WHERE THE WORLD WAS BORN

By Robert Lebling

Robert Lebling lebling@yahoo.com

P.O. Box 5563 4,800 words
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Dhahran 31311, Saudi Arabia April 7, 2023

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It was nearly sunset when the Nile steamer arrived at Ashmunein, and darkness was

gathering by the time the American visitor settled into the tiny mud-brick hotel on the western

edge of the town. His room was small, with whitewashed walls, a simple cot beneath a heavy

brown wool blanket, a wooden writing table and straight-back chair. The door had no lock;

instead, a sliding beam was set into brackets, to bar the unwelcome during the night.

He took supper in the hotel. A single fixed-price meal was prepared for the guests -- that

night a mutton stew, rice, sliced tomatoes and thick rounds of whole-wheat peasant bread. He

drank hot sweet tea, served in a glass, in the Egyptian style. The only other diner that evening

was a French archaeologist. They exchanged a few pleasantries, but otherwise kept to

themselves.

A waiter brought the American dinner from a little out-building, where the cooking was

done by a reedy old Sudanese. The waiter was an affable, heavy-set young man, who spoke a

little English. The visitor asked him about the Necropolis at Tuna el-Gebel. The waiter frowned,

and told him it was outside of town, about four miles to the west. His brother, he said, could take

the visitor there tomorrow, if he wished. But only in the daytime. No one, he said, went there

after dark. The American declined, with apologies. This was something he would do alone.

After dinner, he stepped outside the hotel, and walked the streets of the small town,

appreciating the breeze that now swept in from the Nile. Beneath his feet, beneath the entire

town, were the foundations of ancient Hermopolis Magna, the great city of Hermes
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Trismegistos, known to the Egyptians as Thoth, scribe of the gods, bringer of knowledge and

founder of hermetic thought. Hermopolis was according to legend the birthplace of the world,

and even as late as Roman times it attracted droves of pilgrims seeking the blessings of its sacred

status. Its Arabic name, Ashmunein, was derived from the ancient Egyptian word for eight, a

reference to the ogdoad, the eight legendary god/ancestors of earliest times -- four males with

heads like frogs and four females shaped like serpents -- whose mating brought forth the

primordial waters, the infinity of space, the shadows and the invisible.

Today, Ashmunein was a simple mud-brick town along the Nile, its glorious history all

but forgotten by the modern world. Few tourists came. That suited the American, for he had

serious work to do. He walked for a while along the sandy path to the Necropolis, watching the

sun deflate in an orange cloud on the western horizon. He could see the stumps of the remaining

pillars of a ruined temple, blackening against the sky. A block of marble lay several meters to his

left, in the sand beside the road. He approached it, and traced his index finger in the inscription

that marked its edge. It was unreadable, a handful of Roman capital letters and part of an

Egyptian cartouche, whose glyphs were worn away. He sat on the block, and watched the sunset.

His mind returned to the brittle, yellow papyrus manuscript back at Brown University,

the document that had sparked his journey to Egypt. Its translation, apparently known to none

but an old epigrapher and himself, was burned in his memory. The manuscript had given

substance to a passage in Madame Blavatsky's bizarre opus Isis Unveiled which had tantalized

him for years. While he found much of Blavatsky's work incomprehensible – he was no

Theosophist – he had stumbled across this one passage while leafing through the second volume

of the book in a friend's library:

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"There are widespread traditions of the existence of certain subterranean and immense

galleries, in the neighborhood of Ishmonia [now called Ashmunein] -- the ‘Petrified City,’ in

which are stored numberless manuscripts and rolls. For no amount of money would the Arabs go

near it. At night, they say, from the crevices of the desolate ruins, sunk deep in the unwatered

sands of the desert, stream the rays from lights carried to and fro in the galleries by no human

hands. The Afrites study the literature of the antediluvian ages, according to their belief, and the

Djin learns from the magic rolls the lesson of the following day."

It took him several years to track down the source of that passage -- an 18th-century

account of a journey through Egypt by a London dentist named Charles Perry. The book was

quite rare, and few universities had copies. He was fortunate to find one at Harvard. It was Dr.

