#it sat deteriorating in a museum collection it didn’t belong in and was going to be thrown out

[sassmill]

Unpicking a suit lining at the sleeve head like. I’m undoing this hand sewn seam that someone made in 1935. I know the name of the man the suit was made for and the name of the man that tailored it and I can see proof of the human labor that made this. I can see the layers of wool roving and hair canvas used to interface the shoulders. I just worked with hair canvas for the first time recently on another garment, and this garment carries this same historical textile and practice. This wool and silk is nearly a century old and I’m mending it so it can continue to be worn and I’m directly interacting with human artistry and skill in the same way it was originally done on this garment. In another ten, twenty years, if this garment is still in use and I’m not the one mending it, they will be able to see the difference in the original construction and where I’ve worked on it. They might be able to tell how recently it’s been mended because of the fabric I’m using to patch. And then if they mend it, and add to the signature of stitches on this garment, somebody else down the line can look at it and see each of us there in the seams we’ve sewn. Every garment is a museum.

[imjustthemechanic]

Natalie Jones and the Golden Ship

Part 1/? - A Meeting at the Palace Part 2/? - Curry Talk Part 3/? - Princess Sitamun

Operation Move the Mummy gets underway, and Natasha meets a rather intriguing man on the train.

It was nearly a month later, towards the end of October with the weather unseasonably cold, when the CAAP gathered again at Folkestone.  They arrived in time to see the coffin of Sitamun loaded onto the train to go through the Chunnel.

There wasn’t very much to see.  When Nat and Allen had gone to the museum, the coffin had been on display inside a temperature-controlled glass case with guards on either side of it.  It was one of the most precious things in the entire collection, some thirty-five hundred years old and carved from a single enormous block of alabaster.  The hieroglyphics that decorated the outside were gilded and inlaid with semi-precious stones, and even in the dim lighting and surrounded by other priceless artefacts, it was breathtaking.

The mummy inside hadn’t fared as well as its container.  Princess Sitamun had been unwrapped at a Victorian party, and her various custodians over the years had kept her in attics, garden sheds, and even a smoking lounge before the museum finally got charge of her.  Rather than being black and leathery, like mummies were supposed to, she was grayish-brown and covered with frayed cracks, like fake leather that had been left out in the elements.  Conservators in Egypt were eager to have a look at her, hoping that their expertise and their country’s dry climate could stop her deteriorating any further.

None of this was visible from the train station in Folkestone, though.  Sitamun and her magnificent sarcophagus had been carefully packed up in an enormous crate that was now being lifted, very slowly and gently, by a crane.  A few reporters were taking pictures while more men waited nervously on the platform to guide the load into the cargo car.

“I wouldn’t like to be any of those guys,” Clint observed as they stood on a balcony to watch.  “The Post said the mummy’s insured for sixty million pounds.  No pressure, huh?”

“Does the insurance cover curses?” asked Sam.  “Or is that just how the company’s planning to get out of paying if anything happens?”

Sharon, always ready to look things up, was reading something on her phone.  “It better,” she said, “because according to Wikipedia this particular mummy is extremely cursed.”

“Really?”  Sam leaned to look over her shoulder.

“Yeah.  They’ve got a whole list of victims here,” Sharon said, her thumb flicking as she scrolled down.  “Okay, so after it was stolen from Egypt by Napoleon’s troops in 1799, the mummy was brought to England in the 1840’s by a guy called Nicolas Desrosiers.  He suddenly died a week later, and the mummy disappeared, but it turned up again in 1865 in the collection of a guy named Sir Richard Hart.  He announced he would be putting it on display, then fell from a horse and broke his neck the very next day.”

“It didn’t kill anybody in the twenty years in between,” Sam observed.

“Yeah, but then it made up for lost time,” said Sharon.  “Hart left the mummy to his daughter Evelyn, who died in childbirth the next year, along with her infant son.  It then belonged to her husband, who’s supposed to have choked to death on a grape.  He left it to his brother, who had a heart attack at the funeral, and his widow was so scared of it she immediately sold it to another collector, who developed a gambling addiction, bet the mummy and lost, and hanged himself.  The guy who won it from him supposedly had his house burn down and the coffin was the only thing that survived the fire.  By 1900 it was supposed to have killed over twenty people and its last owner donated it to the museum.  It didn’t do him any good, since he was mugged and shot the day after.”

“Yikes,” said Allen.

“How much of that is true?” Natasha asked.  Wikipedia, after all, was something anyone could edit.

“I have no idea,” said Sharon.  “A lot of these people have their own articles so they must have really existed, and it looks like none of them after Hart owned the mummy longer than ten years before something awful happened.”

“Life was short and dangerous back then,” Nat pointed out.

“It was indeed,” Sir Stephen agreed.  “Particularly for women.  The Abbess at Rogsey told me once that for a woman to bear a child required more courage than for a knight to go into battle, for the risk to her life was greater.”  Nobody else was looking in the right direction, but Natasha saw him put a hand on Sharon’s back.

“What about the museum?” asked Nat.  “It’s had her more than a century.  Did anything happen there?”

“Looks like no,” said Sharon.  “The list ends there.  So if there’s a curse, I guess it’s only invoked when the mummy is privately owned.”

“I guess I wouldn’t want anyone showing off my corpse, either,” said Sam.

Very slowly, the crane set the crate containing the coffin down on the train car.  Men moved in to strap it down.  The guy who’d been running the crane stepped down out of the cab, tottering as if he were about to fall over.  A co-worker clapped him on the back, shook his hand, and handed him a bottle of beer.

That was the CAAP’s cue to leave their vantage point and board the passenger cars.  They grabbed their coats and carry-ons, and headed down the stairs.

“Even if the mummy does decide to get up and cause trouble, it’ll have a hard time getting out of its coffin with all those crates and straps around it,” Sam observed as they descended.

