We all stood in amazement as Jonathan’s form sunk right into the sand. There was no plausible explanation for this phenomena. There was no reason for such a vanishing act. Unless, he stumbled into something.
The Arabs began to shout that it was a deserved punishment sent from Allah himself. The Englishmen shouted in unison, “What the deuces is happening?”
It was not Allah, nor was there a reason to blame the devil. What happened was wholly natural. There was only one explanation for that slight melodrama, and it seemed as if I was the only member of the group to have put two and two together.
As I ran to the spot that Jonathan had disappeared, warnings were thrown at my back. I ignored every one of them. Every Arab and Englishman. Every theory of mysticism and godly intervention.
I neared a hole in the desert sand. Curses and profanity rose from the pit. I approached cautiously, so as to not join Jonathan’s number. Peering in, I saw him sitting on a stony surface. His left hand rubbed his nose. This human reaction caused the halfwit to smear blood all over his face. In all honesty, he deserved a broken nose.
However, that is not what demanded my attention. Right behind Jonathan’s crumpled figure was a painting. A painting that covered the entire wall. A painting that was adorned with hieroglyphs and colors. A painting of Akhenaten’s slouched form, rounded belly, and effeminate features sitting on a throne with the hands of Aten’s rays touching his face.