by P. N. Elrod
He reverently set the object on his desk. He was no expert in the field, but possessed an instinct for genius, and that was what shone before him. The metal statue was of a proudly seated feline done in the Egyptian style. For all he could tell, it might have come right from some ancient temple. Hieroglyphs were incised into the cat’s body and along the base upon which it rested.
“Is it silver?” he asked, eyeing its regal head. The points he’d felt had been the ears.
“Yes.” She seemed pleased with his obvious awe of her work. “I normally cast in other metals when I use them as my medium, but this was a special commission, and I’m sure you’re aware that the client is always right.”
“Indeed.” On visits to Chicago’s museums Escott often found himself mesmerized by certain pieces. He was aware of his own artistic streak, expressed, once upon a time, by being on the stage in his youth. In those early years of knocking around with a traveling repertory company he learned how to create a realistic illusion out of next to nothing. Those illusions lasted only for the duration of the performance, though. Such work gave him a sharp appreciation for individuals whose talent could make a lasting creation. “This is exquisite. Perhaps sometime you could let me see more of—”
“Yes, of course. Tonight, if you’d like—after you make the delivery.”
He looked at her, slightly startled at this display of repressed eagerness. Certainly he found her attractive, but was this a reciprocation of a like feeling on her part or merely a desire to show off to an appreciative audience? He was not inexperienced when it came to artists and their egos. The fact that she wanted a full description of her client’s reaction indicated that Cassandra possessed a sizable vanity concerning her work. But then this cat sculpture was evidence enough that its creator had earned the right to indulge.
Well, he would find out later tonight.
* * *
The delivery went smoothly. A somber butler took Escott into the depths of an enormous house where he met the client and several of her cats in a lush drawing room. With a flourish—for he understood the importance of a proper presentation—Escott placed the Egyptian-style work on a central table and duly observed every nuance of reaction. The woman waxed long in her praise for Cassandra Selk.
“It’s perfect, exactly what I wanted,” she said. “I’ve commissioned similar works from others, but only Cassandra truly understands. The hieroglyphs are all real, you know. I wrote them out for her to copy, and she got them right! Every last one of them. I think I shall get rid of the others, now. I shan’t allow lesser works to share the same room with this piece.”
“Indeed,” he said. Three of her cats busily wound themselves in a friendly way around Escott’s legs, their tails straight up with a small crook at the end.
“Goodness, they do seem to like you.”
He smiled good-naturedly down at his furry worshippers. “I like them.”
The client turned back to her acquisition, a dreamy look on her soft features. “Cassandra has a remarkable perception about this period, though that’s hardly a surprise, as you know.”
Escott realized she did not understand he was a hired agent, and had taken him for one of Cassandra’s friends. Curiosity led him to encourage the misapprehension. “I’m amazed by it,” he said agreeably.
“Her past life during that time must have been marvelous. She retains so much memory of it. Such a strong soul.”
“Indeed?” This was an odd turn.
“But then one would have to be for the gods to choose her for one of their high priestesses. It’s a great responsibility. What a pity she wavered in her vows by falling in love with a priest of Ra and he with her. Such a punishment to live this life allergic to these dear ones.” She stroked the silver cat as though it were one of the live specimens loafing and prowling about the room.
Escott read a lot, including a certain amount on esoteric topics, so he wasn’t wholly at sea but he did not know what sort of response was expected to this revelation. He settled for making a sympathetic noise.
“Yes,” she continued with a sigh. “We ordinary mortals are allowed our little mistakes and can obtain forgiveness, but those chosen by the gods are not let off so easily. I think Cassandra has dealt marvelously with her punishment, though. Surely by such an outpouring of work in this life she will have proved to them her sincere atonement, don’t you think?”
“Oh, absolutely,” he said, with much confidence. He wondered if this was the client’s own fancy or if Cassandra also shared it. He suspected this lady had seen that film—what was it?—The Mummy, one too many times.
