Theodosia - The Serpents of Chaos

by R. L. LaFevers

  After two years of coming up empty-handed, Mother had finally found the adjoining tomb of Amenemhab.

  Father couldn’t wait to see what she’d found. Neither could I, for that matter. I stepped closer to her and asked, “Was it scary, Mum, going into ancient sealed tombs like that? Were you the least bit frightened?”

  Before she could answer, Bollingsworth wandered in and distracted her. “Hello, Mrs. Throckmorton. Welcome back.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bollingsworth. It’s good to be back.”

  Just like Father, Nigel rubbed his hands together. “Did you bring us lots of treasure?”

  “Lots,” Mum said, then threw open the trunk lid with a dramatic flourish.

  A chaotic jumble of foul odors slammed into me like a fist: the coppery tang of blood, the smell of rot and decay, wood smoke, and sulfur. I gasped and my knees nearly buckled at the force of the black magic rolling into the room from the trunk.

  Father gave me a sharp look. “What, Theodosia?”

  “Th-they’re just wonderful. That’s all,” I replied, trying to look as if all was normal. Could no one else feel this?

  “But she hasn’t even taken anything out of the trunk yet!”

  “Oh, but I know they’ll be smashing. Mum always finds the best things.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me, but was quickly diverted when Mum began unwrapping a large, flat package.

  Nigel came over to stand next to me. “I say, Theo. Are you all right? You look a bit peaked. Do you need to go lie down or something?”

  I shook my head and took small, shallow breaths as Mother lifted the final wrapping away. After the smell, I was half afraid it would be a severed mummy limb or some horrid thing. But it was a plaque carved with intricate symbols and a drawing of a large man wearing the crowns of Upper and Lower Egypt. He held another man by the hair, his raised arm holding a large knife. My stomach bobbed like a cork as I realized he was about to chop the man’s head off. Under his feet were rows and rows of other figures who had met the same fate.

  “I say,” said Father, “this is rather bloodthirsty stuff.”

  “Oh, this isn’t the half of it,” said Mother. “This fellow makes Kaiser Wilhelm look like a nursemaid!”

  She reached into her trunk and pulled out another flattish package and unwrapped it, revealing a long, curved knife with the small figure of Anubis on the handle.

  Father whistled. “This is marvelous, Henrietta.”

  “Isn’t it?” she beamed. “And there was so much more! All the walls were covered with detailed histories of every war Thutmose fought, his victories and his strategies. It will take years and years to decipher it all.”

  I doubted that. I bet if they let me have a go at it, we could have it done in months.

  “It contained weapons of every sort imaginable,” Mother continued. “Spears and daggers and long swords, quite a lot of them carved with Apep and Mantu.”

  Father frowned. “I’ve never seen the serpent of chaos and the god of war used together like that before.”

  “Me neither,” said Mum.

  I had a sudden vision of the Mantu hieroglyph I had seen last night. “I have,” I muttered. Both Mum and Father looked at me as if they’d forgotten I was there.

  “Where would you have seen such a thing, Theodosia?” Father asked, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. But of course I wasn’t about to tell him it had been on the Bastet statue. “Er, can’t remember where … Sorry,” I said.

  By the expression on his face, it was clear he thought I was pulling his leg. “Anyway,” Mother continued after an awkward moment. “Amenemhab’s tomb also contained a small temple dedicated to the god of war, Mantu.”

  “Really?” Father exclaimed.

  We spent the next few minutes happily examining stele after stele, spears, daggers, and all sorts of things. Then Fagenbush arrived and would have cast a pall over the whole proceeding except Mother got one of her I am so brilliantly clever looks. She pulled her handbag out from under her arm and held it in front of her until she had everyone’s attention.

  “Now, I want you to try and guess what I have in here,” she announced, eyes sparkling.

  “Oh, Henrietta!” Father said. “We can’t possibly guess. Put us out of our misery.”

  Mum smiled, opened her handbag, and slowly drew out a flat package. She laid it on her still-gloved palm and began unwrapping the paper.

