Another Pan

by Daniel Nayeri

  “Heavy lifting,” said Wendy, still panting.

  “And where were you a minute ago? I came down and you were missing.”

  “We took out a few bags of garbage,” said Wendy, trying to sound very justified and therefore annoyed at his questions.

  Simon’s eyes scanned them up and down, examining closely. His arms were folded across his chest. “I’d better not find any of the artifacts missing.”

  Wendy took a frustrated breath. “Why would we steal from our own dad?”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Simon, laughing. “I wasn’t suggesting that. . . . Besides, these things belong to the British Museum, and as the only representative of said museum, I am their sole guardian here.”

  Wendy didn’t bother to refute him, to defend her own role. She was too freaked out and couldn’t care less about titles right now. There was a moment’s silence, then Wendy made for the door. Like a parking lot barricade, Simon’s arm swung up to block the way. Suddenly, his voice sounded casual, as if he was trying to feign indifference. “Find anything cool down there?” he said. “You know, none of this stuff is that important, anyway.”

  He must think we’re morons, thought Wendy, but she saw that John wanted to share something with Simon. He wanted to impress him. She grabbed John by his backpack and said, “We’re going now.”

  Simon shrugged and dropped his arm.

  On the walk home, when Wendy and John were alone, they started to puzzle out what had happened.

  “I bet he won’t tell on us,” said Wendy.

  “I know,” said John. “He’s cool. He’s just protecting the stuff.”

  “No, John. He won’t tell because he’s got his own little agenda and he has no respect for Dad. Can’t you see? He’s too stupid to know what’s really down there. He probably thinks we found something important and he wants credit.”

  “Why would he need to?” said John. “He’s gonna be a famous Egyptologist. He told me so himself. He’s just doing his job.”

  “His job is to be Dad’s assistant,” Wendy shot back. She shook her head and added, “Let’s just focus on the more important question. What the heck just happened?”

  They walked home, shivering with excitement. They talked about the door, and the book, and how they might have caused the book to react. They puzzled at the location of the door (“Why the broom closet?”) and the words that had appeared in the book (“Why were they in English?”). They wondered how they had opened the gate to begin with. John had broken the corner of a page. Could that be it? He had tried to read the title page in the original Egyptian. Did any of those things bring the book to life? They even considered that scrap of paper in John’s pocket, the one with the names of the hours.

  Neither of them remembered the still-open door of the broom closet, or the Eye of Ra, still freshly scorched and ominous in the whitewashed wood. In their rush to get away from Simon, neither of them had seen that it lingered there. As Simon slapped the light switch on his way out, he, too, missed the details. He left the exhibit, muttering about bratty kids, never noticing a silhouette, perhaps a woman, lingering in unseen corners. Why would anyone notice such an ordinary person, after all? She wasn’t strange. She didn’t have the animal head of Egyptian statues or the putrid breath of the underworld on her lips. She was just a person, just a shadow that had become accustomed to blending in and going unnoticed — a sick soul whose illness had gone unnoticed in the fast world of Marlowe. And so Simon, too, overlooked her. But there she was, a silhouette that looked a lot like the new school nurse, picking lint balls from her overworn blue sweater, caressing moths in her palm — such a tiny, unimportant person holding open the broom-closet door, covering the recesses of the dusty closet in black thoughts and shadow.

  Darkness isn’t confined to one place. It can’t be held down by brick walls, by alabaster statues, or even by flesh and bone. The dark inhabits vaster regions. It searches for purpose. Sometimes, one home is hospitable, and so the dark lingers, reinfecting the same space again and again.

  In the labyrinthine corridors of the underworld, the new school nurse walked alone, as comfortable as if she were walking in any ordinary living room. She examined the marks left on her home — a fiery lake, the discarded rubble — her unchanging eye surveying the gloomy replicas of a happier place. Now she, too, could leave her mark on the world above. She coughed again and wished that the intruders would leave her alone to recover, to gain back her old strength. She wasn’t used to being the one chased . . . the one on the defensive.

