“No. But Sinuhe was the perfect example of service to Egypt, and the ideal of putting afterlife over living. Don’t you think it’s strange that a country already so completely devoted to the gods and their realm would wind up circulating a story like that? A story that says ‘forget being a prince, you should be worrying about your mummy’? They knew it already. Why would they need to be reminded?”
“That’s a rather spurious line of argument,” Van Allen said. “Myth doesn’t always originate as a moral example. Some are stories just for the sake of being stories. Others are actual recountings of real events. Maybe Sinuhe was real, and you call him a myth for the sake of propping up your story.”
Seth met him, gaze for gaze. “At this point, Doctor, it’s your word against mine. How exactly do you plan to resolve an argument like this? Time travel?”
“Maybe later. Tell me more about what you did that supposedly prompted the creation of Sinuhe. I was under the impression that secret rituals remained, shall we say, secret?”
“They should have been. But when I got sick, my brother—Zimmer, as you knew him—helped me with the shabtis and my tomb. We told everyone that I was going into seclusion and praying for healing. Then, if the spell worked, I could return and claim the gods had blessed me.” He shook his head. “But you already know that you can’t build any kind of tomb with just an invalid and a priest.”
“The servants talked?” Van Allen said.
“Slaves. Don’t whitewash it. The markets were flooded with captives after the campaigning season. We bought them cheap and kept them loyal with generous payments, plus threats and beatings, if necessary.”
Van Allen’s gaze flickered to Theo again, as if he was silently asking her what she thought of that admission. She stared steadily back. Could she be angry on behalf of people who’d been dead for four thousand years? Or lose her temper about what happened before the invention of steel?
“By the way,” she added softly, “I think he knows you’re baiting him, Doc.”
Van Allen’s poker face was amazing. “I am?”
“The afterlife of the Deshret?” Seth’s mouth twisted. “Deshret means the red earth, the desert, and you know it does. Not the afterlife. Either you’re an incompetent scholar, or you were setting me up to fail by offering bad information.”
“I was,” Van Allen agreed, almost amiably. “So the slaves, you were saying?”
“One of them talked, I heard later. Caused a minor panic. If the story was true, then what I was doing was sacrilege. Perverting the cosmic order, upsetting the barque of the sun, consorting with chaos, gaming the system. Take your pick.” Seth leaned forward a little. “They fought rumor with rumor. Knowing King Senwoseret, he dreamed it up himself; he always had a good head for stories, especially when the Great House was on campaign and he got to spend time with someone besides the palace busybodies.” Seth grinned a little ruefully.
“I followed the news as best I could. I was in my first new body then, lurking around Kush, hoping to come back and claim I’d been healed, once the rumors died down. They didn’t, not in his lifetime. I waited forty years for him to die, and I never could shake the idea that he was just a kid sitting on his dad’s throne.”
As Seth spoke, Theo watched his face. The life was there, vitality and humor and strength forcing their way through a body left sluggish by the failing power that had created it. The emotions animated him, and the smooth ripple of movement added warmth to him. Not just the motion, either. There were healthier tones in his skin now. His veins ran with blood instead of clay and magic, and his eyes were bright.
She transferred her gaze to the little curator. If Dr. Van Allen thought Seth was a lunatic or a scammer, he was doing a good job of hiding it. When he asked a question about life in Kush and Seth answered easily, Van Allen’s hand momentarily twitched before curling the fingers inward. She recognized the motion—the impulse to grab a pen and start jotting down notes.
Dr. Van Allen was listening. Dr. Van Allen, the one who insisted on absolute precision in everything and publicly called Egyptology his vocation, was calmly listening to a story about mummies and magic and warped golems created out of shabtis. It would have been so easy for him to do what Theo had done originally and try to write the whole thing off as a hallucination, but he’d gone to bat for both of them and accepted a story that should have been kryptonite to a serious scientist.
But this was Dr. Van Allen, who also never left anything to chance and always wanted proofs on his desk as early as possible. A week was more than enough time to get the Columbian’s Cairo team down to Thebes for a quick examination of tomb THS2. He would probably have that badly spelled copy of the Coffin Texts on display in a few months.
He caught her staring and merely raised an eyebrow. As usual, his expression gave little away. She just shrugged, her own expression innocent—he’d probably know she was on to him anyway.
For a moment, there was silence. Then Dr. Van Allen resettled himself in his chair and, to Theo’s astonishment, relaxed.
“Tell me about your life, Mr. Adler.”
“What do you want to know?” Seth said.
Van Allen considered the issue for a moment.
“Everything.”
Theo’s smile widened, and Seth grinned at her fondly before turning back to the curator. “I was born in Thebes, around 2000 BC…”
Epilogue
He’s okay. I’m okay. It’ll be okay eventually.
Memo: Colors and games.
~Excerpt from the diary of Theodora Speer, date unknown
The hearing took place on a Monday afternoon. Theo was present, heart in her mouth, as Dr. Van Allen calmly explained that Mark Zimmer had set up Mr. Seth Adler and one of his own staffers to take the fall for a series of robberies. Mark confessed to everything, his tone wobbly as he described how it had been done and the steps he’d taken. His parents, a wan-looking couple in late middle age, wept. One of the cops rubber-stamped some paperwork.
