Sarcophogot

Steve didn't want to show up to work on time. In his office in the research wings at London's British Museum, he had been helping the renowned archeologist, Dr. Atticus Block, prepare to exhume the mummy tomb of Osiris. This coveted, seminal piece of Egyptian history had made its way to the laboratory of Dr. Block through a pile of grant letters Steve and Block had written, indefatigably, over the past seven years. Seven years Steve and Block had been planning and hoping for this acquisition, and seven years they had experienced, through the throes of professional museum protocol and dense pleas, that challenge of getting what one wants most: and in their case, it was the mummy tomb of Osiris, the great Egyptian demi-god who, while married to Nut, gave birth to Isis. Osiris was the mystical figure to whom King Tutankhamen had prayed before going to bed every night. Osiris was also believed to be the one who instituted both common sense and magic into the dynasty of Egypt. It had largely been Steve who penned the letters of request to the board of Egyptian edicts. This board of seven powerful diplomats had control over the Rosetta Stone, King Tut's burial ankh, the scrolls of Id, and other critical artifacts that were connected to, or came out of, the pyramids of Gizeh. The edicts didn't relinquish possession of Osiris' tomb to just anybody. The board of edicts had to have good reason. Dr. Block's clout rested in his success with decoding the latter ten chapters of the Book of the Dead, a book which basically explains the deities and myths behind that dynasty which flourished nine thousand years ago. And now the tomb of a demi-god from this fallen empire rested in the hands of Steve and Dr. Atticus Block; it was just sitting on the floor in their research lab.

It had been there for three weeks, and had been guarded by the best security the British Museum could afford. Their ultimate talk was to open it, but they hadn't pried open the first of seven casket layers yet. Steven was strong, in mind and physique. He had done martial arts while he earned his scholastic accolades, and competed in Tai-Kwan Do tournaments throughout the UK. He had the physical requirements necessary to open the tomb, whereas the aging Dr. Atticus Block did not. As Block's assistant, Steve had great insights into the dimensionalities of Egyptian entombment methods. The doctor would often rant about how it was common practice to remove the organs and liquids in the body before wrapping it with a dipped-in-wet-plaster linen cloth, first starting at the tip of the toes, wrapping around the carpals of the feet, and using the lengths of the tibia, fibula, humerus, and spine, moved upwards, until the wet linen strips met the skull of the deceased. While the body was wrapped by physicians of the highest order, two female sentries, standing beside the door, would recite melodious incantations, and in so doing, provided a soundtrack that soothed the grim task of mummification. As Dr. Block shared details that he'd gleaned from reading the aforementioned Book of the Dead, a visionary look of genius would rise up in his face, and Steven swore Block knew the tune of the sentries' incantations by heart.

Dr. Atticus Block had placed such trust in Steve as his assistant. He liked his work ethic, his ability to listen, and his skill of rarely jumping to conclusions. Most of all, Block liked the fire that burned behind his eyes. The doctor could see the potential for great professional achievement that Steven possessed, achievement which would only materialize from a fluid mind unmarred by the weight of ego. Yes, the doctor, Atticus Block, was ready to open the tomb of Osiris, and Steve would be at his side.

In the the three weeks that the tomb had rested in Block's laboratory, the two of them had been gathering supplies necessary for all the steps of exhumation. An F-kilt, which was a small hand crane they'd use to jar-lift open the first of two sandstone cases. One oversized Phillips screwdriver, intended to pry small “keys” apart that secured the logic of the casket's tops and sideboards, six heavy steel chains that would lift the multi-ton weight of the several lids onto ready-roll palettes, a jimi-wrench, and dust brushes were the additional items needed for the task. The laboratory was half and acre in size, and the ceiling capped off at about twenty-five feet. The thing about ancient pharaoh's caskets is this: they are caskets within caskets. The number of boxes within the outermost casket varies depending on which dynasty the pharaoh or heigh priest lived in. A little before Osiris' rule, it was usually four layers. When King Tut died, the practice was six. This sarcophagus had five. When Steve would explain the layering system to friends or family, he'd often use the analogy of those painted matrioshka dolls, which twist open in the middle only to reveal yet another synonymous doll inside, and, as you know, at the kernel of that contraption is, no surprise, a solid doll figure; it doesn't open, but represents the end of the story within a story. So too with the tomb of Osiris, which security guards at the British Museum would often hear Dr. Block corrected Steve in term usage, “it's not a tomb, Steve, it's a sarcophagus. A tomb, in pyramid-talk, is as big as a zeppelin garage, but a sarcophagus is the casket object itself, which protects the mummified body.” Steve knew this, but it was so much faster to say tomb. Anyways, step one of opening the sarcophagus was physically and mentally exacting. Each step of lifting, shifting, and setting down had to be done with the utmost care; there was no room for error. Dr. Block estimated the entire process, of getting down to the mummy entity itself, would take four days, and Steve needed to be there from start to finish. But as he made his way to the office that morning, a slight unease had developed within himself. It was an unease related to the excavation. He knew it was for science, for advancing the field of knowledge in Egyptology, guided by good-natured inquisitivity. He knew the archeologist's creed of “take no prisoners” when it came to research and the process of discovery, but he was starting to feel guilty. “Those people who encased Osiris,” he thought, “didn't intend for his tomb to be unearthed by a couple brooding English-men; Osiris was meant to be rollicking in the afterlife, permanently, with his skin well-hydrated and a cache of the finest-bred cats at his side.” Two things made him show up to work though: curiosity and devotion. He knew Dr. Block needed him; Block couldn't shimmy the sarcophagus open himself. Block also had been a mentor in their hours of research and hours of non-research. He not only meant well, but would continue to embody that flickering illusion of magic that spurs archeologists to never shy away from excavation sites. To this man Steve owed his allegiance. Steve also was curious about the sarcophagus, and the condition of the mummy therein. He wanted to see if it really was true, that spells in hieroglyphs were etched into the sides of each casket wall, and he wanted to translate those spells into English. And so even though the element of hesitation was present in Steve's conscience, he showed up to work anyways.