  Luckily, everyone’s eyes were focused on the artifact so they didn’t see me shiver violently, as if I’d just caught a ghastly chill. The truth of it was, whatever was in that package was cursed with something so powerful and vile it made me feel as if my whole body were covered in stinging ants.

  When Mother lifted off the last bit of paper, she held a large scarab carved out of precious stone in her hand. It had gold wings curving out of its side and they were inlaid with thousands and thousands of jewels. A large round carnelian, the size of a cherry, sat at the head, and a smaller green stone decorated the bottom of the beetle.

  “The Heart of Egypt,” she announced. “Straight from Amenemhab’s tomb.”

  The Boy Who Followed the Man Who Followed the Girl

  IN ORDER TO RULE, every pharaoh had an enormous heart amulet made for them when they were crowned pharaoh. It is known as the Heart of Egypt, because the health and well-being of the pharaoh and Egypt were one and the same. It was destined to be placed on the pharaoh’s body when he died. Thutmose’s Heart of Egypt hadn’t been in his tomb, and its location had been a major puzzle for years.

  “Yes,” Mother said, nearly bursting her seams in self-satisfaction. “It was in Amenemhab’s tomb the whole time. Not Thutmose’s.”

  As Mum handed the scarab to Father, I glanced at Fagenbush. His face was positively aglow with pure greed and excitement. Now, most people when they glow look lovely. Not Fagenbush. He looked even more frightening than ever, as if his glow came from the fires of the underworld itself.

  Mum took the Heart of Egypt back from Father and wrapped it up once more. She returned it to her handbag and gave it a good solid pat. “We’ll stash this inside in a bit, shall we, Alistair?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The adults went back to poring over Mum’s haul and frankly, it was hideously boring watching all the adults ooh and aah over Mum’s finds while I was told to not touch and keep my hands off. Besides, all those curses gave me a dull, throbbing headache and made me feel twitchy.

  I glanced up at the clock and saw that it was nearly tea-time. With luck I could talk my parents into letting me pop over to a shop and pick up some food for a proper dinner.

  The only hitch in that plan was that Fagenbush would get to see some of the new pieces before I did. He’d probably try to squirrel them away before I got back. Knowing him, he’d pinch the ones with the worst curses on them.

  Then I had a brainstorm. “Oh, Mr. Bollingsworth?” I asked in my most casual voice, the one that always put Father on alert when he was paying attention.

  “Yes, Theo?” Nigel looked up from a box of wax shabti figures he’d just opened.

  “Has the class from Master Hedgewick’s School for Wayward Boys left yet?”

  Nigel’s face fell as he remembered the group of unruly schoolboys who had descended upon the museum earlier in the afternoon. “Oh, dear. I don’t know. I suppose I should go have a look. Make sure they haven’t broken anything or absconded with a legendary sword or something.”

  I came over and stood next to the box of figures he was looking at. “What are these?” I asked. I knew perfectly well they were shabti figures, a common part of any self-respecting Egyptian tomb. The clay and wax figures were buried with the deceased so that they could perform any manual labor the dead person was called upon to do in the afterlife.

  But as I drew closer, I saw that these shabtis were different in many ways. They had a rather menacing look to them, for one thing. And each clutched a weapon of some sort in their little clay arms: spears, daggers, swords, each of
them had something deadly. Most odd.

  With a quick glance at Fagenbush, I asked Bollingsworth, “Are they dolls? Did the mummy children play with them?”

  Fagenbush’s head snapped up and he narrowed his beady little eyes at me.

  “Goodness, no!” Nigel exclaimed, horrified at my ignorance. “They’re quite fascinating, actually … just a minute. I say, Clive, would you check and make sure those wayward boys aren’t up to no good?”

  Just as I had hoped! What First Assistant Curator would check on a bunch of bratty schoolchildren when there was a perfectly good Second Assistant Curator to do it for him?

  I peered up through my eyelashes as Fagenbush glared sharp, pointy daggers at me. He’d known exactly what I was doing—getting rid of him. I gave him a sweet smile. “Thank you so much, Mr. Fagenbush. I’m ever so curious about these dolls.”

