by Jerry Dubs
The red line traced the symbol of a single cartouche – a long oval encircling a feather, an owl and an unrolled papyrus scroll.
It was a symbol he knew well.
It was his name.
***
Carefully counting the crawling steps, Tim followed his flashlight’s harsh beam down the tunnel.
After finding the cartouche he had gone to the Blue Lotus, minutes closer to Saqqara than the apartment he shared with Akila, and borrowed Bakr’s best flashlight. Now he was back underground searching for his past.
He saw the blackened remains of a wooden match. Leaning on his elbow, he directed the light toward the wall. The red scrawl was still there.
Hesitantly he reached toward the stone and ran his fingers along the drawing, half expecting to feel the dampness of fresh paint. He turned his fingers toward his face. There was a light film of dust from the ancient stone, but no paint.
He bowed his head.
Slumping against the wall he realized that he didn’t know what to do with the discovery. If he had been thorough in his previous searches, then this marking was new. Yet five thousand years old.
He rolled onto his stomach and worked his way to the next rough storage spot in the series of magazines. There were no markings there. Nor on the next nor the next nor the next. So the cartouche was not the first in a series of markers to lead him to a newly created time portal.
He crawled back to the cartouche.
Placing his hand carefully within the small space described by the cartouche he pressed against the stone. Nothing happened. He chuckled to himself.
At least no poison darts came shooting out of the wall, he thought. No razor sharp knives came swinging down from the ceiling.
At the thought of knives he suddenly remembered the knife that King Djoser had given him and that he had given to Tjau. His son’s first thought had been to hide the knife in a space hollowed out of the stone wall of his room.
Scrambling closer to the stone, Tim explored the surface of the rough stone. The long treasure tunnel he was in had been completed in a hurry. Sekhemkhet had died, been assassinated, Tim thought bitterly, at a young age. His tomb had not been completed. The stones that lined this tunnel were unfinished, some jammed and wedged into place rather than being properly fitted.
He ran his fingers along the exposed surface and then along the side of the stone that was open toward the storage space beside it. Reaching into the opening he felt the back corner of the stone. It was angled slightly away from the wall.
Straining, he reached as far into the opening as his arm allowed. Working his hand around the canted corner of the stone he felt the sharp edge of a knife press against his fingers. He jerked his hand back and look at his fingers. They were uncut.
Sweat ran into his eye and he realized that he was gasping from nervousness and anxiety.
He pointed the flashlight into the storage space and then leaned into it as far as the tight opening would allow. With his arm extended, his shoulder was blocking the space. He set the flashlight down in the compartment and pulled his arm out. Then bracing himself he pushed his head into the narrow opening.
Closer, he could see that there was a clear opening, perhaps two inches wide at the back of the stone labeled with his name. But he couldn’t lean far enough to see into the exposed space.
Backing out of the space, he twisted so he was more sideways to the wall. He extended his arm into the hole, pressed his armpit hard against the opening to reach farther and carefully felt at the crevice with his fingers.
He felt the sharp edge again. But now he was able to reach farther. He worked his fingers around the blade and felt it bend. He released the pressure and then pushed again. The texture was familiar, the weight of the ‘blade’ something he knew well.
It isn’t a knife, he thought joyfully. It is papyrus.
He worked his fingers deeper into the space. Thinking that the papyrus was likely fragile, he moved his fingers slowly and gently. Closing his eyes to concentrate better, he focused on his fingertips. He tried to picture how the papyrus was angled, hoping that one of its edges wasn’t trapped beneath the shifting weight of the stones.
Releasing his uncertain grip on the papyrus he bent his fingers, moved to the stone and pressed against the back edge of the stone. He took a deep breath, tried to not picture himself buried beneath the fallen ceiling of the narrow tunnel, and gently pulled on the back edge of the stone.
His fingers slipped. Or did the stone move?
He exhaled, listened for the sliding of sand, and realized that he was shaking.
Calming himself, he re-established his grip on the stone. Waving his index finger to measure the size of the gap between the stone and the one behind it, he felt sure that the opening had increased.
Another tug, he thought.
He wedged his fingers deeper into the opening. Breathing evenly he pushed with his fingertips, using his knuckles to brace against the stone behind the one he was trying to move.
This time he was sure that he heard a scraping sound, stone on stone. A rivulet of dirt and sand trickled over his hand. He stopped pulling and, pushing his side harder against the opening, flexed his wrist. Feeling the papyrus against the back of his hand he curled his fingers, reached behind the papyrus and pressed his thumb against the other side of it.
Praying to gods he didn’t believe in, begging fate that he refused to acknowledge, pleading with distant alien programmers, he tugged slowly on the papyrus. He imagined the movement of glaciers, the imperceptible sliding of tectonic plates.
Listening for the tear of ancient, flattened reeds, he increased his effort.
He felt movement.
Releasing his grip he repositioned his hand, certain that he was able to grip more of the fragile papyrus.
Another gentle tug and suddenly he felt no resistance.
Shivering now, he willed himself to slide the papyrus through the narrow opening. He kept his eyes closed, focusing on the space and the movement of his hand through the air.