Perry who first related for Western readers the local legend of the Petrified City and the

subterranean libraries. The account was clearly the source of Blavatsky's passage. Perry had few

further details, and he apparently had made no effort to explore the underground galleries. There

was no additional source material to pursue, so the American let the story lie, and it nestled into

a murky corner of his mind, where it lay undisturbed until he came across the yellowed papyrus.

By profession the American was a writer, though not a highly successful one. A lifelong

resident of Providence, Rhode Island, he scribbled an occasional short story for the pulp

magazines, and earned his bread as a rewrite man and ghostwriter. He had been hired to rewrite

an academic book on Coptic epigraphy by a professor emeritus at Brown. During the hours he

spent in the old scholar’s study, he happened to see the papyrus sheet lying on the desk and

asked the professor about it.

“A very strange document,” the scholar said, “very strange indeed. I can’t really include
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it in the book, because it’s not Coptic. Actually it’s much older – Demotic Egyptian, from the

last days of the Pharaohs. I found the page loose in the back of an old Coptic liturgical volume.

Don’t know where it came from…”

“What does it say?” the writer asked.

“Well, actually, it’s rather imaginative. I suspect it’s an old myth. Talks about a

subterranean archive, guarded by demons.”

“Archive?”

“The wisdom of the ancients, the papyrus says. Great writings from long-lost

civilizations. That sort of thing. Total nonsense.”

Eventually, the writer persuaded the professor to scribble out a rough translation of the

document. When he had studied it fully, the writer knew he had no choice but to travel to Egypt.

Since the first decades of the 20th century, German, British and Egyptian archaeologists

had excavated some of the sites in the Hermopolis area. The Germans had uncovered the

foundations of the great Temple of Thoth, north of the town limits, which was built during the

Middle Kingdom but stripped for building materials over the centuries, from Ptolemaic to

Muslim times. Two great weathered stone baboons -- like the ibis, sacred symbols of Thoth --

still stood guard at the main gate of the temple. The British had excavated other sacred precincts,

and the residential district. And the Egyptians themselves had explored the amazing city of the

dead four miles to the west, the necropolis of Tuna el-Gebel.

In the city of the dead stood some sixty temples and mausoleums, laid out on a

rectangular grid of streets, where the priests and nobles of Hermopolis had been laid to rest.

Beneath the tombs spread a network of catacombs, linking impressive subterranean burial
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galleries. Here were interred hundreds -- perhaps thousands -- of sacred ibises and baboons,

mummified and wrapped in linen. The catacombs appeared to continue on beyond the galleries

for miles, the Egyptian archaeologists said in their written reports. But for unexplained reasons

the Egyptians suddenly halted their exploration efforts in 1932. All excavation was discontinued.

Now, five years later, an American sought to revive the memory of the subterranean

galleries. Howard Phillips Lovecraft, rewrite man and storyteller, stood in the moonlight outside

Ashmunein, preparing himself for the journey to the necropolis. He went over his plan step by

step. He knew what he was looking for. And he knew the risks.

Lovecraft lit a Lucky Strike and strolled off the sandy path to inspect a nearby temple.

He studied the two huge stone baboons that loomed before the entrance to the structure. He

stopped and observed the statue on the left. Something had caught his attention, a blur of shadow

near the ape’s haunches. He stood quietly, waiting. Soon the shadow detached itself from the

baboon. Moonlight washed across a face. It was a young woman -- a Western woman.

“Hello,” she said timidly.

She was dressed in a khaki work shirt and trousers, boots, and a worn leather jacket. A

rucksack was slung over her shoulder. Her sandy hair was gathered behind in a loose bun. Her

face was pale, almond shaped, fragile. Her eyes were brown moons.

“Good evening,” Howard said.

She approached him cautiously.

“Could I possibly have one of your cigarettes?” she asked.

After a puzzled pause, Howard offered her the pack. She took a cigarette, and he lit it for

her. They smoked in silence for a while. Then she extended her hand and said, “My name is
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Alice Morrison.”

“Howard Lovecraft,” he said, shaking hands. Her grip was firmer than he expected.

“You’re American,” she said, not expecting an answer. “Me too.”

“Are you touring?” he asked.

She smiled. “Not really. I live here.”

Howard’s eyebrows arched. “In Ashmunein?”

“No, in Cairo. My father works at the embassy. I study at the American University.”

“What brings you to this God-forsaken village?”