A cat of the Abyssinian breed leapt lightly up on the table, nosed the sculpture, then jumped on Escott, who was just quick enough to catch the lithe animal in his arms.
His hostess gaped. “I’m sorry. That’s Ma’at. She’s usually very reserved with guests.”
He managed to keep Ma’at from mauling his suit in her endeavor to burrow inside his coat. She purred like an idling car. “How flattering. I hope she doesn’t expect to go home with me.”
“Oh, you won’t budge her from the house, but I’ve never seen her take to anyone so quickly before. It’s quite astonishing.”
Escott noted that Ma’at’s claws were dug deep into his nearly new single-breasted coat. He refrained from pulling her off since forcing a cat to do something was always unwise; she would let go when she was ready. It seemed prudent to continue holding her for the rest of his brief visit. And anyway, the purring was pleasant.
* * *
Miss Cassandra Selk lived in another large house halfway across Chicago. Escott knew he had the right place; a dozen identical terracotta lions in the Egyptian style guarded the walkway from the street, and two uncannily realistic life-sized ceramic leopards crouched on either side of the entry.
Cassandra had changed from her furs and silk dress into a pearl gray silk lounging outfit. It was diaphanous, but cunningly pleated so the many layers concealed everything, yet at the same time revealed much. Rather too much for a formal interview, he thought. As the sole owner of his agency Escott could dictate whether or not fraternization with clients was appropriate on any given case. This commission was all but completed, though. Escott thought he knew what she was doing, and composed himself to agree with everything. After all, the client was always right.
Her home reflected her inner creative drive; cats were everywhere. When he asked, she replied with pride that yes, she had sculpted all of them.
“There are so many different artistic styles,” he said. “My understanding is that an artist strives to perfect his or her own expression.”
“I do that, but I also enjoy exploring the various modes of the past. Each age looked on cats in their own way, and it helps me to understand those lost worlds better when I create something that could have come from a long dead time. Of course, my modern efforts are signed and dated so I’m in no danger of being accused of forgery.”
“You display an amazing range.” Escott compared an elongated Celtic-style carving to one with a distinct Chinese ancestry. “I could swear that these were done by two different artists.”
“It took years of study and experimentation.” She invited him to sit on her couch, and he accepted her offer of sherry. “What I have here are my best efforts, the ones I can’t bear to sell. As you can see, Egyptian is my favorite. It’s clean and pure in form, but can be both staid and playful, depending on one’s approach. . . .” Her enthusiasm for her craft made her pale face light up, creating a hypnotic contrast to her dark hair and eyes.
Eventually they took a tour of her home. It was better than a museum, for she was able to tell exactly how she’d made each of her works, pointing out details he might otherwise have missed. By the time they’d returned to her parlor she sat next to him in a most cozy and unaffected manner.
Cassandra plied him with more sherry and finally asked about her client’s reaction to the statue. Escott gave her a full report.
He concluded: “She told me that you must phone tomorrow so she may express her pleasure personally.”
“Of course. I’m relieved I got the hieroglyphics right. Sometimes taking a commission is a thankless task. A client’s vision is often totally different from what’s in my mind. They are rarely able to describe what they want, and more than once I’ve had pieces rejected because of the client’s own confusion—for which I would get the blame. When an acceptance like this happens it’s something to celebrate.”
Escott congratulated her and privately wondered if she would mind very much if he kissed her. They were seated quite close on her couch. Not quite yet, his inner instinct told him. He expected she would let him know when she was ready.
“Would you like to see my studio?” she asked.
“Very much.”
Standing up was almost embarrassing, but he managed not to sway from a wave of dizziness. Normally two small sherries wouldn’t faze him, but he’d forgotten to eat again. Perhaps that was a good thing. He could ask Cassandra to a late dinner. It shouldn’t take her long to change from her outfit. It looked as though an easy tug on one of the ties would have the whole thing off in a trice.