Seth had left immediately after testifying, unwilling to dwell on the story of his brother’s death any longer. Theo wondered if he was leaving for good—but he was waiting for her outside, his collar turned up against the cold, the scarf wrapped tightly around him, just as it had been on the day they went to lunch. His cheeks were red with the cold, and his bad hand was tucked into the pocket of his coat.
He smiled, and Theo smiled back, a warm feeling settling in her chest despite the chill of the air and the worry of the hearing. He held out his good hand, gloved fingers enfolding hers and squeezing.
“How did it end?” he said.
“All right,” she responded, “I think. Mark said he did it, and with his history… I mean, his mind was thrown out of his body when Meren took over, and his family thought he’d had an aneurysm. There shouldn’t be any problems with accepting that there was something wrong with his mind this time too. You’ve already been cleared, and charges are being dropped against me. Mark’ll spend some time in a mental institution, but I don’t think he’s unhappy about that. He really needs therapy.” She shivered, a little unsure of how to feel. She knew she would never be able to accept the real Mark Zimmer, despite knowing the whole truth. There were bad memories associated with that face.
“I thought so.” Seth shook his head. “He’ll need to find a new career once he’s out. I can help him with that. But for now, at least he has his body back.”
Theo nodded. “He had tears in his eyes. Kept describing his ‘out-of-body experience’, and flexing his hands like he couldn’t believe he had them.” She swallowed, trying to get rid of the lump rising in her throat. “His parents started crying too. They said they didn’t care, they had their son back.”
“Long may it last,” Seth said.
“Speaking of…” Theo added a little uneasily. She was certain they were already both thinking it, but she couldn’t not a
sk. “Will Meren…” she shook her head at the thought, and Seth squeezed her hand again, “…will he come back again? Will he try to take back Mark’s body?” Is he watching us right now?
Seth bent his head a little. Strands of his long, dark hair, flecked with snow instead of gray, fell down over his eyes as he shook his head. “No,” he said simply. “Meren’s a soul without a form or a heart. The boy’s soul stayed because his body was still alive and others may have lingered because of their murder, but Meren challenged the gods directly. He’ll be judged and go to the outer darkness beyond the west.”
There was weariness in his voice, and Theo squeezed his hand back. Much as she hated Meren for what he had put all of them through, she knew that Seth was the one who had lost the most. The brother who’d tutored him, helped him and saved him had tried to kill them both.
“And what about you?” she said quietly. She felt awkward, like she’d been caught where she shouldn’t be. “Are you going to be judged too?”
“I don’t know,” Seth replied. “But if I’m condemned for wanting to live a long life, then I’ll have a lot of company.”
He drew her to him. His kiss was soft, sweet and a little sad; they’d come to a crossroads, she thought, even as she returned it. But she held his gloved hand in hers, remembering the darkness in the halls and the terror of his supposed death, and she knew that she would be joining him on his road for now. She’d learned too much to stop.
As they separated for a moment, their breath clouding in the cold air, Seth looked down at her with those heart-stopping, dark eyes. “So am I still crazy?” he said softly. “The last time I tried that in a public place…”
She smiled, and it seemed that a knot was unraveling in her chest. “I can’t vouch for your sanity,” she said, “but whenever you want to do that, you won’t catch me objecting.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said as he ran his one long-fingered hand through her loose hair. Her eyes burned a little, seeing again his bleeding limbs and wondering if she could have done it better—but he tilted her chin up and kissed her again, warm and loving and so very very alive. Her worry melted away in a rush of heat and emotion.
“Don’t be sad,” he murmured. “You fixed me.”
She blinked away her tears and scowled, trying not to let her emotions get the best of her. “I don’t remember building psychic powers into you, mister.”
“I don’t have to be psychic to see what you’re thinking,” Seth said, that very small Etruscan smile quirking the fluid lips. “I know you too well.”
“Only because you cheated,” she told him, gently prodding his good shoulder with her index finger. “If it hadn’t been for those shabtis, you wouldn’t know me from Alexander the Great.”
“You don’t think much of my powers of observation, do you?” he said, wrapping his weak arm around her waist. A fresh gust of wind brought a flurry of snowflakes with it, peppering his face and hair and forcing him to muffle a sneeze. Theo laughed and rested her hands on his shoulders.
“Well, I still don’t know that much about you, do I? I think I deserve some time to learn.” She flicked a couple of snowflakes off his shoulder. Seth smiled a little and twined one loose strand of her hair around his fingertip, the ash-blonde standing out against the black fabric of his glove.
They stood there for a long time, just enjoying each other’s warmth. Passersby on the museum campus bridgeway could probably see them—him a tall inscrutable figure in gray, snow making constellations in his dark hair, and her with her blonde braid and orange parka looking up at him. Theo saw him, saw her, saw the picture they made, and laughed.
Seth looked at her in astonishment, but Theo couldn’t suppress her giggles long enough to explain. Yin and yang, male and female, light and dark in figure form. The kind of cheap symbolism that would have made her art teachers kick someone out of class. Her lover just shook his head as she laughed herself out, and held her while she caught her breath and tried to focus.
