The Isis Knot

by Hanna Martine

  Hope and excitement—and surprise at Jem’s ability, and an even deeper curiosity—filled William. “And Brown’s signature? You can fake that?”

  That could mean passage anywhere. Freedom to move about. To search.

  Jem nodded. “I’ll only do it if I can come with you.”

  “Jesus.” William gripped his wet hair. Looked out into the storm. Looked back. Jem had spoken that last sentence with conviction, but heavy uncertainty weighted the corners of his eyes. William took the lad’s shoulders, having to reach up to do so. “If you have any doubts, any at all, don’t come with me. I’d like to have those papers, I’ll be honest, but I’m leaving whether I have them or not.”

  Jem met his eyes. “My doubts aren’t what’s keeping me here.”

  “Then understand one thing. If you come with me, you follow me. There is something I…have to do, and I’ll not have you draped around my shoulders like a wet blanket. I tell you that not to be stern, but so that you’ll be prepared. So you’ll know what’s to come.”

  With a glance back at the house and a lift of the chin, Jem replied, “I understand.”

  The surge of pride that bloomed inside William was large and unexpected. He’d done this, helped to create this young man from the quivering boy he’d saved from the hands of rapists. Jem had made up his mind and acted on his own. William had to be gratified. But he also had to be careful. Very, very careful.

  Jem cleared his throat as William’s hands slid off his shoulders. “Where are we going then?”

  William drew his lips tight, thinking. “Parramatta. The closest town.” It stood in the path of his woman’s wagon trail. He’d evaluate what to do next after that.

  “All right.”

  William gave a firm nod and a wan smile. “Yes. All right then.”

  And the two convicts bolted into the stormy, New South Wales bush.

  CHAPTER 7

  It had rained last night. A dark, driving kind of rain that had had Sera curled up under a scratchy blanket that reeked of horse shit and damp wool. The sun was out now, at midday, but patchy clouds and a dimness to the west promised more wet that evening. The whole world seemed to be taking a breath, waiting for it. It was that quiet, that still.

  She sat on the edge of the wide, low porch that surrounded Viv’s shack, hands on her knees, chin tucked to her chest. Trying to remember.

  She knew big things now, large aspects of her former life that painted a wide picture but still skimped on the details. Things like she was from the United States of America. From a year in a far distant future. There should be toilets on this farm, and airplanes should be making white streaks across the sky, their engines rumbling beneath the other sounds of modernity.

  Nothing specific, however, came back to her. Not her birthday, or what kind of car she drove. Or what the gold bracelet meant or how she’d come to be here.

  For the past eight days, she’d had to learn to live all over again. Learned how to drag water from a stream a half mile away and having to boil it to make it drinkable. How to eat bland, terrible food that consisted of meat and brick-hard bread. How not to speak a lot or use too many words that could mark her for being even more different than she was. Not that Viv would notice. He lived in his own world and time, his rum bottle in one hand and an eye permanently cast into the past.

  He called Sera “wife” sometimes. “Mary” on occasion.

  It made him happy to do so, and it didn’t bother her as much as it probably should. He never touched her, not even casually. As long as he didn’t ask questions she wouldn’t, or couldn’t, answer. The way of him—his low cackles at some private joke; the way he said, “Remember when we…?” and then launched into a rambling story about a foreign time and place; the tottering around and constant forgetfulness; the way he always asked if she was full enough or warm enough or happy enough—did, however, inch its way into her heart.

  In eight days, she found she’d come to care for him in a way that seemed both welcome and foreign. As though it were a new feeling for her, which was strange because who didn’t care for someone else at some point in their life? Why did this feel like a completely new experience?

  Little points of pain splayed across the tops of her knees and she realized she was digging her now-jagged fingernails into them. The nails pressed easily through the thin, loose fabric of the brown pants Viv had given her, and she knew another panic attack was bearing down. Her chest started to heave, her breath coming dry and fast.

  What if I’m trapped here? What if I can’t get back?

