Theodosia - The Serpents of Chaos

by R. L. LaFevers

  Work to Do

  “THEODOSIA ELIZABETH THROCKMORTON!”

  “Hm. What?” I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Father was standing in the doorway, a ferocious scowl on his face.

  “Not the sarcophagus again!” he said.

  Oops. I usually try to be up and about before he is for this very reason. But when he spends the entire night in scholarly pursuit and never goes to bed, well, it’s rather impossible. “Really, Father. I’m not hurting it a bit and it is the best way to keep out the drafts.” (It was also the safest place for avoiding all the curses that swirled about the museum at night, but I could just imagine what he’d say if I told him that.)

  “Yes, but it’s a priceless artifact—”

  “That is sitting alone in a closet because there’s no room for it in the exhibits. Truly Father, I’m very careful. Besides, where else would you like me to sleep when I’m forced to stay here all night?”

  He had the good grace to wince slightly at this. “In an armchair, maybe, or curled up on the rug in front of the fireplace in the staff sitting room. Anywhere but in a blasted sarcophagus!”

  Yes, but there was no protection in those places. I simply didn’t trust the power of amulets alone at night against all the black magic and troublesome spirits. Of course, I couldn’t tell him that, either.

  “But Father, I’m sure Men’naat wouldn’t mind.”

  “Who on earth…”

  “The young priestess this sarcophagus belonged to,” I explained. “She was from the temple of Taweret, an Egyptian goddess and protector of children. Just think how much easier I am to protect in here!”

  He sighed in exasperation, then closed the door. I could have pressed my point a bit more, but I didn’t want to risk reminding him that I really should be sleeping at school, where all the other girls my age were. I did my best to avoid that topic at all costs.

  I crawled over the high stone side of the sarcophagus, which took up half of my room. Well, it was more of a closet, really. But no one else ever used it, so I had it all to myself. There was just enough space for a small writing desk and an even smaller battered old washstand that Flimp, the watchman, had found for me. He’d also pounded a few nails into the wall so I had a place to hang my frocks and pinafores.

  As I splashed cold water on my face, I realized I had slept through my best chance for sneaking into Father’s workroom unnoticed. I really needed to get my hands on that statuette. And soon. I looked at my watch. Mother was due back in five hours and fifty-seven minutes and she was bound to have loads of new artifacts with her. It was very likely we’d have scads of new, unknown magic swirling around the museum before long. I pulled my gloves firmly into place, then stepped out to face the day.

  My next opportunity came when Father left his workroom in search of a cup of tea. I usually brought it to him around this time every morning but I hadn’t that day, hoping he would eventually give up and go in search of one himself. It worked.

  I peeked inside the workroom. Other than artifacts from every civilization known to man spread out on the worktables in various states of disrepair, it appeared empty. I was halfway to the crate when an obnoxious voice behind me stopped me in my tracks.

  “Where is it?”

  I turned. Clive Fagenbush stood just to the side of the door—almost as if he’d been waiting for me. “Where is what?” I asked.

  “The statue.” His eyes shifted from my face to the roll of papyrus I held in my hand. He strode forward and snatched the papyrus from me.

  Just as I opened my mouth to protest, a familiar voice called out, “I say, Fagenbush. What’s all this about? Give Theo back her papyrus.” Scowling, Nigel Bollingsworth stepped into the room.

  Have I mentioned how much I adore Nigel Bollingsworth? In fact, I think I shall marry him when I grow up, although I haven’t told him yet. (Father said I mustn’t. In fact, when I told Father, what he said was, “What makes you so sure anyone is going to want to marry you, Miss Busybody?”)

  “I thought she had something that didn’t belong to her,” Fagenbush muttered.

  “Well, you can see that she doesn’t. Now go and make the lower exhibits ready for the visit from the Hedgewick School for Wayward Boys, scheduled for this morning. I want everything securely fastened down. You remember the last time they were here.”

  Fagenbush curled his lip in disgust and shoved the roll of papyrus back into my hands, then turned on his heel and left.

