by SL Hulen
“There is something to that,” Max answered sarcastically.
Arlan grabbed the collar of the old man’s shirt, lifting him from the chair with a strength he did not know he possessed. “How much information did you give them? I hope you didn’t say you’d seen them. Did you mention me? Did you?” He let go, and Max reeled backward and slid to the floor, knocking over the delicate Victorian teapot perched on a card table next to the desk. Pieces of bone china sailed across the grimy floor.
“No!” Max exclaimed, fear clouding his eyes. The noise in his head was deafening now, and Arlan struggled to control himself. “Sorry,” he mumbled, picking Max up and smoothing his shirt. “It’s just that there’s so much at stake.” Embarrassed, Mieley smiled and reached for the bottle to fill the flutes.
Max’s voice wavered as he pointed to the bracelets. “They’re proof of a newly discovered tomb, or it could be that a cache of artifacts has just surfaced. Either way, it’s very good for your business. Of course I didn’t mention your name. I’ve done this for more years than you’ve been alive.”
“The Egyptians really don’t know for whom the bracelets were made?”
Max turned around a legal pad on his desk. The page was empty except for a single entry scribbled in Max’s unsteady hand: “2181 BC.”
“If my estimate of the year this failed coronation occurred is correct, there would be good reason; it was a time of political turmoil. Traditions were under fire, and there were surely many contenders for Egypt’s throne. Our mysterious queen was probably too young for marriage, got in the way and was killed, or just as likely relinquished her right to power.”
Max used the end of a paper clip to point to tiny bumps in three places on one of the bracelets. “What do you make of these?”
“There’s a missing bracelet. I’ll bet it’s the one with her name on it.” The humming noise seared his brain. “Did you specifically mention the bracelets?”
“Look, I did my best to get information without raising too many questions. Isn’t that what you pay me for? At best, the bracelets were part of a family collection or have been in hiding since before the antiquities legislation was first put into place. At worst, you’ll have to produce documentation to show they were legally imported. Either way, it’s an amazing find. If you weren’t such a bastard, you would return them to Egypt.”
Arlan handed Max a glass. “Here’s to keeping Egyptian treasures where they belong,” he declared before emptying his flute. “In the hands of the highest bidder.”
Max took a sip and looked away. When Arlan reached for more champagne, the noise in his head took over. He slammed the bottle into the side of Max’s head and watched the surprise in the old man’s eyes before he slumped to the floor. He continued to swing, feeling the skull bones give way, until a warm mist moistened his face. When he could see little that resembled a human head, he quit and stared at the bludgeoned corpse for a long time. “You shouldn’t have called them, Max. You said it yourself—it’s the find of a lifetime.”
A side of him he could not have imagined existed calmly put the bracelets back into the envelope, which he stuffed into the pocket of his mohair sport coat. The only thing worse than a crime is a blunder, he reminded himself. Calm down; take your time.
He found an old polishing cloth and wrapped it around his hand. Retracing his steps, Mieley wiped away all evidence of his visit. Next, he collected the tape from the camera’s recorder and put it in a crumpled grocery bag he found in the corner. He added the bloody champagne bottle, the flutes, and the pad Max had written on. In the bathroom, he cleaned his face and hands and put the napkins he’d used into the bag, which he took with him as he slipped through the back door.
By the time he reached the street, Arlan felt calmer. He had done only what was necessary; a sensational scandal would hover around the authenticator like the curse that followed Howard Carter after discovering the tomb of Tutankhamen. He had given Max a death worthy of his career, one the authenticator would have appreciated.
The third bracelet must be found. What if Elias’s contact was astute enough to have held it back? Mieley did not worry about the dark spots on his jacket. He even smiled at an attractive woman who sauntered past, her purple jacket swaying as she walked by him without the slightest reaction.
Chapter Fifteen Khara
Victoria burst through the door of the apartment. “Elias has agreed to help us.”
“The bracelets!” Khara exclaimed. “He will be able to sell them?”
“It’s not quite as simple as that, but the process is underway. If we had more time, I could safely say you were on your way to being a very rich girl. But having to sell on the black market— well, we’re going to get far less than they’re worth.”
“We need only enough to get us to Egypt.” Holding up the Lady of the Castle, Victoria shot Khara an unrepentant smile. “I couldn’t give this one up.”
Khara’s eyes were moist as she slipped the bracelet on. “Bless you. Did I tell you that father gave this to me the day he died?” She kissed each of Victoria’s hands. “I had no hope of ever seeing it again.”
“If we come up short, you may not have it for long.”
“What I will remember,” she enunciated slowly, “is that you cared enough to bring it back to me.”
Exhaling deeply, Victoria stretched her long limbs. “Now comes the hardest part; we wait.”
“For how long?”
“My uncle will let us know as soon as he has any news. In the meantime, we’ll have to do the best we can. If I work fewer hours, I should be able to get back by early afternoon. Something tells me,” Victoria glanced up to the small room on the second floor where books waited in neat stacks on the floor, “you’ve got more than enough to occupy your time.”
