Horus and the Curse of Everlasting Regret

by Hannah Voskuil

  Tunie stopped smiling. “Oh. Not good luck, then.”

  Horus closed his fingers over the rock and shook his head. “Well, that’s ancient history, so to speak! Can I offer you some tea?”

  “Hate to rush, but I need to check on my dad. I’m meeting Peter back here in a few hours, though. See you soon, Horus!”

  “Goodbye, and thank you!” Horus said.

  On her way out, Tunie looked back and saw Horus clutching a library book to his skeletal chest. Who cared if he’d been a thief? She was starting to like that little mummy.

  “Do not slurp your soup, Randall,” Stepma said. Larry, who was sitting at the dining table next to Randall—and had been the one making all the impolite noise—smirked.

  Peter had just finished hiding two dinner rolls stuffed with ham in the napkin on his lap. He was feeling grouchy, as Miss Cook had chastised him for getting blood on his shirt and made him change before dinner. As if he’d intentionally set out to injure himself and destroy his own clothing!

  His stepmother continued, “I’ve decided to accompany your father to New York when he leaves, to see him settled. Miss Cook has kindly agreed to look after you all for a few days. Luce will come with us, of course.”

  “Can I come, too?” Peter asked quickly, looking from his father to his stepmother. If he and Tunie failed, he wouldn’t be going to Camp Contraption, and if he wasn’t at camp when his father and stepmother left, he’d be stuck home alone with the beastly twins.

  “Aw. Is the wittle baby scared to be left alone with us?” Larry taunted.

  “Larry,” his mother said with disapproval.

  Peter gritted his teeth, feeling a flash of fury. “I’d rather be locked in a cage with a grub-eating gorilla than in this house alone with you two. Compared with you, a hairy gorilla is positively civilized.”

  “Peter!” Stepma and his father said at the same time.

  “You’re the gorilla!” Larry shouted back, spitting a little, his narrow face turning red.

  Peter’s anger got the best of him. He leaned over his soup toward Larry. “Compared with you, a gorilla is a towering intellectual! Compared with you, a gorilla is a model of hygiene!”

  Larry lunged across the table and launched his bowl of soup so it splattered in Peter’s face.

  Peter wiped his eyes with his sleeve and yelled, “At least a gorilla knows not to waste his food and only throws poo! Oh, wait, I forgot—you do that, too, you poo-flinging primate!”

  Peter’s father stood and said at full volume, “That’s enough! All of you, to your rooms—now!”

  Peter managed to keep the ham sandwiches hidden beneath his shirt as he folded his arms and stormed away. He heard his stepmother usher the twins into their rooms across the hall. In his bedroom, he took the sandwiches, wrapped in his cloth dinner napkin, and placed them in a wooden box so he didn’t crush them. He wished he had something more to bring—a thermos of hot chocolate, maybe. The metal thermos they’d had for years was up in a high kitchen cabinet, however; there would be no way to sneak it out.

  The thought of the thermos made Peter pause. He had a distant memory of his mother unscrewing the gleaming metal top and pouring chocolate milk into it. She sat on a picnic blanket beside his father, and there was a river nearby. She sang a song about rainbows. Peter thought he remembered chasing a duck and falling in the water. He must have been young. His throat began to tighten, and he pushed the memory away.

  He began packing a canvas bag with things he’d need for his meeting with Tunie, when a knock sounded on his door. Peter rapidly shoved the bag under his bed and sat at his desk with WindUp.

  “Come in!” Peter called.

  Peter’s dad walked in and sat on the bed, across from Peter. He took off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt and put them back on, then took a deep breath. “That was quite a scene you made. Your stepmother is very upset.”

  Peter shrugged. To his dismay, he could feel the onset of tears again. He gripped WindUp tightly and said nothing.

  His father softly touched one of Peter’s clenched hands.

  “Listen,” he said, “I know it’s hard for you, having Stepma in the house. I know you miss your mom. There have been lots of changes here, and it will take a while to get used to them.” He cleared his throat. “I can tell that the twins are giving you a hard time.”

  “I hate them! They’re monsters!” Peter hadn’t planned on saying that, the words just burst out. “Living with them is worse than living in our old house without Mom!”

