This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1997 by J. Suzanne Frank
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
A Time Warner Company
Originally published in hardcover by Warner Books.
First eBooks Edition: June, 1996
The Warner Books Publishing name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-446-93013-0
Contents
FOREWORD
PART I
CHAPTER 1
PART II
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
PART III
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
PART IV
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
PART V
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
EPILOGUE
GLOSSARY THE MAJOR GODS AND GODDESSES LOCATIoNS
AUTHOR'S AFTERWORD
ACKOWLEDGEMENTS
EGYPT. WHITE WALLS WITH LIFE-SIZE FIGURES IN COLORS SO BRIGHT, THEY HURT.
The floor on which she was lying was cold and getting colder. Chloe attempted to sit up, only to fall back onto the stone, boneless as a rag doll. She looked around again, a feeling of horror and disbelief growing in her.
Something was wrong.
Was she dreaming? But dreams should not be filled with cloying odors. She should not hear singsong voices from beyond this room. She should not be able to taste the blood from a cut on her lip. She should not feel bruised and battered. Something was terribly, horribly, unfathomably wrong…
“A dazzling tale of momentous adventure and unexpected love.… Fans of literate fantasy will revel in the delights of this enthralling tale.”
—Romantic Times
“A dazzling, spectacular, gloriously sumptuous saga of timeless passion—with a delicious surprise twist.”
—Bertrice Small, author of Betrayed
“An unforgettable saga of hope and love and miracles. Dialogue that literally jumps off the page, characters that come to life in the most wonderful ways, and a story that is as magical as it is compelling.”
—Jo Reimer, CompuServe Romance Reviews
“This is incredible. Ms. Frank blends fact and fiction into a story that makes ancient Egyptians breathe with the immortality that they so craved.”
—Heartland Critiques
“A captivating first book that keeps readers up late as they thrill to the tales of ancient Egypt.”
—Fresno Bee
“A fast, exciting read with a moving love story and a fascinating retelling of the biblical escape from Egypt.”
—Roberta Gellis, author of The Roselynde Chronicles
“A brilliant new book … a remarkable story that keeps the reader enthralled for many pleasurable hours. J. Suzanne Frank is a uniquely gifted writer and storyteller.”
—Lake Worth Herald (FL)
“J. Suzanne Frank's first novel is a delicious read, with a devastatingly yummy hero, a spunky heroine, and a fascinating premise. It's an absolute delight.”
—Anne Stuart, author of Prince of Swords
“J. Suzanne Frank has not only a talent for painstaking research and good storytelling, but a sense of historical imagination that makes the marshes of the Nile come alive and peoples the palaces of its plains with physicians, gods, and priestesses—all scheming, conniving, and fornicating in their quest for immortality.”
—Diana Gabaldon, New York Times bestselling author of The Drums of Autumn
To my parents who never said “you can't,” who never doubted I could, and who always loved me, regardless.
Thank you.
FOREWORD
There is a fissure in time—a channel through which, by certain combinations of astronomy, location, and identity, it is possible to leave the present. The person who travels is not an observer but steps into the body and mind of another, a shadowed reflection …and fulfills another destiny. Like a ripple in a pond, each switch alters the present and the past. Sometimes the changes are miracles. Other times they are nightmares. History comprises both. Which people are the key to the combination? Who intrudes in our world, observing from another century, hidden in the flesh of another, hidden behind our expectations? Hidden because, ultimately, we see only what we expect to see.
PART I
CHAPTER 1
Egypt was gorgeous. Lapis sky, green palms, sands the color of pale gold. The artist in me could appreciate the beauty, never mind that my feet were swollen and my eyes bleary and that I felt as though I'd left my soul about two thousand miles back. It had been a long trip, flying from Dallas to Cairo via New York and Brussels, then taking an overnight train to Luxor, which at one stop had thrown me violently from my bunk to the floor. It went with the territory. I had spent some time growing up in the Middle East, so I knew what to expect and was familiar with the three ruling concepts, namely Inshallah —as God wills it; bukra —tomorrow; and an ever-present, incomprehensible hospitality.
Unfortunately, said hospitality didn't extend to someone helping me with my backpack as I stepped onto the platform at Luxor station. It was a heady moment as the city enveloped me. I had forgotten how the Middle East smelled. I had left in 1987, off to university at age seventeen. The odors drowned me now: spices, incense, unwashed bodies, and urine. They combined into a potent mix that caught me between gagging and smiling. And the noise! The shouts of reuniting families, the babble of tourists, the cacophony of radio stations, and, above us, the Muslim call to prayer. I pushed past the hawkers offering me “very best price, lady,” on cheap hotels, because I knew cheap equaled no door, no closet, and many multilegged sleeping companions. This was Christmas and my birthday, and I had left behind the cool glitter of the Galleria, spiked eggnog, and crackling fires. No way was I staying in some sleazy, doorless hotel.
