Another Pan

by Daniel Nayeri

  That night, as George Darling fell asleep, he thought he saw his children playing outside, like they used to do when they were little. He saw their shadows running after each other under the yellow glow of streetlights. They had grown up so fast. Soon they would be running away for good. He dreamed that they were in his room, rifling through his drawers like they used to do, when they thought he was hiding candy from their health-conscious mother. No, he thought, those days are over. They can never come back. I can never stop them from growing up. He felt useless, helpless, powerless — a never-never man down to his aging, porous bones. Under the drunken haze of deep sleep, Professor Darling thought he saw the children take something. Ah, they’ve found my candy stash, then. No harm in a little treat every now and then, he thought, turning groggily in his bed. But then, his eyes heavy with sleep, he imagined that he saw a third figure, an extra silhouette . . . And then, the shadows of three fugitives escaping into the night.

  At night, Marlowe was dark and looming, like an ancient fairy castle full of secrets and ghosts that are afraid of the sun. But none of them noticed the chill in the air, the flicker of lamps on the lawn, or the pitch-black hallways. They had the book. They were running away, in their pajamas, having just committed grand theft from the British Museum, the Marlowe School, and the state of New York. And those were just the institutions. What about the donors? The board members? The shareholders? Trying to name all the powerful people they had just robbed would take all night.

  Wendy felt a rush as she clutched the Book of Gates. Simon could be anywhere. Had he followed them? There were faint lights coming from some of the classrooms.

  On the way to Marlowe, the three of them had frantically tried to figure out where the fourth bonedust would be.

  “Peter, I have to tell you what I saw,” said Wendy. “There were two Eyes of Ra outside the boys’ dorm.”

  “Can’t be,” said Peter distractedly.

  “Why not?” said Wendy, hurt that he was dismissing her information so quickly.

  “You must have imagined it, Wendy,” said Peter, “because the eye appears only where there’s a gate. It’s not a clue.”

  “Can’t we at least consider it?” Wendy demanded, suddenly not caring about the quest, only wanting Peter to listen to her. But Peter just ignored her and went on with his questions. Marcus Praxis was a Nubian warrior. . . . Where did that lead? John suggested something related to the military, or to horses. But Peter rejected both.

  “I tried those things when the underworld was attached to the British Museum. I got to a battlefield through an exhibit on the history of warfare and to a Nubian camp through a display about horses, but it wasn’t in either of those places.”

  “This is the part I don’t get,” said John. “Marlowe doesn’t have stuff like that. How does the labyrinth match up crazy stuff like that with the school?”

  “It just does,” said Peter. “It always finds a way.”

  Their collective nervousness was feeding on itself, and every two seconds one of them snapped at the others. All three of them were growing more and more rushed and agitated. They knew that with every passing second they came closer to getting caught.

  Wendy suggested they look for clues relating to Hurkhan.

  “What about something to do with fathers?” she said.

  “Where would that lead us?” snapped Peter.

  “I don’t know,” said Wendy angrily. “But the story was mostly about Marcus Praxis and his dad. So why not start somewhere like that?”

  Peter shook his head. They arrived in the main hallway and sat down next to a row of lockers. Peter rested his head in his hand, and John was changing position every five minutes — that is, when he wasn’t pacing. Wendy just brooded.

  “Can you stop that?” Wendy snapped when John began mumbling to himself while zigzagging the width of the hallway. “You’re driving me crazy.”

  “I can’t help it,” said John.

  “Simon’s coming, you know,” said Peter, his voice showing a hint of tension. “That nerdling is gonna come marching in here any second, and we’ve got no clue where to go.”

  John didn’t say anything.

  Wendy couldn’t hold back her frustration any longer. “If you’re not going to listen to me, then I don’t care about this stupid quest anymore. I want to go home.”

  “What?” Peter said.

  “You heard me,” said Wendy.

  “Yeah,” said John.

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” said Peter, his voice strained. “Can’t you guys see that this is just because of her? She’s poisoning your mind so you’ll quit the search. Wendy.” He went up to her and tried to hold her in his arms. “Hey, now. What’s the matter?” His voice was calm now, and he kissed her cheek. “You’re not gonna abandon me now? I mean, now that I’m fired, we can be official. You know . . . you can be my girlfriend.”

  John snorted and mumbled something.

  Wendy smiled and let Peter hold her. “OK,” she said, feeling a rush of certainty — that wonderful feeling that comes with knowing for sure. Peter was right. They weren’t at their best now. She knew that under this kind of pressure, with this kind of rush, they were bound to make mistakes. And she really did want to help him.

  “I’ve got it!” said John suddenly.

  “No, you don’t,” Peter mumbled into Wendy’s hair.

  “Yeah, I do,” John insisted. “We’re supposed to focus on what the person lost, right? Harere’s hiding place was tied to her lost identity. So I think we need to focus on what Praxis lost. What did the people call Praxis when he was at the height of his glory?”