  “Are you all right, Theo?” Nigel asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Bollingsworth.” I looked up at him and let my eyes fill with gratitude. “Thank you ever so much.” I rubbed my wrist so he would know just how horrible Fagenbush had been. In truth, it did ache a little.

  He beamed at me. “Very good, then. Carry on.” And with that, he, too, left the room.

  With no time to waste, I snatched the statue from the crate, hid it in the papyrus roll, and headed down to the reading room on the first floor. I kept a cautious eye out for Fagenbush the whole way, but he appeared to have scuttled back under his rock.

  Out of the Frying Pan, Into the, er, Cat

  IT’S ALL VERY WELL AND GOOD to know that something’s cursed, but you still have to work out what on earth to do about it. Father has taught me that when all the clues fail to lead to a solid conclusion, there is research. Piles and piles of it. Of course, Father didn’t realize what I’d spend my time studying, but the fact of the matter was, research was my only defense.

  When I was very young and first began to visit the museum, it terrified me, even though I was too young to understand why. Now, of course, I knew it was the evil curses and restless spirits I sensed wandering around the place. But all I knew back then was that if my parents learned of my fear, they wouldn’t let me come to the museum. Then I’d never get to see them! So I vowed to keep my fears to myself.

  For years my parents thought I had a permanent chill, so badly did I shiver whenever I was near the museum. I still don’t know why the curses and spirits didn’t harm me. Although we did go through an astonishing number of junior curators and clerks. Most of them either had unfortunate accidents or took extremely ill. One or two of them appeared to have lost their minds completely. Fortunately, Mother and Father didn’t suffer the fate of those other employees. The only reason I could think that Mother was safe was because without her, the artifacts—and therefore the curses and spirits—would stay buried and obscure and never have a chance to wreak their havoc on mankind. It was almost as if by leaving her alone, they were thanking her for releasing them, although of course she had no idea what she’d done.

  Father wasn’t as lucky. In fact, that’s how he injured his leg. He took a nasty tumble down all three flights of stairs. Afterward, he said it felt as if someone had just reached out and pushed him. I’m quite sure that someone—or something—did. Although I do think they went easy on him too, since he was the one who spent all his time restoring the artifacts to their former glory.

  Of course, I didn’t understand any of this until I became old enough to read. Then I began researching everything we had in the museum, hoping that knowledge would replace my fear.

  It wasn’t until I discovered the old, nearly forgotten volumes on ancient Egyptian magic that I began to understand. Once I’d read those I knew exactly what I was dealing with, and it wasn’t reassuring. Luckily, the old texts also listed ways to remove or nullify the curses. Slowly I began to learn of different antidotes and remedies. There were a few harrowing mistakes along the way, but mostly I’d been very lucky.

  Since I spend so much time in the museum, I’ve claimed one of the small offices off the main reading room as my own study. (Our reading room is hardly ever used, as most everyone goes to the British Museum to do their research.) Father thinks I am attending to my studies, and I let him believe that. This morning I sat among arcane texts bound in leather and held together with buckles and straps, ancient clay tablets filled with rows and rows of hieroglyphs, and scrolls o
f parchment and papyrus on which ancient priests and sorcerers made their notations. I finally settled on Hidden Egypt: Magic, Alchemy, and the Occult, by T. R. Nectanebus. He seems to have picked up more bits about ancient spells and curses than anyone.

  I took a bite of my jam sandwich and began to read. The cursed statuettes were often made of basalt, a hard black stone associated with the Underworld.

  Now for the difficult part. I had to actually touch the thing with my bare hands. At least there wasn’t any moonlight and the curse lay quiet and dormant. Slipping off a glove, I reached out and tapped a fingernail against the statue. It was cold, hard stone, and definitely black. In fact, it looked exactly like the picture in the book. I pulled my glove back on and continued reading.

