Horace stiffened in his chair. “Deception?”
The other two priests nodded. “Khenemetankh, you are captivated by a young female. Are you still so naïve as to think that you are not under constant observation? The compendium has decreed that your relationship with the female known as Jeanne Mosley must end.”
Horace raised his hand to protest, but realized that the three priests were united in their opinion.
The middle priest leaned forward. “While much has been asked of you, it must be noted that much has been given to you, as well. You have enjoyed every conceivable comfort and advantage since your birth, Khenemetankh. The Egyptian government has entrusted your education and welfare to us. We cannot allow you to endanger everything we have worked for so that you can enjoy a few moments of intimate pleasure. Do not attempt to deceive yourself. Material gain, rather than love, is what she seeks.”
Distressed, but powerless to reverse the decision regarding Jeanne, Horace reached for his Coke. As his hand wrapped around the cold aluminum can, another priest, the one on the far left, stood to speak.
A bit younger and stockier than the other two, the third priest pointed at the camera. “Do you not yet understand? Do you think other men possess the power to command the crocodile and the hippopotamus? You alone are lord to the lion and tiger. All the beasts of the field bow down in subservience to you, Khenemetankh. You are protected and revered above all others by Thoth and Aset, whose magic delivered you to us as a newborn child.
“You have wondered about your origin.” The two older priests stood as the revelation unfolded. “I tell you now, you are not who you believe yourself to be — some orphaned child, selected for his physical or psychic attributes. Hear and understand me, now. I do not speak figuratively when I tell you that your veins run rich with the blood of the almighty Osiris. Your father is the god of pre-dynastic Egypt, he who lives forever as ruler of the underworld and judge of the souls therein. Your mother is his queen, Aset, giver of life and maker of magic — she who resurrected your father after his brutal murder and dismemberment by his brother, Set, Lord of the Desert.”
Horace felt cool liquid dribbling over his fist and glanced away from the screen. Crumpled within his right hand he saw the Coke can, a victim of his involuntary reaction to the priest’s words. Surprised, but distracted for only a moment, he pushed it aside, rubbed his damp hand on his pants leg, and refocused on the screen.
“My Lord, Egypt never revealed the discovery in 1932 of your sarcophagus by a special team of our archaeologists. As incredible as this sounds, you died 3,000 years ago, poisoned by the venom of Uhat, the scorpion. Your mother, Aset, Goddess of Life, recruited the magic of Thoth. She opened your mouth and filled it with the same sacred Fluid of Life that resurrected your father. Reborn, you lived the life of a mortal king known as Menes.
“The time has come for you to know that you are much more than Horace Khenemetankh. You are the resurrection through modern cloning technology of Horus, the Falcon! You are the one, the true messiah, the ultimate salvation of the long-suffering Egyptian people.
“You were sent to study molecular biology and nuclear physics at MIT in hopes that the knowledge gained might assist you in recreating the Fluid of Life. When you perfect the formula, the entire world will fall to its knees and pay whatever Egypt demands to purchase what only you can give them — everlasting health and eternal life!
“With your help, we can mass produce the elixir and anoint an immortal army for you to command. We shall eradicate those who oppose us. The prophets have decreed that through your efforts Egypt will reclaim its status as the richest and most powerful nation on the Earth!”
The younger priest bowed and stepped back as the eldest priest, the one with the thin voice, came forward one last time. “You may have many questions that we cannot answer at this time, Lord Horus, but we shall reveal all to you upon your return to Egypt.
“For now, as difficult as it may seem, you must free your mind of desire’s addictive effects. Lust can cast a veil of indifference over your desire to learn.
“When you return, we can finish your training and education so that you can fulfill your destiny as our resurrected god.” The three priests fell to their knees and bowed in unison to their god.
Horace stared, wide eyed, in shocked disbelief. The muscles and veins in his hands and arms quivered as he gripped the arms of his chair with vise-like strength. Could I be dreaming?
