The Ghost Reapers Read online

  “Tell the world the secret. We don’t have to go looking for Akhoum and Francisco. We could stream it on to You Tube now.”

  “It is not that simple. I am missing a vital piece of evidence regarding the Great Pyramid. Francisco has it. I need to know what it is. We believed in the Visitation. Now, for the first time in my life, I doubt whether it really happened.”

  “You would risk our lives for doubts?”

  “You made the choice, David.”

  “What choice? If death stares at you there are no options.”

  “That, my friend, is not true. Death brings you closer to the ghosts. The ghosts reap their own harvest.”

  David took his eyes off the road for an instant. “Are you okay? I don’t get your meaning.”

  “You will, David. We are about meet the ghost reapers.”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  The plane bucked perilously in the thermals, high above the desert dunes.

  “I will have to bring her down.” Akhoum barked out his fears.

  “Any time you like.” Francisco grinned back, hoping to diffuse the growing tension in the cabin. “Where will you land? We will sink in the desert sand.”

  “The road is almost as good as an airstrip. Thankfully, the only traffic is the odd camel or water buffalo. Our landing should be unobstructed. There is a settlement up there.” He pointed through the window. “Perhaps the villagers can help us. I can bring us down just before it.”

  Francisco looked around. “There are not many places to hide the plane.”

  “It’s a chance we have to take. You said the first document claims that Nefertiti led her people out of Egypt. Cara and I can start streaming information once we land. It should be enough to stir people’s interest.”

  “I wish. Alistair will block the whole thing when he gets wind of it. Cara described a ruthless person who will stop at nothing.” Francisco instantly dampened Akhoum’s enthusiasm.

  “He can’t control the web.”

  “He will have the full support of the Palestinians, Muslims, Jews and Americans, not to mention the Vatican. Alistair knew he had to keep the religions on board. I see that now. He could not do this with the Reformers alone. Whatever we say will be stopped immediately. Whatever streaming escapes them will be spun as a walk on the weird side.”

  Akhoum gripped the wheel so hard that his olive knuckles turned white as the plane lurched. Below them the ground reared upwards. Instinctively Jazz pushed her hands outwards as she scrunched her eyes.

  “Gravitational pull; brace for a bumpy landing. Cara, I…”

  “Don’t say it; you will see how much I love you once we are back on terra firma,” she screamed back at Akhoum, trying not to cry.

  The plane lurched to one side as the wheels pounded into the ground. The flat tyres made it difficult to keep the wings up, as the wheels hammered against the tarmac.

  “Open the door; get the women out first. If the wing hits the tarmac, we will ignite into a fire ball. I can keep her steady until you get out,” Akhoum screamed

  Francisco unbuckled his belt. The plane was doing less than fifteen miles an hour. He opened the door and yelled to Jazz and Cara. “Tuck your heads in. When you hit the ground roll – get as far away from the plane as you can.”

  Jazz stole a quick glance at the jars.

  “Forget them; get out, and fast.” Francisco pushed her towards the door Cara had opened. Cara glanced at Francisco then seized Jazz’s arm and pushed her before she could argue. Francisco grabbed Cara’s arm. “It’s your turn now, and no arguments.” He thrust her firmly through the open hatch as the plane decelerated fast. He watched them roll away from the plane. They would have a few bruises but nothing more.

  “What are you waiting for? This is not a spectator sport, move it,” Akhoum yelled.

  “We will take our chances togeth…”

  The loud bang as the wing clipped the tarmac silenced Francisco. He hung on to the seat as the aircraft slid down the river bank, cutting through papyri and other reeds. He took deep breaths, trying to stay calm, estimating they had about five seconds before they hit the water. It might stop the fire but it would create smoke. The open door meant the water would flood in.

  The plane jolted, pushing him to the ground. He banged against the ceiling as it flipped. Black smoke poured into the cabin.

  He couldn’t see anything as he yelled: “Akhoum, are you okay?”

  Silence answered him.

  Clouds of smoke continued to blind him as the acrid smell of burning rubber tore through his nostrils. He reached the pilot seat in two strides.

