Maimonides leaned back on his heels and clasped his hands together close to his belt. He rocked back and forth for a few moments. “Yes. Someone I’ve waited for, for a long time.”
Nysa hoped he would say more. She loved mysteries and important slaves would certainly be mysterious. She dared not ask him a question and Devorah was entirely absorbed watching the men, soaked in sweat, begin to carry casks into the storage hall where they’d just been playing knucklebones.
On the far side of the harbour, on the Isle of Pharos, white-robed figures moved near the Temple of Isis. A single horseman waved to the priestesses and passed through the gate onto the causeway, his blue cloak billowing out behind him. Halfway across he halted and looked into the harbour, where the slave ship had slowed, perhaps awaiting a place to dock safely. The clack of the horse’s hooves carried for a moment on the wind as the great black horse trotted the rest of the distance across to the western harbour. Devorah leaned at the door of the hall, watching the men pile up the casks. Maimonides and Nysa’s father studied one of the ledgers together. The rider had stopped his horse near the quayside and looked directly at Nysa. Now he had approached she knew she’d seen him before, when she’d returned from Devorah’s house with Myrna and they had also seen the enormous man. She remembered the giant had spoken with this horseman, with his dark hair and – even at this distance – arresting eyes. For a moment, a moment that extended on and on, Nysa and the horseman held each other’s gaze. Something seemed to open in the centre of her chest. Vistas filled her mind, of deserts and temples half buried in the sand. An Ibis flew past and turned inland towards the Great Library.
“Do you want to play another round?” said Devorah, rattling the knucklebones in her hands once more.
The Ibis glided overhead.
“Sorry? What did you say?”
“Do you want to play again or are you too chicken?”
The quayside was deserted. Not true. The quayside had files of men carrying sacks towards the great storage hall, but the rider had vanished. Nysa looked along the city walls towards the Caesarium with its huge granite needles and then the other way, to the fort that dominated this part of the harbour. No rider. No black horse.
“Are you listening, Nysa?”
“All right. Let’s play another round,” said Nysa, with both confusion and excitement swirling inside her.
“That won’t be possible,” said Maimonides. “Our ship has docked and I have important cargo to check.”
The long ship had anchored some stadia out from the quay. Smaller craft were rowing towards it. Light flashed where spears and buckles of the armed men on the ship caught the sunlight. Water dripped down from the oars, raised with precision all at once from the sea, and partially withdrawn into the ship.
Nysa knew, she didn’t know how, but she knew that the person Maimonides awaited hadn’t yet arrived. He remained far away. But not for long.
That evening Myrna sat in her sanctuary room at the northeast corner of the Maimonides household. She had prepared her writing tablets earlier, smoothing the wax held within the wooden surrounds, so that she could write with her pointed stylus. A neat pile of tablets rested on a low table by her knee, as she sat cross-legged on a large cushion. Two oil lamps, suspended from the ceiling and hanging just behind her, provided a quiet, warm light that combined with the candle on the table, enabled her to write.
She’d learned to write at her mother’s knee and could form words in both Greek and Latin. Being mute, people often thought she must be both deaf and stupid as well, but Myrna understood many of the tongues spoken in Alexandria, even the Egyptian language, although that she couldn’t write. Maimonides had asked her once if she could read minds.
“No,” she wrote, “I cannot just enter another’s mind and look around. But if they form their ideas clearly with precision, and do not seek to hide their intentions, I can hear the meaning behind their words when they speak, even if I don’t understand each separate word.”
The Jewish scholar waited patiently while she wrote and took the tablet from her, tracing her letters with his fingers.
He looked at her for a while, his eyes wandering over her face. He took a breath and sighed.
“So you couldn’t read my thoughts just then?”
Myrna shook her head and picked up a fresh tablet to write.
“No. I have to wish to do so. It takes an effort and is tiring.”
Maimonides read her words and nodded.