  Below, the darkness walked, circling the water, contemplating the intruders who had entered here. Sometimes she moved upstairs and watched from among them, seemingly an ordinary person, a sick mortal body — fallible, forgettable — walking in the midst of people who thought themselves special.

  Above, students rushed through Marlowe’s halls, unaware of why the air felt heavier, why images looked murkier, and why happy thoughts were so much harder to summon.

  When Sanford’s dad said it was lights out, we all got our sleeping bags, and it was a little weird since Rory was there and he’s younger than us by a year. But he’s still bigger than me, so I said “seniority” and put my bag next to Sanford’s, but Rory just pushed it over and put his down in between. I was gonna punch him on the shoulder, but he and Sanford play on the same football team, and Sanford says he hits the hardest out of everyone. It didn’t matter anyway ’cause we decided to circle all the bags together and take turns telling stories with the flashlight. Everybody agreed mine was the best because I told an old Egyptian legend about real mummies. They all said Egyptology is super cool.

  Everything in our first apartment was magical and had a story. It was only me and Mom and Dad (before we moved to the Marlowe house, and got rid of all the furniture, and John was born). I’d say, “Mommy, tell me about the monkey table,” and she’d sigh (’cause she’d told me a hundred times). Everything was oddly shaped and multicolored and one of a kind. I thought it made us a special family. When Mom would tell me about the caribou lamp, I’d imagine them adventuring together all over Africa, finding lost cities, jumping out of boats, and kissing. I used to imagine that when Dad’s work at the museum was over, the three of us would pick up where they left off. I’d put on a safari hat and Mom would get out of bed.

  “And so, if you think about it, ancient Egypt isn’t all that different from a modern high school, like Marlowe,” said Professor Darling during his next lecture to his class.

  From all the way in the back row, he could hear Marla’s sarcastic commentary and the snickering kids around her. John and Wendy were running late to class again, so there was no reason to care about the other students’ sarcasm . . . nobody around to be embarrassed by their old man. The professor sighed and continued with his analogy.

  “For example, the Bedouin were nomadic, fierce warriors with honor codes that have lasted to this day. That’s a lot like these gangsta types I see after school.” He put gangsta in air quotes and made every effort to pronounce it the way he had heard John do. “They seem to have a code for posers, the uninitiated who try to infiltrate their ranks, versus the dawgs (more air quotes), who have been cleared to roll with them.” By the time the professor had reached his fourth set of finger quotes, Marla’s clique was already busting a gut. The professor was encouraged. He knew that they were making fun, but they were listening for a change. And what good teacher wasn’t willing to make a fool of himself if it meant making history accessible and fun?

  “They would ride camels, and later Arabian horses, across the Sahara, able to strike like lightning. I guess this part doesn’t have a direct corollary, since you kids don’t ambush each other at water wells, but it could be similar to bicycle gangs.”

  “I pantsed some kid while he was drinking from the water fountain,” said Marla.

  “Or that,” said Professor Darling. “But you couldn’t pants a Bedouin, since they wear beautiful long robes.”

  Marla spoke up ag
ain. “So they’re basically the dudes from The Mummy Returns?”

  Professor Darling thought about it for a second. “Yes, basically. Except they don’t have English accents.”

  The door of the classroom suddenly flew open, and Wendy and John Darling came stumbling through. “Sorry we’re late,” said Wendy, dashing to her seat. John wrestled with the straps of his backpack in an attempt to get settled as fast as possible. They had spent the passing period back at the exhibit, trying to figure out what they had done to make it work. But no matter how many of the previous day’s tactics they repeated, the door didn’t open. The charcoal-black eye was gone (which seemed strange to Wendy, since it had been etched into the wood), and the door to the broom closet was closed (something neither of them remembered doing). The professor coughed into a fist, then fiddled with his notes, then adjusted his glasses.

  “All right, well, we’ll discuss this later . . .” said the professor.

  Marla said something under her breath.

  The professor added, “In detention.”

  Wendy looked up from her book. “What?”