“I’ve organized the first two shelves—science, agriculture, history, and art.”
The next morning, they embarked on their schedule. Coffee in hand, Victoria left Khara to offer prayers before she plundered the library. While dwelling on the infinite possibilities that sprang from the books, hours dissolved into days and days into weeks, sometimes without a single thought of her father or Menefra. Even Nandor could not compete with the need to absorb this new, individualistic society. Hers was a mind consumed with possibility. Sleep became impossible; her mind overflowed with visions of trees wider than a boat, and dog-like beasts that ate honey. The ingenious transports captivated her most, especially the ones capable of flight. Could a mortal travel as high and fast as the gods? The thought mesmerized her.
As the days and weeks passed, Khara faithfully made note of them on the calendar, reminding herself that if they could really travel so quickly, she still had time. An opportunity to see what the world had become had been thrust upon her, and she was determined that it would not be in vain. Perhaps, she considered, it was a test to see if she was sufficiently responsible.
Am I? By her count, thirty-three days had passed. Father’s spirit had joined his ancestors and Osiris to ensure Egypt’s strength in the absence of a legitimate ruler. I will not fail you, Father, she thought several times a day. Time became both her friend and enemy.
One midmorning, after defying Victoria’s wish to keep the windows closed, she heard a musical clanging. The instrument was one she could not identify, but the call to worship was indisputable, and curiosity forced her to follow it. Egyptian deities were notoriously temperamental and prone to mischief. This, coupled with their unsettling silence, convinced her that a prayer or two to the local gods could not hurt.
The winding roads of the neighborhood had become familiar. The resounding music urged her feet on past neat rows of white-plastered houses and a corner field where children played with a ball. Some things never change, she mused. She grinned at the shouting children, and one paused to wave at her. Watching them, she remembered the times when she and Menefra had played hide-and-seek in the cliffs until they were too tired to take another step and lay outstretched on the warm san
d.
Soon a handsomely decorated stone building came into view. Arriving at the stately wooden door, Khara felt a moment of triumph. It passed quickly, however, and it was with cautious steps that she crossed the threshold of the imposing hall.
The large chamber was cool, but begged for fresh air. Proceeding warily, her attention was immediately drawn to the jewel-colored windows high above; the filtered rays of sun that crept across the floor and spilled into dark corners. Ahead, a sculpture of a sweet-faced woman in a light blue cloak compelled her to cross the grey stone floor. Such gentleness meant she was undoubtedly a goddess of women, fertility, or perhaps motherhood. Lost in thought, she had almost reached the altar when she suddenly beheld a vision of sorrow. Her legs turned to mud, forcing her onto one of the benches that filled the hall.
The suffering and acquiescence in this statue’s face tore at her soul in the same way thinking of her father did. Surely he was not a god; gods were majestic and unemotional, warriors and seducers. And most of all, they were invincible. How could she expect guidance from this wounded being strapped to a post? Khara rested her arms on the pew before her and contemplated the tortured face.
“You seem troubled,” a voice said quietly from behind her. She was not as startled by the man who sat next to her as she would normally have been. Where he came from she could not say, but his was the most agreeable face she had ever seen. He was dressed in long black robes that complimented his pale skin and eyes the color of ripe dates. His dark hair was short and neatly placed against his head. When he smiled, she felt strangely comforted.
“Where am I?” she asked, unable to lower her gaze.
He smiled and looked with adoration at the face in agony. “In the house of the Lord.”
“Which lord?”
“I beg your pardon? Are you… Aha!” His eyes flashed merrily. “I get it! Brother Eloy sent you!” He muffled his laugh with a hand. “He owes me a prank. I’ve been waiting for retaliation for almost two weeks, but so far nothing.”
Her disappointment in realizing that he thought of her as some sort of trick was reflected in her disdainful reply; “No one sent me.”
His cheeks reddened. “Oh. I apologize. That must have sounded so insensitive. I should have made certain before—”
“You have not answered my question. Which lord? Are you a priest?”
“I am. Father Donato. It’s my responsibility to make all who come here feel welcome, and I fear I’ve done a poor job.” He searched her face. “You’re not Catholic, are you?”
Khara shook her head, unsure of what he meant. “I am a visitor with little time here. In truth, the music brought me.”
“The bells are lovely, aren’t they? Haven’t you heard them before?”
“Never. How do they work?”
“I can’t leave now,” Father Donato explained, “but if you come after Mass sometime, I could show them to you. They ring every quarter hour.”
“Why?” He reached over and gently patted her hand. “To remind god’s children that we are not alone, that he is always with us.”
“Us?” Her brow furrowed. “Surely you mean his followers.”
“You, me, and especially those who do not accept him into their hearts.”
She stared at the statue. “What offerings are required in order to gain his protection? Soon I must travel a very long distance.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from?”
Khara lifted her head. “I am Egyptian.”
“You’re certainly a long way from home.”
It took every last bit of strength to brace the floodgates of her emotions. “Tragedy took me from my home into this place, where I am lost.”
