by Kevin Ashman
‘Approach, Ramesses,’ said Sekhmet, ‘and take a closer look. Lift up their heads and look deep into their eyes.’
Ramesses did as he was bid and yanked back the head of the nearest man. What he saw made him gasp in disgust. The eyes were jet black, similar to those of Sekhmet and a sign of those who lived on the blood of man. He lifted several more heads and saw each bore the same signs. No life or spark of awareness reflected back from those dead pools, just a blank stare of nothingness.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Ramesses. ‘They have obviously been taken by you or the sisters, yet they lack life. What is this devilment you show me?’
‘The final twist of this curse you call a gift, Ramesses. Throughout my existence, I have many times taken men and bestowed my eternal blood into their veins. I followed the same process each time, keen to enjoy male companionship for my endless journey, but always they turn out so. Yes, they have immortality, but immortality does not necessarily mean life. This is the male version of the gift, Ramesses. If I was to grant you your wish and hold you to my chest as my teeth rake your veins, then this fate awaits you. They are dead, yet they are undead, Ramesses. They do not live, yet they live forever. True immortality is a gift for woman only.’
Ramesses staggered back in shock and fought the anger rising in his chest.
‘No, this can’t be true,’ he said. ‘There must be a way. Am I not a living God? I am Ramesses the second, greatest king that ever ruled Kemet. I deserve immortality, it is written. Grant me my destiny Sekhmet, I command you.’
‘If this is the immortality you crave, Ramesses, then step into my embrace for this is the only kind I bestow on man.’
‘You knew this, Sekhmet,’ he snarled eventually, ‘all this time you lied to me about being able to grant me immortality.’
‘I never lied, Ramesses, you chose to believe what you wanted to believe. I deal only in truth and the destiny of men. Isn’t it appropriate that only those who deliver life into the world can enjoy life everlasting? Man is fleeting, Ramesses, woman is immortal.’
----
Chapter Nine
London 2012
Becky Ryan sat in her office in the depths of the British Antiquities museum and looked at the phone for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. It had been two weeks since she had returned from Egypt, and the last call she had received from John was eight days previously, when he called from the Libyan border. The country was still in a state of turmoil after the recent uprising and Becky worried that he had been caught up in the unrest. Whatever the reason, she should have heard from him by now and she was getting worried.
‘You okay, Becky?’ asked Amy, bringing her yet another cup of tea.
‘Yeah,’ she sighed. ‘It’s just that I was expecting a call days ago and he still hasn’t called.’
‘Oh,’ said Amy, ‘man trouble. I should have known.’
‘Not that sort of man trouble,’ said Becky.
‘What’s his name?’ asked Amy.
‘John. I worked with him in Egypt for a while. He said he was going to call when he got back.’
‘Holiday romances are never a good idea,’ said Amy in a patronizing tone.
‘Amy,’ said Becky, ‘there was no romance, it was all purely work.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Amy.
‘I don’t care what you believe,’ said Becky with a smile, ‘it is a purely business relationship.’
‘Is he married?’ asked Amy sipping her own tea.
‘I don’t know,’ laughed Becky, ‘now stop this interrogation and get back to work.’
----
The afternoon dragged on and both women continued with the more boring side to their jobs. Amy was filing documents and typing up notes, while Becky undertook the research her role demanded. Finally, the end of the working day drew closer and Becky allowed Amy to leave early. After her aide left, Becky was deep into a reference book about Roman gravestones, when the shrill ring of the phone almost made her jump out of her seat. She reached for it, hoping it was John, but was disappointed to hear the voice of Andrew Montague, the head curator of the Museum.
‘Hello, Becky,’ he said, ‘glad I caught you, could you pop up to the Egyptian display please.’
‘Of course, Andrew,’ she said, ‘I’m all done here for today anyway, I’ll come up straight away.’ She turned off all the electrics and made her way up through the various halls to the Egyptian galleries. This part of the museum was closed to the public, due to the display being altered. Becky knew that this often happened throughout the museum as due to the extraordinary amount of artefacts they had in store, they had to rotate them as much as possible. Even then, they had so many artefacts; there were huge amounts that had not been seen by the public for decades. Becky unlocked the door with her pass card and entered the enormous hall.