  “You heard me, Wendy. You were tardy, so I’ll see you in detention. You too, John.”

  “But we’re never late,” protested John.

  “We were working on your exhibit,” said Wendy.

  “Don’t worry, welfare girl,” said Marla, “you can do my homework in detention. How’s twenty bucks a page?” When the professor wasn’t looking, Marla flicked a rolled-up twenty at the back of Wendy’s head. Marla’s friends laughed. Wendy whipped around. Marla whispered, “It’s all right, you can pick it up. Go ahead.”

  “Try and shut up when you’re not spoken to, Marla,” said Wendy, almost shouting.

  “Wendy Darling!” said the professor. The entire class swerved back toward Professor Darling. Having their complete attention was jarring to the professor. He stammered, “That’s — that’s enough. Where were we . . . ?”

  “The syllabus says something about another of the five legends. Perhaps you were discussing the Book of Gates?” Simon had slipped into the room in the wake of the commotion. He nodded respectfully to the professor. “I imagine you were getting ready to lecture on the myths and legends surrounding nomadic groups, such as the Bedouin. It’s all socioreligious hullabaloo, if you ask me.”

  The professor was almost relieved to see Simon. If anything, he would make sure they stayed focused on the syllabus. But Wendy and John seemed even more flustered than before.

  “Quite right,” said the professor. “But myths aren’t necessarily untrue just because they’re myths, Simon. They are just stories that our worldview hasn’t made room for . . . yet.”

  With that, Professor Darling was back on track. When he spoke about supernatural subjects, it was hard for people to take him seriously. He seemed so much like an old dreamer caught up in his own fairy tales. But since the events of yesterday, Wendy and John would never doubt again. In fact, they were listening more intently than ever, hoping for some information about the magical things that had happened to them in the last day. Partway through the professor’s speech, Wendy felt an itch in her right ear, as though she was being watched. She looked at the window just in time to see Peter grin and duck down. Wendy almost yelped, but caught herself. What was he doing here? She could see the top of his head, all covered with brown curls, as he hid behind the windowsill. She turned back to the front of the class, hoping no one would see her and look at the window. Why was Peter hiding, anyway? What did he care about this lecture? And if he cared, why not just come in? Wendy put aside these questions when the thought struck her that Peter had chosen to reveal himself only to her. Then she chastised herself for thinking like one of those idiot freshman girls with their constant crushes.

  “We talked last time about how the legends are on the subject of great injustices. Last time, it was the character Elan, who was robbed of . . . Who can tell me what he was robbed of?”

  Marla ventured a hand into the air. “His heritage?” She made sure to roll her eyes while she said it so her friends would know she wasn’t actually interested.

  “Not the word I’d use for the loss of one’s children, but basically, yes,” said the professor. “And after the crimes against him, we all remember that his daughter . . .”

  Marla was more confident this time. “The daughter mummified his body.”

  “Exactly,” said Professor Darling. “Each of the five legends features someone getting mummified in some way or another. This is very important, not only because they were given the chance to enter the afterlife like pharaohs, but also because their bones were preserved, each carrying a glimmer of lives unlived — preserving the famed ‘bonedust.’”

  Marla jumped in. “The five of them together make a person immortal, right?”

  “None of this is historically accurate,” interjected Simon.

  “But you’re right, Marla,” said the professor. “The legends say so.”

  “The myths,” repeated Simon.

  “So what’s the second one? What’s the great injustice?” asked Marla.

  “Well . . .” said Professor Darling, sitting down and letting the pause build their anticipation, “the second one is love. . . .”

  THE SECOND LEGEND

  Love is a precious thing. If a man is robbed of his life’s passion, of his chance to walk in the most excellent way of life, if his love is ripped away, a bitterness builds inside.

  So goes the story of one family with a curse on their line, of Elan’s dark legacy, full of the cruelest injustices. The house that cannot die. Their stolen lives linger on, still flowing in their bones. Life has been mummified inside them, forming an ever-living bonedust — a new kind of immortality.

