Maaaah!

By Deborah Henley

Great colleagues are worth fighting for.

My partner and I have been looking for a case to solve for weeks, and I’ve finally stumbled upon something. “Constable Yo-yo, have you seen the mummified crocodile for sale?”

“Maaah,” bleats the constable.

When initially partnered with a rove goat two months ago I asked, “Are you bleating kidding me?” My supervisor replied, “We don’t kid around with kids. He’s the best in the business.”

Now I love my chocolate-coated brother from a goat mother. We’ve both been eager to solve a real mystery since our partnership.

“I noticed the influx of canopic jars and amulets flooding the antiquity market too.”

“MaaaAH!”

“Don’t get your horns in a knot. We’ll only use force if needed.”

He headbutts his laptop shut. Clearly another unearthed Egyptian tomb is being sold direct to the public instead of through government channels. At least this has more promise than our last case.

That wild goat chase was a schemozzle. Noticing large purchases of ammonium nitrate and urea, we assumed a fertilizer bomb. But the suspect was just fertilizing a very lush lawn. Constable Yo-yo enjoyed sampling the crime scene, but it was a false start.

Our supervisor thinks I’m holding him back. If I can’t prove my worth today, I will lose my best friend tomorrow, when our probation period ends.

As I tie Yo-yo to the backseat, his tufty tail wiggles. “Maaa.” Our car has the raw musky smell of billy goat, but I find it pairs okay with disinfectant pine.

“Let’s start with the Flea-Bitten Artifacts Exchange, or Flea-BAY for short.”

Our car drives past eroding limestone cliffs and a sign for the Valley of Kings here in Egypt. The flat area’s sparse buildings are engulfed by the mountainous peaks and rectangular troughs behind us.

Hoofing up to the warehouse, my fist bangs the door. Ow!

Sand stirs around me, but no answer comes.

Yo-yo headbutts the door, and it falls to the floor.

Whoop. Whoop. Whoop.

An alarm. Better hurry before security arrives.

I step into the dusty, salty staleness, hoping this doesn’t aggravate my hay fever. “Hello?”

In the darkness Yo-yo bangs into my left buttock.

“Maa-maa.”

“That’s okay.” My phone-light scans. Crates everywhere. The glow lingers on a sarcophagus-sized box. “Should we open one?”

Thump. Thump! THUMP!

Pounding footsteps like a charging hippo run toward us.

Yo-yo presses into me, his chest heaving on my thigh.

Close footsteps. Suddenly Yo-yo runs and hides, activating his stealth mode. I am left to face the intruder alone.

In the darkness, a carved ivory cane waves. “Oi, thief! Get out of my warehouse!” The owner’s skin is greasy with the texture of a dried fig.

“I’m Special Agent—”

Thwack! The owner thrusts his cane into a crate. “Don’t make me bring this khopesh out of retirement.” With his other hand, he grabs a curved sword.

My eyes itch and water. Dang allergies! I’ll be sneezing soon, too.

“Hands up!” the owner calls, his khopesh slicing dust particles.

I raise my hands, wanting to wipe my eyes.

The owner’s a blurry figure now. “Don’t move, or I’ll ruin you and the artifact in one blow.”

My nose twitches, “Ah-ah-chooo!”

He slashes toward me. From the shadows a rampaging Yo-yo charges at the owner.

The artifact stealer skids across the floor. “Ahhh, the curse of Ram-ses!” He runs away, screaming.

“Yo-yo, you’ve lost our lead.”

“Ma!”

A rip of fabric sits on his horn, with Marty Moocher scrawled across the tag. We have the suspect’s name. The constable sniffs around the scene.

But this find isn’t enough to prove my worth. We need to find the source—the tomb.

Yo-yo’s chewing on a piece of linen.

“Yo-yo, no.” I yank the slobbery fabric, following its winding trail to a mummified cat, its paw pointing to the back of the dusty warehouse. I follow the feline’s pawfect suggestion.

“Errrrr.”

What made the noise?

Turning to the constable, he shakes his head.

It’s coming from a big lump in the corner. Inching closer, I notice it’s a two-hump linen lump: a mummified camel.

“Errrrr!” He stands with radiant ruby eyes and a dribbling mouth.

“Yo-yo?”

The constable runs, aiming his horns at the wrapped-up rump. Glowing eyes zoom in on us. Yo-yo U-turns. We run, with the camel behind us, snorting like a revving car.

I dart past a glittery sarcophagus, jump over the khopesh crate, and stumble over a trumpet.

“Errrrr.”

Army-rolling under a bed with my besty, I whisper in his floppy ear, “I… think… he’s… angry.” It’s hard to speak with my tight chest.

“Maaaa.”

“Okay, I’ll go left. and you duck right!”

We crawl out and bolt, making it to the hot air outside. As the undead creature chases me, sandy camel-spit hits my neck.

My legs scorch from exhaustion and the sun, but I’m able to make it inside the car.

“Maaaa!” The voice comes from the cliff face.

The camel turns and chases after the noise. I can’t lose Yo-yo now, but how can I help? The beast is on the horizon, his humps decreasing. A plan unravels in my mind.

“Oi, Spitty-Mc-Camel face!” I call.

It leaves the noise and bolts toward me. I hit the gas, my car darting around the streets. In the rear mirror, the hump is deflating throughout the camel-car chase. The linen deflates—Spitty-Mc-Camel’s face becomes dust and blows in the wind.

Speeding back to Yo-yo, I can only hope he’s handling the blistering heat better. Once out of the car, I follow his bleats, trudging through the sand and up a cliff. The bleats are getting closer, though I can’t quite translate. As I scale a ledge, I find Yo-yo down an eroded shale hole in the cliffside.

“Maaa.”

“You fell into the tomb?”

“Yaa.”

We solved our first case! I ring my supervisor to organize artifact recovery and a rescue of Yo-yo.

We’ll both leave looking like giddy goats.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Deborah Henley is addicted to drinking kefir smoothies, making crafts with her kids, and writing stories. She is inspired by her globetrotting adventures, imaginative play with little people, and the wonderous things she finds in her garden. Deborah’s writing has appeared in a range of publications including Furious Fiction, Mum Life Stories, and The Dancing Plague: A Collection of Utter Speculation. She is stoked to add Havok to her publication list.

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