My sister, Cammy, short for Camille—believe me, I know it's confusing, her Camille, me Chloe—stood across the way. You'd never guess we were sisters, since I'm tall and lean, with copper penny-colored hair, green eyes, and pale skin, as opposed to Cammy, who looks exotic. She's not as tall, but she's statuesque, with chestnut hair and eyes the color of new Levi's. Indigo blue—sometimes they almost look purple. All that and she's brilliant, too. I was here to celebrate her receiving her doctorate in Egyptology. I love Camille; she's been my idol all my life, despite the fact she cursed me with a goofy nickname—kitten.
“Chloe! Hello, sis!” she said, looking into my face, her smile bright against her tan.
“Dr. Kingsley, I presume?”
Cammy threw back her head and laughed, a low throaty sound that garnered more than one appreciative male glance. “I'll bet you've been waiting all day to say that!”
“Actually, I've been waiting most of your l
ife to say it. Is all the toil and sweat worth it? Now that you're finished you've got to find a real job.”
“Not a problem. I believe I'll be employed sufficiently for quite a few years,” she said with a smile Mona Lisa would have envied. She took my daypack and headed to the taxi queue. Further conversation was drowned out by the cries of “Baksheesh!” from a pack of children, their large dark eyes dancing with excitement as they played their game with tourists. Baksheesh was not begging, it was more like a tip. A tip for them being alive, if nothing else.
“Did you bring those pens I wanted?” she asked.
“In the pack.”
Cammy pulled out a handful of cheap, almost worthless ballpoint pens, and the children oohed in awe. With admonishments in Arabic to leave us alone, Cammy distributed the pens, and the children scattered. “You've just bought yourself a handful of helpers,” she said triumphantly.
“All for a few ballpoint pens?”
“Yes. Now when they go to school they will have something with which to write. Keep the pens with you—they're good for reducing the price of anything in bargaining.”
She knew how truly dreadful I was at bargaining. “Cool,” I said.
As I shouldered my bags a taxi screeched to a halt before us, and I climbed in next to Cammy. She gesticulated and argued with the driver before we took off, as he tried to push the ancient machine from zero to thirty-five in something under a half hour. We headed south on the main road, parallel to the river.
Luxor is two cities, one a modern reflection of the other. While the “touristic” part has hotels, restaurants, shops, and a few nightclubs surrounding the ancient sites of Luxor Temple and Karnak Temple, the “native” part consists of ramshackle houses, mosques, and tangled, narrow streets filled with small barefoot soccer players. We charged past several horse-drawn caléches clip-clopping along the waterfront, turned a few streets away from the souq, and drove through the twisting lanes until we finally lurched to a stop before a dilapidated inn with a fluorescent cartouche on the awning.
I couldn't believe it.
Dingy didn't even begin to describe this place. However, exhaustion was taking over, and I cared less about where we were going to stay than when I could rinse my face and lie down. We were settling for “native” versus “touristic,” but at this point I would have slept on a camel if it was still long enough. I hauled my bags out of the taxi and waited while Cammy paid.
I arched my brow. “We're staying here?”
Cammy smiled. “Yes. It's a fun place. It has a rooftop garden with a wonderful reproduction of a statue of Ramses …”
Yep. I was back in the Middle East “Do the doors lock?” I asked.
Cammy continued extolling its nonluxurious, nonamenable virtues. I held up my hand. “Okay, okay. I'll stay here while you're in town, but as soon as you hop that bus to your desert outpost, I am heading to the nicest four-star available!”
She opened the door with a smile and a flourish. “I didn't expect any different, my civilized little sister.”
A nap revived me. We changed clothes, locked the flimsy door that a halfhearted kick from a six-year-old would have popped right open, and headed into the Egyptian night.
The sky had deepened. Golden fingers wove purple, magenta, fuchsia, and rose pink into a tapestry, bleeding to midnight blue with silver stars. I huddled into my jean jacket against the breeze, since the temperature had dropped. We rode in a calèche down to the waterfront, where countless cruise ships moored, casting myriad lights onto the dark water. Immediately upon arriving at the hotel restaurant, we were shown to a table and we ordered one of everything with double the olives. I raised my gaze and looked expectantly at my agitated sister.
“You're about to pop. Excitement is almost an aura around you. What's going on? Anything to do with that cryptic statement about having a long-term job?”
Cammy's eyes widened. “Me? Excited?” Unlike mine, Cammy's face was an open book. Mom and Father never told her about Christmas or birthday gifts because she couldn't keep a secret longer than ten minutes.
“Yep,” I said around an olive.
“You should be excited, you are about to be related to a very famous person.” Her navy eyes were sparkling.
“Did you find another King Tut's tomb?” I asked carelessly.
“Maybe,” she said smugly. She ate a piece of pita, watching me. She had always been overly dramatic.
“Are you going to tell me or just let the curiosity kill me, Cammy?”
“It's weird.”