She looked at him strangely. “Oh it’s not so bad. Actually Ashmunein can be quite

charming….”

“Your father lets you wander off on your own?”

She shrugged and smiled. “Not much he can do about it. He’s a busy man, and I have this

fierce independent streak.”

She took Lovecraft’s hand and walked him to a horizontal fragment of Corinthian

column, where they sat down.

“So,” she said, eyeing her cigarette, “tell me what brings you here, Mr. Lovecraft.”

“Howard.”

“Howard then. What inspiration brought you to my favorite Nile village?”

He studied her wide brown eyes for a moment, and almost forgot where he was. “I’m

interested in an archaeological mystery,” he said finally. “At least, I believe it’s archaeological,

rather than simply folkloric….”

She laughed. “Oh, you must mean the Petrified City!”

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Lovecraft jerked his hand away. “You know about it?”

“Of course I do. Anyone who’s been to Ashmunein knows that legend.”

“Well – I don’t think it’s a mere legend.”

“You believe in the underground library, and all that? Amazing! I didn’t think anyone

took Madame Blavatsky seriously these days.”

Lovecraft crushed his cigarette underfoot. “Well, it does sound rather preposterous on the

face of it. But I’ve found corroborating evidence. I think I can locate the subterranean library.”

“Well, there are lots of underground chambers around here. I’ve explored many of them.

They’re mostly filled with mummified baboons and ibises. Or flat empty.”

“Those passages are designed to throw people off the trail. They were storage areas for

offerings. The Egyptian priests sold those mummified animals to visiting pilgrims. The trade

helped them maintain the temples and the mausoleums.” Howard looked off to the west, in the

direction of the low hills surrounding the necropolis. “No, there was another entrance to the

underground library, a hidden entrance. I’ve found a papyrus that confirms it -- or at least should

confirm it.”

Alice jumped to her feet and threw her cigarette into the darkness. “How exciting! You

must show me, Howard! Let me take you to the Necropolis!”

Lovecraft cleared his throat, and shook his head. “I’m afraid that would be impossible. It

might be dangerous. Very dangerous, I suspect.”

“You’ll need help,” she said. “You don’t know this area like I do. I’ve been coming

round here for years! I have friends among the grave robbers, and I know all the antiquities

police. Besides, I speak the lingo. Ismaa, ana batkallam arabi ahsan minak!”
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Howard’s face took on a sour expression. “Which means?”

“Which means: Listen, I speak Arabic better than you do!”

He sighed. “All right, perhaps you do know the language.”

“It’s a deal then?”

“A deal?”

Her eyes seemed to sparkle in the moonlight. “Yes! I’ll be your guide, and help you find

the Petrified City.”

“And in exchange, what do you want?”

“Well … to be a part of it, that’s all. I just want to see the underground library. I want to

see the legend become real!”

Lovecraft chewed his lower lip. The young woman could not be more than twenty years

old. Certainly, though, she could be useful. And she was attractive, he noted. Suddenly he felt

ancient, spent. What a silly notion, he thought, shaking his head and looking up at the girl. He

still had misgivings. But he said, “All right.”

At dawn, Howard’s eyes snapped open with the first touch of sunlight. He climbed

quickly out of bed and prepared for the day’s expedition. He had no idea where Alice spent the

night. She had simply waved goodbye and slipped behind a pillar. He had sauntered back to the

hotel alone, puzzling over her sudden intrusion into his highly personal adventure. Oh well, he

thought, as he stood over a grimy basin of water and brushed his teeth, let’s get on with it.

Lovecraft breakfasted in the hotel dining room on a bowl of steaming ful beans, cooked

with copious garlic and lemon juice and garnished with crescents of onion and hard-boiled egg.
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He made arrangements for the waiter’s brother Mahmoud to take him to the Necropolis. After

finishing his beans and downing a small cup of thick sweet coffee, Lovecraft headed outside.

Awaiting him were three donkeys, a reedy Egyptian in a dirty gallabiyah, and the young woman

Alice.

“You made a good choice,” Alice said, handing him the reins of his donkey. “Mahmoud

is a good man.” Hearing his name, the Egyptian grinned and nodded.

Mahmoud spoke virtually no English. With Alice’s help, they negotiated a fair price for

the transportation. Alice was full of energy. Her eyes flashed. She wore old work clothes, like an

archaeologist. She hoisted her threadbare rucksack over her shoulder.