  Akhoum was slumped over the wheel. The cramped space made it difficult for Francisco to get a grip of his shoulders. Somehow he managed to manoeuvre his dead weight out of the seat and dragged him through the cabin. The open door faced the ground, making an exit that way impossible.

  He kicked the jammed emergency door, but it stuck fast. The smoke was thickening. Blinded, he picked up one of the jars and bashed it against the window, shattering it into tiny pieces. Apart from a crack, the door stayed closed.

  He felt around the scorched floor, then grabbed the papyrus that had fallen from the broken jar. Jamming it into his jacket pocket, he stepped back, then pulled out his gun and fired it at one of the windows, praying that Cara and Jazz were nowhere near. The shots made a line of bullet holes around the window. He slammed against it, using his shoulder. It was enough to push the shell around the window outwards.

  Francisco narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the dense smoke. The small hole was jagged; there was barely room for one, let alone two. As he gathered the still unconscious Akhoum in his arms, flumes of black smoke thickened around him. He tried to push the imminent danger from his thoughts; as gently as he could he threw him out of the plane. Before Akhoum’s body hit the ground Francisco jumped.

  “Is he okay?” Cara screamed, staring at Akhoum’s limp body. “He’s not dead, is he?”

  “He’s breathing, but it’s slow – too much smoke.” Francisco gulped in air as he picked him up. “We have to get away from the plane.”

  He ran about ten metres, then laid him on the earth, as Cara dropped to the ground. She stroked his hand. “Don’t you dare die on me.” Her threats came out in sobs.

  “He won’t.” Francisco studied the plane. The left hand side of it was engulfed in flames belching from the engine and along the wing. He figured he had a minute at most. Taking a deep breath, he turned and ran towards the inferno.

  “Francisco, come back.” Jazz’s words pulsated through his body as he hauled himself back into the cabin. The thick smoke engulfed him. Blinded, instinct thrust him to what he hoped was the back of the plane. His fingers grazed a seat as he stretched out his hands. He ignored the searing pain; his mind focused on the jar. His hands searched blindly as he felt for it. Blisters bubbled under the skin of his fingers as, finally, he touched it.

  With a supreme effort, he gathered the pottery into his stomach, hoping to give it as much protection as possible. A wave of nausea rumbled through him as the heat from the jar burned through his sweater onto his skin.

  Black smoke was billowing everywhere. He lunged towards the opening, holding his breath as he flung himself out. The explosion behind him hurled him further away from its burning carcass.

  Flames licked his jacket, sending sharp spasms of pain through him as he hit the ground and rolled into the damp papyrus.

  “Francisco.” Jazz knelt over him. He was still clutching the red-hot jar.

  He proffered a weak grin as he tried to distance himself from the pain. “I’ve been better. How is Akhoum?”

  She looked over at Cara, helping Akhoum to his feet. He still looked dazed. “Better than you, I’d say. Can you get up?”

  He answered her by placing the jar on the ground beside him. His face was etched with the agony of the skin peeling from his fingertips as he released the jar.

  “It would have been lost forever.” He got to his
feet concentrating on slowing his breathing.

  “You could have been lost forever.”

  “As it is, we are both still here.” His attempt at a grin was more of a grimace.

  “Some of us more than others.” Akhoum had his arm draped around Cara, holding him up. “You saved my life, Francisco.”

  “It’s honours even.” His back felt like it was being eaten alive by fire and his stomach throbbed. “It looks like we have company.”

  They turned. The whole village was running towards them, pails of spilling water dangling from their hands. Within seconds they were surrounded by people babbling and screaming at the tops of their voices.

  Akhoum waved his arms to grab the crowd’s attention. “Wait until the plane has burnt itself out before you go near it. We need food and bandages and a place to stay for a couple of hours.”

  “I take it no one was left in there.” A tall Nubian man, dressed in a white robe adorned with gold embroidery, moved closer to Akhoum, who nodded back to him.