  With a snarl, he threw down the lid he’d just managed to pry off one of the packing crates and stormed off.

  “Now, Theo,” Nigel began. “These figures are shabtis. They were used for—Theo? I say, Theo?”

  But I was busy rifling through the packing material in the crate Fagenbush had just opened.

  “Don’t you want to hear about the shabtis?” Poor Bollingsworth threw me a puzzled look, but before he could figure out what I’d done, I called out, “Come look at these. I’ve never seen them before. Have you?”

  Immediately the shabti were forgotten (thank heavens!), and Nigel hurried over to see what I’d found.

  He reached down and ran his hands through the small black bits. (I do wish these curators would learn to wear gloves!) “Curious,” he muttered.

  “Aren’t they?” I let them pour through my hands (which were, of course, properly covered). They were small bits of black stone—basalt and onyx, I think—and they were all very precisely shaped, although what they represented I couldn’t tell.

  “Grain,” Mum announced as she and Father joined us at the crate. “They are all carved to look like grain. Rye, wheat, even rice. I’ve never seen anything like it before,” she said.

  “Yes, but why is it black?” I asked. “Isn’t grain, well, grain-colored?”

  “I don’t know why they didn’t carve the grain out of sandstone or soapstone or some other, lighter-colored material. Perhaps we’ll learn why as we study these finds.”

  “Speaking of grain,” I said, remembering my hunger, now that Fagenbush had been taken care of. “Can I go to the pie shop and fetch us something for dinner? I’m famished. There’s been nothing to eat but jam sandwiches for the last two days.”

  “Oh, darling. Of course you may.” Mum elbowed Father. “Alistair, you can’t let her eat such rubbish all the time.”

  “I … we’ve … been rather busy here, Henrietta,” Father stuttered, looking somewhat sheepish.

  To make him feel better, I asked, “Shall I get some nice plump pasties, Father, dear? I know how fond of them you are.”

  He perked up immediately. “Why, yes. That would be lovely.”

  I held out my hand for some money. Father scrabbled around in his pockets, put a few shillings in my outstretched palm, then returned his attention to the ceremonial knife he’d just pulled out of one of Mum’s trunks.

  I cast a glance up at the darkening sky. If I hurried, I mean, really hurried, I could be back before dark. Probably.

  I ran across the workroom and began thumping my way up the stairs.

  “Don’t forget your coat,” Father called out after me.”And your hat!”

  ***

  The rain let up just enough that I thought I could make it to the pie shop and back before the gray clouds reconvened and began their second assault. It was cold, and the wind was still buffeting people this way and that. But it felt good to be outside, away from foul-smelling evil curses and artifacts and Clive Fagenbushes.

  A few blocks from the museum, the houses and shops grew smaller and the streets more narrow. The clouds were growing dark again and I realized I’d better hurry.

  It wasn’t until Haddington Street that I heard the footsteps behind me. I stopped suddenly, pretending I had to rebutton my boot, and the footsteps stopped also. Slowly, I stood up, trying to think what to do. The streets weren’t deserted, but there weren’t very many people about. I took a few more steps, then paused to look in a nearby shop window. As I stared at bowlers and derbies, I heard the steps start up again, then stop.

  I decided the best thing to do was to make a dash for the pie shop. I sped down the street, and heaved a sigh of relief when Pilkington’s Pies came into view. I yanked open the door and rushed into the shop, startling poor Mrs. Pilkington. “Goodness, luv. Ye startled me. Why the hurry?”

  Mrs. Pilkington was a wonderful person, plump and savory, just like the goods she sold. She always had a delicious aroma of buttery pastry and savory pie filling clinging to her, like a homey eau de toilette.

  “Just starving, Mrs. Pilkington. That’s all.”

  She gave me a knowing look. “Aye. Been keeping you cooped up in that drafty old museum too much, ‘ave they?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, with feeling.

  “So what’ll you have for your supper tonight, luv?”

  “Well, Mum’s home, so I think we should get extra, just to celebrate.”

  “Of course you should, dear. And how lovely, yer mum’s home.”