When at last he opened his eyes and tilted his head to see into the small storage area, he saw his hand was gently cradling a flat piece of papyrus, its surface speckled with hieroglyphs. The paint lines were large, the widths uneven.
Blinking sweat from his eyes he slowly leaned away from the wall giving himself space to extract the document.
At the edge of the opening he gently laid the papyrus on the stone. Pushing himself into a crouched sitting position, he reached over the papyrus to retrieve his flashlight. Shining the beam on the papyrus he immediately recognized the brush strokes as those of his friend Bata.
Khaba dead. Merneith gone. Meryt ill.
Door from Betrest to Nemathap when Khonsu full.
Come home.
Reunited
Akila touched the papyrus, dry and fragile as a dead leaf. She could feel the grain and texture of the papyrus, its lifeless stems reaching out from the past. The faded ink described symbols that she didn’t understand but which painted a glow of excitement on Tim’s face.
“It’s from Bata,” he explained, pacing around the dining room table. “He didn’t sign it, but I recognize his brush work. So it isn’t a forgery. I’m sure of it.”
He completed a circuit of the small table and stopped in front of Akila.
“And who else but someone from that time could know the names of two of Djoser’s minor queens? It’s real, I know it,” he said, turning and beginning another walk about the table.
Akila looked down at the papyrus and tried to stem a surge of anger.
There are two explanations, she thought. The papyrus is real and Tim is being called back into the past. Or he has created this as part of his elaborate fantasy world.
Neither explanation gave her any joy.
“I wish he had said more about Meryt. If he had given us some symptoms … ” Tim said still pacing. “But there must be something we can deduce. I don’t think it’s blood flukes. She was
tired and coughing before I left. And I read that TB was a main illness back then. There are drugs for that, right? It’s something I can fix.”
He noticed that Akila wasn’t speaking. In his rush of excitement at finding the message from the past, Tim hadn’t thought about its effect on Akila.
They had talked about his leaving. She knew that he wouldn’t be here in a few months when his younger self appeared. He had written out messages for his younger self and for Ahmes.
She didn’t believe it was real, Tim realized.
“Akila,” he said, hurrying to take her hand. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged and looked away from him, trying to compose herself.
“How long has this been there?” she asked. “What chance is there that this Bata is still alive and still creating the time portal?” She stopped herself and thought about what she had just said. Tim believed the ancient past was hurtling through time alongside the present, separate trains running side-by-side on parallel tracks, each alive and real.
His time portal was a way to leap from one train to the other.
“Because the papyrus wasn’t there before,” Tim said. “I know that because I’ve checked the tunnels before. Others have, too. If my name had been inscribed on a stone, someone would have noticed it.”
He took Akila’s other hand and tugged, pulling her around to face him.
“This is good news, Akila. Please, don’t you see that? I know that this version of me won’t be here in a few months, when young me arrives with Maya. I thought it was because I died. I thought that explained your attitude when you saw me on the road at Saqqara.”
“But if you leave you will be dead, for me,” she said, still not meeting his eyes.
Tim moved closer to Akila and tilted his head forward so that their foreheads touched. Relieved that she didn’t move away from him, he said, “I don’t know what to do, Akila. I can’t ask you what to do, that isn’t fair to you. I believe that this message is real. I believe that a time portal will open for me and I believe that when I pass through it I will find my wife alive and in need of my help.”
He felt her head move, a hesitant nod of agreement.
“If I go to the false door and it doesn’t open, then I’ll put the past aside,” he whispered, closing his eyes as he spoke, unsure if he was making a false promise.
The message was from Bata, he was sure. They had been friends for seventeen years. Bata was reliable. Tim had saved Bata when he had been wrongly accused and Bata had helped to save Tim from living entombment. It was Bata who had found the envelope for Ahmes. He had watched over Meryt when Tim had brought Maya to the modern world.
And now, ever faithful, he had found a way to send a message through time.
The portal will open, Tim thought.
***
“Yes,” Tim said, “she had a nighttime cough. And sometimes in the morning. She was losing weight. That’s why I stole some vitamins from you. I mean, the younger me will steal them. They seemed to help. But she had lost weight.
“It started after Maya was born. Meryt never gained much weight when she was pregnant and nursing drained her. But I was careful to make sure she ate. But, yes, I think she did lose weight.
“What was the other symptom?” he asked Akila.
“Did she cough up blood?” Akila repeated.
They were sitting in her clinic at Helwan University. Full moon was the next night and they were trying to diagnose a woman who lived five thousand years in the past and then prepare a packet of drugs for Tim to take with him.
He shook his head. “She wasn’t when I was there.” Then he remembered sometimes waking up at night and finding himself alone in bed. He would find Meryt sitting outside, a cloth balled in her hands. She would tell him that she had been restless and didn’t want to toss and turn in bed and wake him. He wondered now if she had been concealing a bloody cough.
“Maybe she was and I wasn’t attentive enough,” he said quietly.
Akila nodded.
“Let’s give you a chest X-ray,” she said.
“Me?”