  Once the statue had been inscribed with the necessary hieroglyphs, it was covered with magic spells and philters designed to transfer their power once the proper awakening agent was applied. This was primarily used for healing, but was occasionally used for evil purposes as well. If the statue was intended to curse instead of heal, the philter most likely contained snake oil (cobra or asp), which will give the object an exceptionally glossy texture. If cursed, the book said, the object will give off the faint scent of sulfur.

  Curses did have a particular smell to them, and it wasn’t pleasant. I leaned forward and sniffed. It was hard to tell over the aroma of blackberry jam, but I was fairly certain I did detect a whiff of sulfur clinging to the statue’s glossy surface.

  I resumed my reading, straining to make out the faded, spidery handwriting as dark gray clouds moved in and blocked what little light came in through the window. To neutralize the curse, make a small replica of the figurine out of wax, four-fingers-width tall. On the bottom of the figure, scratch the indicated hieroglyphs, then make a potion of the following ingredients. Say the indicated spell as you anoint the statuette with the potion. The potion will wake the spell and activate the curse, but the spell you chant will direct it into the small wax figurine, which must then be immediately consigned to flame. It is of critical importance to stay focused on the spell once it has begun.

  Notice how Nectanebus didn’t say what the spell does once it’s activated. These ancient scholars always leave out the important stuff. Frankly, I’m not fond of surprises, as the ones around here tend to be rather wicked. When mucking about with ancient curses and black magic, I prefer to know just how bad things can get if they go wrong. Not that I’m certain I can fix them, but still, there is comfort in knowing.

  Just then, Isis, who’d been curled up on the small couch warily eyeing the statuette, leaped to her feet. She arched her back and hissed at the door.

  I slammed the book shut and glanced around, trying to find a hiding place for the statue. I snatched it off the desk and ended up shoving it back inside the rolled-up papyrus scroll.

  The door burst open and Clive Fagenbush strode into the room. “Where is it, you pest?” he asked me.

  You’d think the man was stalking me!

  “Where is what?” I asked, taking a bite of jam sandwich, knowing it would disgust him and make him think of me as just a grubby little girl.

  “The statuette of Bastet. Where is it?”

  “Are you still going on about that? I told you, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Is Father looking for it?”

  “No,” Fagenbush said with a snort. “He hasn’t even noticed it’s missing. But I have. It was an especially interesting artifact and I have … plans … for it. Now where did you put it?”

  “Whatever would I be doing with a statuette?” I asked, trying to look as innocent as I could.

  He took two long strides into the room until he was towering above me. His eyebrows drew together, forming a thick black V over his eyes. The cabbagy smell that clung to him, mixed with the sulfur fumes given off by the statue, made my eyes water.

  “Give me that statue.”

  I’d never seen him this furious before, and it took every speck of willpower to stand my ground. I would not back away, no matter how hard my knees knocked together. Refusing to let my eyes wander over to the rolled papyrus on the table, I gritted my teeth and stared back. “In case you’re hard of hearing, I do not have it.”

  Fagenbush drew in a deep breath and his long nose quivered. “I know you’re lying. I want that statue. I want it back where it belongs by sunset. Do you understand? I have plans for that statue.” His eyes raked over me. “And they do not include interference from a nasty, sticky little girl.” He smiled, and it was a chilling smile. “But that could change if you don’t cooperate,” he said meaningfully. Then he stormed across the room, muttering, “The child is a raving lunatic.”

  When he reached the door, he slammed it shut, certain his threat would be enough to force my cooperation. Fagenbush was revolting, but when he was in a rage he was positively terrifying. Quite frankly, this new side of him scared the stuffing out of me.

  I went over to the door and locked it. “Idiot,” I whispered, mad at myself for letting him rattle me so. I had an overwhelming urge to snuggle with Isis just then, but there wasn’t time. I bent down to give her a quick rub under the chin and promised myself a long cuddle with her after I had dealt with the statue.

  ***

  I hauled my carpetbag full of curse-removing supplies out from behind the desk and began to rummage around. For any who might be interested in such things, I’ve made a list of what my kit contains.