  Every day since she’d seen Viv’s coins, those two thoughts had played over and over in her mind. And every day she’d forced herself to stifle them.

  She couldn’t remember her school years in any detail, but she sure as hell knew that she hadn’t gotten through life by curling up and praying for the hard times to just go away. Though the faces and names of the influential people in her life were nothing but blurs, she knew they’d taught her to kick weakness into a corner and stand over it screaming.

  She wouldn’t scream now, so she yanked her hands from her knees and ordered her lungs into a steady rhythm. It took a minute, but they finally obeyed. Her gaze swept over the barn on the opposite side of the muddy yard, where Viv was inside shearing his sheep, and landed on a group of eight gray kangaroos standing on their hind legs, staring back.

  Kangaroos. Hopping around on their own, not behind a zoo fence.

  As what sometimes happened when she was idle, when she wasn’t paying special attention, her right hand absently drifted to her left forearm, fingertips scraping lightly over the gold.

  The answers lay inside the thing clamped around her arm. It was the one undeniable truth about this place and her situation.

  She rolled up her sleeve and touched the gold. She traced the curious image of the knotted rope and listened to the answering thrum in her heart. Listened to what it told her to do.

  For the thousandth time, she contemplated leaving Viv and going out to search for the blond man. For the thousandth time, she talked herself out of it. This farm was an oasis of safety, and though she sensed that she’d never been the kind to retreat in the face of danger, that had been in her world. In her time.

  Now she stood in a brand new country that had a shaky set of morals, and paper-thin laws and security. Viv had warned her of the primitive native people and the escaped criminals and the creatures that could kill you with a single bite. Before, her survival in the U.S. had relied on knowledge of her surroundings and the people within them. Now she knew nothing, and it kept her feet within Viv’s boundaries, even though the cuff and her heart wanted to venture out.

  Answers and danger? Or mystery and life? Both options sucked.

  In frustration, she stabbed fingers into her hair and yanked them down to the ends. The right hand kept streaming all the way through to the tips of her long hair, but the left hand pulled out early, where she’d had to snap off a chunk of strands in order to free the cuff from its tangle eight days earlier.

  She’d jumped to her feet and pounded into the shack before her mind had registered her decision. She found Viv’s knife, dull from him using it on just about anything, and took it back outside. Blade in hand, with no mirror in sight, she started sawing at the long part of her hair. A good six or seven inches had to go to make it roughly the same length as the part she’d ripped off, and with each piece that came off in her hand, she felt a little bit lighter. Emotional and physical weight coming off and being carried away on gusts of wind. The black clumps rolled across the yard like tumbleweeds. The newly ragged ends of her hair brushed her shoulders, and it felt so unfamiliar she realized she’d never worn it this short before.

  Her butt thumped back down to the edge of the porch, and she drew a deep breath of the strange air that tingled inside her lungs. It was the one thing about this place that she loved. That sweet scent from the gum trees.

  She started to drag the blunted point of the long knife thro
ugh the crusty mud between her feet. She drew nonsense at first, just lines and squiggles that she stamped out with her feet and then started over. Circles and boxes and triangles, like the things she used to doodle on her remedial math notebook during class, because she’d already known the whole school thing was useless…

  She gasped. Then frowned when the blooming memory died as abruptly as it had started.

  The knife had gone still. She dragged the too-large boots Viv had given her over the scribbles and started over. This time with her name. S. E. R. A.

  Sera, if you’re reading this…

  The image of the note was very real, very crisp in her mind. The paper was thick and expensive in her fingers. The handwriting slanted severely—the scrawl of a man who’d been busy and rushed his entire life.

  Sera, if you’re reading this, it means that both your mother and I are dead.

  I’ve made many mistakes in my life, but perhaps the one I’m most ashamed of is hiding your existence. I was young then. Young and stupid and scared of what could happen if my family and investors ever found out about my behavior that night in Las Vegas.