“That is good … that is good. I trust you, Myrna, but I also need my privacy. I prefer to choose what you share of my mind. But on occasion a silent communication between us may be advantageous. I think we will both know when.”
This had been how they’d communicated since, with Maimonides speaking and waiting patiently as Myrna wrote her answers. Myrna knew her master could not Hear, not in the way she and her mother could Hear. But she had found he could share his thoughts in clear word pictures when the situation demanded it. He’d done this on returning from the harbour as he stopped near her on his way to evening prayers.
‘Where is the boy? The boy we seek? Is he on the ship that docked today?’
All this had arisen in her mind as they stood in the colonnade looking at the fountain sparkling in the evening light, as other slaves bustled by.
Now, in the privacy of the room where she had permission to do her work, the work other slaves must not know about and the work never to be mentioned to other Jewish scholars, she looked for the boy they both knew would arrive soon. She took a few deep breaths and allowed her eyes to wander, softly, over the diagram drawn with such care on the papyrus in front of her cushion. Made of multiple overlapping circles of equal size, the patterns, still at first, gradually began their dance. Maimonides had told her this image contained all wisdom in terms of number. “In it, Life itself flowers and Wisdom has her abode.” Myrna had not known quite what he meant but knew that the circles could form patterns that her master suggested explained the whole of creation and the very key to Time itself. But you had to learn to see it aright.
Flight to Egypt
Over Europe – about now
The painted mannequin had stood in the centre of the aisle. She’d taught us how to put on a life jacket and how to breathe if the plane ran out of oxygen. We were now cruising at 33,000 feet somewhere over Germany. A steady breeze shushed down from the little air vent above my head. Natasha offered me a wine gum from a clear plastic bag. I chose my favourite, one of the black ones.
“What’s he watching?” I asked.
“Who?”
“The tall git sitting next to you.”
“Don’t know,” Natasha stage-whispered into my ear. “Looks like some historical thing. All swords and horses and distressed maidens.”
Natasha didn’t really have to whisper as the guy had large cans on his ears and looked engrossed in his movie. We’d hoped we would have the three seats to ourselves. We’d agreed I would get the window seat on the way out and Nat would have it on the way back. Just before the door closed the man got on, complaining to the stewardess about the fact he’d booked a seat with bigger leg room. The bloke’s legs were squeezed in to our particular part of the sardine can. His white hair suggested he was Granddad’s sort of age. We were sharing his wine gums.
“It’s amazing. We got right through this term and hardly saw each other,” said Natasha, “what with my football commitments and all. Who sealed the well in the park, do you think?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t believe it. You know Jules is totally sceptical about what’s happened to me. Well I told her some of it. Not the going back to Ancient Egypt bit, but the fact that the well existed and the bandstand had a temple under it and all. So she says I must show her. And when I do the blooming well’s been sealed, hasn’t it, and they’ve put new flooring down on the store room in the bandstand.”
“You must’ve been gutted. Who did it d’ya think?”
“Don’t know. I just don�
��t know. But I did see this guy … in the park. I mean I think he was the same guy that shot at me—”
“Shot at you?”
“Yea, I told you. At Aunt Bridget’s house, when I’d climbed the tree.”
Natasha scrunched up her face.
“What on earth were you doing up a tree, you noodle?”
“I just wanted one last climb. You know. I sensed Aunt Bridget would die and all and I wanted, well you know…”
Natasha nodded. We each took another wine gum and gave the bag back to the man at the end of our row of seats. A powerful lime taste filled my mouth and I savoured it for a moment with my eyes closed. Natasha poked me in the side.
“Why are they after you?”
“I really don’t know. But I’m glad I gave you the Time Sphere objects, ‘cos I think my bedroom was searched.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“No. I sort of sensed that I was being followed. Or I became paranoid or whatever. Anyway, once I had dropped it off and you’d hidden it in your bedroom I did that James Bond thing.”
“What James Bond thing? Jumping out of a plane without a parachute sort of thing?”
