“Thanks again for the ride,” she said, and slammed the door shut, hurrying into the tiny house.
“Bye, Tunie!” Peter called through the window.
Peter’s dad was silent for a moment. Then he turned in his seat, looking over his shoulder as he backed up the car.
“Well, Peter,” he said finally, “it sure seems like you’ve found a friend.”
Peter thought of how Tunie had stood up to the twins when they were attacking him, and how she’d defended him just now. She was the kind of friend he’d wished for all year.
“Yeah,” Peter agreed. “Tunie’s pretty great.”
He spent the rest of the ride home answering his father’s questions as best he could without mentioning Dorothy James or her kidnapping, while still mulling over how he’d sneak out the next day. He felt a jolt of excitement every time he thought of how, among the monstrous vines of the plant in Detective Shade’s office, he’d hidden an intercom device he’d made. WindUp could receive radio waves from it. It had a Swedish nickel-cadmium battery in it that wouldn’t last too long, though. Peter needed to get over to the Harbortown Police Station as soon as possible and try to get near enough with the receiver to listen in on Shade before the battery ran out. There was something about the detective that Peter simply didn’t like.
With a satisfied sigh, Horus closed the book he’d been reading in the museum’s tiny kitchen. The novel was a mystery about someone named Hercule Poirot, and Horus had been transported by the story to the point that he’d entirely forgotten where he was. What a blessing!
Something unusual was happening to the mummy. He felt a kind of unfolding in his chest, a softness, something gentle. He’d wanted to do something for Tunie, but what? His mother had liked sweets, dates, and honey. Horus had a sweet tooth himself. Yet he had no way to procure such things for Tunie. He’d grown to be a fair artist, doodling away the decades. Perhaps he could draw something for her. As long as he created something from things left behind and not from the exhibit, it wouldn’t disappear.
He decided he’d ask her what kinds of things she liked, on her next visit.
Through the open doorway, the exhibit was silent and empty, the other sarcophagi on display showing impassive carved faces from dynasties earlier than his own. There was a mummy from a Middle Kingdom necropolis, another from the Second Intermediate Period. None of them still lingered in this world. Horus placed his wrapped hand on the book’s worn cover. It was worth more to him than all the treasures he’d stolen while he was alive, more than gold, more than jewelry. The moment he’d realized Tunie and Peter could see him, he’d felt the buzz of opportunity like he hadn’t since his pillaging days. He still could hardly believe that Tunie had brought the books. He’d already given her the information she wanted; he hadn’t been certain she’d return, but she’d kept her word. He wished he’d known her while he was alive, instead of Turtanu. Someone like Tunie could bring out the good in a person, he thought. Maybe he would have been a better boy.
Maybe.
Horus looked down at the smooth sling stone in his hand. He remembered the last time he’d used the rock. He could almost smell the smoke from the flaming houses, hear the shouts of his brother’s bare-chested soldiers. While he and Horus were looting, Turtanu had spied a young boy with a bow and decided he wanted it. The boy began to run when Turtanu shouted at him. Turtanu grabbed Horus’s sling from his hand.
“Give me the rock,” Turtanu demanded. “I’ll stop him.”
Horus hesitated. The rock was heavy and dangerous. Turtanu could kill the boy if he hit him in the head.
“I said give it to me!” Turtanu shouted. He snatched the stone from Horus’s hand and swung it in the sling. Horus didn’t stop him. Horus watched the rock fly through the air, a dark thing arcing against the blue sky, then heard a cry of pain and saw the boy collapse in the distance. Turtanu shouted with triumph and ran to catch him. Horus held his breath, terrified that the boy might be dead, and was greatly relieved to see him stagger to his feet.
Horus gazed down sorrowfully at the carved stone in his wrapped hand, much worn now. No point in dwelling, in wishing for things to be different. He wasn’t a good boy then, and he wasn’t any kind of boy now. Horus pondered, the hopeful feeling Tunie had roused in him beginning to fade. He supposed he should try to get what he could from Tunie and Peter before they grew tired of Horus, bored with outings to the museum. Before they realized they could never help that poor kidnapped girl, that two children and a clever bat could never hold their own against evil like those men. Horus knew from experience. After all, he’d been evil himself.