Swiveling away from the screen, his nerves tingled as he rose, turned off the monitor and the living room lights, and made his way through the dark to the refrigerator. He opened the door and stood, staring in but seeing nothing, while the tiny light bathed him in its glow. The chilled air swept over his face as his mind grappled with what he had learned.
Now he understood the reaction of snakes and scorpions to his presence. No wonder nobody ever mentioned his parents. He had been cloned. Resurrected by modern technology from the cells of a not-so-mythical god, by the government that funded the effort to recreate him.
How can I be a god? A god would possess the strength to face the unknown. A god would know what to do.
Chapter Seven
Unable to stave off summer’s relentless advance, spring waved the white flag and retreated from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Everyone in Boston not compelled to wear business attire wore light-weight and less clothing as temperatures climbed into the mid-eighties. Thomas and Jeanne required no arm twisting to pack away their cold weather gear. Clad in shorts, T-shirts, and sandals, they sat on the shaded patio at the Cambridge Brewery.
“He became a hermit,” Thomas complained, reminiscing about the school year and the disappearance of their Egyptian friend. “We got together maybe three or four times after Christmas. This morning I saw the door to his apartment hanging wide open. The cleaning crew said he left yesterday, right after the graduation ceremonies.” Slumped forward with his arms on the table, dejection clinging to his face, Thomas stared down at his beer. “He didn’t even say goodbye to me.”
“My God, do you realize how girly that sounds?” Jeanne asked. “You sure you don’t want some Midol?” She took a big sip of her beer. “Yeah, the clock struck twelve and the handsome prince disappeared pretty damn quick. I never even got my golden carriage, A.K.A. the Maserati. He turned that bad boy back in. So quit moping around, Cinderfella,” Jeanne consoled. “He only called me and said goodbye from the airport last night because he still hoped I’d change my mind and become part of his harem. I would have called you, but I knew you were out with your parents.”
Beginning to perk up, Thomas straightened in his chair and pointed at Jeanne. “He called you because he loved you, and you know it. He told me he stopped hanging with us because the people who paid for his education were spying on him.”
“Yeah, I remember you telling me,” Jeanne shrugged and took another gulp of beer. “Did you buy that?”
“I don’t know, but he sure did. Horace said they were like Eagle Eye. He swore they threatened to cut off his funding if he got romantic with anyone during the school year. Did he ever tell you they expected him to be some kind of savior for his country?”
“Yeah,” Jeanne hoisted her beer again, but paused before taking another sip. “Poor guy. Horace had the weight of the world on his shoulders. It’s not fair to put that much pressure on anybody.”
“Being number one in his class at MIT must have been the easy part,” Thomas assured her. “The tough part was having to go through four years of college without any...” he made a small circle with his thumb and index finger of his left hand. Then, with an amused look on his face, he began plunging his right hand’s index finger in and out of the circle.
“Oh, stop that!” Jeanne giggled, put her beer down, and slapped at him. “What if someone saw you? You’re obscene, did you know that?”
“I try,” Thomas grinned as he raised the tankard of Regatta Golden to his lips and took a big swallow. “I do try.”
&n
bsp; “I’ll drink to that,” Jeanne lifted her beer in salute. “At least you’re back to normal, instead of mimicking Eeyore.” She set the glass back on the table and leaned forward. With a sudden look of sobriety, she asked, “I wonder if we’ll ever hear from him again?”
~~~
Halfway around the world, holding a test tube up to the light, the man who had been known as Horace Khenemetankh found it difficult to concentrate on his work. I wonder if I shall ever see her again?
He drifted back to their last phone conversation. One final time, he asked her to return to Egypt with him and assured her that she would be his one-and-only. She would be his queen, forever. Of course he could not explain to her that he really did mean forever, and that together they would enjoy all of the pleasures that eternal life could offer.