“No. With a hair. In the bedroom.”
“What do you do with a hare in the bedroom? What, like a rabbit?”
I stared at Natasha. I couldn’t tell if her dead pan face was designed to wind me up. Then I understood.
“No. Not a hare. A hair. You know, from your head.”
“What on earth has that got to do with James Bond?”
“It’s in From Russia with Love, I think. He sticks a hair from his head with a bit of spit across a wardrobe door, to see if anyone searches his room. He also uses talcum powder. I didn’t go that far. But one day when the house had been completely empty I found the hair had fallen off.”
“Well, it probably dried out.”
“Could be, but I don’t think so. You see I’d put a paperclip in the bit where the lid of Auntie’s box closed. You know, so when someone opened it, it would fall out. Well … it had.”
“You’re saying someone broke into your house and actually searched your bedroom?”
“Yes, I am. I think it was the guy who shot at me.”
At that point the stewardess came round and offered us lunch.
The pasta with nondescript meat had been okay, but I preferred the wedge of soft cheese and the single biscuit. I hoped we would get a proper meal once we arrived in Alexandria.
“You think Lucian’s involved in all this in some way?” said Natasha.
“I don’t know. It’s weirded me out really, but I don’t remember him at school even though he’s been at Scrivener’s all year. He seemed to just appear after Christmas.”
“And you saw him in this vision thing?”
“Along with that creepy girl Magda and the Ice Queen, Victoria. She really gave me the creeps. But worst of all was seeing the fat priestess again, the woman with the red hair.”
“The one you’d seen in Ancient Egypt?” said Natasha
“Yes. And in London that time.”
“Maybe—”
I slapped my forehead, upsetting the dregs of a plastic beaker of coke.
“I forgot. The journal. The journal in the commode. Did you get it?”
“I texted you.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. The weekend you were at the party we went to help clear Bridget’s house. I found the key, just like you said, hidden in a tiny round tin, beneath the statue of the boy in the garden.” Natasha used her paper napkin to wipe drops of coke from her jeans.
“And…?”
“As I wrote, I looked in the commode. In the hidden drawer – well, not so hidden, just unexpected.”
“And…?”
“And nothing. The journal had gone.”
I brooded while the plane hummed and passed high above endless expanses of cotton wool. I’d thought the journal would both help me understand what I’d experienced and be proof I could show others. Like Jules. Now we’d lost it. Probably to the burglar, though I couldn’t fathom how.
Natasha nudged me.
“Do you have your phone?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Can I have it?”
“Why?”
“Just let me have it, Rho, I’ve an idea.”
I passed it to her and continued staring at the clouds. Another plane, like a tiny toy, flew way below ours. I checked my watch and guessed we must now be flying over Greece.
“Ouch!” Natasha had jabbed me in the ribs. “What—”
“Look! Look what’s on your phone.”
I did. At first the picture didn’t make sense. People dressed in fancy dress were rioting on stone steps somewhere. I swallowed and my head spun and became as light as a soap bubble.
“OMG,” we both said in unison.
“You’ve got it. You’ve got proof,” said Natasha.
“Wow. Yes. I remember. I used the phone to distract and fool the mad priests who were attacking us.”
I looked more closely at the picture. My Greek friend Dimitris struggled with a priestess with garish make-up, who held his arm. Her mouth made a perfect ‘O’ and her eyes were red, not because she was a fiend, but because I hadn’t done red-eye correction. Further below, a dark-haired priest stared towards the camera.
“See. You do have proof. Something to show Juliette at least. Now she’ll have to believe you. Now you can demonstrate you travelled back in time. And –” Natasha bit her lip and narrowed her eyes – “this being the oldest photograph ever, will be worth millions.”