“In movies mummies don’t tend to care about those things,” said Nat.  “I’d be more worried that if she tries she’ll just disintegrate.  She looked in pretty bad shape when Allen and I saw her.”

On the platform, the group split in two to board the train.  Sir Stephen, Sharon, and Sam went on the car behind the mummy, while Nat, Clint, and Allen were on the one in front.  Other than them, the cars were almost empty.  No commuters or vacation-goers were allowed on this train, just the mummy and a variety of specialists, guards, and conservators who were there to look after it, and a few reporters who’d gotten special permission from the museums in both London and Cairo to cover the move.

People weren’t normally allowed weapons of any sort on the Chunnel trains, but the guards had guns, and Sharon’s police revolver was in its holster under her jacket.  Clint had also brought his archery equipment, having upgraded from Robin Hood’s medieval longbow to a modern Hoyt Buffalo.  He settled down in a window seat, and put the bow and quiver next to him.

“New arrows,” Allen realized, pointing to them.  Clint used several different types all identifiable to the touch by the texture of the fletching.  Today there were several unfamiliar types.

“Yeah, I hit up those kids at Shrivenham for some more of the trick ones,” Clint said.  “At first I figured exploding arrows would take care of a mummy, no trouble, but then I remembered we’re gonna be in a tunnel under the ocean.  You don’t want a fire in there.  So instead, I got these.”  He pulled one out and held it up, showing a capsule of something in place of a head.  “Liquid nitrogen.  It’ll freeze the mummy solid, and we can just smash it.”

“Smart,” said Natasha, nodding.  “Although the Egyptians will never forgive us.”  She and Allen sat down in the row behind Clint.

“They’ll still get their coffin back,” said Clint.  “That’s the expensive part.  I also got this, for the boat ride.”  The mummy, train car and all, would be loaded on a cargo ship for the journey from Istanbul to Cairo.  Clint showed them an arrow with a fishhook tip.

“What’s that?” Nat asked.

“A fishing arrow, obviously!” said Clint.  “You fire it into the water, and when something bites, it’s got a line to reel it back in!”

Natasha laughed.  “You really think you’re gonna use that?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but it’s damn cool,” Clint replied, sliding it back into his quiver.

A couple more people got on board, including one man who came and took a seat right across the aisle from Natasha and Allen.  He was in his thirties, with blue eyes and short brown hair, and a bit of beard stubble.  He was wearing a blue jacket and carrying a sports bag, and he put both of them into the overhead compartment before sitting down and leaning across the aisle to talk to Natasha.

“You’re Dr. Jones, right?” he asked.  His accent was American.

“Yes, that’s me,” said Nat.

The man offered a hand.  “I’m Jim Barnes from the New York Times.  I’m covering the story.”

“Nice to meet you,” Natasha said guardedly.  Internally she was bracing herself.  Reporters who talked to her were interested in one of two things – either her past as a spy, or, in the last week or so, the story of Sitamun’s curse.

“They’re talking about this all the way to New York?” asked Allen.

“They sure are,” said Barnes.  “We’ve got a lot of Egyptian stuff in the Museum of Natural History and in the Met, and people are worried we’ll be expected to do the same kind of ‘gesture’ for Egypt as the Brits are.  The Bugle had a headline demanding to know if we’ll have to send back Cleopatra’s Needle next.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Natasha said.  “I’m an archaeologist, not a politician.”

“Mm-hm.”  Barnes pulled out a digital recorder.  “Well, would you mind telling me, as an archaeologist, who was Princess Sitamun and how she ended up in England?  I figure that’s a way more interesting and education angle on this than any of the curse stuff or the politics.”

Nat relaxed a little.  “Sure,” she said.   “Although I’m not an Egyptologist, so this is just what I’ve managed to learn from textbooks and the people at the V&A.”

“That’s all right,” said Barnes.  “Tell me.”

As the train pulled out of the station and headed into the yawning mouth of the Chunnel, Nat decided to begin at the beginning.  “Well,” she said, “Sitamun was the daughter of a pharaoh of the seventeenth dynasty, around 1580 BCE.  We don’t know very much about her.  She married her brother Ahmose, who was supposed to be next in line for the throne, but she died before he was crowned…”

Barnes seemed honestly interested in what she was telling him, asking questions and nodding along – but halfway through her impromptu lecture, she heard snoring, and looked over to see that Clint had fallen asleep.

“Am I that dull?” asked Nat.

“No, you’re not.”  Barnes touched her arm and smiled at her.  “Not at all.  Keep talking.”

As they rumbled along in the dark, Nat found herself wondering what Sir Stephen, Sharon, and Sam were doing or talking about in the car ahead.  Sir Stephen would probably be interested in the Chunnel – among the first things he’d commented on about the future was what ingenious engineers the people here were.  The idea of a tunnel under the English Channel was one he’d probably find both impressive and terrifying, since it theoretically left the islands open to invasion from the mainland.  That had been one of the main objections to building it, since the idea was first proposed in the nineteenth century.

“So if you don’t believe in mummy curses,” Barnes said, “what are you doing here?  Because that’s what all the tabloids are talking about – the UK government is so scared of the mummy’s curse they sent along the people who defeated Totenkopf.”

Nat sighed.  “We’re a precaution,” she said.  “They’re just trying to plan for everything.”

“Are you going all the way to Egypt?” Jim asked next.

“We’re planning to,” she said.  “All the way to meet Dr. Mostafa in Cairo.”

Barnes nodded.  “I’ve been to Cairo before, actually,” he said, giving her a cockeyed smile.  “I know a couple of places there.  Maybe once we arrive and you’re done with your mummy-sitting and I’m done with my article-writing, you could come and have a drink with me?”