  RECOMMENDED SUPPLIES AND EQUIPMENT FOR ANCIENT EGYPTIAN CURSE REMOVAL

  Unbleached linen or muslin thread in the following colors: red, green, yellow, white, blue, and black

  mortar and pestle

  loads of wax, preferably white

  sharp-edged stick for carving in wax

  gold- and silver-colored wire

  willow wood twigs

  variety of herbs, such as catnip and rue

  frankincense and myrrh

  red wine

  honey

  milk

  lettuce juice (extracted from lettuce leaves. They are often hard to find so 1 substitute cabbage, then water it down a bit. Seems to work fine.)

  stones, pebbles, and shells in interesting sizes and shapes

  small fish or chicken bones

  odd bits of natural bric-a-brac, such as cat teeth, bits of lizard skin, a good collection of that sort of thing

  small bits of rock and semiprecious stones, like quartz, sandstone, lapis lazuli, jasper, malachite, carnelian, turquoise, alabaster

  Since I am mad about collecting wax bits, there was easily enough to make a small figurine. Once I had formed the replica (which didn’t look very much like a cat, but rather more like a slender tree trunk with ears—hopefully it wouldn’t matter), I carved the correct hieroglyphs in the bottom of it, then set it down.

  I reached back into my bag and pulled out a glass vial, opened it, and sniffed. Claret. I’d had to snitch it from the decanter in Father’s library. If he ever noticed it was missing, I would blame it on Fagenbush. Smiling at the thought of this subtle revenge, I groped around until my hand closed around a small muslin pouch.

  Since so many magical recipes call for the herb rue, I always try to have a supply of it on hand. (It’s good for warding off evil spirits and is useful against the hysterical spasms or afflictions that curses can cause.) It’s devilishly hard to find, and takes all my pocket money as well. Removing curses is not a task for the faint-hearted or financially strapped; unfortunately, I am both.

  I mixed the two ingredients together in a mortar, grinding the rue down fine with the pestle. When it was ready, I took a deep breath and stripped off my gloves. With the stub of a pencil, I drew a wedjat eye on each of my palms and hoped it would be protection enough. I dipped a clean rag in the potion and began wiping it on the cursed statue. As I chanted the words from the book, I was careful to keep the rag between the statue and my fingertips at all times.

  In Egyptian magic, in addition to using the right recipe, the word
s you use and how you use them are critically important for any curse or spell. You must get the words just so and have the proper tone of voice in order for it to work. Or at least, that’s what the books said. I knew I was doing that part right because the statue began to vibrate and the scent of sulfur grew stronger. The hieroglyphs that I had seen last night suddenly rose to the surface in a buzzing frenzy. The good news was, wherever I touched the statue with the potion, the symbols shrank back, as if afraid. Surely that was a good sign.

  When I finally ran out of potion, all the symbols had shrunk to half their original size. I stopped dabbing and stepped back, still chanting. Slowly, the hieroglyphs seemed to try and pull away from the surface of the statue, as if the words I uttered were calling to them. With a series of dull pops, they broke free of the statue and rose up into the air above it, where they hovered like a swarm of angry bees. I held my warded hands out in front.

  The stench of sulfur was overpowering, and I tried to utter the words of power without breathing in any of the ghastly fumes. Unfortunately, when I came to the phrase “Begone you putrid she-cat,” Isis protested by swiping at my ankle with her claws.

  Startled, I looked down at her. “Not you,” I said. As I spoke, the buzzing symbols quit hovering and began streaming straight toward my cat. The moment they touched her, she snarled, and every hair on her body stood straight up on end as the hieroglyphs danced along her fur. Isis’s eyes grew wild and her ears flattened against her head. An unholy yowl erupted from her throat.

  She was no longer my beloved pet, but Evil Incarnate. Was that what Nectanebus had meant when he said it was critically important to focus and avoid distractions? The curse was supposed to rise off the statue and flow into the wax figurine, which I was then to burn. At least, that’s what had happened in the past.