  “My home, cooled by breezes from the Nile, is a good place to rest. We have fresh honey and bread baked in the oven less than an hour ago. Our coffee beans are ground as fine as the desert sand. Can you walk? It is about a thousand metres from here. My wife will tend to your wounds.” The man’s quiet dignity infused Jazz with confidence, even though she did not understand him.

  Akhoum bowed his head. “It sounds perfect – but you must know that if you give us refuge your lives will be in danger.”

  The man looked around. “You clearly need help, I cannot refuse you.”

  “We possess information others want.”

  The man nodded sagely. “My people know many things; they also know the wisdom of silence. Sadly, that silence has now become a cancer, but it attacks the values we once held sacred.” The Nubian man scratched his chin. “What will these people do with the information if they get it?”

  “Keep it secret.”

  “That means you wish to reveal the secret?”

  Akhoum nodded. “The world has a right to know.”

  “Then I have a duty to help you. My name is Abba Isou; please come with me.” He motioned to them to follow him.

  The crowd made way as they followed Abba along the hot tarmac road. His feet were bare, yet he appeared not to notice the heat as he strode ahead of them.

  They followed, lost in a web of worries. Cara was concerned about Akhoum, although he seemed to gain strength with every step he took. Jazz followed, worried about both Francisco and her reaction to losing him. That scared her more than anything.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  As they drew nearer to the village, the papyrus reeds and desert dunes gave way to mud-brick houses, adorned with scorched white paint and satellite dishes.

  Abba Isou led them down a narrow path, blocked by a large house at the far end. He opened a turquoise wooden door, which led into a paved garden area with a fountain. Two young children aged ran around the garden laughing.

  “Papa.” He gathered them in his arms as they ran towards him, planting kisses on their foreheads, before he gently returned them to the ground.

  “Come, children, remember your manners; we have guests. Tell Mama we need hot coffee, bread, honey, yogurt, and figs. Don’t forget the figs.” There was laughter in his voice as he called after them.

  Jazz did not understand his Arabic, but as she followed him into a cool room she felt safe. Hand-made carpets with intricate patterns hung on the walls, and cushions were scattered on the floor. He pointed towards them. “Please, sit down. I will help my wife with the food. Do you want to clean your wounds? Then we can bandage them.”

  The two men shook their heads. “Thank you, but our wounds can wait. We have much to discuss. We must warn you that having us in your home is dangerous.”

  “We don’t want to put you or your family at risk.” Francisco reiterated Akhoum’s warning.

  “Danger is relative. Besides, I have no intention of putting my family in jeopardy. Once you have the food I will take my wife and children away from here.”

  “You must stay with them,” Francisco insisted.

  Abba Isou shook his head. “It was my choice to bring you here. I am a Nubian. My ancient ancestors were of royal heritage. Our history – how should I say?” He looked around the room. “Our past was airbrushed. I believe that is the term in common usage to describe how one’s history becomes eradicated from the record books.”

  Jazz stared at the man who spoke with such gentle authority, wishing she could understand. She tried to get Cara’s attention, but she was too intent on the conversation. Abba Isou was still speaking. “Our history is littered with secrets.” He shook his head. “Those secrets are responsible for much of the poverty and suppression you see here today. Our heritage is rich. There are stories we tell that come from the ancients, from when this land was called Kemet or Kmt – the Black Land. Greeks and latterly Egyptologists have altered our understanding of our past. Before them, it was the Ancient Egyptians who airbrushed the past. It was my people who built the pyramids. If I can help people to know our true history, the spirits of my ancestors will thank me. It is written in our history that one day strangers will come and then the truth will be known.”

  He turned as his wife, a petite woman with olive-coloured skin and jet-black hair woven into a neat bun, bustled into the room. She laid the tray on the wooden table, then took the brass coffee pot and poured the steaming coffee. The cinnamon mixed with the strong aroma of coffee beans smelt good. For a moment everyone was occupied with sipping coffee as Abba Isou ushered his wife out of the room. “Come, we must go to your father’s house. Get the children as quickly as you can.”