“Weirder than your monkey?” Her first find had been a small clay monkey from around the time of Ankhenaton, now lost in the vaults of the Egyptian Museum. It was anatomically correct and strategically painted blue. She was still teased about it.
“No,” she said firmly. “It's not like the monkey.” She sighed. “I really can't describe it.”
Oh, great, twenty questions. “Is it animal, vegetable, or mineral?”
“It's papyrus.”
“And … ?” I prompted. Really, she had learned too much discretion.
“Well, let me start with the initial hypothesis. The religious artifacts found at the temple—”
I cut her off. “English, dear sister. Plain, everyday English. No references, no footnotes, no mentioning names like Carter, Petrie, Mariette, nobody. What have you found?”
Cammy opened her mouth, then shut it again. “No references?”
“None.”
She tapped her fingers, thinking. “Right. It is possible there are some undiscovered tombs in the eastern desert. We—” She stumbled, and I knew she was rephrasing. “The university … is excavating out there. It's almost a joke, which is why we have mostly grad students working on it. Then we found this subterranean cavern. It looks like it was inhabited at least once. We found several huge earthenware water jugs leaning against one wall.”
“How big is huge?” I asked between bites of baba ghanouj. I love eggplant.
“About five feet tall.”
“Cool.”
“They reminded me of the jars found in Qumran. Do you remember?”
Yep, I remembered. Summertime by the Dead Sea. It had been around one hundred and twenty degrees in the shade and smelled like a rotten egg farm. We'd hiked all over the wadi, with Mom and Cammy commenting and comparing theories about the dig and the find while Father and I followed, sunburned, peeling, and dehydrated. “Go on,” I said.
“Well, these jars we found are filled with papyri. We brought them back to Luxor to unfold….” Her eyes gleamed fanatically. “It's completely amazing, because according to all our tests, the papyri are from about 1450 B.C.E. That's around the time of Thutmosis the Third,” she said to me, the Egyptologically impaired one. She leaned closer and whispered, “What's so unusual and baffling is that they are depictions like nothing the Egyptians have ever been known to do!”
Citrus and incense teased my nose for just a second.
“They are illustrations,” she continued, with enthusiasm. “However, they are so perfect and so detailed that they look almost like photographs.” She leaned back abruptly. “Then there are the lions.”
I choked on an olive. “Lions?”
Cammy shrugged. “The entire site appears to be where the lions came to die. There are hundreds of bones; generations and generations of lions died there.” Her voice again dropped to a whisper. “I had the eerie sensation they were still watching us.” She shivered.
I took a sip of my bottled water. “Let me get this straight. This is such a marvelous find because you have found photographic-quality illustrations of ancient Egypt?”
“Yes. I think we have, anyway.”
“Are the colors bright? Do they have writing on them, or are they easy to identify as everyday scenes or what?”
Cammy thought for a moment. “We've only unrolled a few. One is a scene of daily life, done in bright colors; another is … well, just unexplainable. Another is a masterpiece of ink and charcoal.�
��
I felt professional artistic curiosity rise in me. “May I see them?”
Cammy bit her lip, looking at me. “Well, they are kept in high-security cases.”
“But you have the keys?”
“Yeeesss,” she said reluctantly.
“I won't touch them. I'm just curious to see them since I've been drawing Egyptian-style pictures for you since we were kids. Do you realize even your paper dolls were ancient Egyptian?”
Cammy laughed. “So I was a little obsessive. It runs in the family.”
“What am I obsessed with?” I asked foolishly.
“Roots,” she said.
I agreed.
Roots that had kept me connected even while I grew up in alien and foreign lands. Roots that gave me pride in my European heritage and southern family. Roots that consisted of an iron-filled, camellia soft grandmother, Mimi, who had been my best friend and anchor, until her death six months ago.
I woke, not quite rested, my mind still clouded with disturbing dreams. Ancient dreams. Dreams of death, passion, possession. Not my normal fare. I'm more likely to dream about rewriting Cadillac ads and having dinner parties with Monet and Michelangelo. Or better yet, running a Coca-Cola campaign. But the feeling stayed with me. A definite Middle Eastern ambience, exotic, fragrant, and sensual. I shook my head. Apparently fries and chick-pea dip before bed was a really bad idea.
The day passed in a jet-lag blur, but I managed to jot off a few postcards, eat a couple of times, and work halfway through Agatha Christie's ancient Egyptian murder mystery. Then Cammy cracked her whip and the tourist bit began in earnest. She had me walking through the Valley of the Kings by seven in the morning, followed by an extensive tour of Deir El-Bahri, the mortuary temple of Queen Hatshepsut. However, as Camille said, you were either pharaoh, which translated literally to “great house,” or consort. Since there was no word referring to queen as an absolute monarch, every reference to Hatshepsut was masculine. Therefore she was usually depicted as a man.
Camille had taken on her lecturing voice. “No one knows what happened to cause her temple, her obelisks, and her other monuments to be symbolically destroyed—”
Reflections in the Nile Page 1
