The Ka

by Mary Deal

  “Thank you for that,” she said.

  “Okay, so I had a dream as I fell asleep last night.” He took off his hat and scratched his head. He looked comical with matted hair on top and the rest sticking out the sides. “It was of Kenneth and Bebe on a hill with some other people and their lives being in danger.”

  “If it happened while you were falling asleep,” Chione said, “it's only hypnogogic imagery.” Yet, she felt another chill remembering, prior to the trip, having intuited certain peril existing. Some accidents averted, some not. “Not just Bebe and Kenneth. Anyone in the group. That's why we had to get out of the mastabas.”

  “My dream was danger to Kenneth and Bebe,” Dr. Withers said. “It's strange I should be having near nightmares of danger to anyone.”

  “Stranger still is that you're remembering any of it, Sterling,” Marlowe said. “You always say you can't remember dreams.”

  Chione sat up straight and stretched her back and welcomed the heat of the sun. “We should be wary,” she said. “Kenneth needs to be careful, too, down in that area.”

  “Then I had another dream that—well, that one's not important right now.”

  “You mentioned it. So what was it about?”

  “Go ahead,” Marlowe said, smiling mischievously.

  “Well, Chione,” Dr. Withers said. “You may not want to hear this, but I've had this same dream, at least twice, that you and Aaron get back together.”

  “That really was a dream,” she said as her heart skipped a couple of beats.

  “Wait, listen,” he said, putting up those two same fingers. “The strange thing is that you and Aaron were dressed as ancient Egyptians.”

  Chione was rocked by the implication. Her heart raced but she did not want them to know it. “Ancient Egyptians? That certainly wasn't a premonition of the future,” she said, passing it off with a wave of a hand. “When did you begin remembering your dreams?”

  “Since we've been in Egypt,” he said. “I've never dreamed of anyone in this group, ever, as far as the few dreams I remember.” His finger already pointed into the air and asked a moment more while he got his thoughts together. “You don't think my dreams of you and Aaron amount to anything?”

  “No.”

  “But the content fits what's happening now,” Marlowe said.

  Since the first time Marlowe approached her a couple of years earlier, Chione understood her interest in the paranormal was tempered by her husband's need to maintain a professional posture among his peers. Marlowe loved her husband and acquiesced. On her own, she might plunge headlong into the occult. Due to the finding of this tomb, her husband's position had been irrevocably secured in the field. Now she just might find freedom enough to explore her own interests, and due to his nighttime reveries, Dr. Withers might not be able to keep himself from being pulled into it all.

  “Some dreams merely release figments of the imagination,” Chione said quickly.

  “Wait, listen, Chione. We both feel uneasy about Kenneth and Bebe.”

  “As I said, we were being watched,” Chione said. “All I know is that I felt threatened. If we stayed in the mastabas, harm would come to us.”

  “But from where?” Marlowe asked. “By whom?”

  “From very close, judging from the kinesthetic feel of it. Something told me if we persisted in our search, one or more of us would be seriously harmed.”

  “How?”

  “Bodily harm, probably.”

  “Hit?” Dr. Withers asked. “Beaten?”

  “Shot, maybe.”

  Marlowe gasped. “This is serious.”

  “By whom?” Dr. Withers asked. “No one but us was out there.”

  “I can only guess,” Chione said. “The thieves?”

  “That stands to reason,” Dr. Withers said, thoughtfully. “Any of those mastabas are unsealed, considering the ancients used to leave foodstuffs and offerings for their departed.” Then he did not say anything for a while.

  Marlowe looked at Chione and smiled. Chione felt relieved that had been all Dr. Withers wanted to know. Still, him suddenly remembering his dreams was curious. Something told her this would not be the end of Dr. Withers's nighttime odysseys. “May I go now?” she asked. “We've got a lot—”

  “Not yet,” Dr. Withers said. “I want to ask you a few more questions.”

  “About?”

  “To put it bluntly,” he said, smiling briefly. “Back in California, you received several stunning messages about this discovery. I always felt you weren't telling all.”