He smiled his gentle smile. “We are never lost. Sometimes we just get sort of—how shall I say?—misplaced for a while, until we find our way back to where it is we need to be.”
She leaned forward and whispered, “Are these the teachings of your gods?”
He held up his index finger. “We have only one.” Then he brought his hands together in the same way the priests at home did. “I believe that he guides us, and that everything happens for a reason. I hope you will consider the idea that God always chooses the right things for us, though we may not see his wisdom at the time.”
Looking at the statue’s face, Khara found solace. “I hoped that he might help me.” Her voice grew bold. “Your god, what does he command? Is he a god of war or of death? Can he command the rivers to flow or the sun to shine?”
The priest waved his hand as though these things were of no importance. “He is master of so much more.”
“There is one who is more than these things?” She shook her head. “Impossible.”
Father Donato rose and moved to a table covered with small candles, slowly lighting one before turning around to face her. “What do you suppose is the most powerful force of all?” His hand patted his heart. “Ours is the God of Love. All he asks is that you accept and believe in him, and he will guide you in all things.”
“Only a weak god would ask so little of his faithful.” The harshness in her tone caught her by surprise and, embarrassed and confused, Khara turned and headed quickly for the door. But when she got there, her feet froze. She winced, hung her head, and turned around.
The priest was kneeling at the small table glowing bright with candles. “I’m saying a prayer for you,” he told her, not in a condescending way, which made her feel worse, “that you may find your way home safely.”
“I was insolent. I ask you to forgive me.”
“There is no need. You are a young woman in search of answers; I see it in your face. Forgiveness and answers are the church’s specialty. Come and see me anytime.”
And you will tell me more about this god of yours?”
“And all the things he makes possible.”
Khara lowered her eyes. “Tomorrow then. And if there is time, perhaps you might show me the bells.”
She made her way to the exit for the second time. Father Donato’s voice rang throughout the vaulted ceiling. “Some journeys are physical; others are of the spirit. Good luck with both.”
Is one god enough? Can the gods of Egypt hear me? Why had the priest’s words sent her running like a child?
One hard push against the door plunged her into the bright afternoon, although she nearly knocked over an old woman. She tottered and it looked as though she would fall, but she grabbed the edge of the open door just in time, steadying herself.
“Didn’t anyone teach you how to behave at church?” The woman shook her head and hurled a contemptuous look at Khara. “Such rotten kids today,” she muttered, her accusation bursting through the closing door like an angry gust of wind.
This late in the afternoon, Egyptians scurried inside to escape the sun. She had often spent such treasured hours trading secrets and gossip with Menefra, although it had never been a fair trade; Khara had so few secrets to tell, while Menefra seemed to have a never-ending supply of appalling gossip. She steered her thoughts away from the troubling words of the priest. God of love or not, it no longer mattered that Menefra had always felt as much a part of her as her own leg; her sister’s betrayal had sealed her doom. And yet, on that terrible day, Khara had been thankful Nandor had not swung his giant sword at her.
Once, while their father and Nandor had been away, Khara had fallen from the back of a chariot. At twelve, she had thought herself quite capable of managing a pair of horses. Lying in the dirt with the breath knocked from her, bruised and cut and afraid to move, she decided she would perhaps require another year.
As if by magic, Mennie appeared, helping her up from the dirt. She tended to her cuts and scrapes, pretending to be a physician. After that, Menefra marched to the stable and threatened the captain with annihilation if he dared divulge that Khara had taken the horses from the stables without permission or an escort.
She remembered that day as if it were happening again. How unafraid her sister had been! �
��This never happened,” Menefra had declared, sticking her small face close to the captain’s, “for if it did,” her twin’s voice turned ominous, “Nandor will be most unhappy with you.”
After he nodded weakly, Mennie wiped away Khara’s tears and told her, “If my eyes turned into pools of gold the way yours do, I would make myself cry every day.”
In that moment, Khara had felt the abundance of her sister’s love. Now she wondered where it had gone.
Reflecting on Father Donato’s argument for the supreme power of love was equally perplexing. The truth in his gentle words could not be denied. Perhaps he might be able to help her with a few other questions that stole her sleep at night.
Chapter Sixteen Victoria
The harder she tried to push away the images conjured by her imagination, the more realistic they became—Khara wandering the streets, confused and afraid. What if she had dared to ask for help? Victoria pictured her friend laced into a straitjacket while some xenophobic psychiatrist pumped her full of sedatives after hearing her story.
“Where is she?” she demanded of Dante. He jumped onto the counter, normally a punishable offense. “You’re supposed to know everything. Is she all right?” His luminous eyes closed lazily, and then opened with a snap. “I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean,” Victoria said as she lifted him up, placing the minky softness of his cheek against hers. “In her world, asking you to intervene is perfectly normal.” Dante began to squirm and she set him on the floor. Ears back, he scrambled away.
“Some sacred being you are. You can’t even watch out for her, and she idolizes you.” Cell phone in hand, she heaved a sigh. “You’re nothing but an ordinary cat, and not a very good one at that.”