  Wendy looked up. “I have my notes from the legend in my locker. I’ll just go and see —”

  But Peter didn’t need Wendy’s notes. “Pharaoh builder,” he said. “God maker.”

  “That’s right,” said John. “Now, imagine if the world was all about a person’s accomplishments, like it should be. Imagine if people were judged by what they did, not by their family or their looks or whatever. Then what would his rightful place be?”

  “As the pharaoh,” whispered Peter, his eyes wide with satisfaction.

  They sat quietly by the lockers, thinking about the story. Marcus Praxis had lost more than even he had known. He should have reached heights that he probably could never fathom, given his upbringing. They tried to think of places in Marlowe where a man who should have been pharaoh might live.

  “Principal’s office,” said Wendy.

  “Worth a try,” said Peter. “He’s the guy that runs this place.”

  So they ran to the headmaster’s office. Peter picked the lock but didn’t open the door — not until after the book had been opened, the name of the hour had been said, and the Eye of Ra appeared on the threshold. Then he looked at John and Wendy and nodded. All three stepped into the abyss just beyond the cookie-cutter image of the headmaster’s room, with its mahogany desk and leather chair.

  An hour later, they were back in the hallway, disappointed and even more pressed for time. Each time any of them heard the slightest movement, the rustling of a discarded piece of paper or a gust of wind, they jumped, thinking it was Simon — or worse.

  “You know what?” said Wendy, pacing. “I think we got the leader thing all wrong. I mean, at Marlowe the headmaster isn’t really the leader, is he? He barely has any power, and nobody respects him. Praxis wasn’t powerful because he had a job title. He was just this awesome warrior.”

  Just then, John got up from the floor and ran a few feet down the hall, yelling over his shoulder as he went. “You’re totally right, Wen. We need to find the biggest stud in Marlowe — the person everyone worships.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Wendy.

  John stopped in front of the trophy case. Dozens of golden trophies, tributes to Marlowe’s athletic prowess, sparkled behind the glass. Each morning, the trophy case was polished. Each week, visitors and potential donors were brought to marvel at it. Every d
ay, students passed it and were reminded of Marlowe’s talents and achievements.

  Well, not so much Marlowe’s talents and achievements as Connor Wirth’s.

  Almost every trophy had his name on it. Every few inches, photos of him accepting awards were tucked beside gold medals.

  “Connor Wirth is Marlowe’s Marcus Parxis,” said John. “He’s the real leader — the pharaoh without a title.”

  For a brief second, Wendy was overcome with pride. But then she remembered that she had no reason to be. She had given up Connor. “So you think we should go through the trophy case?” said Wendy, dreading the idea of breaking that massive lock.

  “No way,” said Peter as he jogged toward John. “We’re looking for Praxis’s house or his tomb or something. We need a space that belongs to Connor. Which one is his locker?”

  The trio rushed to Connor’s locker, forgetting to look around for prying eyes or to speak in hushed voices. Peter yelled out the name of the hour before he had even reached the metal door, breaking the flimsy lock with a hard kick as soon as he saw the eye.

  Tick-tock. Simon stood in a narrow hallway around the corner from Connor’s locker. He waited and tapped his foot, checking his multi-watch every two minutes. By now, Simon had read all the literature in that forgotten shelf of the Egyptology Library. He hadn’t been rushed or scared of getting caught. All night, he had been brainstorming and puzzling out clues, with his mind as sharp and clear as the day he took his college entrance exams. It had taken him very little time to figure out that Marcus Praxis would have a Marlowe counterpart. In fact, he had had that part down way before the gala. After all, every place has someone that’s revered above all others. It did take Simon days to figure out who that was, though. His attempts at information gathering led nowhere, particularly because his preferred approach was to yell across the crowded hall, “Hey, you, pea brain. Who’s the coolest kid at school?” In the end, he had to pay two hundred bucks to a group of cheerleaders for a copy of their Hot or Not poll (he forced himself not to comment on their biased data and their infantile calculations).

  Now Simon was waiting in the corridor, holding a wooden box, waiting for the Darlings and Peter to arrive with the book. When they opened the locker, he would wait until they disappeared and then follow them. The fourth mummy was here — beyond that bikini-clad bimbo taped to the metal door. Simon was sure of it. He could almost feel it.

  He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like to be famous. He would be on TV, of course — that was a given. He’d need a bigger apartment, and a fancy office. Simon’s daydream about the honorary diplomas he would receive from all the colleges that had rejected him was interrupted when he heard Peter kick off the lock. He clutched his box and followed. A moment later, he was standing on a sand dune, with more dunes all around him and pyramids dotting the horizon. As always, the air was stifling, as if all this openness was happening somewhere underground. He turned around to see three figures running away from him into the distance, toward the largest pyramid.

