Waking the Ancients

by Catherine Cavendish

  It started with her movements. Her walk became a heavy limp and her hands became uncoordinated. She would pick up a glass to drink from it and spill the contents all over herself. Still unable to articulate, the tick-tick-tick sound she made became more and more agitated and aggressive.

  Quintillus waited on her, feeding her meals as much as she would tolerate—precious little. Lizzie only saw one member of his household—the butler, a lean, sour-faced Englishman called Butters. She knew Quintillus employed a cook and there must be other servants to keep the house running smoothly, but she never saw them.

  The queen continued to deteriorate. Quintillus became anxious. He spent hours in the library, looking up endless references in books of such antiquity, Lizzie could only guess at their age. He lit black candles, recited invocations to ancient deities and, all the while, his beloved queen languished on a sofa, her skin paler each day. My skin, Lizzie thought, with a rush of regret so strong, she saw a momentary flash in the tired eyes. The queen looked through her, but Lizzie felt certain she had become aware of her, maybe she even saw her.

  One night, Quintillus prepared a small altar in the library where the queen lay on a sofa. He dimmed the lights, lit his customary black candles, and placed a small cauldron on the altar. It smoked, and he murmured an indecipherable chant while crumbling leaves into the murky depths. He added some fine gray powder, and the atmosphere grew heavy in the room. Shadows lengthened. A strange rippling in the space around her put Lizzie on edge. In the room below, a greenish glow pulsed and grew stronger. A shape formed, and within seconds, the distinctive figure of the god Set towered above Quintillus.

  He raised his staff, and Quintillus bowed his head.

  The queen opened her mouth and a large scarab crawled out, followed by another and another until hundreds were crawling over each other. They spilled out over the sofa and onto the floor where they scurried toward the blazing fire. By the dozens, they were absorbed by it. Their bodies crackled as their carapaces split in the heat of the flames.

  “Oh my queen,” Quintillus said, “I have failed you this time, but not again.”

  The queen sank back, exhausted. She closed her eyes, her pale lips cracked and dry.

  The next morning, Lizzie sensed a more significant change. Not white anymore, the face of the woman looked gray. Her eyes had grown dull and lifeless, and she seemed in pain. She had spent the night on the sofa, refusing all efforts by Quintillus to help her up to her bed. With his help now, she struggled up but could barely stand. To her horror, Lizzie saw a spreading dark stain on the cushion beneath her. For the first time, the normally composed Quintillus flinched, while tears flowed down Cleopatra’s cheeks.

  “My queen,” he said, recovering himself and holding her. She collapsed in his arms. The invisible thread that bound Lizzie’s spirit to her body tugged at her. Her vision blurred and she found herself in Egypt once more, but not the Egypt she recognized. Here, the great temple of Taposiris Magna rose up from the desert, gleaming in the sunshine. Everywhere, men and women went about their daily business, dressed as she had only seen in classical wall paintings.

  She heard snatches of conversation she couldn’t understand. A part of her wanted to stay there, but another wrench and she hurtled back to the house in Hietzing, where she looked down at the unfolding scene.

  Quintillus held the woman’s hand as she lay on the bed, eyes closed. “Rest now, my beloved,” he whispered and raised her hand to his lips. Lizzie could almost feel the featherlight touch of his lips on her skin.

  Then she wasn’t there. And she wasn’t alone. She sensed another presence right next to her, and there stood Cleopatra, as she must have been in life. Tall, strong, powerful, a haughty expression on her striking face. She spoke and Lizzie could understand her.

  “I will be avenged. He shall not live.”

  “But how?”

  Cleopatra did not answer. Her eyes blazed. Lizzie felt, in that moment, a connection she hadn’t experienced before in all this strange non-life she had been living. Their two souls met, and Lizzie understood. Cleopatra no more wanted this than she did. This was a woman used to being in control. No man would rule her. No man ever had. Her love for Mark Antony overrode all other considerations. Quintillus, in his selfish obsessiveness, had torn her away from the one she craved to be with for all time. She must return to him.