“Tuberculosis is contagious. We could do a Tine test or a Mantoux, but they don’t give immediate results.” She cocked her head. “On the other hand, let’s do one. If you leave, you’ll be able to see if you have TB and treat yourself if you have it. If you stay, I can read it. Either way you’ll be sure.”
She went to the glass-doored cabinets and returned with a white button with four needles protruding from one end.
“Is this going to hurt?” Tim said, forcing a smile.
“A little,” Akila said as she turned his forearm so the underside was exposed. “But I don’t mind.”
***
Tim touched the two envelopes on Akila’s table.
“I know she’ll remember to give them to me,” he told himself. “It was done, so it will be done.” He smiled and, hooking a thumb under the strap of his backpack, he shifted its weight.
He looked again at the envelope addressed to himself, the envelope which contained the long letter that spelled out the horrors that awaited him and his family if he failed to prevent the assassination of King Sekhemkhet. He knew that when his younger self had received the packet it had contained only one paper with three typed words, not the pages of hand-written instructions that were in it now.
Akila must change it, he realized.
He wondered if he should ask her not to change it, or if that would only plant an idea in her mind. He shook his head.
It’s beyond my control. If everything goes well, in a few hours I’ll be back in ancient Egypt. The contents of the envelope will change the past or they won’t, he thought.
I’ve done everything I could.
He tugged at the sleeve of the galabia he was wearing, the same one he had worn while giving guided tours. His clothes, including the pants, shirt and sandals that he knew Akila would give his younger self in a few months, were stored in a box in Akila’s closet.
Akila came out of her bedroom. Seeing her red-rimmed eyes, Tim looked down at the table.
“Do you have everything?” she asked, her voice that of an examining doctor, not a lover.
He nodded. “Meds, flashlight, matches and shovel.”
As she walked Tim reached out and grabbed her arm.
“Thank you, Akila,” he said.
Not trusting herself to speak, she simply nodded and turned away.
***
They were silent in the car as Akila drove through the darkness to the Saqqara parking lot. Tim had explained to her that King Djoser had eleven wives. A burial chamber for each of them had been prepared beneath the Step Pyramid, each with its own tunnel leading to the rock-lined vault.
“There was so much work. The temples, the forest of pillars, the enclosure wall, King Djoser’s tomb and, of course, the pyramid itself. I oversaw the entire site, but mostly I spent my time either at the pyramid or across the river at the quarries,” he had told her.
“Paneb and Ahmes designed and oversaw construction of the enclosure wall. Ahmes had the idea of placing the doorways at irregular intervals. There were other foremen and crew leaders. So many. It was a monstrous task, Akila.
“Anyhow, we didn’t do a good job with the tunnels. I mean for the equipment we had we did an outstanding job. But the tunnels kind of meandered a little. When we were digging the one for Queen Nemathap we accidentally intersected the one already dug for Queen Betrest. Paneb came up with the idea of building a false doorway as a wall to keep the tunnels divided.
“He joked that it would make it easier for King Djoser to escape Queen Betrest. She was the youngest of the queens and the least secure. She screamed a lot when she made love and left Djoser with scratches. Still,” Tim had said, trying to lighten the mood in the car, “He visited her quite often. I don’t know if it was because he was hoping for another heir or if he just liked the challenge.
“Anyhow, that’s the false doorway Bata is referring to. I’ll go in thro
ugh the tunnel for Betrest and ... ” he had shrugged.
Now they were parking in the unlit lot. Tim tested his flashlight for the hundredth time.
“I’ll have the batteries worn out before I get into the tunnel,” he joked nervously.
Opening the door, he slid out of the car.
Akila came around the front of the car and stood in front of him.
Her eyes sought his. “Are you sure ... ” she started to ask.
He nodded his head. “I have to go alone. I need you to be here when I return with Maya.”
Opening his arms to her, he pulled her close, wondering if he would ever hold her again. He loved her and he would miss her. He had tried to think of ways that she could come with him, but each idea ended with the same insurmountable problem: If she came with him, she wouldn’t be here to treat Maya.
Her head rested on his shoulder as they held each other. He felt her head shift and then he felt her warm breath on his neck.
She kissed his throat and whispered, “I know you must go, but I could come with you. Brianna would be here.”
“I know,” Tim said softly. “But it has to be you. Brianna can’t treat Maya. I remember you wouldn’t let her go to the dispensary to get the medicine. It has to be a doctor. It has to be you, Akila.”
He felt tears roll from her eyes onto his neck. She blinked, trying to stop them, and her eyelashes brushed against his skin, each slight stroke clawing at his heart.
“Akila,” he said, uncertain until this moment if he would tell her his idea.
“No one guards the Buried Pyramid or the sarcophagus. Once I get back to ancient Egypt, I’ll try to send you a message. If Khaba is dead and if the Two Lands is safe for me, I should be able to get into King Sekhemkhet’s tomb. I’ll hide a message in the sarcophagus. Check there on new moons.”
***
Five feet into the tunnel, the ceiling became so low that Tim had to squat as he walked. Ten feet farther, with his thighs starting to hurt, he dropped to his hands and knees and started to crawl.
