The Stone of Nefertiti

From the excavation of an ancient tomb, to skies of spitfires, to a rather unfortunate proposal…beware this stone! 

By Henry Cox, age 14

Adjusting his safari hat, Sir Percy Bannerman-Smith took a deep breath and entered the tomb. He checked the time on his pocket watch – half past five, the thirtieth of August 1890. “This is the exact moment future generations will remember”, thought the explorer wistfully. The piercing heat around the excavation site failed to enter the shadowy tomb cloaked in spider webs.

With a certain flutter in his step, the explorer glided down the sand, lamp in hand, and entered the subterranean structure. He barely noticed his two companions, each crumbling under enormous rucksacks. “Onwards, my fellows! Today is the day that the great Sir Percy… and his compatriots… opened Nefertiti’s tomb and brought home riches unimaginable!” He bounced through the dusty halls, before feigning composure and slowing himself down. Barely turning his head, the explorer muttered “Pass me my magnifying glass, would you?” and the archaeologist scrambled to locate the implement and hand it over.
 
Sir Percy gasped, his extravagant moustache crinkling as he examined the dusty sandstone walls. Hieroglyphics adorned the surfaces, whispering faint stories about birds and eyes and feathers. The explorer glanced away from the symbols staring at him and called for the linguist. While his accomplice gazed at the hieroglyphics, the explorer muttered to himself “We must be close.”
 
Letting out a croak of amazement, the linguist’s eyes slowly drifted around the walls. “It’s difficult to make out but I think… it’s talking about untold riches... and… a curse, oh… a stone and…”
 
“Good job, Miss Fawcett. I think I can take it from here,” the explorer interjected. “Onwards, chaps! Treasure awaits!”
 
The three adventurers proceeded through the halls, a cold musty smell from thousands of years of waiting surrounding them. The linguist hung behind, her hand softly brushing against the crumbling wall, embedded with memories and myths alike. A spider emerged from a crack in the cave, before hastily scuttling back into its den, surprised to see its home invaded for the first time in millennia. The entrances were shrouded by spider webs, unfolding like curtains to the wonders ahead.
 
Sir Percy was the first person to break the silence once they entered the sarcophagus chamber. “We’ve done it, chaps.” They gawped at the scene that met them. The walls were gilded with gold and guarded by two immense statues, each with the head of a dog. Gold furniture, coins and jewels were scattered around the room, adorning the smooth, cold floor. The sarcophagus lay regally in the middle, entirely gold save for two deep-set sapphires glinting in the lamp light. The adventurers all held their breath as the explorer slowly lifted the lid of the coffin, exposing the mummified body of Nefertiti.
 
Thin and shrunken, bandages were tightly wrapped around the skeleton. A musty smell too heavy to escape the room filled the air. The mummy’s eyes were like sinkholes, all light having long faded away. Browned teeth protruded from asharp, angular face, while its hands were long and bony and tightly gripping…
 
A stone. Nestled among those claw-like fingers was a stone so black that the light from the lamps seem to bend away from it. Embedded into it were what appeared to be dozens of symbols, painted white. The explorer looked puzzled, raising his eyebrows, and instinctively turned his head and signalledfor the linguist. She had already fled. . “RUN!” she hastily screamed on her way out of the room. The explorer dashed to grab a handful of gold coins, while the archaeologist prised the stone out of the mummy’s fingers and tossed it to the linguist. A resounding series of crashes burst through the tomb as the walls started to fall.
 
Sprinting through the corridors out of the tomb towards the bright desert light, the avalanche of rock pursuing the adventurers. The linguist led the pack, resolving to not look back at the destruction behind her. The archaeologist hung close to the explorer – they had been friends since university. Their oil lamps flickering in the panicked air and they lunged through the tunnel. Suddenly the archaeologist slipped and fell onto the ground. The explorer stood there for a moment, the roar of the collapsing rock fading into the background. The archaeologist’s pained eyes tunnelled into the explorer’s.Sir Percy slowly turned around and started running again. But it still wasn’t enough. Like a tsunami wave, the wall of sand and rock rose above him and collapsed, leaving no trace of him, the archaeologist or the tomb below. All that remained was a shocked woman clutching a black stone.
 
