absolutely open mind."

[nobrashfestivity]

Head of a Cat Egyptian 26th Dynasty (664-525 BC)