“Are you ready, Howard?” she asked, studying his long, lean face. “You look exhausted.

Didn’t you sleep last night?”

“Barely,” he said as he mounted his donkey. He had nothing else to say until they

reached the Necropolis about twenty minutes later. A low wall surrounded a vast expanse of

crumbling tombs and drab sand. A range of dark mountains rose to the west.

Mahmoud opened a rusted iron gate and ushered them and their donkeys inside the

Necropolis. Though it was morning, he looked to the sun, as if worried that dusk was

approaching.

“So this is Tuna el-Gebel!” said Howard, his eyes taking in the ruins. “And I’ll bet that’s

the Tomb of Petosiris!” He pointed to the largest mausoleum, in the center of the tomb field. It

was a simple cube of marble blocks, with Ptolemaic pillars in front, guarding either side of a

small open doorway.

“That’s right,” said Alice. “I’ve been there many times. There’s not much below ground,
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though – a few empty burial chambers and wall paintings, but nothing else.”

“So you say. But I have a notion. Let’s head for Petosiris!”

About ten minutes later, Howard, Alice and Mahmoud, in that order, were stepping down

the staircase of a stone tunnel inside the mausoleum. They had quickly glanced at the wall

paintings in the main chamber, depicting the life and times of Petosiris, a minor functionary of

the Ptolemies. But Howard wanted to get to business, so they lit kerosene lanterns and headed

down the dark central staircase. The flickering lamps cast strange shadows on the rough-cut

stone walls.

The staircase seemed to descend forever. As they moved slowly down the angled shaft,

Alice talked.

“Howard, I can’t figure you,” she said. “Why does a writer from Rhode Island want to

probe the secrets of ancient Egypt?”

“It’s not that mysterious, Alice,” he said. “I’m a scholar at heart, a bookish fellow if you

must know, and I have an academic theory. I want to investigate it. That’s all.”

“What’s the theory?”

“I – it’s too complicated to go into now. Maybe later.”

“Do you have a sweetheart back home?”

Howard looked back at her.

“What kind of a question is that?” he asked sharply.

“A personal one,” she said with a hint of a smile. “I’m just curious. You’re not a bad

looking guy. Not conventionally handsome, but rather attractive in an old-fashioned way.”

He grimaced, said nothing, and walked on.

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After a few moments, he said: “I’m old enough to be your father.”

Alice chirped a laugh. She turned and stared at him in amazement.

Howard looked down, and they walked on.

“Forget it,” Alice said, shaking her head and smiling to herself. “Forget I brought it up.”

Mahmoud, a trace of undefined worry on his thin face, followed close behind.

Soon they reached a chamber of stone, an apparent dead end. The room was square,

about ten yards on a side, three yards high, and totally empty. Along each wall was a low granite

ledge, benchlike and bare. Mahmoud held up his lantern and shadows capered on the walls.

Alice surveyed the chamber, her hands on her hips.

“So this is where they kept the baboon mummies….”

Lovecraft walked to the center of the chamber, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls.

He noticed that the walls were built of dressed stones, probably limestone. They were

unmortared and tightly wedged. He walked to the far wall and ran his hands over the stone. Then

he took a folded paper from his pocket and studied it in the lamplight.

Alice came to his side and peered at the paper.

“You can read the old language?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said absently. His thin lips moved silently as he went over the text. Suddenly

he became aware of Alice’s presence. She had entered his space, pressed against his arm. He

could even smell her, a faint floral soap and a young woman’s perspiration.

Clearing his throat, he explained: “This text holds the answer to accessing the lower

levels. ‘Facing the rising sun, I take the place of Thoth.’ I’m not certain, but I think--”

“Which way is east?” she asked.

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Howard pulled out a compass and leveled it. “That way,” he said, pointing to his right.

They walked over to the east wall. Mahmoud hung back near the entrance, concern on

his long face.

“I think I’ve got this figured,” Alice said as she climbed up on the bench in the middle of

the wall. She turned and faced Lovecraft, her arms spread against the stone. “Those baboon

mummies were representations of Thoth, so this is how you take his place!”

Howard smiled, for the first time. “You may have it!” he said. “What now?”