The pain of her rejection still stung, as did her request to keep the Maserati. The lector priests were correct. Jeanne never desired anything other than material gain. But that didn’t change the way he felt.
His thoughts were interrupted by a lab assistant.
“My Lord, are you ready to add the mongoose blood to the formula?”
After a nightmare of epoch proportions, he had awakened that morning feeling drained. He had dreamed of a furious battle between Apophis, the Cobra God of Chaos, and a mongoose. He realized that the speed and courage of the mongoose, which finally killed the cobra, symbolized his own formidable task. He didn’t know why mongoose blood was required, yet somehow he knew that no matter how bizarre it seemed, it would be necessary. Feeling fatigued, Horace asked the vizier why he experienced these violent dreams.
The vizier responded with another important piece to the mystifying puzzle of his life.
“Set, your evil uncle, along with the 72 conspirators who jealously murdered your father 5,000 years ago, is still at work. Today he is known by most as Satan. He wages war against the interests of Egypt and specifically against you and your father. He tortures you at night in your sleep, when you cannot fight back, robbing you of peaceful rest.
“Set knows that if you banish him, Osiris will be released from the underworld to rule all mankind, rather than just the souls of the dead.”
“But, how can I fight an enemy whom I cannot see?” Horus asked.
“By fighting the agents of his armies, Lord Horus. By silencing the tongues of our opposition. There is one who must be silenced forever when he attends the peace conference in Israel later this month.”
“Who is this agent of Set that must be silenced?” Horus asked. “I shall strike this blow.”
“Vice President Christopher Gillpatrick.”
Surprise registered on Horus’s face. He had not expected to hear Gillpatrick’s name. He had supposed a radical Israeli military figure would be targeted, or perhaps a member of India’s parliament. The have-nots, the non-oil producing countries, were always critical of the haves.
~~~
Noticing his pupil’s sudden change of attitude and expression, the vizier asked, “Do you wish to say something, my Lord?”
“Others exist whose lives are not under constant scrutiny, or whose intentions are more threatening than the ineffective economic sanctions proposed by this politician. Should we not consider the calamity that might befall Egypt if it became known that we engineered the assassination of the vice president?”
The vizier bowed. “Indeed, others exist whose intentions are more violent. But few, at this time, are more influential when it comes to shaping world opinion. It has not escaped our attention that Gillpatrick is the front runner in the race to become the next American president. His influence will grow exponentially with the sensationalized worldwide press coverage of his misguided pro-Israeli sentiments.
“His Republican challenger, on the other hand, approves of his country’s dependence on foreign oil, rather than seeking energy alternatives. He has exhibited the willingness to work with us in ways that favor our cause.” The vizier bowed, and studied the face of his pupil to see how his message had been received.
Seeing the knitted brow of a man deep in thought prompted the vizier to speak again, breaking a prolonged, uncomfortable silence. “I perceive that you are not convinced with the necessity of this task which has been set before you, Lord Horus. What troubles you?”
Horus removed his white lab coat and laid it over the back of a chair. He spread his arms wide, and said. “Assassination is not like a lab experiment conducted in a controlled, sterile environment. It cannot be rerun if the results prove unsatisfactory. Murder is a bold, irrevocable act that can result in disadvantageous repercussions. In the United States after the Civil War, a Confederate sympathizer slew President Lincoln. Enraged by the assassination, Lincoln’s replacement, Andrew Johnson, abandoned the slain president’s post-war reconstruction plan. During Johnson’s term the southern states were ransacked and treated in a way that Lincoln never intended. How do we know the forces we set in motion with Gillpatrick’s assassination will not end up causing more harm than good?”
“We know,” the vizier answered with smug finality, “because it has been decreed by the prophets and sanctioned by the government. The forces have long been in motion.”
Horus picked up his lab jacket and threw it over his shoulder. Sneering as he stared the vizier in the face, he said, “So let it be written, so let it be done.” On his way out, he slammed the door to the lab.