  Peter’s father shook his head. “They lost their dad just like we lost your mother. They’ve had a rough time, too. People handle things in…different ways. Try to be nice to them. For me. Please.”

  Peter didn’t want to argue with his father, so he only nodded. They’d been living with the twins for almost a year, and he hadn’t really considered that the twins might be missing their dad. They never mentioned him. Peter’s dad almost never mentioned his mother anymore, either. He wouldn’t play the music she’d loved on the record player. Sometimes that made it even harder, like she’d never been there in the first place. For a moment, Peter considered asking his dad about the picnic, and whether he’d fallen in the stream. Before he could summon the courage, his father stood and ruffled Peter’s hair.

  “All right. As punishment, you all will spend the rest of tonight in your rooms, and all day tomorrow helping Miss Cook clean the house.”

  Peter drooped. He should have known better than to yell at the terrible twins in front of his parents. Now he’d be losing a precious day of detective work because of it. His father gave Peter a hug and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Well, WindUp,” Peter said softly. “We’ll have to get as much done as possible tonight.” Peter felt slightly guilty about disobeying his father, but he had little choice.

  He set WindUp on the bed. The robot played two pleasant music box notes of agreement.

  The smell of cinnamon buns wafted out of Eleanor’s Elegant Sweet Shoppe as Tunie opened the back door. She’d left her sleeping father right after dinner to come here. It was nearly dusk now, and the orange tone of the dying light made the June air seem even warmer. Tunie knew Miss Eleanor had the baker do as much baking as possible in the evenings during summer, to prevent the shop from growing too hot during the day.

  Perch flew up and hung under the eave near the door, sniffing appreciatively.

  “The alley’s not so stinky tonight,” Tunie said, smiling up at her bat. “Keep an eye out for that tomcat, okay?”

  Perch settled in comfortably, tucking his wings around him.

  Tunie stepped inside. The new baker glanced up from the tray of buns she was putting in the oven, saw that it was Tunie, and wordlessly returned to her work. Not exactly the friendly sort, Tunie thought. She was about to go up the stairs when Miss Eleanor swept in from the front of the shop with another woman. The woman wore a cook’s uniform with a white hat, collar, and apron front, and darker sleeves. She looked uncomfortably warm compared with Miss Eleanor, neat as ever in a short-sleeved, belted dress with a pretty flower print.

  Tunie greeted Miss Eleanor as politely as possible.

  “Good evening, ma’am. I thought I’d stop by to see if you had any work for me.”

  Miss Eleanor nodded curtly to Tunie. “Yes, I can use you tonight. Come with us.”

  Tunie followed the women upstairs. In Miss Eleanor’s small office, Tunie washed her hands with the rose-scented soap while they talked. The cook stood by the desk while Miss Eleanor reviewed a list.

  “There are too many folks for me to feed on my own,” the cook said. She had an accent Tunie couldn’t quite pin down. “Mrs. James wants to provide meals for all them’s out looking for her daughter. There’s a crew of twenty-five people going over every inch o’ that fairground. Our cooking staff’s knackered from trying to keep up.”

  Mrs. James? Dorothy James’s mother? Tunie dried her hands slowly, listening.

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nbsp; Miss Eleanor made a sympathetic face. “But they’ve found nothing?”

  “Nothing but gum wrappers and ticket stubs,” the cook said, shaking her head sadly. “We all miss that plucky little girl. You’d think she’d be spoiled, daughter of the richest man in town and all, but she isn’t a bit. She’ll come into the kitchen and read her Nancy Drew books to us while we work. Makes the time pass nicely. It’s miserable without her.” The cook exhaled heavily. “Mrs. James cries in her bedroom every evening. Mr. James is taking it hard, too. He’s always leaving the house at strange hours, late at night. Half the time nobody knows where he is. He’s got dark circles under his eyes like a boxer. The family’s simply desperate.”

  Tunie swallowed against the threat of tears.

  “It’s a terrible shame,” Miss Eleanor said. She scratched out numbers and tallied them, then gave a receipt to the cook. The cook counted out payment and handed it to Miss Eleanor, who accepted, saying, “If you send someone for these at ten tomorrow morning, they’ll be ready.”