Part Two

“It's only a matter of time,” Dr. Atticus Block said, long-faced, “before I reach archeologist's nirvana.” Block had slept at the lab that night. He had a cot beside the window in the back of the lab where he'd often rest, or retreat to, in order to collect his thoughts. His eyebrows were untamed, but like Steve, who now stood staring at the tomb, his shirt was tucked in good and proper. “Let's have a go at this thing, Dr. Block,” Steve said to him as they both put on work gloves. The exhumation was about to begin.

With the aid of an extra seven research assistants and Steven, Dr. Block took the reigns. He called out orders like a captain directing a large sail boat, ready for any slight change of wind.

“Attach the chains to the inside handles with gauze wrapped around the metal. I don't want that metal to ding up the sandstone.” The research assistants had deft hands, and took commands without hesitation.

Some 9,000 years ago, when the idea of mummification was being perfected, it had been determined that having multiple layers separated by no more than six centimeters of air space would behoove the preservation pursuits of maintaining the integrity of the body, seeing it through to the afterlife. If there was no air at all, what would the deceased breathe? They would suffocate in a sandstone cage. To secure each box, the coffin designers inserted a narrow stone wedge into each open space, and knocked it in with a saddle rod. The innermost two coffins were made of solid gold mined from sources known to have originated from as far south as Djibouti and as far east as Bhutan. The next two to four coffins were made of a primitive composite puree that consisted of sandstone, shale, and wood chips. The other coffins were made of a denser sandstone. They were light mustard in color. What Steve was moved by, as he heard the details from the doctor explained one night after work, were the etchings scrawled on the vertical side boards of each rectangular case. Standing about four feet at their maximum height and six and a half feet at max length, the hieroglyphs were articulated in rows much like the cut-away of a house would look, with different floors placed equally above or below each other. The hieroglyphs, according to Atticus, were a blend of figures and pictographs. The messages spelled out on the coffins were often interpreted as pass-codes gatekeepers of the afterlife would scan when the sarcophagus accurately traveled down the river Styx to the heralded heavens of other Egyptian deities. One of the biggest mysteries about Osiris' caskets were what the hieroglyphs would reveal themselves to be, what messages they'd offer up.

“Let's open it,” Atticus said. He meant the lid. It was about eight-hundred pounds in weight. It was necessary to hook up and turn on the F-kilt, with its chains and sophisticated pulley system, at a forty-five degree angle to the top plane of the first rectangular box. “Get the palette to rest the the lid down on,” Atticus instructed, and like a well-oiled machine the practiced crew tacked the lid down, securing it on the flat-board with wheels. Steve rolled it towards the back of the lab, not too far from Atticus's cot. As he pulled the lid back, he marveled at the uncountable flecks of minerals catching the London light that was inlaid on the eight-hundred pound lid. Each fleck rotated a minute spectrum whose rays lasted just long enough for Steve to register them. Comforted by their firefly illusion, he didn't feel so bad about the project after all, and he walked back to the matrioshka of coffins, where the team was preparing to lift out the next encasement.

“Steve, we need you!” One of the other assistants put forward, loudly, “the outer-case has unforeseen hook-locks connecting it to the next inside layer. Use the jimi-wrench to loosen the locks.” The jimi-wrench was designed to loosen these kinds of primitive hooks. Steve reached into the box and jimi-wrenched the screws loose. 

“Oh, thank God!”, Steve said quietly to himself. He didn't actually know how to use the jimi wrench as well as the others thought, but for some reason, when the jimi-wrench hit the screw, it seemed to loosen swiftly, as if released by some undetermined power. After that, he ended up grabbing a brush to remove accumulated dust within the crannies on the top of the second-to-outer-most lid. As he brushed, he noticed how the open pits between each box were abysmal when viewed at certain angles. “What darkness, what solitude,” he spoke to himself. His caring heart pitied the soul of Osiris for having to linger in the confines of such solid separation from his family, his country, life in general.

Atticus instructed the team to take a break, maybe an hour tops, to get a little something to eat, or go outside for some midday English air. Steve brought his lunch: two hard-boiled eggs and a bag of salt and vinegar chips. He usually ate lunch alone, and today would be no different. While Atticus rested in the back cot, Steve slowly broke his hard-boiled egg on the edge of the white lab table. He peeled off the cracked shell bits and threw them in the garbage. “Hey, Dr. Block,” he said loudly, “how many more lids will we open today?”

“Only one.”

Author's Note: that's the end of part two. stay tuned for part three and four coming soon.