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Part I: The Find of a Lifetime

"Sold!" The auctioneer banged his gavel twice, casting the audience with a pleasant vulpine smile that showed just enough of his perfectly-straight teeth to imply a wealthy breeding. "For six-hundred Pounds to the gentlerat in the big bowler." He struck the wooden podium once more. "Next item, please!" He watched impassively as a pair of attendants walked up onto the stage.

One weasel removed the hieroglyph-covered stone tablet, and the other placed a small canopic jar atop the exhibition table.

The auctioneer looked over his notes. "Alright. The next item is a canopic jar of ancient origin. This one bears the image of Qebehsenuef, the falcon god of the west. We shall start the bidding at four-hundred Pounds."

Edwin Fowler raised his paw aloft. "Four hundred and fifty."

The auctioneer nodded. "Four-fifty to the grey-frocked raccoon in the front. Four-fifty, four-fifty!"

A voice from the back row, shrill and most definitely not what Edwin wanted to hear, sounded. "Five-hundred!"

Edwin grew quickly certain that the modest purchase he'd come intending to make for his Egyptian collection would turn out quite a bit more dear than expected. "Hello, Patrick." The raccoon sighed calmly, but his bright green eyes flashed with all the anger that boiled to the surface at hearing that nauseating voice. Edwin refused to look in his direction. The weasel wore his trademark self-satisfied smirk, no doubt; and seeing that smirk would make things even worse. "Five-hundred and fifty!"

"Six-hundred!" Trout again.

Robert would be annoyed, his mother would be angry, and his father might even punish him, but the stubborn Scott in Fowler refused to give up. Forgiveness, after all, was far easier to ask for than permission. "Seven-hundred!"

"Eight-hundred!"

"Nine-hundred!"

"One thousand!"

Already, Edwin could hear the worry in the weasel's tone. He smiled. "Two thousand!"

The stuffy lecture-hall fell silent in one collective gasp.

Edwin turned back in his chair. He scanned the aisles until he found Patrick Trout. The weasel sat staring directly at him, his beady blue eyes wide in fear. "T-t-two thousand... f-f-five-hundred!" He blurted out the sizable sum and fell silent, his eyes unblinking.

Everyone's gaze shifted towards Edwin.

"Two thousand five hundred." The auctioneer spoke the sum with an unbefitting slowness. "Going once..." He raised his gavel aloft. "Going twice..." It was now or never.

"Three thousand!" Edwin slumped back in his chair. So much for being frugal.

At that, Trout heaved an audible sob and hurried out of the room without another word.

The auctioneer watched him leave with a great deal of confusion. "Err... very well. Three thousand going once, going twice... sold! To the raccoon with the grey frock. Congratulations, sir! That is all the items we have for today, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming."

Edwin nodded politely. He wanted and very rightfully -- considering the money he'd just spent -- expected to feel a rush of joy and elation, but the victory rang hollow somehow.

One of the two attendants brought down the jar and packed it carefully away into a small, straw-filled crate. He nailed it shut and set it down by Edwin's seat. "Will you be writing a cheque, sir?"

"Er, yes." Edwin brought out his chequebook and pen. He wrote out a quick note for the sum and presented it to the chavvy. "Here you are."

The weasel nodded. "Just give me ten minutes to confirm the funds with your bank." He hurried out of the lecture hall and returned within the time promised, but no longer carrying the cheque. "Your funds are clear, sir. Here is your item."

Edwin accepted the crate and rose from his seat. "Thank you very much." The thing was quite a good deal heavier than he'd expected. Edwin Fowler balanced the crate carefully in both paws and followed the other auction goers outside. In a turn uncharacteristic to London in the summer, the skies were clear, and the weather quite pleasant.

Crate in paw, Edwin Fowler walked briskly away from the main building of King's College. He didn't get far, however, before a familiar somebody stopped him.

"Mister Fowler, if I might have a word." Patrick Trout minced his paws, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. "It is about the auction." The usual sneering, condescending Trout was conspicuously absent.

Intrigued, Edwin gave the weasel his full attention. "Very well, Mister Trout. You have my ear."

"Is there any way I can persuade you to part with that jar?" A pair of pleading eyes on Trout were such an unfamiliar sight that Edwin waited to speak for just long enough to take it all in.

"Why do you need it?" The raccoon placed his crate down onto the gravel road and sat upon it looking nowhere in particular, caught between curiosity and contempt.

"That's not important, is it?" Trout fished around his pocket and produced a thick wad of notes. "I have two and a half thousand Pounds. I can get you more by next week. Please, Mister Fowler."

Edwin met the weasel's pleading eyes once more. The time was ripe for honesty. "Look, Mister Trout... I don't quite know the gentlest way to put it, but you have treated me with nothing but disdain for the past fifteen years that we have been in acquaintance. If you honestly believe a brief change in demeanor is enough to smooth out the years of you stealing grants from under my nose and attempting to get me blacklisted at all of the museums in Europe... well, you've got another thing coming." He stood and picked up the crate once more. "I outbid you because I do not like you, Mister Trout. As such, simply parting with my new prized possession would defeat the entire cause, would it not? Good day, Mister Trout."

Not easily swayed, Trout gave chase. "Please, Mister Fowler, this may just be a matter of life and death. I truly and honestly apologize for any inconveniences I may have caused you, but please, please help me!"