The exhibit, even in its transient state, had an immediate effect on her as it always did. The staff had gone out of their way to make this exhibition feel as authentic as possible and though it was frowned on by academics, the public loved it. The walls had been decorated with accurate depictions of hieroglyphics and giant blocks of wood, plastic and polystyrene had been cleverly worked to resemble ancient blocks of granite to add to the atmosphere. Cleverly placed images of Egyptian gods, peered down out of subtly lit crevasses, accompanied by suitably spooky music. The overall effect was that you were walking through a corridor in some ancient tomb, with each display covering the history of Egypt over two thousand years. Although the display was fantastic, it was the actual exhibits that always took her breath away. The real statues and the actual coffins of people who lived all that time ago. These were the things that mattered, and though she knew that most of the things had been acquired by less than honest means over the past two centuries, she couldn’t help feeling a sense of excitement and pride every time she went there.
This first part of the exhibit was designed to instil a sense of awe in all the visitors and it certainly succeeded in that aspect, but as you exited the other side of the fake tunnel system, people were immediately confronted with something that Becky thought dwarfed the previous exhibit, not only in size, but also in wonder. It was a statue of arguably the greatest king there had ever been throughout the history of Egypt, Ramesses the second. The statue stood over thirty foot tall and weighed over two hundred tones, but Becky knew that despite its enormous size, throughout Egypt there were far greater statues of this king, much grander and much, much bigger. Ramesses had spent much of his life building grand projects dedicated to himself and as he had lived to a ripe old age of ninety years, he had the time to make a massive impact across his country. Becky never failed to be amazed by this statue, and always paused to look up at the king before she proceeded into the more detailed section of the displays.
The statue of Ramesses stared serenely toward the back of the room. The head was covered with the Nemes headdress, the striped folded cloth falling down past the shoulders that was so Iconic of pharaohs throughout history. In turn, this was held in place with a headband in the shape of a rearing cobra with flared hood, itself a symbol of protection to the royal families. Becky knew that the Egyptians believed that the cobra, or Uraeus, as it was known, was also a representation of the goddess Wadjet, thought to guide the spirits of dead pharaohs through the underworld. The statue’s arms were crossed and each held a symbol of the king’s authority. In one he carried a crook and in the other a flail, emblems of Osiris and represented the virtues of the good shepherd. He exuded authority, age and serenity, and Becky absolutely loved it.
She continued into the back of the halls where it was much brighter and there was a maze of glass cabinets displaying a plethora of smaller artefacts. Toward one side, she could see Andrew Montague with several staff unpacking the exhibits that Becky had arranged to send up earlier.
‘Hello, Andrew,’ she said.
‘Oh, hello, Becky,’ he answered. ‘Thanks for popping in, what do you think?’
‘Looks fantastic, as always,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ said Andrew. He took her to one side and spoke quietly.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘it’s been very busy around here recently and I know it’s no excuse, but I’ve been meaning to try and find a few minutes to offer my condolences about your dad.’
‘That’s okay,’ said Becky, ‘I know you’ve only just come back from a field trip.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Andrew, ‘I knew your dad well. In fact, we worked together in the Cairo Museum for a couple of weeks a few months ago, collating some loan items for this display, and I don’t for one second believe that claptrap that people are whispering.’
‘What claptrap?’
‘You know; the nonsense about an illegal dig.’
‘Oh, that’s getting out is it?’ she asked, ‘Oh well, I suppose it had to emerge one day.’
‘We’re a small community,’ said Andrew. ‘Nothing is kept secret for long. Anyway, if there’s anything you need, just let me know.’
‘Thanks,’ said Becky.
‘So,’ said Andrew with an upturn in his voice, ‘now that’s done, I thought there was something you could do for me that might cheer you up.’
‘What’s that?’