  “All right, then,” said the cook. “I’ll see myself out.”

  She left, and Miss Eleanor passed the list to Tunie.

  “I’d like you to write out cards for each of these trays. It shouldn’t take you long, so don’t expect as much pay as last time. Come see me when you’re done.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tunie said.

  After Miss Eleanor left, Tunie began copying out the list on display cards with a new Moore pen: Egg Salad, Ham and Cheese, Marble Rye Toast.

  She wondered where Mr. James was going at night. She pictured Mrs. James, weeping and alone in her bedroom. She didn’t dare imagine where Dorothy was.

  Tunie bent to her task.

  She and Peter would find Dorothy, she resolved, if it was the last thing they did.

  Peter dropped his knapsack through the museum window first and then climbed in after it. Someone really ought to fix that busted latch, he thought. It was like no one but Peter even saw that it was broken.

  The shadowy museum hallways were even more unsettling at night. Peter ran as softly as he could, past rooms marked PLEISTOCENE and DINOSAURS and MARINE LIFE, taking the stairs down two at a time, until he reached the Ancient Egypt exhibit.

  He pushed open the exhibit doors. The smoky smell of the place reminded him of the frankincense and myrrh the priest sometimes burned in church. The room was dark, but Peter could see a rectangle of light where the kitchen door stood open.

  “Hello? Horus? Tunie?” he called quietly. His voice echoed back. Goose bumps rose on his arms as Peter peered through the dimness at the images of animal-headed men on the walls and the crumbling stone faces of the silent sarcophagi. He fumbled for the light switch and nearly screamed when he flipped it.

  Horus stood directly before him, his linen mouth stretched in a wide smile.

  “Peter!” The little mummy looked delighted. “You came back!”

  “Oh, geez,” Peter said with a gasp. “You scared me!”

  “Apologies, apologies,” said Horus, sounding overjoyed and not at all apologetic. He led Peter to the kitchen. “I’ve been reading the most wonderful book Tunie brought me!”

  In the tiny kitchen, Peter placed his knapsack on the table beside an open book and a mug of tea.

  “I have some magazines and newspapers for you,” Peter said, first taking out WindUp and setting him on a chair. He pulled out several older issues of Modern Mechanics as well as the Harbortown Gazette and stacked them on the table.

  Horus lifted up a magazine with a photograph of a dirigible on the cover.

  “What can it be? Is it in the sky?” the mummy said. He stared with wonder at the airship.

  Peter laughed. “It’s a dirigible. Wait until you see the issue about submarines.” He took out the ham sandwiches. “These are for you and Tunie. She seemed kind of hungry earlier.”

  “She does appear a bit underfed,” Horus agreed. “She should eat them both. But what is that on your shirt?”

  Peter plucked his collared shirt away from his chest. There was a large, pinkish stain on the front from the soup Larry had launched at him.

  “This is the second shirt my stepbrother has ruined today,” Peter said. He told Horus about the twins’ bullying and the fight over dinner. “My dad says they’re grieving, but so are Tunie and I. We don’t act like that.”

  Horus nodded thoughtfully. “You said Larry is the one who starts the bullying, and he gets Randall involved?”

  Peter picked up WindUp and toyed with a dial on his back. “Yeah. Larry’s the smart one.”

  “Ah,” said Horus. “Or perhaps he was the smart one—until you came along.” Horus took a sip of tea. “I was quite jealous of my older brother, Taharqa, you know. He was always telling me I was too little to do things, when what I wanted from him was praise. I yearned for him to acknowledge my strengths.” Horus paused. “I understood him too late. Larry might feel the same about you.”

  Peter was thinking this over when Tunie arrived.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly. Her eyes widened. “Are those ham sandwiches?”

  “They’re for you,” Peter said. “Miss Cook made me my favorite rolls, and there were a lot of them.”

  “Thanks, Peter!” Tunie grabbed a sandwich and took a big bite. “Mmmmm.” She grinned at Horus. “See? Kindness travels.”

  “And so should we.” Peter zipped WindUp into his knapsack. “Time’s running short.”