There was something almost poetic in this revenge. "Mister Trout, do you recall a scene from some years back? Allow me to frame it for you. The year is eighteen-seventy-seven. A bright young Scottsman, fresh in London, has the chance of a lifetime, studying archeology at Oxford. But the space is limited, and that very same young raccoon finds out the spot promised to him was taken by none other than the dean's son - a brat who stumbled his way through grade school and nearly failed out thrice. Well, that bright young raccoon was me, Mister Trout. And ever since then, you have been, and consciously, placing yourself as my rival. I do not know why you have done so, but that does not change the fact that you have. So no, you may not have this jar. Not even for a million Pounds. Good day." He shook off the now-weeping Trout and walked briskly towards a waiting cab. "Fifteen, Horton Street, please." Edwin gave his would-be rival one more glance as the hansom lurched forwards and left the tiny, weeping weasel far behind.

***

Horton Street was the usual sort of quiet neighborhood a recent university graduate with wealthy parents could afford. It was a place either for new money or old money trying to masquerade as such. Edwin Fowler was in the latter group.

The raccoons paid his cabbie and carefully crossed the street to his flat. He unlocked the door. "Robert, are you back yet?"

"Certainly am." Robert rustled his newspaper as he turned a page. "And in my usual armchair, too. How was the auction?"

Edwin joined his brother by the fireplace. "Well, I certainly bought something." He sat down in an adjacent armchair and placed the crate down onto the tea table. "Have we got a pry-bar?"

Robert put down his newspaper briefly and pointed towards the fireplace. "Right over there. I just used it to open a fresh crate of coal not two hours ago."

Edwin picked up the iron bar and shoved the thin end between the crate and its lid. He leaned upon the metal.

With a loud crunch, the lid flew up and landed several feet away. Robert hardly noticed. He merely flipped to another page and continued reading. "Anything interesting?"

"Somewhat." Edwin pulled apart the straw packing and removed the beautifully-decorated jar with great care and trepidation. "Take a look. It is a canopic jar."

"Yes, with a lid in the shape of Qebehsenuef's head." Robert finally put down the newspaper and gave Edwin's new purchase his full attention. "Very nice. How much did it cost you?"

Edwin opened his muzzle to answer, but hesitated. "It's uh-"

"Ed." Robert fixed him with a knowing stare. "How much... did you... spend?"

"Three thousand Pounds." The sheer stupidity of such a high wager fell upon him like so many bricks.

In a trice, Robert turned from brother to stern lecturer. "And how do you plan to explain this to Mum? She indulged your wish to go into archeology, but I'm not sure she will understand spending that much money on a relic."

"Dad would." Edwin wasn't sure, but this was his last line of defense. Certainly, telling his mother first - or at all - was out of the question.

"Let's hope he does." Robert's gaze lingered for a moment longer; then, he changed the subject. "Can you read the inscription?"

Edwin Fowler knew the inscription by heart. It was one of just three used Qebehsenuef's jars, and the other two were hardly used at all. "'I am thy son, o Osiris Ani, triumphant. I have come to protect thee. I have collected thy bones, and I have gathered together thy members. I have brought thy heart and I have placed it upon its throne within thy body. I have made thy house to flourish after thee, O thou who livest for ever.'" Still, he gave it a cursory glance. "Wait a tick, that's not what it says at all." He squinted to get a closer look. "'Unite us all as one, and bid the Teacher come.' That can't be right."

He padded across the sitting room to his modest shelf of books on Egyptian culture. "Now, let's see..." Painstakingly, Edwin Fowler checked over every last hieroglyph on the canopic jar. "Impossible." He slumped down into the armchair with a thud and a sigh. "Impossible."

"What is?" Robert, arguably the smarter of the two brothers, had gone to medical school. Archeology was a hobby he sometimes partook in, but not much more.

Edwin flipped through the book of hieroglyphs until he found a pencil-sketch of the four canopic jars. "As you know, canopic jars are used to store bodily organs - intestines, liver, lungs and stomach. For centuries, every single jar was labeled with one of just a pawful inscriptions. These were vital to the ancient Egyptians because each inscription was a spell. Without it, the organ simply would not make it into the afterlife. They would never risk putting random words on something so sacred."

Robert nodded. "Very well, and you say this one does not have the correct inscription. Perhaps it is a forgery, then."

"Couldn't be." Edwin turned the jar this way and that in his paws. "If it is, the detail is flawless, as is the aging." He grasped the falcon's head firmly and pulled. "That stopper's on there tight."

Robert pinched his nose in anticipation. "Are you sure you want to open that? If there is one thing medical school has taught me, it's that intestines don't smell too pleasant, not even on the first day. After several thousand years, I assume they will only smell worse."

"This is the most reliable way to see whether or not the jar is a forgery. You can fake the writing, the aging, but you cannot fake three-thousand-year-old intestines." Edwin sat back down and wedged the jar between his legs. He pulled once more. Finally, his efforts were rewarded with a cork-like pop. The lid came loose and a blast of warm, stale air blew into the raccoon's nostrils. Edwin made a face, but only before realizing that the smell wasn't bad at all. "Well, I guess it was a fake. Smells fine to me. In fact..." He looked into the jar. "What's this?" Edwin's jaw fell wide open when he saw the luster of gold.

Intrigued, Robert edged his chair closer. "What's in there?"

"Not intestines, I can tell you that." Edwin reached into the jar. The object was indeed quite solid. "Something smooth." It was a gold amulet, albeit its subject was rather queer. Rather than a god or the visage of some long-dead pharaoh, Edwin and Robert Fowler beheld what could only be described as-

Tune in Saturday (10.6) for the next chapter!

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