The Anubis Gates

Doyle took a deep breath, feeling like someone about to jump from a dangerous height, and shouted, “He-e-e-elp!” with all the volume he could wring out of his lungs and throat.

Instantly the old gypsy whirled and launched a flying kick at the lantern, which shattered and sprayed burning oil across one wall of the tent; Romany had simultaneously clapped a hand over Doyle’s mouth and wrenched his head around so that he was staring at the dirt floor; and Doyle heard the old gypsy yell, “Help! Fire!” a moment before Doctor Romany’s fist landed just behind his left ear, propelling him once again into unconsciousness.

* * *

A couple of tents were burning, and it annoyed Doyle that he couldn’t get his eyes to focus; he wanted to postpone worrying about the wooly-tasting gag stuffed in his mouth and the ropes that pressed his wrists against his hips, and these fires seemed like they’d be a first-rate distraction if he could just manage to see them. He vaguely remembered being propped in a sitting position at the base of this tree by the alarming bald man, who had paused to take Doyle’s pulse and thumb open his eyelids to peer intently into each eye before hurrying back to where all the fire and shouting were. That was what had really awakened him—the pain of the man’s callused thumb on his burned eyelid.

Tilting his head back, he was startled to see two moons in the sky. His brain was working like a car that badly needs a tune-up, but he quickly deduced that this meant he was seeing double, and that therefore there was only one tent burning. With a physical effort he made the two moons coalesce into one. He brought his head back down, and saw one fire. A wave of cool air seemed to sluice through the hot murkiness of his mind, and he was suddenly aware of things—the grass and pebbles under him, the rough tree-trunk against his back and the painful constriction of the ropes.

With no warning, a surge of nausea brought Darrow’s elegant snacks up to the back of his throat, and he rigidly overrode the reflex and swallowed them back down. The night breeze was chilly on the sweat that had suddenly misted his face and hands, and he forced himself not to think about what would have happened if he’d thrown up while still unconscious with the gag in his mouth. He set to work on getting rid of it, tonguing it forward and then holding it between his teeth so that his tongue could move back and push again. At last he had forced it out of his mouth, under the leather loop that had held it in place, and he shook his head until it spun away onto the grass. He breathed deeply through his open mouth and tried to collect his thoughts. He couldn’t remember what had led up to him being dumped out here to watch the fire, but he did remember the old man’s cigar, and one good belt across the face. Almost without conscious decision he hiked himself away from the tree, flopped flat on the ground, and began rolling away. He was getting dizzy and losing his new-won clarity of thought, but he kept it up across the dark grass, pressing himself up with one heel, rocking himself over with a heave of his shoulder, and then letting the momentum of the roll help set him up for the next one. He had to stop twice to be violently sick, and he was profoundly thankful that he’d managed to get rid of the gag. After a while he’d completely forgotten why he was engaging in this peculiar form of locomotion, and he imagined he was a pencil rolling toward the edge of a desk, or a lit cigar rolling off the arm of a chair—but he didn’t want to think about cigars.

Suddenly he was rolling in midair, and he tensed convulsively a moment before plunging into icy rushing water. He bobbed up to the surface but couldn’t make his cold-shocked lungs take in any air, and then he was under again, his arms and legs straining uselessly against the ropes. Here’s where I die, he thought—but he kept kicking, and the next time his head was out of water he gasped a deep breath.