The Renegade Egyptologist on gazing into the abyss

When I gaze into the black void of an ancient Egyptian tomb I feel both dread and my old sense of surrender to the unknown sliding over me.

I have always found it easy to slip into the shadows of Egypt’s mystery with its frisson of death, magic and unseen forces, but there are dangers, I know.

‘When you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you,’ the philosopher said.

The slippery descent into hell?

Damnation certainly anoints much of its activity with a kind of divine unction, I’ve often reflected. In the lubricity of sex (how could sin ever feel so tender?) In the flow of whisky, the softness of a kiss, or even, no doubt, the slip of playing cards in the gambler’s hands, the smoothly spreading glow of a narcotic, the squeeze of the assassin’s trigger or the slide of a knife point into flesh…

The Renegade Egyptologist Anson Hunter...on the night of THE ANUBIS INTERVENTION

What did my eyes see that night?
A luxurious cruise had suddenly turned into a passage through hell, the boat taken over by armed invaders wearing the golden masks of Egypt’s gods and goddess, animal-headed men carrying automatic weapons, and snake-slender women. I couldn't make sense of it. I kept trying to escape, making dives back to the security of the normal before returning to the shocking surface of events. Egypt had turned on me, on all of them, an entire boatload of Egyptologists, and had invaded their lives like a malignancy. I wanted air. Give me air to breathe. It was something the soul begged the gods for in the Book of the Dead. Was this malignancy going to kill all of us? Why was this happening? Egyptology would never recover from the death of the men and women in this room. Quite a choice, I thought bitterly. Give away a great discovery or let the entire profession die, including my friend Melinda, the only mainstream academic in Egyptology who respected my skills. All of my life I’d loved the shadows of Egypt, I thought, respected the power of unseen forces from the ancient past, heka or Egyptian magic and curses, and maybe this was my curse now, to find the answer to a great mystery only to lose it again. But what if I were wrong? Then I would come under the gun. I took one last look around the room at the faces of the world's greatest Egyptologists. They seemed dispossessed, I thought. I have lost a hope and they have lost a trust. This attack on them inside the community of their own discipline was a shocking violation. How could Egypt be doing this to them? I saw the disbelief that only a passion turning against its possessor could provoke. There was a lot to be said for the lonely life of the field archaeologist, I thought. Gather people together and trouble invariably collected with them. At that moment I felt a twinge of guilt about my harsh judgement of mainstream Egyptologists over the years, particularly in my blog. These men and women loved the distant days of ancient Egypt with the same passion I did. They had given their lives to it. Did they deserve to die for it too? Melinda will die if I don't do something right now. The man in the jackal-dog mask was steady, ready to pull the trigger. He wanted to make another example. I must make my negative confession. Now...