  “Wait, let me finish these,” Tunie said, reaching for the second sandwich, so she held one in each hand. “I’ve been wondering, Horus, how you got to be a robber in the first place.”

  “Ah,” said Horus. He seemed reluctant to speak initially, but then he said, “I fell in with a village boy everyone called Turtanu, which was a nickname. It meant something like ‘general,’ ” Horus explained. “Turtanu mocked my brother, Taharqa, and I enjoyed that. I was envious, as I’ve told Peter. I began following Turtanu and his crowd, joining in their petty crimes.”

  The mummy looked down at his teacup. Peter thought he’d be blushing, if he were capable.

  When Horus spoke, he sounded embarrassed. “To begin with, we stole only from sleeping soldiers, after they’d kicked out and looted the Assyrians. This seemed all right, as the soldiers had just taken the treasures from someone else. Then Turtanu suggested stealing from tombs, and though most people back then would have disagreed, I thought that was all right, too—those people were dead, after all.”

  Peter asked, “Did you get in trouble? What did your families think?”

  Horus shook his head. “I believe they found us too difficult to handle. There was a lot going on at that time. My mother was busy trying to take care of my siblings. She told me not to leave, but she couldn’t stop me when I snuck out of our village and followed my brother and his soldiers northeast, along the seacoast. Eventually, Turtanu talked us into looting and burning the homes of Assyrians for fun. I knew I shouldn’t, but it was hard to resist Turtanu and his crowd. I spent many weeks ruining people’s homes with Turtanu. He would crush their most precious belongings in front of them, for the sheer joy of destruction, and I would join in.”

  “Oh,” said Peter.

  Horus looked up at him, a tea-colored shine to his eyes.

  “I regret it all,” Horus said hoarsely. “I wish I’d followed my conscience, instead of Turtanu. I knew in my heart what we were doing was wrong. If just one person had said as much to me, maybe I would have…” Horus trailed off.

  Tunie had been listening closely. She looked contemplative.

  “I’d bet there’s not a person on this earth who doesn’t regret something they’ve done,” she said with such conviction that Peter wondered what it was Tunie regretted.

  The mummy turned to Peter. “There is a chance your stepbrother Randall feels the same way I did, but he’s allowing his brother to lead him in his bullying. Talking to both of them might help, Peter.”

  Peter nodded. “I’ll try.�
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  Horus attempted to say something but appeared overwhelmed by emotion. He wiped a tear dripping down his bandages. Then he cleared his throat and glanced at the clock. “I know I’m keeping you. Don’t stay out too late. I look forward to seeing you again.”

  “For sure,” said Peter. “We’ll be back tomorrow.” He shouldered his pack. “Bye, Horus.”

  Tunie gave the little mummy a hug and headed for the door. She turned back to wave at Horus. “Don’t worry. We’ll come to talk to you!”

  None of them knew that on Tunie’s next visit, she wouldn’t be talking.

  She’d be screaming.

  “All the way up there?” Tunie said.

  Perch squeaked an affirmative.

  Peter tilted his head back.

  “Maybe there’s another entrance?” he said.

  Tunie wiped a drip of sweat off her cheek with the back of her hand. “The building is locked from the inside.”

  They were eyeing a rickety ladder that ran up the side of an abandoned cinder-block building. Apparently, Perch had found the light blue ribbon headband somewhere on the roof. As luck would have it, this former factory stood a block and a half down from the three-story brick police station. The building was in bad repair. Even by the weak light of the moon, Peter could see the cinder blocks were crumbling, and the ladder rungs were patchy with rust. It didn’t look sturdy.

  Peter had been feeling uneasy ever since they left the museum. This neighborhood beyond the police station had a neglected appearance. They’d passed a couple of abandoned buildings like this one, shops that had closed down when customers had no money to spend. Through the open doorways of vacant stores, he’d seen homeless folks huddled in the shadows. He knew loads of people were out of work; the poor economy had displaced whole families. Still, it was spooky to hear voices murmuring in the dark. Every now and then, a police car would drive by them, siren wailing. Peter couldn’t shake the sense they were being watched, and the idea that Perch was leading them to where he’d found the headband—to the place Dorothy’s kidnapper might have dragged her—only made the night creepier.