  Lizzie’s eyes dimmed. The vision faded until it was merely a speck of waning light, growing dimmer with each passing second.

  Once again, she looked down at the body on the bed, and she knew the spirit that possessed it was slipping away. To go where, Lizzie did not know. Perhaps back to that tomb in Taposiris Magna. Perhaps to fly free.

  Quintillus sobbed quietly. His grand experiment had failed. But somewhere deep within this house, another spirit had stirred. Lizzie could sense it moving around. Human, but not human. Another ancient soul perhaps? But she had no answer.

  Gradually, the woman’s features changed. The exotic look of the Egyptian queen faded, replaced with a face Lizzie knew all too well—her own. She felt herself slipping, being gently pulled back by the invisible life thread. For a second, she sensed an emptiness in the vessel she now entered. Then she could feel her arms, legs, terrible pain in her head and a crushing weight on her chest. She took her first gasping breath.

  Her last gasping breath.

  Her sight faded on a large white bird circling above her.

  Chapter 14

  The void opened to welcome her. Strangely peaceful. Cloaked in nothingness that somehow soothed her tortured spirit. Time lost all meaning. The only sound a gentle lilt, like sweet music played under water.

  Freed from her body, released from the constraints of corporeal life, Lizzie gradually gave herself up to her new surroundings, that had neither shape nor form, and no substance except what she felt deep in her soul.

  The world she had known went on without her. Battles were fought. Countries claimed short-lived victories before they went to war again. Leaders came and went. Babies were born, grew up, married, had their own children, and died. Two generations passed.

  And one day, Lizzie woke up.

  * * * *

  The shock of her first conscious breath overwhelmed her. She stood in the library of the house in Hietzing. It looked exactly as it had the last time she had seen it, but she didn’t. A mirror nearby caught a reflection. In shock, Lizzie realized she was staring at herself. But nothing about her looked the same. Her hair was now long, thick and black, eyes brown, and her skin olive. And her clothes! White shirt, open at the neck under a black jacket. She looked down, shocked to see she wore slim-fitting matching trousers and shoes with a pointed toe and high, narrow heel.

  “Fräulein Zimic?”

  She turned to the source of the voice, without a clue how to respond. The man wore an unfamiliar style of dark blue suit with pale blue shirt and tie. His gray hair had been neatly trimmed and he had a distinguished air about him.

  “Fräulein Zimic, are you quite well?”

  Lizzie inhaled deeply, the long-abandoned practice new and strange to her. Only one thing for it. For now, she would have to play along with this charade until she could understand what had happened to her.

  Her voice sounded deeper. A stranger’s voice in a stranger’s body. Where had its owner gone? What had happened to Fräulein Zimic?

  “Perfectly,” she replied, and realized she had just spoken in German. But, of course, the man was speaking German, too.

  “Is everything in order? Do you wish to proceed?”

  “Proceed?” She tried to sound as natural as possible, but she could tell her change of attitude confused him.

  “With the purchase of this house? You said a moment ago that it was exactly what you were looking for.”

  “Oh, the house. Yes, of course. How beautiful it is.”

  The man frowned. “Per
haps you would like a glass of water? Or some coffee?”

  “No, no. I think I must be going now.” Though where she would go was another matter.

  “When will you decide?” The poor man looked as if he had stepped into another world. Appropriate, considering she certainly had.

  “Oh, in a few days. I will get my affairs in order.” That, at least, she could say with some honesty. When she could work out why she had come here and how long she was meant to stay.

  “Very well.” He didn’t sound too pleased, and Lizzie had a hundred questions she wanted to ask him but daren’t. This Zimic woman had been in the middle of agreeing to buy Quintillus’s house and certainly wouldn’t appreciate Lizzie wrecking things for her. The man showed her to the front door.