Alice frowned. “Isn’t this where the wall is supposed to open up?” She jumped up and

down on the bench. Nothing happened.

Clearly disappointed, she hopped down from the bench and sat on it, her elbows on her

knees, her head propped in her hands. Lovecraft, beside her, examined the wall closely, running

his fingers over the gaps.

“More weight,” he said.

Alice looked up. “What?”

“Maybe it needs more weight. Ages have passed, and the mechanism may be stuck. It’s

got to be based on balances.”

Alice slid over and let Howard climb up on the bench. He faced the wall and pushed on

it. Suddenly a crack echoed through the chamber, and immense hidden stones ground against

each other. The wall shivered and began to move. Lovecraft and the young woman froze as they

watched a rectangular chunk of wall slowly fall back and drop away.

Mahmoud dropped his lantern. “A’uzu billah!” he muttered, trembling.

The opening was about a yard wide and two yards high, and a deeper black than anything
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they could have imagined. Mahmoud’s lantern had guttered out on the floor, leaving him in

shadows, but the bright light from the remaining two flames failed at the threshold. A dank, foul

odor emanated from the opening. And a coldness that seeped into the bones.

Alice got to her feet and stood on the bench beside the tall, lean writer, holding his arm,

peering into the consummate darkness.

“Well, you were right,” she said. “What a hellhole!”

“This is incredible,” Howard said. “The legends may be true after all!”

Alice smiled. “But you knew that, didn’t you, Howard?”

“Well, yes, I--”

“Come on, let’s do it!”

She pulled his arm and they stepped forward. The chunk of wall that lay at their feet had

become a platform that led to another staircase.

Alice turned and called to Mahmoud.

He shook his head and waved his bony arms. “No, lady! I wait!”

She smiled and set her lantern on the bench. “Then here, you need some light.” And she

went with Howard into the blackness…

Eons passed, it seemed, as they descended. The rank odor faded but the cold remained.

Alice held onto Howard, and her closeness caused unaccustomed stirrings in him. Several times

she wrapped her arm around his waist, and Howard wondered nervously where this was leading.

Eventually, they reached the library. Howard gasped at the entrance, holding the wall, his

head spinning. It’s true, he thought, all true! A vast chamber lined with stone shelves. Papyrus
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scrolls and bound codices arranged in careful piles, covered in the dust of ages. Thousands of

documents! Apparently untouched for centuries. Many lifetimes of work awaiting the world’s

scholars.

What does it all mean, Howard wondered. Just how ancient are these writings? Could

they predate ancient Egypt? Older than Atlantis? Whose library is this?

Alice stepped away from Howard and walked into the chamber. She looked up at the

shelves. Howard held the lantern high, to aid her inspection. Shadows twisted and writhed on the

shelves. It came to him in an instant. They were not alone.

“Alice, wait!”

She turned and stared at him strangely.

“Come back here,” he said. “We must be very careful. I think there is something –

someone – in this chamber.”

Alice laughed and stood her ground, hands on her hips. Her eyes flared in the flickering

yellow light.

“Of course there’s someone here! Me! … Howard, this is it! What you have been

searching for your whole life! Aren’t you excited? Don’t you want to celebrate?”

She held out her arms to him.

“Come to me, Howard. Come celebrate with me.”

She began to unbutton her blouse. Howard stared, compelled and attracted. She slowly

opened the blouse, revealing small, firm breasts. She licked her lips and slowly ran her fingers

over her nipples.

Howard approached her, moved by a hidden force. He was terrified but he could not
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resist. She was so beautiful…

Is this where it ends? he suddenly wondered.

Alice laughed. “Yes, Howard, this is where it ends. How perceptive of you! You know

who I am, don’t you?”

Lovecraft shuddered, as his fears merged with the world.

“No,” he said. “I don’t know who you are. But I know who sent you.”

Alice smiled, and went to him. She put her arms around him, and held him close. He felt

her breasts against his body.

She caressed his back as she whispered. “You have always known so much! You amazed

us, Howard, with your perceptivity. Those stories you wrote, they were so close to the truth! So

close…”

A hardness erupted in his groin. Howard tried to focus on what was happening. He

pushed Alice away. Sweat streamed down his face, despite the utter cold. He stared at her.

Alice shrugged off her blouse, freed her long sandy hair, and began to unbuckle her

pants.