  I have the feeling that your mother never shared with you the money I sent her every month. At first it was to keep her quiet, but then it became for you, when I realized what I’d done and had no other means to fix it. I was a coward. Now it is too late.

  I wanted to leave you something after I was gone, but I had to make sure she or anyone else wouldn’t take it from you. My family may come after you, may demand to know you or try to take your inheritance. Don’t let them. The law is on your side. It’s yours and you deserve it.

  I am leaving you some money and one of my family’s greatest treasures. It’s been passed down through the Oliver generations for over two hundred years, and is now on loan to the Egyptian Museum in Cairo. The curator, Malik Elsayed, is expecting you to retrieve it and will help you through the auction process, if you so choose.

  My daughter, I am so sorry for everything. I know this doesn’t make up for a lifetime of absence, but I’d like you to know how often I’ve thought of you over the years and regretted my choices.

  Mitchell Oliver

  A stranger’s name.

  A loud bang jolted Sera out of the memory. Gasping, the knife fell from her fingers. Her head whipped toward the barn, where a sheep was making an awful squealing sound. Something made of wood crashed and splintered, and an old man let out a hoarse, fearful cry of alarm.

  She jumped to her feet as the sickening sounds increased. More crashing and bleating. Dust filtered out of the cracks in the barn. She had no idea what was going on inside, but it sounded like a chase or a battle. She’d stayed far away from the animals since her arrival here, knowing instinctually that beasts were not her thing. She’d been a city girl, through and through. But Viv could be hurt, or in danger. Another ragged cry from the old man, followed by a cringe-worthy, almost liquid bleat, and then silence.

  She’d already taken three steps across the yard when the barn door flew open and Viv stumbled out, rivers of red running down his hands and forearms. The kangaroos nearby jolted and took off in a speedy bound.

  “Jesus Christ!” she shouted. “Viv!”

  As she hurried toward him, another sliver of memory was fed to her. She’d been taught not to care about bad things that happened to others. She’d been taught to try to find ways to use others’ misfortune for her own good. But that was the old Sera, and now she rushed to Viv’s side.

  He staggered forward, overcompensating for the imbalance of each step. A sickly white pallor muted his ever-present tan. The hand that held the large, bloody shears shook violently. As she reached him, he collapsed to his knees, then fell sideways into the dirt.

  “Are you hurt?” She dropped beside him.

  “No.” He could barely keep his head up, and his eyes danced back and forth in their sockets. “I…I accidentally cut one. Cut one of me sheep. Had to kill it, I did. Can’t afford to buy another. At least we’ll eat well tonight.”

  She took the shears from his trembling hand and set them on the ground. “I’ll get some water for you to wash up,” she said, because she didn’t know how else to react. “How did that happen? Did the sheep fight you?”

  He looked down at himself and embarrassment turned his sweating face beet red. He struggled to come up on one elbow. “The bottles are empty.” He looked at the dirt, not her. “I thought I wouldn’t need it today.”

  She sighed, sitting back on her heels. He’d drunk rum while shearing the past few days, but last night as they’d sipped their soup, his bottle had gone dry. She hadn’t known it was his last. He’d complained of a headache that morning and had gone into the barn without offering her his usual empty-toothed smile.

  She recognized the withdrawal shakes now. Because she’d seen them on someone else. Someone else she’d taken care of. A woman with hair as dark as her own. Her mother maybe?

  The wisp of memory drifted away as Viv fought to stand up. “I want to lie down. Inside. Just a quick rest.” He’d probably sleep the rest of the day, his withdrawal was so bad. His wobbly knees just barely supported his body.

  “Let me help you,” Sera said.

  “No, wife. Don’t you worry about me now.”

  He wove his way toward the shack and she followed. Inside, he flopped onto the rickety cot she’d been sleeping on for the past seven nights. Blood rubbed off on the already stinking blanket, and she knew she wouldn’t sleep on that thing again.

  She dragged over the water bucket. “Here. Have some water.”