  “How could you think that?”

  “By being adept at reading body language,” he said, smiling sheepishly at having to give away one of his secrets. “You've never told all and you've received more that you haven't disclosed.”

  “I haven't received much that I could interpret as meaningful to our purpose,” she said, looking him straight in the eyes. From that, he had to know that she was telling the truth. After all, she had received only fragments.

  “But you've received,” he said. He had a way of staring back that would not let anyone read anything in those wizened gray eyes. He would insist on her revealing more details.

  “Sort of,” she said. She needed to appease him without embarrassing herself. “I've had one recurring vision and one new dream.”

  “That's all?” Marlowe asked, glancing to her husband.

  Chione quickly looked down and hoped she had not blushed. Under the revealing penetrating sunlight, how could she hide anything?

  “So spill it,” Dr. Withers said eagerly. “We're here because of you. You can't keep secrets now.”

  “I should have mentioned it,” Chione said. “It seemed so trivial. I had a vision, more than once, of Tauret as a live person, coming toward me from the sofa in the Pillared Hall.”

  “She was sitting on the sofa?”

  “No, she just materialized in the general area of the sofa, maybe.”

  Dr. Withers pulled back a corner of his mouth and made clicking noises with his tongue.

  “She comes out of the sofa?” Marlowe asked.

  “It's as if the sofa isn't there. I wanted to wait till the Hall was emptied, to see if she'd still show up once the sofa was gone.”

  “That's why you didn't say anything?”

  “Right. I'd like to provide the best information possible,” Chione said. “Not just every little detail that may have nothing to do with anything.”

  “Then?” Dr. Withers asked. “What happened once you saw her?”

  “She merged into me, that is, I became her. Or she became me.”

  “No kidding.” Dr. Withers said. Surprisingly, his eyes lit up. “So, what did she look like?” He paced, his way to let off a surge of anxiety.

  Chione did not know how to break the news. “Me,” she said quietly.

  Dr. Withers abruptly turned to face her. “Wha-at?”

  “Now, Sterling,” Marlowe said. “You wanted to know.”

  “Several times I found myself sitting in that beautiful chair by the couch,” Chione said.

  “The one we already found you in?”

  “Yes.”

  “This happened at other times that I don't know about?”

  “Yes, when Aaron and I were in there alone.”

  “No kidding,” Dr. Withers said again. “What does all this mean? What's happening to you?”

  “I believe I'm experiencing some of Tauret's life.” She felt happy to have declared it.

  “No kidding.”

  Chione spotted a monstrous yellow scorpion beating a path toward a shady hole in the outcropping near her. Even though those pests hunted at night and hid from sunlight or came out only to look for a darker hiding place, Chione bounded off her perch.

  Marlowe, too, saw the yellow body with its tail carried high and stood clear. “What was Aaron doing during this time?” she asked.

  “He must have had his own experience.”

  “He intuit anything?” Dr. Withers asked, a
twinge of hope in his voice.

  “Sterling, you always said he was a lot like Chione.”

  Suddenly Dr. Withers smiled that sly, wide-eyed smile that told another of his secrets had gotten out.

  What Chione suspected was probably true. Dr. Withers was being extraordinarily cautious, but in his own way, nudging Aaron and her together. “So you think he's like me?” Chione asked, amused.

  “Sort of,” Dr. Withers said defensively. “Actually Aaron mentioned that you two had similar experiences in there together. My thinking is that if both of you could validate what you received—”

  “Is that why you try to throw us together?” Chione asked, teasing, taking him by surprise.

  “For the sake of our work,” he said. His proud withholding stare and raised eyebrow told of ulterior motives. “Strange that Aaron had a dream where he experienced himself as Tut.”

  Loud voices carried through the air up from the direction of their camp. They sounded excited about something.

  Aaron had not admitted experiencing himself as Tut to her. Just why were she and Aaron sharing the lives of the two depicted in the tomb? “Dr. Withers, I have to say this,” Chione said cautiously. “I don't wish to be manipulated toward Aaron by anyone. We had our time together. If Aaron seems a bit like me, it's because his own intuition is fairly well developed, but he can make it on his own.”