The Lighthouse
Alexandria – about now
I dumped my sausage-bag on the floor of the bedroom and opened an inner door. My own bathroom. Mega cool. My limbs ached from having been awake so long, and the endless journey. It had taken ages for our bags to clear at Cairo, and then the drive to Alexandria had lasted, like, forever. I’d tried to sleep in the car but car horns and trucks thundering past had made that impossible. Natasha had fallen asleep with her head on my shoulder so I’d got a crick in my neck by not moving. I rubbed it and circled my shoulder.
The double bed had a green silky cover, with greeny-yellow fringes. It had a bunch of small cushions, which I tossed into a corner. A large rectangular picture hung above the bed with a faded black and white photograph of a religious procession, with priests dressed in, well, dresses – or ceremonial robes of some fancy kind. Judging from the clothing of the onlookers, which included men in funny upside down plant-pot hats with tassels, I reckoned it dated from early last century.
Sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room, I eased off my trainers and sniffed my socks. They wouldn’t do another day and joined the cushions on the floor. A tap sounded at my door.
“Hey, you got the big room.” Natasha grinned as she hovered in the doorway.
“Yup. Boy’s prerogative. This is a man’s world, well at least here in Egypt.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got a balcony. Mind you, it’s bleeding chilly outside at the moment and raining. I thought Egypt was a desert. People come here for winter breaks, don’t they?”
“Auntie said the weather should improve tomorrow.” I lowered my voice. “Her parents seem nice, don’t they?”
Natasha nodded. “Tomorrow we go exploring. That driver, Mohammed, is going to be our personal chauffeur, apparently.”
“We’re going on our own?”
“No, silly. Auntie Aida is coming with us. In fact she and I are visiting one of her female friends. They’re quite strict Muslims, so you’ll have to wait outside.” Natasha’s face lit up with a wide grin.
“What, with the driver who speaks no English? Oh great.”
Natasha winked and skipped off down the dark passageway. “Breakfast’s at eight,” was her parting shot.
I crossed to the other side of the room and heaved back the heavy curtains. The multiple layers of material snagged on the runners. It took me several moments to suss o
ut how to work the sliding glass doors, but I failed to get them to move. In the bedroom, the one bar, electric fire crackled in the corner, making minor inroads into the chill. Everything seemed bigger and smaller all at the same time. I yawned. ‘Dead beat’ didn’t begin to describe how tired I felt, but I wanted to see if I had a balcony too.
Finally, I found a wobbly tab and with that pushed up the large glass door could be eased open. I don’t know what view Natasha had, but my balcony looked straight out over the harbour. I yawned again, rubbed my eyes and eased my shoulders and neck. Being this tired gave me a floaty feeling and I knew I would sleep the sleep of the dead when I hit the sack in a few minutes.
Alexandria hid in dark patches illumined by faint moving lights. The moon shone somewhere behind Auntie’s apartment block and I could see the temples near the harbour picked out in ghostly white. I’d no idea that Alexandria had such well-preserved monuments. Tomorrow might be interesting after all. I moved to the front of the balcony to get an unobscured view. At the far side of the harbour, a tall building rose against the blackness of the sea, its windows flickering with faint warm light. Unlike most high buildings this one had no neon sign advertising a bank or similar. At the top, a room shone with brilliant light. This must be the famous Alexandria lighthouse. We would visit it tomorrow for sure.
I covered my ears against the distant drumbeat: “Zulu warriors,” someone said. The thumping went on. And on.
“Rhory!”
I woke up to find Natasha standing fully dressed by my bed.
“Are you totally deaf? It’s five past eight. The driver comes at eight thirty. Everyone’s waiting to start breakfast. Jeez! I thumped on your door but you just snored on. I could hear you. Now hurry up.”
My cousin flounced out of the room and I pulled on my jeans and decided the fragrant socks could manage another day as I’d not opened my sausage-bag yet, except to pull out my pyjamas. I wasn’t even sure I’d packed other pairs of socks.
“No, you can sit in the front today,” said Aida. “We girls get the comfort of the back seat.”
Time Knot Page 10