  Out on the street, with the door shut firmly behind her, Lizzie experienced the shock of her life. Instead of horse-drawn carriages and the cars and buses she was used to, she discovered a world of gleaming metal and a rainbow assortment of colors. Red, yellow, white, silver, green…strangely shaped vehicles of every size and hue raced up and down the street.

  Lizzie, in her new body, stared. Everywhere she looked, people were dressed as she was, or more casually, in clothes she had never dreamed could exist. Men and women with long hair, wearing identical blue, heavy-duty trousers. Difficult to tell which sex was which in some cases. Young women, her age, in skimpy shirts that clung to every curve. Others in skirts so short they barely protected their modesty. A tram rumbled by. At least that looked similar to others she had seen, if a little futuristic.

  On the corner of the street, a box containing newspapers drew her attention. She peered down at the date. Thursday, June 2, 1977.

  1977.

  A sudden pain sent her reeling into the arms of a middle-aged woman. Speaking in rapid but soothing German, the woman led her to a nearby bench and Lizzie gratefully sank down. She assured her helper that she merely felt a little dizzy. The hot sun. She hadn’t eaten. The woman left, after lecturing her on the need to maintain a regular diet.

  Other passersby ignored the confused woman on the bench. The pain had subsided to a dull ache, but with it, Lizzie had to acknowledge an uncomfortable fact. She wasn’t alone in this body. And its owner wanted it back.

  Lizzie sat for an hour, trying to grow accustomed to the unfamiliar thoughts in her head. Knowledge of another person’s life. Intimate details in some cases. She learned the body’s first name was Gerda, she was thirty years old and from a family of wealthy industrialists who had grown rich during a war Lizzie knew nothing of. She discovered that Fräulein Zimic did indeed intend to buy Quintillus’s house and that she could do so by paying cash.

  Lizzie allowed herself to be steered by her host to a large, sleek, dark blue car with an insignia of a three-pointed figure within a circle and 240D on the back.

  Her hand automatically went to a pocket of her jacket and extracted some keys. She used one to unlock the driver’s door and settled herself in the seat, momentarily baffled by the array of dials and levers in front of her. She may not have had the first idea of how to drive this strange machine, but Gerda Zimic did. Soon they were leaving the leafy suburbs behind and driving through countryside, baked in a hot sunny afternoon.

  She stopped the car outside a large, rambling house, set in immaculately maintained gardens. An ornate, Grecian-style fountain stood in front of the entrance, the water gleaming like crystal as it poured over statues of gods and goddesses.

  Lizzie mounted a sweeping stone staircase, unlocked a pair of sturdy wooden doors and entered a hall resplendent with yellow roses. A young woman asked her if she wanted a cold drink and Lizzie asked for lemonade. What she got as she sat in the lounge was a fizzy, clear concoction tasting vaguely of lemon and chemicals. She set it down after one mouthful.

  She looked out over a rolling lawn, bordered by pine trees and brightened with an abundance of flowers. A large gray bird soared up into the sky. It looked out of place somehow, but surely she had seen it somewhere before? A fantastic, impossible creature.

  An older woman her Gerda-self recognized as her mother came in and kissed her on the cheek. Through her, she learned that she should have signed the papers for the house that afternoon. Why had she come back so early? Lizzie improvised. She told her she didn’t want to rush into it. She wanted one more night to sleep on it before committing fully.

  Her mother seemed satisfied with that, emphasized what a bargain she had been offered and that she mustn’t keep Count Markus von Dürnstein waiting or she would lose it. Now, at least, Lizzie knew who the distinguished-looking man had been.

  * * * *

  After an evening spent acquainting herself with a father, brother, and sister, as well as the rather charming mother, Lizzie fell into bed and slept. When she awoke the next morning, it took a few moments to remind herself where she was and, more importantly, who she had become.