  After Elan’s heritage was no more, his daughter, Jobey, lived as Akhara’s unwilling wife. She bore many sons and daughters, all unaware of their Jewish blood. Akhara taught them to be cunning and cruel. They ruled over their Jewish servants, unaware that they were subjecting their own people to pain and death. They grew up in Akhara’s image.

  All except for Garosh, the lonely son, the last born. Too young to know his brothers and sisters, he was never subject to the torture of their wicked childhood games. And so his heart was never clouded by their meanness. As the boy grew, he fell more and more out of favor with Akhara, who had become a decrepit monster. Garosh insisted on rebuilding the slave quarters and scolded the harsher taskmasters.

  One day, as Garosh glided up the Nile on his boat, he saw a vision. At first, he thought it could be a mirage. He had caught only a glimpse before the figure passed behind an outgrowth of papyrus plants. She was wearing white Bedouin robes, and she bent like the sacred ibis to wash her black hair.

  Garosh leaped into the languid waters and stood in the deep. The water reached his neck. She looked on from the shore as he approached like a supplicant. When they stood in the marsh, Garosh spoke to his pleasing hallucination. She told him that her name was Kala.

  Garosh rejoiced in his fate, knowing he could never again be alone. He begged Kala to give him her hand in marriage. She laughed. He pleaded. Garosh swore his love upon the names of the gods. He cried and coaxed, until finally, Kala realized the depth of his love.

  The two lovers vowed their lives to each other. But his family would never accept a Bedouin maiden, and so Garosh forsook his father’s boat. Together, they walked into the desert, hoping Kala could convince her father to accept Garosh as her bridegroom.

  As the lovers approached Kala’s home, Kala’s brothers rode out to meet their sister. The Bedouin warriors saw the wealthy stranger touching her and were filled with rage. They said to one another, “Brothers, let us be rid of this foreigner, here to take our sister.”

  The brothers embraced Garosh as a brother, but in their hearts, they plotted evil.

  The youngest warrior said, “Come, Sister, I will take you to our mother, who will prepare you for a wedding. And we will welcome your bridegroom to our tribe.”
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br />   Kala bid Garosh a happy farewell. But as she rode over the horizon, the rest of the brothers took Garosh by the arm, saying, “Every Bedouin boy must pass three trials to become a warrior and worthy of marriage. To be Bedouin, you must learn to shackle our horses, to dig a well, and to raise a tent. These are the three tasks we require.”

  Eager to prove his worthiness, Garosh accepted the tests. The brothers took him to far reaches of the oasis and dismounted their horses. They presented Garosh with sharp iron shackles. “Tie these horses to the palm tree.”

  A simple test. Garosh took the shackles and began to tie each of the mighty horses. But just when he leaned on a horse to clasp the metal hooks, the brothers sent out a mighty blast from their battle horns. The startled horses galloped away, and the shackle hooked into Garosh’s belly, ripping out his innermost parts. Garosh stumbled but did not fall. The brothers were startled to see him alive, his organs strewn in the desert by their horses. But his heart had remained. His love for Kala still beat in his chest.

  They took the wounded man to a vast desert salt flat. “You must now dig a well,” they said. They offered no tools, but Garosh did not mind. His thoughts focused only on Kala. He fell to his knees and began to dig with his hands. The salty wind cut at his face and poured into his open belly. As he scooped the sands, the salt crystals pushed into his skin, drying up his internal fluids. Soon, Garosh was nothing but bones and jerked flesh.

  When Garosh climbed from the well he had dug, the wicked brothers were afraid. Garosh had become a preserved monster. His skin was leather. His hair withered in the sun. His chest was frail and thin. But the brothers could all still hear the young and happy heart of Garosh, thumping against his bare bones.

  “Well done, brother,” they shouted. “One very simple test remains.” The evil brothers helped Garosh to a clearing where he would raise a dwelling for Kala. With his body destroyed, Garosh struggled with the parchments and stakes. He weakly pounded the corner spikes and limped under the tent to place the center beam.