  “That could be true,” Marlowe said. “Chione introduced Aaron to another level of awareness, just like I'm learning. How can a person simply turn it off after being exposed? He would naturally want to be close to her, if only to learn.”

  “It's awfully strange that you two would have all too similar experiences,” Dr. Withers said. “What's the message in that?”

  The noise level from the site increased. Shortly, frantic voices called out for Dr. Withers who only then stepped out from behind the outcropping. Naeem found them. “Quick, quick!” he said, pointing back to camp. “See Mr. Clifford. Why he's making bad noises and begging to Allah?”

  They ran and found Clifford at the head of the crowd outside his tent crying and ranting like a madman.

  “Why?” he asked in a raspy voice, fists clutched upwards toward the sky. Tears flowed down his cheeks. “Why my Rita? Why-y!”

  They crowded into the tent and found Aaron on his knees beside Rita lying on her cot. Aaron cried quietly. Rita lay blue in the face, mouth agape, and dead. One leg was bent up at the knee and both arms were rigid and mysteriously crossed over her chest. They rushed out to Clifford's side. All Clifford could do was scream until he had no voice left. “Rita, my Rita!” Then he collapsed to his knees, bent to the ground, and wept.

  22

  In the distance, screeching women wearing the traditional black folds of modern-day mourners monotonously performed the death wail. Rita's body had to be removed from the hot climate and shipped home immediately. Dr. Withers himself set about making preparations for Clifford to return to California with her. Marlowe was to accompany them and help with funeral arrangements.

  A great sadness permeated their joyous endeavor. The team worked teary eyed. The locals worked in silence. Siti had become despondent, unable to forgive herself, having been inside the yurt when Rita died. She said Rita looked to have been uncomfortable at one point, moved around a bit and then she settled down. Siti decided to let her sleep. That must have been when she died.

  Clifford wandered in as Chione sat during a rare moment alone in Inventory. He looked like he meant to do something but his concentration and intent failed him. She went to comfort him and they held together until they could hold no longer. She felt a curious sensation on the top of her head, then another and another, and still more. Finally, she pulled away and looked up at Clifford and found him weeping silently. His tears had fallen into her hair.

  Clifford pulled out a handkerchief and staggered to take a seat. He sat with his elbows on his knees and stared at the ground, dabbing at his eyes till he stopped crying. Chione tried to comfort him but he squeezed her hand and then stood and walked out of the tent and back into the hills.

  “The wailing's different from when the mummies came out,” Bebe said as she entered with Kendra. “I never dreamed I'd hear anything like that.”

  “They still do that,” Chione said. “In the Mediterranean, the Middle East, many areas. Some are professional mourners. It's cultural, a tribute to the departed.”

  “Sorta like the Egyptians did,” Bebe said, “when Victor Loret discovered that cache of royal mummies in 1898.”

  When the shipment of royal mummies floated down the Nile on the way to Cairo, women on the banks of the river threw dirt on their heads and wailed. Men yelled and shot guns into the air, all in celebration, a show of respect.

  “Kenneth's probably out there,” Bebe said. “He wanted to capture the wailers on video with full sound.”

  “It's amazing what Kenneth's done to document our effort,” Kendra said.

  “Yes, this time around,” Bebe said. “We'll have more than just stills to put into a history book.” Videos would be sold for both publicity and for funds needed by the CIA.

  They paused and listened to the tribute for Rita. She was greatly loved and an undeniable part of Clifford and the group. No joyous cheers went up as more indescribable relics were brought out of the tomb. They silently resumed work as the artifacts were carried in.

  Aaron found Clifford and stayed with him. Later, after Clifford calmed, they entered the cook tent. “Sterling, don't bother with flight reservations,” Clifford said. He had everyone's attention. “Rita's already home.”

  “Oh?” Dr. Withers asked.