Happy thought, that.
Cassandra led him down to what would be a basement in any other house. This one had been reconstructed to her needs, though. The ceiling was twelve feet high and decoratively painted. This time the Egyptian influence was undiluted. Birds, flowers, rushes, palm trees, and papyrus plants brought the smooth plaster walls to startling life.
“This is no studio,” he said, entranced. “It is art itself.”
“I knew you would feel it, too,” she said. “Let me show you where I work.”
But as she led him in he saw no sculpting tools, no kiln, no boxes of supplies, no piles of raw clay kept damp under protective cloth, no works in progress, not even a sketch book. This broad room was more like an extravagant film set. Rows of torches marched along its walls. Though their light was obviously electrical, the anachronistic bulbs were carefully concealed by yellow and red tinted glass shaped to look like flames. Some mechanism for the current made them flicker, giving the effect of fire.
At the far end of the chamber stood two tall guardian cats of painted terracotta, larger yet still-elegant versions of the silver one he’d delivered. Between them, standing on its end was a—oh, God, that couldn’t be right—a mummy case? It was open, and within lay a shrunken man-shaped form wrapped with dusty gray bandages.
“You look a little overwhelmed,” said Cassandra. “Here. . .sit a moment.” She eased him onto a low, wide bench covered with hieroglyphics, many of them picked out in gold leaf.
“I-I might mar the finish.”
“It’s all right,” she assured him. “There, that’s much better.”
He had to admit that his dizziness was turning into a great nuisance. Unless he could get it under control this evening would conclude with an ignominious finish. What would she think, him getting drunk on just two—
No, impossible. Even on an empty stomach.
His inner alarm bells rang loud and long, yet he felt strangely distanced from them, strangely slowed. There was a terrific emergency he had to see to, but it seemed miles away. Someone else would deal with it, he was sure.
Smiling down at him beatifically, Cassandra persuaded him to stretch full length upon that low bench. She really was quite breathtaking in the flickering light. For a moment he thought she would kiss him, but she moved out of his rapidly blurring view.
He called after her, futilely. She didn’t come back.
God, he was so tired.
The drink, Hamlet, the drink. . .
Queen Gertrude’s words as she succumbed to poison drifted through his mind. That had always been a hard scene to pull off well. The audience was focused on the excitement of the duel, and then Gertrude had to shift their attention and sympathy over to her. Not easy, but with the right actress. . .
Escott shook his head violently. It made him more dizzy, but woke him up a bit. Right. He had to get out of here. Find some fresh air. He’d send Miss Selk a bill, and that would be the end of it.
But when he tried to sit up, he found his arms to be snugly bound to. . .to. . .he wasn’t sure what, but it wasn’t allowing him much movement.
Oh, dear. This was bad.
His surge of panic helped clear his muzzy head enough to stay awake. He had a presentiment that sleeping in this place would prove fatal. Where was Cassandra?
Escott shoved his immediate terror down deep and concentrated on getting loose from the bench or altar or whatever it was. He didn’t want to think of it as an altar, for that implied a sacrifice of some sort.
Bloody hell. . .
He struggled to slip free, and when that didn’t work, he tried to make slack instead. That tightened his bonds, but allowed him movement. By some hard and painful twisting, he was able to get a hand inside his waistcoat pocket where he always kept a pen knife. No longer used to cut quill pens, it served to open his mail, and hopefully the blade would be sharp enough to sever these. . .bandages?
His guts swooped at the sight of so many layers of narrow, wheat-colored linen wrapping his wrists. He looked like a recovering suicide. Careful not to drop the knife, he got the blade open using his thumbnail and began awkwardly sawing away. He couldn’t see what he was cutting or feel much. His hand was numb. Had to work fast, before he lost all feeling, before Cassandra—
He froze at the soft sound of a door opening. Should he pretend to be unconscious? No, better to try talking to her.