‘This display cabinet over here,’ he said, ‘the top shelf looks a little empty and I want something to represent Egypt through the ages. I thought it may be nice if we displayed the Ushabti your father organized for me.’
‘Really?’ asked Becky.
‘Yes,’ said Andrew, ‘I thought it may be a nice gesture.’
‘He would have liked that,’ said Becky. ‘Thank you.’
‘No problem,’ said Andrew, ‘you bring them up sometime tomorrow and I’ll arrange to have them displayed.’
‘Thanks, Andrew,’ she said. ‘Good night.’
‘Good night,’ Becky, ‘See you tomorrow.’
----
Across London, Amy shut the front door of her house a little too hard and walked out into the kitchen.
‘Is that you, Amy?’ called a voice.
‘Yes, mum,’ she answered with an air of resignation. She walked to the fridge and grabbed some sliced chicken to make a sandwich. A few seconds later, her mother came into the kitchen.
‘Don’t go stuffing yourself, Amy,’ she said, ‘I’m cooking dinner soon.’
‘Dinner?’ answered Amy, ‘why, who’s birthday is it?’
‘Don’t be sarcastic,’ said her mother, ‘I told you last week, one of your father’s writing friends is over on holiday from Germany and your father has invited him for dinner. You may have heard of him, Lucas Klein?’
‘Never heard of him,’ said Amy. ‘Do I really have to come?’
‘Yes you do,’ said her mum. ‘It’s not often we sit and eat together, and this man is a published author. He may be able to help your dad with his writing, perhaps even put him in touch with an agent.’
‘Yeah, like that’s going to happen,’ said Amy. ‘I can’t believe my own father is writing romantic comedy.’
‘Well, apparently that’s what sells, Amy. That’s his hobby and we should support him.’
‘But, mum,’ whined Amy.
‘No arguing,’ said her mother, ‘I’ve made my decision. You go, have a bath, and wipe some of that muck off your face. I want us to make a good impression for your father. Dinner is at eight, but I want you down here at seven thirty to meet Mr Klein.
Amy finished her sandwich and stomped up the stairs to display her disgust.
‘Right,’ said her mother to herself, ‘let’s make a start.’
Upstairs, Amy switched on her computer. Within a minute she was scrolling down her social networking page. A few minutes later, a chat box popped up in the bottom right corner of her screen and two words appeared alongside a picture of a young man in full vampire make up.
‘Hi, Amy,’ it said
Amy smiled and typed her reply
‘Hi Scott, how are you?’
Scott was one of Amy’s best friends online and despite having never met; they spent almost every night talking. Scott lived in America and they had met through another group, made up of vampire fans.
‘I’m fine,’ said Scott, ‘just finished work?’
‘Yes,’ said Amy, ‘just got home.’
‘It must be fantastic working in a museum,’ typed Scott, ‘so atmospheric.’
‘It is sometimes,’ answered Amy, ‘but mostly it’s boring.’
There was a pause in the messages before Scott typed again.
‘So, what are you doing tonight?’ he asked, ‘off out with your mates’
‘No, I can’t tonight. I’ve got to have stupid dinner with family and one of dad’s friends.’
‘Sounds boring,’ said Scott.
‘Yeah, tell me about it. Apparently, he is some poncy author from Germany,’
‘Really?’ typed Scott, ‘I wonder if he’s rich and famous. Perhaps you can get an autograph and sell it on E bay.’
‘I wish’, typed Becky, ‘I’ve never heard of him.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Lucas Klein,’ typed Amy.
Again, the screen went dead before Scott answered again.
‘Are you sure?’ he typed.
‘Yes; why?’
‘Hang on.’
The screen went dead again before Amy saw the message “Scott is typing” once more.
‘Amy; you there?’
‘Yeah, still here.’
‘OMG, Amy, you know who Lucas Klein is don’t you?’
‘No!’
‘Only the bloody illustrator of the Vampire histories.’
‘You are joking?’ typed Amy
‘No, I’m not, take a look for yourself.’