When Tunie crept in the door, her house was dark and silent. The air smelled of leftover soup. She could hear her father’s labored breathing coming from his room. Tunie locked the door and pushed a stool beneath the doorknob, knowing that neither of these devices would keep out a persistent intruder. The idea of Dorothy’s kidnapper roaming free out there was starting to make her feel a little on edge.
Perch, however, seemed entirely untroubled. He flew directly to his nook and fell asleep, issuing tiny bat snores.
Tunie realized they’d forgotten to tell Detective Shade that Horus had heard a tapping sound during Dorothy James’s kidnapping, and that the banker with the cane was a possible conspirator. Tunie wished she could talk to Peter about everything; their promise to Detective Shade had prevented them from discussing the case on the way home. She decided she’d return to the police station tomorrow and make sure the police had all the details.
To take her mind off kidnappers, Tunie read a thin textbook on curses, trying to find something that might help Horus. Unfortunately, the book was about how to place curses on people, and sounded dodgy even to Tunie—tying string around a rotten cabbage and spinning it over a candle? Eventually exhaustion took over, and Tunie fell asleep fully dressed. She slept fitfully for a few hours and woke in the early gray dawn. She sat straight up and looked at the door. The stool was still in place, and her father was snoring in the next room. It was too early yet to head back to the station.
Tunie stretched and cleaned herself up as quietly as she could. Then she sat near the window on the other stool, flipping through a different illustrated book of curses: seasonal curses, curses of enemies, curses of familiars. Tunie didn’t like to think about that one. As if reading her mind, Perch flapped over, hung upside down on a nearby towel bar for company, and snoozed.
Tunie turned to a page with a full-color illustration of a mummy beneath a full moon. The words Everlasting Regret were beneath the moon. Wait a minute, Tunie thought. That sounds like Horus’s curse! She read on, her heart beating faster.
“The Eternity of Regret, or Everlasting Regret, is a curse one may place upon the selfish and unworthy at a moment when the cursed one is performing an evil deed. Although it is meant to last forever, it is said that acts of selflessness and kindness, performed under the eye of a full moon, may, over time, alleviate the curse.”
Tunie peered out the window. It was a foggy morning, and the sun was a white glow barely visible between the trees. If she went soon enough, she could visit Horus and tell him about the curse before the museum opened.
First, though, she’d pick some wild strawberries for breakfast. Her father needed something to eat besides day-olds. She’d seen some strawberries in the grassy patch behind their house a few days ago; they should be ripe by now. This was something else to be thankful for, Tunie thought. The founder of the museum had wanted to preserve the property’s natural environment. Though their house was cramped, Tunie felt lucky to live surrounded by greenery. Fresh fruit would do her dad some good.
Perch woke up, blinked a few times, and squeaked to be let outside.
“Would you mind checking to see if anyone’s around?” Tunie asked Perch. “I know it sounds crazy, but I’m afraid the kidnapper might be lurking out there.”
Perch squeaked his assent, and Tunie cracked the door open for him. After about five minutes, he
returned.
“All clear?” Tunie asked him. Perch nodded his furry little head.
“Great!” Tunie said with relief. She quietly left the house and walked around back to the damp, grassy clearing. The strawberries were red and ripe. It took Tunie only a half hour to pick the berries, rinse them, and leave them in a bright bowl with a note for her father. Yet that delay made all the difference.
Peter went downstairs early the next morning, before anyone but Miss Cook was awake. He gulped down toast and then asked her for his chores. This punishment was harsher than his father intended; Peter had more pressing things to do that day than anyone knew.
“If you have any one-person jobs that would keep me away from the twins for a while, I’d appreciate it,” Peter said gloomily.
Miss Cook looked sympathetic.