  He looked at her doubtfully, but then his cracked lips opened and closed like that of a dying fish. Sera bent and dipped the cup into the water.

  “You’re so good to me, Mary.”

  His eyes were closed and a look of wistful, heart-breaking love tugged at the corners of his thin lips. It cracked her own heart to see it.

  She gently pressed the cup to his mouth. “Drink.”

  After only a slight hesitation, he did. He gulped once, twice, then cringed and turned his face away like she’d made him drink unsweetened lemonade. She let him take a break. Then he lifted his eyes to hers. “I need more.”

  “All right.” She extended the water.

  “No.” A shaking finger pushed the cup away and his gaze drifted over to the leaning cupboard where his bottles were normally stashed. “I don’t want that.”

  Her shoulders sagged, the remaining water dripping to the dirty floor. “Oh, Viv. You don’t need more rum. You need water. And probably a doctor.”

  Dropping the cup back into the bucket with a splash, she stretched out a hand and pressed her left palm to his waxen, wrinkled forehead.

  The skin beneath the gold cuff warmed and buzzed. And then she saw.

  Viv’s shriveled, prone body disappeared. A blast of staccato images swept in to consume her vision:

  A pudgy, naked boy baby suckling at the breast of a woman dressed in a simple robe, colorful beading at the neck. Her black hair, woven in tiny braids, swung over the baby’s olive skin.

  A hunter, his adult body clad in a cloak made of stars, bow and arrow on his back. A dog sat obediently at his heels, and the canine’s eye was a single star that blotted out all the others in the sky.

  The looped and knotted rope.

  A name came to her, whispering through her mind—Isis.

  Isis. Isis. Isis.

  And then Sera knew.

  With a great surge that barreled down on her as hot as a furnace and swift as an eagle, she knew she could help Viv. Knew she could heal him. With this simple touch of her fingers and a prayer, she could erase his addiction and the sicknesses surrounding it.

  Gasping, she snatched back her hand.

  Viv peered at her, his body still shaking. “What is it, wife? What’s wrong?”

  She backed away, half expecting blue lightning or some such nonsense to crackle out from her fingertips. She stared at her left hand, the cuff now inert and covered by he
r sleeve.

  Ridiculous. Impossible. Magic didn’t exist.

  Neither did time travel.

  “I’m all right,” she murmured.

  “Then go to town for me.” His hand waved at the pegs near the door, where his coat and hat hung. Some of the concern had left his voice, replaced with the edge of a frustrated drunk—something else she knew well. “Buy me more rum.”

  The urge to touch his outstretched hand, to release the healing magic of Isis into his body, burned powerful and persistent. She stared at the blood drying on his nails and knuckles, the magic beneath the cuff pushing her forward. She saw nothing but a sickly man in need of her help.

  “Sera? Sera?”

  It was the sound of her true name that broke the trance. She shook her head, deleting the whispering call from her mind.

  “Will you go to town for me?”

  “But—” Oh, his hand. If she could just—

  He glared. “I don’t need anything but the drink.”

  Viv did need her, he just didn’t know it. But he also clearly didn’t want her anywhere near him if she wasn’t holding a bottle.

  With a pang, she realized that much of what she’d done in her life had been against other people’s will. It wasn’t a specific memory that chose to come back at that moment, but a roll of emotions. Heavy, regretful emotions.

  She’d taken advantage of people once. She’d stolen from them, disobeyed their pleas, hurt them. She’d disrespected their free will.

  And she’d hated doing it.

  If Viv didn’t want her to touch him or be near him, she wouldn’t go against that wish. If she did touch and heal him—even with a good outcome—would she be any better than the selfish woman she used to be, two centuries and half a world away?

  She swallowed hard and stepped back to look at the coat and hat hanging on the peg. The loose door caught a breeze and opened wide enough for her to see outside. The afternoon sky was beginning to darken with the onset of rain.

  If she left to do as Viv—the man who’d saved her life—wanted, she might also find the chance to ask about the blond man.