Amy left the computer and searched under her bed, finally coming up with a large illustrated volume of short stories called the Vampire histories. Throughout the book were graphic images of various vampires doing what vampires do best, and at the bottom of each picture was the name Lucas Klein. Becky went back to the screen.
‘OMG,’ she typed,’ you’re right. These pictures are awesome and this guy is going to be right here in my house tonight.’
‘You are so lucky,’ typed Scott. ‘Ask him to sign your book.’
‘I will,’ said Amy.
‘Amy,’ shouted her mother from downstairs, ‘have you run your bath yet?’
‘Not yet,’ she answered. ‘Why?’
‘I’m out of onions,’ answered her mother. ‘Could you nip down the shops, please?’
‘Just a minute,’ answered Amy and typed once more.
‘Gotta go,’ she typed, ‘I’ll message you tonight and tell you how it went. Bye.’
‘Bye, Amy,’ typed Scott and the screen went blank.
Two hours later, Amy heard her parents greeting their visitor downstairs and she put on the last of her makeup. Her mother had brought up a nice plain dress for her, but Amy had other ideas. With a deep breath, she ran her hands down her sides and looked into the full-length mirror. Gone were the loose fitting folds of black that totally swamped her slim figure, replaced with a slim line version, which hugged all her curves in the right places. Admittedly it was black but at least she had discarded the army boots and replaced them with a stylish pair of high-heeled shoes. Her hair was straightened and fell over one shoulder while a red rose over her ear matched perfectly the ruby red necklace draped around her neck. The overall effect was very sophisticated and while she had foregone her usual obsession with black makeup, the subtle dark colours she had used, still gave the impression of moodiness, albeit tinged with style. Satisfied with the look, she made her way downstairs and walked nonchalantly into the lounge.
Her mother was taking the coat of a tall young man, no older than twenty-five years old. He was dressed in a pair of black trousers, a white pressed shirt, and a smart grey jacket. His hair was slightly unkempt and he brushed the fingers of one hand through it to try to sort it o
ut. Overall, Amy was very impressed and found herself blushing slightly as he caught her eye.
‘Hello, dear,’ said her mother, ‘you look nice. This is Mr Klein, your father’s friend. Mr Klein, this is Amy, our daughter.’
‘Hello, Amy,’ said the man; his words clear despite the German accent, ‘please call me Lucas.’ He held out his hand and shook hers gently.
‘Hello, Lucas,’ said Amy. ‘Pleased to meet you; I am a great admirer of your work.’
‘Really?’ interrupted her mother, ‘you’ve read some of his books?’
‘I can’t say I have,’ said Amy, ‘but I have seen some of his illustrations. They are lovely, so atmospheric.’
‘Ah, I take it you are talking about the Vampire histories,’ said Lucas.
‘Oh, I should have known,’ said her mother with a smile, ‘vampires. I do not know what it is with teenage girls these days. They all seem obsessed with them. And not even proper ones either, these days they seem to be good guys and sparkle in the moonlight. Give me Christopher Lee any day.’
‘It’s a very popular genre, at the moment,’ said Lucas. ‘Everyone seems to be either writing vampire books or making vampire films. There are even whole organizations dedicated to the study of them.’
‘Study of what?’ asked Amy’s father coming in from the kitchen with a tray of glasses.
‘Vampires,’ said her mother. ‘Lucas was just saying they are extremely popular at the moment.’
‘Oh, not that nonsense again,’ said her father. ‘No offense, Lucas, I know you write books in that genre and have done some illustrations, but I have no time for them, myself.’
‘Dad prefers sloppy romance books,’ said Amy reaching for her glass.
‘I know,’ said Lucas, ‘we share the same editor. So, how is the writing going, Ben?’
‘Okay,’ said Amy’s father, ‘I have the final edit and just need to make a decision about which way to go.’
Amy lost interest as the conversation drifted toward writing, as it always did when any of her fathers' writing friends came around. She walked out of the kitchen, and leaned against the worktop, watching her mother finish the preparations for dinner.