“Howard,” she said, “you have been our chronicler! We love you for that. But all good

things must end, as you know, and the time has come. We gave you the clues, and brought you

here, so that you would know how right you were. But you cannot read the manuscripts. They

are ours. They date from the time before time. If mankind knew, it would be a great danger for

us.”

She slipped off her shoes and trousers and paraded before him, naked.

“This is another thing you want, but can never have. We are such teases!” She laughed,
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and the echoes multiplied, filling the chamber. Underlying the echoes was a new sound, a deep,

heavy sound, a moving of massive wet flesh, a sucking, that seemed to envelope them from all

directions. Lovecraft felt the sound and shivered to his depths.

Alice faced him, her hands at her breasts. “Enough of this teasing,” she said, “I am tired

of it. I yearn to finish this thing.”

She began to scrape at her chest with her fingernails. Lovecraft watched in horror as her

pale skin liquefied, bubbled. She ripped her dissolving breasts away, exposing a wet green

tissue, slick with mucosa. Frog-skin….

“No….” Lovecraft backed away. She placed her fingers in her eyes and pulled away her

face. Howard turned away, his mouth agape. The image would not fade: a slime-coated green

head, with large dead eyes, slits for nostrils, and a wide loose mouth with slavering lips. Howard

bent forward and vomited. As he wiped the acid from his mouth, she cackled at him. He could

hear the muffled tearing of flesh as she removed the rest of her humanity.

“Look at me, Howard. You have always wanted to see me. I am a child of the ogdoad –

offspring of the frog-headed men and serpentine women. In your terms, I am a goddess! Look at

me!”

He turned and lifted his head, his torso heaving. “Alice” danced and capered before him,

no longer a woman, now a neutered child of chaos, froglike head, snaking, scaled limbs, a

glistening green nightmare. Its music was the heavy, turgid sound of massive moving flesh –

close, so very close.

“You know whose library this is?” it asked.

“The Evil Ones,” Lovecraft muttered.

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Wet laughter bubbled from its sagging lips. “How quaint that sounds! Yes, one of them.

Azathoth. Brother of your precious Cthulhu! You, my sweet Howard, have been obsessed with

Cthulhu, and his abode beneath the sea. But the real power is here, in the desert. Where the Mad

Arab roamed. Azathoth! Secret father of Thoth!”

“And what are you called?” Howard asked.

“Me? My name is not important… I am Mazra. One of the many. We live among you,

Howard, and you have never guessed. We have many faces. We are the protectors. We are the

jinn.”

Mazra resumed its dance. Lovecraft fell back against a wall of bookshelves, his head

spinning.

“Now it is time, Howard,” Mazra shrieked. “Now it is time for you to meet the Master.

Don’t worry, it will be over quickly. You won’t feel pain. And when it is done, we will take you

back to Providence.” This last word was uttered as a hiss.

Mazra made a beckoning gesture with a snakelike limb. “Come!”

Lovecraft dumbly followed. At the end of the chamber, was an open door he had not

noticed before. Mazra stood by the door and ushered him through. Howard thought of his

writings, his empty life, the missed opportunities, and he shuddered to his core. What was the

point of it all? Beyond the threshold, in the cold murk, he could sense a huge, loathsome mass,

slime-coated, quivering, waiting… Without hesitation, he passed through the door into total

darkness.

In Providence, Rhode Island, shortly after midnight, the medics brought the stretcher
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down the steps of the red brick apartment building. The building superintendent wrung his hands

as he stood with a small group of onlookers and watched the men slide the stretcher into an

ambulance.

“They say there’s gonna be an autopsy,” the super said to a stranger beside him. “The

doc couldn’t figure out how he died. It was so sudden. So sudden! A young man, that Mr.

Lovecraft, relatively speakin’.”

“You don’t say,” replied the stranger.

“I heard this scream, this ghastly scream! By the time we got his door open, it was too

late. There he lay, on his bed, deader’n I’ve ever seen a man. Dressed in his clothes, soakin’ wet!

Drenched! It weren’t just water either – it stank to high heaven. God knows where he’d been. I

thought he was home. I thought he was home all night.”

“How odd,” said the stranger.

The super shook his head.

“Well, that’s Mr. Lovecraft for you… He weren’t nothin’ if not odd.”

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