The Author of the Curse

For tourists, different burial sites are open at different times. It’s a tomb rotation of sorts, although there doesn’t seem to be any set schedule as to what’s open on any particular day. It’s almost like a lottery. You show up, and if you’re afraid of heights—or say, have a broken ankle—you just have to hope that the only tomb open that day is not the one that is solely accessible by scaling the sheer rock face with the help of a skimpy rope ladder. You think I’m kidding, but there is such a tomb, according to Yasmin, our fountain of knowledge. 

Today, for our viewing pleasure, we have access to a couple of tombs from the Ramses clan. No rope ladder required. First up: the sepulchre of Ramses IX. The entrance’s large opening is kept secure by a sturdy metal grille equipped with a padlock the size of a grapefruit. Beyond the entrance, past the grille and the unlocked grapefruit, the descent along the tunnel to the burial chamber is easily manageable with the crutches, and I marvel at the beauty of the hieroglyphs and the sumptuousness of the images on the walls. 

Amongst all this grandeur, I’m unaware that in a subconscious corner of my brain, a small stack of neurons is busy at work, trying to ascertain which pharaonic bozo is responsible for sending me the complimentary gift of the airplane restroom disaster. As I proceed deeper into the tomb, the clandestine neuronal network gains momentum until, at last, the rest of my brain gets invited to the party and is informed of its assignment: find a clue as to the identity of the villainous dispatcher of the curse. 

Although the logical and analytical part of my brain dismisses the idea of a curse as pure hogwash, on the other side of my skull, the small but tenacious group of impressionable and theatrically-minded neurons keep whispering, Just wait, you’ll see.

 

At this, the logical part retorts, Why don’t you also look for signs of  little green men from Mars, the key to the Bermuda Triangle, and Godzilla’s hideout while you’re at it?

I ignore the internal verbiage and turn my attention to my surroundings. The tomb is serene, even welcoming. Is that to create a false sense of security for the unwary? I wonder. I look around at the hieroglyphs and paintings for any warnings of doom and gloom should the Unwelcome (that would be us) enter these premises. More specifically, I look for the ancient Egyptian equivalent of “Beware, foolhardy French Canadian pharmacist! After flying through the skies, sailing on the waters, and travelling over mountains and wadis, you are doomed to enter this sacred burial chamber with metal on your arms and metal in your foot, hopping like a miserable rabbit!” Either that, or the abridged version, “Marie, keep out, or else”.

It does make sense, after all, to look for something specific since the dozens of other tourists entering and leaving the tomb seem totally free of unholy curses, unscathed and unaffected by jinxes from the past. The impressionable neurons cheer me on.

I discover nothing. 

My tour mates and I leave the tomb and make our way to that of Ramses IV. Again, the descent is gentle and gradual allowing me ample time to inspect and study the walls for evidence. As with the previous tomb, fabulous decorations abound everywhere, but they’re nothing compared to the king’s massive granite sarcophagus which stands in the middle of the burial chamber. It’s enormous. At eight feet high and the size of a small garage, it boggles the mind as to how they got it in here. The tunnel leading to the burial chamber hardly looks wide enough to accommodate this behemoth of a box, let alone the weight of the thing. It must tip the scales at several tons. I’m tempted to knock on it to see if anyone’s at home but resist the urge. It would be a sure way to gain friends, influence people, or get myself hexed all over again. 

Annoyed at not finding any warnings or signs of any kind, I exit the tomb. The logical brain barks, You see? Hogwash, I say. Hogwash!

Perhaps the perpetrator is neither of these Ramses dudes. Yet, I’ve only entered those two tombs. Could another pharaoh have sent the curse knowing I would blame one of these two guys? Is there such a thing as a jinx by proxy? Or is the logical part of my brain correct in rejecting this curse theory as complete and unadulterated nonsense? I ponder and analyze the facts as I follow my group back to the bus.

·         Fact: People usually get cursed by entering the pharaoh’s tomb (as the popular legend goes).

·         Fact: I’ve entered the tombs of both Ramses IV and IX.

·         Fact: The last Ramses to rule was Ramses XI.

·         Fact: Ramses II, the reverse forger, liked to put his name on other people’s stuff and take credit for other pharaohs’ building achievements. Could he not, then, do naughty and mischievous things and blame it on others?

·         Fact:  IV + IX = XIII  and  XIII − XI  =  II

·         Conclusion:  Ramses II.  Numbers don’t lie. It’s flawless logic. As the saying goes, the proof is in the hummus. 

My logical brain is flabbergasted at having unwittingly aided and abetted the other side, but at long last, the theatrically-minded neurons are vindicated.