  “Stupid kids!” he said, and began chasing them, his box clutched to his chest. He ran through the sand as quickly as his new sneakers would allow, but still the box weighed him down. He was sweating profusely, cursing and spitting as he heaved his feet out of the sand with each labored step. The whole place was dark and musty. It smelled like old gym socks, making it even more unbearable down here. He passed many tombs, pyramids of all sizes collected under the umbrella of the giant pyramid. Simon knew what this was. He had already studied it, read every word of the fourth legend in three different languages, hunting for clues about the guardian. He knew who it was. He knew what form it would take. He knew how to beat it. He tilted his head and let out a bemused sigh, slightly curious how the children would fare under the shadow of the ghost. Finally, he arrived at the biggest pyramid, the one at the center, where Peter and the Darling children were surely in for a surprise. He took two steps forward, unafraid, grasping on to the box with all his strength.

  Then, before he had taken a third step, he saw her.

  Peter, Wendy, and John stood clutching one another’s arms, staring, mesmerized, into the guardian’s massive gray eyes. She was as tall as the pyramid, white-faced, with a robe of all white and a five-pointed star on her head. She hovered in front of the pyramid, partly solid, partly carried by the wind. A strong smell hovered around her. It was the smell of death and loss and ancient bones.

  Then, in a second, she was gone, replaced by gust after gust of wind. A massive sandstorm smashed into them, driving them to their knees. Every inch of exposed skin felt grated and raw. They had to cover their faces and lie flat on the sand, hoping that the storm would subside before they were buried alive.

  Then Simon arrived. The noise was deafening, but he didn’t seem bothered by any of it. In fact, he made a point of stepping over the three kids as he approached the ghost-guardian. When he stepped forward, she turned her attention from the children and wrapped her body around Simon, whipping around him and creating a wind tunnel, as though she were made of dust particles. As the three watched, Simon walked directly into the center of the storm.

  “Simon!” John shouted. The sound was almost lost in the storm. It didn’t matter, anyway. None of them could move, or even stand.

  “I hate that guy!” growled Peter.

  Simon cleared his throat loudly and shouted into the sandstorm.

  “I have a gift!” he screamed.

  The wind stopped.

  The ghost of the white woman disappeared. And then she appeared again, a regular-size person, not transparent but corporeal and wearing a sandy tunic that looked dirty and timeworn. Her face was no longer terrible, but striking — ominous in the most ravishing way. Her skin was porcelain-white, her hair jet-black, her eyes a deep, piercing gray.

  “What is that idiot doing?” Peter asked no one in particular. They were still pinned to the ground. The sandstorm had quieted a little, but they knew it would pick up again if they stood up or moved forward.

  The woman nodded to Simon, and he placed the wooden box at her feet. A heavy wind continued to twist around her body.

  “Why is he talking to it?” John wondered aloud. “Hey, who in the story do you think —?”

  “Praxis’s wife,” whispered Wendy, remembering what Layla had been called in the story: an unstoppable force: a windstorm. “Who else would be here? This is his house now.”

  With his eyes dejectedly on Simon, Peter began mumbling a part of the legend, which, like most of the stories in the Book of Gates, he had committed to memory. “It is said, only in the quietest corners of the city, that beautiful Layla, who died soon after her marriage to Amun-Ra, wanders the dead city to this day, searching the intricate maze . . .” He sounded positively mournful. Wendy wondered if this was partly the effect of the labyrinth — the way it crept into your soul and sucked the joy out of you.

  “We should have looked at the passage more carefully,” said Peter, “like we did with Harere. It says, she wanders the maze. I just assumed . . . I mean, in the story it sounds like she’s wandering around the city after her husband’s death. But the city isn’t a maze. The underworld is. There was nothing about her ghost. . . .”

  “I didn’t even notice that word when I heard the story,” John admitted.

  “I can’t believe I let this happen,” said Peter, his voice shaking and angry.

  “We were rushed,” said Wendy. She touched his arm and smiled weakly. “We were in a huge rush this time around. There wasn’t any time to read it carefully like with Harere.”

  “I’ve read that story a hundred times,” whispered Peter.

  “Whatever,” said Wendy. “Maybe Simon figured out who she is, but that doesn’t mean he’ll get past her. She’s a guardian, plus she’s Amun-Ra’s angry wife. She’s not going to just hand over the bones. . . .”

  Simon was bowing low before Layla now. “Will you accept my gift?”

  Layla nodded again, and he
opened the box.

  Inside were four beautifully carved wooden jars: a baboon, a man, a falcon, and a jackal.

  “What’s he doing with canopic jars?” said John.

  The other two watched silently as the woman ran her finger down each of the jars. As she picked up each one, Simon presented the gift with flourish and fanfare.

  “The human, representing the South, to contain the liver. The baboon, representing the North, to contain the lungs. The falcon, representing the West, to contain the intestines. And finally, the jackal, representing the East, to contain the stomach.”