She handed him a notebook and a pen. “I need an inventory of what’s in the storeroom downstairs. You can lock the door to the cellar while you’re in there, if you like.”
He grinned. It was too good to be true! He’d be on his own and out of sight—perfect for sneaking away. Peter thanked Miss Cook enthusiastically and went down to the basement with his knapsack and the notebook. He set WindUp to play a happy tune, for company, and began a detailed inventory list of all the dry and canned goods lining the shelves: Campbell’s soup, Heinz vegetable salad, baking powder. He worked as neatly and quickly as possible; if luck was on his side, he’d be able to do his chores here and also slip out to the police station without anyone knowing.
Peter’s father soon knocked on the cellar door. Peter climbed up and unlocked it. His father stood at the top of the stairwell and looked down at Peter through his glasses.
“Miss Cook tells me she gave you an inventory task that should keep you busy for a few hours,” his father said.
“Yes, sir. It’ll be a while before I finish,” Peter said agreeably.
His father eyed Peter warily, seeming somehow mistrustful of Peter’s calm acceptance.
“You know you can’t just sit down there and work on WindUp. Your stepmother and I are going to run errands now, but I’ll check on you when we come back this afternoon.”
Peter tried to look as innocent as possible.
“I promise I’ll get it done, sir,” he said.
His father nodded and left.
Peter waited, counting cans until he heard his parents leave through the front door. He tucked WindUp inside his knapsack. Then he pulled a storage box over to the small garden-level window near the top of the wall, climbed up on it, and squeezed out. The window exited to a narrow alley between Peter’s building and the next. A woman walking her dog on the nearby sidewalk looked at him strangely as he emerged from the base of their building. Peter smiled and jogged down the alley to the street behind his house, hoping to avoid his parents. He didn’t have money for a streetcar, and the police station was about two miles away. There was no time to lose.
The morning was already hot, the air close. The boulevard that ran by the museum and the police station was busier than it had been the night before. Peter had to wait a long time to cross the streets on the way to the station. He kept glancing around, worried his father and stepmother might pass by and discover where Peter was before he had a chance to eavesdrop on Detective Shade.
Peter made it to the brick police station without incident, however. He glanced around and then dove behind the shrubbery below the window he thought belonged to Shade’s office. It was cooler out of the sun, but not much. Peter was sweating as he drew WindUp from his pack and fiddled with some dials. There was a crackling sound and some static. Peter waited. Was it working but the office was empty? Or had something gone wrong with his design? He hoped it was only that Detective Shade hadn’t come in yet.
Peter pushed a sharp branch away from his face and settled in the dirt, with his back against the building, the bush screening him from view. He opened a box of animal crackers to eat while he waited.
“Well, WindUp,” Peter said, “we’re getting pretty good at spying on people. If I can’t become an inventor, maybe I’ll be a detective instead. I’d deal with all kinds of crooks—hatchet men, grifters, bank robbers, even murderers!”
He gestured enthusiastically with his cracker at this last word and bumped WindUp, who emitted a faint chime. Peter was on the verge of meeting true criminals, even earlier than he expected.
In a cupboard beneath the sink in the undersized museum kitchen, Horus had discovered a treasure. It was a paint-spattered plank of plywood with a splintery side and pockmarks along the bottom. Someone had stashed it in the cupboard’s shadowy recesses, and Horus noticed it when he was hiding his beloved library books.
“However did I miss this?” Horus said aloud, setting aside his carved sling stone and dragging the plank out onto the floor with delight. He’d rifled through everything in the exhibit and the kitchen more than once, out of sheer boredom, and had never seen this before. Someone must have left it within the last month; he hadn’t thoroughly searched for a few weeks.
Horus clapped. “It’s perfect!”
He’d been wishing for a canvas of some kind, in order to make a surprise gift for Tunie. He had no way to go in search of a present, but he did have some artistic skill. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had to offer.
Horus thought back to the gift his older brother had given him. Horus must have been about seven, and Taharqa gave him the braided sling he’d fashioned himself and the rock to throw, for practice. The rock was a smooth river stone, and his brother had carved a unique symbol into it. His brother set the rock and sling in Horus’s small hand.