“Seth,” she managed, “we have to get you some new colors.”
“That’s what I love about you,” he said. “You don’t stop. You made me a new body, and now you want to get new clothes on it too?”
His tone was teasing, and she laughed again and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Trust me,” she said, “your color palette is all wrong. I’m thinking deep navy, jade green, silver gray, maybe a touch of ivory…”
“No green,” he said. “It makes me look like a third wife.”
“Fine. No green.”
“And before we do anything else, I need your help with something.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Where do you buy an Atari?”
About the Author
Catherine Butzen is a native of Chicago, IL, who grew up haunting libraries and museums. She graduated from Coe College in 2010 and now makes her home in Cedar Rapids, IA, where she divides her time between work and writing stories about magical things going terribly wrong. Her first novel, Thief of Midnight, was released by Stark House Press in June 2010. In her spare time she sews costumes, plays tabletop RPGs and studies history. She can be found online at her website, A Murder of Prose.
Sticks and stones may threaten bones, but her words can conquer both body and soul.
Making Magic
© 2014 Donna June Cooper
During his law enforcement career, Sheriff Jake Moser has been called to Woodruff Mountain a few times to deal with some rather weird situations. Now, recovering from a bullet wound that should have killed him and fending off his mother’s ravings about the evil that lurks on the mountain, he’s making alternate career plans.
Just as those plans begin to take shape, someone starts kidnapping newborn babies, then returning them unharmed. To make things even more interesting, an irritating adversary from his past has returned to bedevil him in a whole new, delightful way.
After her erratic psychic gift forced her to abandon her home and a promising musical career, Thea Woodruff has spent years trying, unsuccessfully, to atone for the death of Becca Moser, Jake’s sister. Once she has mourned those she’s lost and apologized to those she’s failed, she intends to flee her mountain once again.
Jake would rather she stay to compose a new tune—with him. But their complicated harmony reveals a guilty secret that threatens not only their future, but their lives…Warning: A temperamental flute-player returns to torment an old flame, but he has other ideas, and the music they make together is combustible—and magical.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Making Magic:
For a moment he thought he actually saw the bullet in midair. It was spinning hot silver sparks as it sped toward him. That was impossible, of course. But Sheriff Jake Moser was well acquainted with the impossible.
It plowed into his stomach, folding him up and dropping him to the ground. His skull bounced off the wood floor and stars flickered before his eyes.
Dammit.
There were frantic screams and what sounded like people pushing over chairs as they scrambled to safety. Someone stepped on his leg. Oddly, the pain was reassuring. At least he could still feel his leg.
“Get him!” one person yelled.
“Stop him!” shouted another.
The noise seemed to recede. With a start, Jake realized he was the one who was fading.
“Jake, Jake, Earthquake. Jake, Jake, Beefcake. Jake, Jake, Cupcake. Jake, Jake, Hotcake.”
Becca?
Why in the hell did he do this? Give up his own dream to walk in his father’s shoes—walk right into a damn bullet. Just like his father.
“Hang in there, Jake.” That was Evan Meade, Chief of Police of Patton Springs.
Nothing to hang on to down here except floor, thanks, Jake thought, still clinging to the echo of his sister’s voice singing that silly rhyme in his head.
Someone pressed down on
the pain, shoving it right up into his head and making those stars flicker again. “Shit.” Jake hissed.
It was Evan, checking him over for an exit wound.
“He’s conscious at least,” someone said.
He’d always thought this would happen one day, but not at a town council meeting. Sheriff Jake Moser was destined to get shot answering a domestic violence call or on a drug bust, not at a damn town council meeting.
“But he’s not bleeding that much.” A woman said somewhere above him.
“It’s the internal bleeding we have to worry about.” Evan answered in a quiet voice. Probably thought Jake couldn’t hear him.
Jake heard a siren wail to a stop outside, but it wasn’t the paramedics. They would take longer. He needed to fight his way out of this fog. He needed to stay lucid.
“Is she okay?” Jake asked, or thought he asked. It may have sounded different to Evan.
“Take it easy, Jake.”
“He’s asking about the mayor,” the woman said.
“She’s fine, Jake. We got the shooter,” Evan said. “One of your guys is taking him outside. Just relax.”
“That was her ex-husband, you know,” the woman said to Evan. “The mayor’s.”
He finally recognized the speaker. One of the trio of women who had been sitting at the back of the room before all the fun started. Long ago Jake had labeled them the Patton Springs Triumverate. They were the backseat drivers at every council meeting—trying to drive the town back into the past. Now he imagined all three of them hovering above him, cackling like those crazy witches in Macbeth. Shit.
But this particular witch was right. It had been the mayor’s ex. And her ex had clearly either been on some drug or in desperate need of one. Probably jonesing for hillbilly heroine—oxycodone. He’d seen it on the man’s sallow, sweaty face and wild eyes as he had shambled toward the council. Of course, Jake had been more focused on the huge gun the guy had been waving around, especially since Jake had come to the meeting in civvies. Without his vest.
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