  “We wanted to return here,” he said. “Sell our properties, the vineyard in Napa Valley—”

  “The vineyard?” Dr. Withers asked. “After that new airport upped the value half a mil?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He waved a hand in the air. “We wanted to finish out our lives here in Egypt.” The words seemed to stick in his throat. “We could live like royalty…. Could have.”

  “What about Rita?” Dr. Withers asked.

  “I'm going to buy our plots and bury her in Garden City.”

  Dr. Vimble was notified. He sent a local doctor over from Luxor to pronounce Rita for the death certificate. Dr. Vimble was to examine the body once it arrived in Cairo. Then the site was crawling with men identifying themselves as a new squad of the Egyptian Armed Guard who had come to investigate Rita's mysterious demise.

  Still photos had been taken of Rita the way Clifford found her, to provide Dr. Vimble and the Egyptian police with a record. The videographers and reporters were kept away. Clifford allowed a chosen few time to pay last respects in their yurt. He had even spent the night in there with his wife's body. He hadn't slept. Because of the heat, Rita's unembalmed body would deteriorate rapidly. Time was of the essence in transporting her to Cairo for autopsy. The Witherses accompanied Clifford, along with a few aides.

  Soon after they departed, Randy, the students, and their chaperones arrived. Randy wandered about as if getting reacquainted with the site. Then he headed straight to the cook tent where he knew he would find someone. His arm rested in a sling. “Sorry I missed her,” he said upon hearing about Rita.

  “I'm sorry you're so overwrought,” Aaron said.

  “So why haven't you all gone to Cairo?” Randy asked. “For the funeral.”

  “Shut down the whole operation?” Bebe asked. “In case you aren't aware, our little private Institute is on a very tight budget, one which cannot tolerate delays.”

  “Nor deadbeats,” Kendra said.

  Randy reached into his sling and produced photos of Rita's body and spread them on the tabletop. “You see her crossed arms?” he asked. “And what's with that leg?”

  Chione nearly jumped onto the tabletop and snatched up the pictures. “How did you get those?”

  “And that gaping mouth?”

  Aaron leaned across the table and got right up into Randy's face. “Would have done y
ou a world of good had you dislocated your head.” He stood quickly and walked away, saving himself the consequences of finally punching Randy's lights out.

  Randy could resist little. “Look at her mouth,” he said, leaning away and keeping an eye on Aaron's whereabouts. “And her hands. Royal burial would have closed the fists or left her hands flat on opposite shoulders. Rita's hands look like they're holding something that's not there.”

  “For God's sake,” Kendra said. “The woman is dead.”

  “You bet she is,” Randy said. “Laying there like an Eighteenth Dynasty royal. But what's with that leg?”

  “How dare you mock her,” Chione said.

  “I'm not saying anything any of you haven't already thought.”

  Kenneth rose to retrieve a pot of coffee and brought it to the table. He didn't offer any to Randy. “Oh, pray, read our minds.”

  “That ridiculous whimpering, the thefts, Rita's death,” Randy said. “This tomb's cursed just like Tut's was. Who's next?”

  “When did this sorry disbeliever turn convert?” Kendra asked as she rolled her eyes.

  “Tell me, Chione,” Randy said, persisting. “Rita's death is not the tragedy you saw in your dreams. Otherwise you'd have warned Clifford. So maybe there is a curse and more will come, right?”

  “You know, Randy,” Chione said. “You only care to learn enough to validate yourself.”

  Everyone looked to Randy, pathetically attempting to blend back into the group after his absence, a group to whom he had never endeared himself. Evidently his dislocated shoulder had not been enough to humble him. He had never gesticulated when speaking. Now his free hand and arm flopped about as he spoke. “If there's a curse, we haven't seen the end of it,” he said, wagging an index finger. “Chione, I'll bet you haven't told all.”

  After lunch, Chione and Aaron watched Randy interact with the group of children who were being schooled at the site.

  “They seem to get a kick out of his clownish gestures,” Aaron said with a twinge of sarcasm. “There's really no purpose for him staying on.”

  They knew that Dr. Withers would be patient and find new duties for him. “There's a reason for everything,” Chione said softly.