The sarcastic quotation from The Ten Commandments motion picture left the vizier cursing under his breath.
Chapter Eight
One row behind his father, Thomas Franklin sat in one of the wide, first-class seats next to his mother, as the chartered plane they and Vice President Gillpatrick traveled in began its final approach to Israel’s Jerusalem Airport. From that point a limousine equipped with armor plating and bullet-proof glass would take them to the hotel where they would spend a few hours relaxing before heading to the peace conference.
Since announcing his campaign for the presidency, security had been increased wherever the vice president went. Secret Service Agent Paul Collins sat next to him on the plane. His counterpart, Kevin Kerekes, returned from the restroom. As he moved down the aisle, Kerekes held his stomach and whined about possible food poisoning from the sandwich he had eaten several hours earlier. “I don’t know why we aren’t on Air Force Two. They always had better food than the crap we got on this flight.”
“You’re always having stomach troubles, Kerekes,” Gillpatrick complained, as the agent squeezed past him to reach the window seat. “I swear, if there were a shootout or a hijacking, after the smoke cleared we’d find you in the restroom. Besides, Air Force Two came down with engine trouble, so I’m pretty damn glad we aren’t on it today.”
Before Kerekes could defend himself they were interrupted by the captain’s voice on the intercom, asking all passengers to return to their seats, buckle their seatbelts, and return all trays and seats to their full, upright positions. After what had been a silky smooth flight the bright sunshine disappeared.
~~~
The descending plane slipped into a thick bank of clouds and began to encounter some moderate turbulence. The shake associated with the deployment of the landing gear and lowering of the wing flaps always upset Thomas’ mother, who turned and buried her head in her son’s shoulder.
“Now, Sonya,” the ambassador turned around in his seat to talk to her. “You’ve been through this a hundred times, honey. Everything’s okay.”
With her eyes squeezed shut, she replied, “You always say that Ben, but you just have to be wrong one time.”
“Well, I’m not wrong. Everything really is okay, look.”
Encouraged, she raised her head, peeked through the window, and sighed. A serene vision of green meadows rose gradually toward them as the plane emerged from the cloud bank.
Sonya started to relax, when suddenly a loud bang accompanied by an ominous shudder rippled through the entire plane. The calm, steady drone of the engines changed to a strai
ned, high-pitched whine while the plane banked hard to the left.
The serenity of seconds ago, coupled with the growing anticipation of great accomplishments, became a distant memory. The ambassador’s wife clung to her son as terror gripped the plane’s twenty-nine passengers. Everything in the overhead cabinets and the cabin, even the seats, shook and rattled.
~~~
The attempts of the flight attendants to avoid an all-out panic went up in smoke. A thick, black plume billowed from the monstrous engine on the far left of the struggling craft, accented by intermittent, twisting swarms of what resembled orange, yellow, and white fireflies.
“My God, they don’t have much altitude to work with,” Agent Kerekes shouted. “Mr. Vice President, I think you should be prepared for the possibility that we could crash!”
“Really?” Gillpatrick shouted back. “Whatever gave you that idea, Kevin?” He turned to Agent Collins. “I would think now is when Kerekes’s stomach would act up, wouldn’t you, Paul?”
Undaunted, Kerekes continued to do his job. “Just before impact, sir, you should bend forward and cross your arms in front of your face. Collins and I will cover you as best we can to provide some kind of cushion.”
Without warning, the big jet pitched hard to the right. A young flight attendant flew through the air as if weightless. She soared past Thomas and his mother, slammed into the side of the cabin with a sickening crunch, and slid down the wall in a crumpled heap.
With alarming velocity the jet’s nose dropped. The left wing of the plane skimmed the green grass of a pasture where a herd of uncomprehending cattle stared up. The pilot managed to level the plane out one last time, but lost too much air speed to stay aloft. His last words were the start of The Lord’s Prayer.
The Falcon and His Desert Rose Page 6