“You place a rock here, and you use this sling to throw it very far, like this.” His brother demonstrated. He placed the rock in the sling and whirled it. It whistled through the air, gray against the blue sky, and landed in the distant dirt with a brown puff. Horus ran to retrieve it.
When he returned, grinning, Horus looked into Taharqa’s big brown eyes, so like his own.
“Now I can go fight with you!” Horus said.
Taharqa laughed. “Ah, you’re still a child,” he said, almost wistfully. “This is for play.”
“I’m not a baby! I can fight, too!” Horus placed the stone in the sling and tried to throw it, but it hit the ground not far from them and bounced aside.
“It takes a lot of practice. You have time.” Taharqa sounded melancholy. He stood up, ruffling Horus’s hair before he left.
“You should remain a child as long as you can,” he said.
Horus had glowered with resentment. He’d thought his brother was mocking him. Later he realized what war involved: violence, bloodshed, vengefulness, and rage. On plaques in his exhibit, he’d read about men who had spent their entire lives fighting. He knew now his older brother hadn’t wanted Horus to hurry into that life. Such misunderstandings were what had led Horus to follow Turtanu around.
Horus placed one linen-wrapped hand flat on the plywood, brushing off dust and paint flakes. He would sketch out what he wanted to paint with the pen Tunie had brought him, and figure it out from there.
The mummy sat in front of the blank piece of wood, thinking. What should he paint? It had to be meaningful. It was nearly morning, and as he thought it over, he felt the strange pull of his curse calling him back toward his sarcophagus. He knew if he didn’t obey, the curse would eventually yank him there and whisk the plywood back into the cupboard and out of sight.
He slid the plywood back in its place himself and padded over to his sarcophagus, holding the pen. If someone were to see it, he or she wouldn’t question its presence. One would assume a visitor had dropped it. The magic of the curse worked to keep Horus’s presence hidden from everyone but Tunie and Peter. He wanted to hold the pen and take time to mull over what he would paint. This was something else Tunie had done for him; she’d provided happy things to occupy his mind during the slow daylight hours. If only he could do something as nice for her.
This was what Horus was t
hinking when he realized someone was prowling around the exhibit.
Perch scouted the woods and path to the museum, then let Tunie know it was safe. She was exhausted, and her eyes felt dry from too little sleep. Even Perch flapped droopily alongside her. Still, Tunie felt encouraged. Things were looking up! There might be a way for Horus to alleviate his curse. She and Peter had reported what they knew about Dorothy James’s kidnapping, and everything was in good hands. She hoped the police would find Dorothy quickly. With the reward money, Tunie could finally take her father to see a doctor—a good one—and pay for whatever treatment he needed. There would probably be money left over, too, enough for real food. She imagined a fish-and-chips dinner, and a fresh spinach salad, and ice cream for dessert! She wiped her forehead on her shirtsleeve as she opened the door to the museum. Ice cream sounded dreamy. It was a hot, sticky day already, a harbinger of the overwarm summer to come.
The door creaked open, and Tunie called up to George. “It’s me—Tunie! I just forgot something down here last night.”
“All righty, Tunie,” George yelled down the stairwell.
Perch gave a yawn, showing the little white needles of his teeth. There was a dark nook in the stairwell, with a bar and hangers for coats, that made a nice snoozing spot for Perch.
“You need a nap,” Tunie said, giving Perch a gentle pat on the head. “Why don’t you sleep a little? I’ll see if Horus is still, uh, awake or animated or whatever.”
Horus had said something about being able to move only at night. It was still quite early in the morning—six o’clock—and the museum wouldn’t open for another three hours. Given the inscrutable magic of his curse, she wasn’t sure if he’d be up and about or lying unmoving in his sarcophagus. Tunie opened the door to the Ancient Egypt exhibit and closed it behind her, flipping on the light switch.
Horus and the Curse of Everlasting Regret Page 8