  As they left, the awkward silence hanging between them was broken by Francisco, who had been staring at the unopened jar. “The other one is already broken. The papyrus scroll is in my jacket pocket.”

  He pulled it out.

  “While you read it, I will stream some info on You Tube. “Amazing new discovery older than the Dead Sea Scrolls proves Moses did not exist.” Sound good? Confidence beamed from Cara’s eyes, as she glanced at Jazz and Francisco. She was surprised when Jazz pulled a face.

  “We can prove that Nefertiti led her people out of Egypt, nothing more. People must be allowed to draw their own conclusions.”

  Akhoum, who was smoking a cigarette, nodded. “Jazz is right; stick to the facts. I’ll help you stream the information. We can half-listen to Francisco.”

  She pressed the screen on her iPad. “Let’s get on with it. Time is wasting.”

  Francisco coughed, then began to read. “‘I, Nafru, handmaiden of our glorious Queen Nefertiti, who can trace her lineage back to Kasha, am charged with writing this.

  Our history is written in a chamber underneath the Sphinx. Sadly, we cannot reach the chamber because it is in the land of Egypt. When Nommo revealed himself to Kasha, our world changed forever. It is why he sent the reverberation of his spirit, to remind us of the Universes that exist in the heavens.

  Nommo’s resonance created the Sphinx almost seven thousand years ago, in the time of Kasha. His spirit erected the Great Pyramid of Giza, so that we could remember the light that is Sirius and the darkness behind it.

  The echo of Nommo slept in Nefertiti. She was charged to reveal the true history of Egypt. When the High Priests became too strong for her, she left the motherland of Egypt, to reveal the truth in a virgin land, untouched by gods and the worship of icons.

  The people’s desire for gods means that some pray to Baal, and others to Yahweh and the goddess Asherah, the Queen of the Heavens.

  With Nefertiti’s passing, the echo of Nommo has deserted us. No one wants the truth. The Ancient Egyptians seized power from our people almost two thousand years ago. In order to make themselves gods on earth, they claimed they had built the Great Pyramid. They made smaller ones to prove their lies. They drained the water temples around the Sphinx, and replaced Nommo’s head with the head of a pharaoh. Mor
e than a thousand years later, our people do the same. Around campfires, they tell stories of his great exodus out of the land of Egypt, led by a man named Moshe. The stories become more powerful with each version. Nefertiti is forgotten. No one speaks her name. We live in fear. Five days ago, eight women from our close circle were executed for telling the real story of Nefertiti. It is said that those who speak her name are blasphemous. Anyone who dares to invoke her memory will be hanged. The Egyptians have burned every Book of Kasha; the past is no more.

  I cannot live in this world of lies. I write this as my final testament to the truth.

  Our theory about the Pyramid and the Sphinx is almost the same.” Francisco looked up as Jazz spoke, then grinned. “I really believe dark energy is connected to the echoes. I’m less sure about how the Sphinx and Pyramid were constructed. Nafru’s papyrus is her version of what was passed down.”

  Jazz puffed out her cheeks. “It’s difficult to get your head around it.”

  He took a deep breath. “The circumstantial evidence against the Egyptians building the Great Pyramid is colossal. The weight of the Great Pyramid meant that it had to be built on solid ground to support the load. It turns out it was constructed on a plateau of granite.”

  “Lucky coincidence?” Jazz ran her fingers through her hair, reeling from information overload.

  “There’s more: each of the four Pyramid walls, when measured in a straight line, is 9.131 inches, which makes a total of 36,524 inches: a solar year. There is also pi. It hadn’t been discovered when the Pyramid was supposedly built.”

  “How do you remember these numbers? You’re regurgitating facts like a bulimic.”

  “Dad drummed them into me because the pyramid has a relation to math.”

  “Then, surely, with these facts and the documents, we have enough evidence to show that the Great Pyramid was not built by the Egyptians? The geometry, location and its original appearance point to it being some sort of signpost to the planet’s relationship with the universe. Ancient people could not have possessed that kind of knowledge.”