She glided close, bare feet whispering against the floor. They darted in and out from the long hem of her gown like shy doves. She wore the same pleated silk garment, but had added wrist cuffs covered with glittering stones, a jeweled belt, and a wide pectoral collar rested on her shoulders. She’d arranged her black hair so that it hung straight, held back from her face by a gold forehead band. He wasn’t sure how historically accurate it might be, but she did look impressive.
Please, God, don’t let her notice the knife. He thought his fingers were closed over it, but couldn’t tell.
“Hello,” he said, as though nothing was amiss. He was surprised at how calm he sounded. All that stage training helped.
“Hello,” she responded, her tone warm and loving. “Don’t be afraid.”
“Oh, not at all.” Improvisation had never been his strong suit on stage, but it seemed to work well enough here. Desperation turning to inspiration, that had to be it. “Is everything going well?”
She caught her breath, fingers to her red-painted mouth. “I knew, I just knew you were the one.”
“Of course I must be. Your insight is uncanny.”
“But I’ve been misled before. Those who have tried to keep us apart interfered, but I have at last been guided to the clear path. Oh, my love, it’s been such a long and terrible wait.”
“It has. But it’s over now. Please, raise me up that I might embrace you.” He hoped this was what she wanted to hear.
Her eyes blazed with exultation. “Yes, oh, yes! Soon, my love. Soon we will join. Bast has forgiven our transgression. She knows that the world is changed and her chosen ones must change with it. In this life we can be together. That which was once forbidden now has her blessing.”
“How glad I am. My heart sings from it, but I’m not sure I remember everything.” He’d begun sawing at the linen bindings again. If he could keep her talking long enough, distracted. . .
Cassandra seemed as fixed on her delusion as she was about her art. “My poor love, of course you can’t remember, not until you are made whole again. In his rage Ra struck with his sword of gold and sundered your ka in twain. Only part of you lives on in this body, your other half was preserved until such time as Bast could persuade Ra to forgive you as she forgave me.”
Just who or what does she think is in that mummy case? “I deserved mighty Ra’s wrath, did I not?”
“It’s followed you through ma
ny lifetimes. Bast revealed them to me, but your suffering is about to end.”
He didn’t care for the sound of that. “What glad news. How will you—ah—heal me?”
“You shall see, my dearest of all dear hearts. You’ll have but the briefest moment of darkness. In that moment your ka will return, and you’ll wake again whole and well.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Each word you speak seems to open my memory. But these bindings are too tight and quite unnecessary. Please, take them away that I may give my ka a proper welcome.”
She stroked his brow with cool fingers. “Soon. Your hold on this life may overpower your willingness to surrender to the next. There are vast forces at work against us. This time we will prevail. This time I will get the ceremony right. There is nothing to fear.”
He held to a brave loving face until she walked from view, then fought another swift jolt of panic. He doubled his sawing efforts, but couldn’t feel anything of his fingers; for all he could tell he could be cutting the wrong bit of fabric.
Cassandra was somewhere by the mummy case, half-chanting, half-singing words he couldn’t understand. Occasionally the name Bast cropped up, and twice he heard Ra mentioned. Their latter-day priestess began pacing around the chamber, carrying a shallow bowl filled with aromatic incense. Clouds of the stuff filled every corner. He hoped it would obscure her vision, for now he was being anything but subtle at trying to cut the bandaging.
Then Cassandra appeared next to him. Her eyes watered freely from the smoke, but she seemed elated. “They have heard my prayers.”
“Good,” he said, resisting the urge to cough. “I feel my ka approaching across the darkness.”
“Not yet. Just one more moment of darkness. . .”
She bent and pulled up a thick and heavy cushion. It was embroidered with more Egyptian motifs. She raised it high like an offering, and called for Bast and Ra to bless what she was about to do.
Abrupt comprehension as to what that would be flooded him. He threw all his strength into tearing his arm free, but though there was some give, the bindings remained fast.