  I made my selections and, at the last moment, had Mrs. Pilkington keep one of the pies out for me to eat on the way home. I was famished. I picked up my purchases, stepped outside, and bit into the flaky meat pasty, nearly choking on it when I found myself smack up against the beastly little pickpocket I’d apprehended earlier at Charing Cross Station. “You!” I spluttered, ignoring the small shower of crumbs that escaped. Served him right for following me.

  “Oy, what about me?” he asked, his sharp blue eyes watching my pie with keen interest.

  “Why have you been following me? Don’t lie, now.”

  The urchin pulled himself up to his full height, which was a good two inches shorter than me. “I never lie,” he said in a huff. “And I wasn’t following you, I was following the bloke that was following you.”

  My knees wobbled a bit. “Which bloke, er, gentleman?”

  “The one wot followed ye out of the station today. You know, the swarthy-looking fellow.”

  I had a good idea who he meant. The fellow that had been staring at Mum’s trunks. “But why?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Mebbe you ‘ave somefink he wants.”

  “No, no. I mean, why did you follow him?” I narrowed my eyes. “Are you looking for a reward?”

  He pulled back, indignant. “‘Ell no! I just figured I owed ye one, miss. You not turning me in at the station earlier and all. Sticky Will always pays his debts.” He eyed my package. “Um, yer supper’s gettin’ cold.”

  I looked at the savory pie in my hand. Just minutes before it had tasted lovely. Now I couldn’t bring myself to take another bite. Besides, the urchin was studying it so intently, I couldn’t help but wonder when he had last eaten. “Here,” I said. “Would you like it? Being followed has made me lose my appetite.”

  The boy’s eyes lit up, but he stuffed his hands in his pockets and shuffled his left foot. “Well, I ain’t all that hungry. But it’d be a sin to let it go to waste, wouldn’t it?”

  “Oh, absolutely. Probably a mortal one.”

  “Well in that case…” the urchin said. Then, with much eye-rolling to let me know he was doing me an enormous favor, he snatched the pasty and gobbled it up in two enormous bites.

  Which gave me a smashing idea. “I’ll give you another pasty if you keep following the bloke after I’m gone and see where he goes,” I offered.

  Again, he shuffled his feet and tried to look bored, but the effect was ruined when his stomach growled. “‘Spose so. Since I got nuffin’ better to do.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  “Right then. Here you go.” I handed him another pasty, feeling back i
n charge now that a bargain had been struck and the situation dealt with.

  He stuffed the meat pie into his jacket. “When I finds out, should I come by yer museum?”

  “Oh. Er, no.” I wasn’t sure Flimp, the watchman, would let him in. Besides, however would I explain him? “But I’ll be at Charing Cross Station again tomorrow. Around the same time. Could we meet then?”

  “See ye then,” he agreed.

  I watched him slip off into the shadows between the buildings. Frankly, it felt good to have someone on my side for a bit. Even if it was only a pickpocket. At least someone was covering my back.

  I squared my shoulders and started walking down the street. I tried very hard not to think about being followed, but it was difficult. Doorways loomed like gaping maws, and the windows seemed to watch me as I passed. The streets were deserted, except for the old lamplighter who’d begun to light the lamps, which glowed feebly against the thick puddles of fog that descended upon the streets. The sludgy fog also did odd things to the sounds of the street, making the steady click of boot heels behind me all the more noticeable. I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded as if they were drawing closer.

  Just as I was preparing to run the rest of the way back to the museum, I heard the rattle of a carriage. I glanced over my shoulder. I knew that brougham!

  I weighed my options: being followed through the streets of London by a menacing stranger or catching a lift with Grandmother Throckmorton. It shouldn’t have been such a difficult choice, but then, you don’t know my grandmother.

  I took a step toward the carriage, waving at the driver. It took him a moment or two to recognize me but then he pulled over. When the carriage had stopped, I rapped on the door. Inside, a curtain was yanked aside to reveal the arrogant beaked nose of my grandmother.

  She frowned at me, scrunching her mouth up tight as if she’d put too many lemons in her tea.