  At breakfast, she found herself agreeing to her father sending their trusted butler to the Villa Dürnstein with the cash for the house purchase. Lizzie would follow on once she had eaten. She still felt curious as to why such a major purchase would be transacted in cash and wanted to ask, but knew it would sound odd. The real Gerda would know the reason only too well.

  Her father provided at least a clue. “Remember, Gerda, you don’t answer any questions about this money. You assure the count that there is nothing illegal about it and that it is your preferred way of doing business. He wants to sell this property badly enough so I doubt he will ask too many questions.”

  Lizzie nodded and tucked into scrambled eggs. Questions tumbled in her mind and again she grew aware of Gerda’s presence. A restless spirit, possessed of a certain arrogance and a determination to rid herself of Lizzie’s presence, whatever she had to do to achieve it.

  At the Villa Dürnstein, the house’s current owner greeted Lizzie. He seemed far more relaxed than on the previous afternoon. Hardly surprising. Now many thousands of schillings richer, he had rid himself of a house he clearly detested for reasons Lizzie couldn’t begin to fathom. She sensed relief as he patted the metal case containing the cash which had arrived, he said, half an hour earlier.

  Lizzie noticed a leather suitcase in the hallway.

  “You are leaving today? So soon?” she asked.

  “I haven’t lived here for a number of years. I just packed the last few mementos to take with me. Once you’ve signed the papers, the house is yours and you are free to move in whenever you like. Today, if you wish.”

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  He indicated a sheaf of typewritten sheets, laid out neatly on a polished wooden table. Next to them, a gold pen.

  “If you would care to sign these,” he said.

  Lizzie nodded and sat at the table.

  She quickly scanned the document. Once she signed it, this house would be hers. She reached the end and automatically signed her name.

  Elizabeth Charters.

  She stared at it in horror. Too late to do anything about it now. She could hardly cross that out and try to somehow summon Gerda to sign her own name.

  With relief, she watched the count shove the documents in a briefcase without examining them. He handed her a set of keys, shook her hand and left.

  Lizzie wandered from room to room, up and down the stairs. Apart from the library, the rest of the house had fallen into disrepair. Clearly, no one had lived in it for years. What furniture remained had been shrouded in white sheets. By contrast, a smart, modern kitchen had recently been fitted with all sorts of equipment Lizzie had never seen before and didn’t have the slightest idea how to operate. It appeared neither did Gerda who, no doubt, had always been used to staff to do it all for her.

  At the far end of the kitchen, a solid wooden door, double padlocked, seemed strangely out of place amid the stark white and gleaming steel of the rest of the room. Lizzie wandered up to it
. There was no key in the lock or the two padlocks, which seemed a little excessive. She examined the keys Count Markus had given her, selected one and tried it in the door. It didn’t work. She tried another, then another and finally, the lock sprang free. Two smaller keys fit the padlocks and she carefully lay each one down on the drainboard.

  The door opened easily and, thankfully, the light switch worked.

  In her spirit form, when attached to Cleopatra, she had never ventured into this part of the house. What use would an Egyptian queen have had for a basement? Lizzie made her way carefully down the dimly lit stairs. At the bottom, a corridor led to a much larger kitchen than the one upstairs. Here, she found an oil lamp and matches. With the light to guide her, she picked her way over the dusty floor. She shone the lamp over the walls. Copper pans, green with verdigris, hung from them. An old kitchen range, in dire need of blackleading, stood cold and covered in dust and grime.

  Lizzie moved onward, through the kitchen, past a wine store and butler’s pantry, until she came to a dead end. A wall. It looked of fairly recent construction. The stillness grew heavy around her. Oppressive. She could almost taste it. Inside her, Gerda’s trapped spirit stirred. Lizzie felt her fear as it merged with her own. A coil of terror swept through her body. She had a powerful, overwhelming sense of something behind her. So close now, almost touching her. She daren’t turn around.

  She must turn around.

  A chunk of plaster fell from the wall in front of her. Then another. And another. The plaster fell like snow. She stared at it. It stopped.