 
Fifty years later
 
 
Robert Baker, with a grin on his face, adjusted his goggles and climbed into his Spitfire. He gave a thumbs-up to his partner on the ground and fingered the lucky stone in his pocket. It had been discovered among his grandmother’s belongings when she died. She had found it in Egypt while working as a linguist and it was apparently cursed. But Robert didn’t believe any of that hokum, besides everyone knew his grandmother was a little crazy and fond of drama. In any case, he liked the symbols on it. He sat back, flicked a switch, eased the joystick towards him and glided into the air. The engine purred like a sleeping lion, dormant and ready to pounce. Robert took a moment to gaze out the window and watch the landscape rolling beneath him.
 
Towns, fields, houses, all passed under him, his plane slicing through the dewy clouds of the morning. Unfolding before him was a glorious blue canvas, occasionally dotted with spots of white. Below him glided flocks of geese, forming patterns imitated by the planes. By his side were two other Spitfires, their wingtips almost touching. 
 
Abruptly, an angry speck of grey appears in Robert’s mirror, slowly growing until two wings and a propeller can be seen. “Squadron leader– a Messerschmitt has been spotted. Permission to engage?” asked Robert anxiously. Their captain stayed silent, slowly realising what was behind them.

​“Break formation! Fire at will!” exclaimed the leader, terrified. Robert veered to the right, jerking the joystick from side to side. As he checked his mirror, an enemy fighter slowly began approaching. Robert frantically composed himself, flinging his plane in every direction in a futile attempt to escape from the enemy. The Messerschmitt’s targets locked on and it began to fire, Robert’s field of vision engulfed by flashing lights.

The trainee pilot’s engines started to sputter, roaring in agony. Robert braced himself, his eyes sealed shut as the plane plummeted through the smoke-choked air. The pilot slammed the eject button to no avail as his plane descended from the heavens and crashed into a field. A tower of flame rose from the peaceful ground, followed by a storm of billowing smoke.Above it, the Messerschmitt thundered through the air, casting a dark shadow on the field below.
 
That morning, Peter Woodford awoke to the charred remains of a fighter plane on his land. Blackened and battered, for a moment the farmer thought the plane was either a UFO or a fallen angel. Three small columns of smoke still were climbing out of the wreckage. One wing had broken off the fighter. Out of curiosity, the farmer reached his head into the cockpit, before noticing a peculiar trinket. Snatching the stone from the seared remains, Mr Woodford wondered for a second the chances that it would be the only thing that survived the wreckage. After pondering this for a moment, he pocketed it and went about his day.
 
Long after the wreckage was removed and the years went by, the morning birds never returned.
 
 
Fifty years later
 

“Alice, will you marry me?” asked Michael Woodford, a small twinkling tear in his eye.

​She stood silently. As Michael kneeled on the old pier, his head is haloed by the golden setting sun behind him. His eyes sparkled in the gloaming. Meanwhile, Alice’s face seemed to have frozen, as the thoughts slowly trickled from her ears to her brain. 

 
Finally, the emotions flooded into her eyes and mouth as she simultaneously cried, laughed, and exclaimed “Yes!” Instead of a ring, Michael handed her a small black rock, a treasure that had been in his family for years, ever since his grandfather discovered it in a field on his farm. She joyously lunged forward to kiss him, her smile stretched wider than it had ever been before. 
 
The waves contently glided back and forth behind them, slowly breathing in and out like a sleeping giant. A flock of seagulls slowly flew above them, angels serenading them from heaven. As the sun slowly descended under the sea, the sky became a deep red. Clouds slowly drifted in from beyond the horizon, blanketing the earth.
 
Alice touched the floor of the pier. The wood was damp and cold; the refreshing sea breeze swooped into her nose. She needed to remember this moment. As she closed her eyes and listened to the waves, Michael suddenly called “ALICE! GET BACK!” but it was too late. An immense tower of water rose above her – the giant had awoken. As she spun around, the enormous wave, frothing and seething, grabbed her and dragged her into the water, where her body was tossed from side to side in a cruel game before being smashed onto a rock. As Michael sprinted off to get help, the body slowly sank, along with the black stone around her neck.
 

30 years later
 

It is two-o-clock on a Thursday afternoon in Kenley. A customer enters the local antiques shop, holding what appears to be pebble.

​“Excuse me ma’am? I bought some fish from the fishmongers today– apparently it was caught this morning off the coast of Brighton.”

​“And?”

​“Well, as I was preparing it, I came across this rock which looks to have been ingested by it – I was wondering whether you might want to take a look at it?”

In the man’s palm lies a small stone, rubbed smooth and jet black, with the faint outline of what appears to be hieroglyphics. From it emanates a curious feeling of power but also a sense of a troubled history.