The Time Travelers: Volume Two

by Caroline B. Cooney

  The site was chaotic as dusk fell. Egyptian workmen scurried and carried. Men from other digs in Giza came to discuss the find and the possibility of treasure. Camels spat and donkeys bellowed. The shadow of the Pyramid sketched a black line over the sand.

  Camilla kept track of every member of the expedition.

  The moment finally came in which nobody was looking in her direction. Camilla felt the nuns who had taught her calling Stop it! She ignored them.

  She wrapped the gold sandal in her scarf and drifted away.

  All the action was around Hetepheres’ tomb. She walked swiftly to the long low tent where young Stratton and the college boys slept.

  She was now a thief. She could never deny that in this life, and in the next life, she must face her Maker, and when asked which commandments she had broken, she would have to admit that she had stolen.

  But Hiram Stratton, Sr., had stolen a life.

  There were five cots in the tent, each with some gear stacked by. Which was Strat’s? By the bed closest to the door, on a small scarred wooden trunk, lay one of Dr. Lightner’s volumes with a folded letter half-tucked into it. Camilla withdrew the letter.

  Dear Katie,

  Your letters continue to make me feel worthless and self-indulgent. I participate in the opening of tombs—and you serve the most wretched humans on earth. That sickness terrifies me, Katie. One day, I fear, you will be what they are. And yet you chose that life. I will never understand. But I will always be proud.

  I sold my best photograph of the Sphinx to a London newspaper! I had to keep a bit of money to resole my boots; sand is hard on footgear. But here is the rest. Katie, buy vegetables and milk, so you resist illness. Go ahead, laugh. You know I despise vegetables and milk. But I worry. You might spend this on chocolate for your patients, instead of upon yourself.

  Today we descend into the tomb I found! Pray I will take a photograph good enough to sell. Then I will have lots of money to send you.

  Your very dear friend,

  Strat

  Camilla stood for a moment. Then she opened the trunk.

  Strat had few possessions. A spyglass, that he might see across the desert. Notebooks and pens. A few changes of clothing and linen. A Bible, with a red ribbon marking his place.

  She lifted the Bible, intending to see what book and chapter he was reading, but out fell the tiny envelope. It was not sealed, but the flap gently tucked in. Camilla opened it, too. The lock of hair Strat had told her about was black and shimmery as silk. It was very straight and did not want to be in such a small space, but leaped toward the opening, straightening itself as if it still lived and grew.

  Annie, thought Camilla, and the dank terror that had come through the gold sandal spread through her limbs once more.

  She freed herself from the spell of the hair, put the gold sandal inside one of Strat’s shirts and stumbled away.

  • • •

  “The wind has brought tears to your eyes,” said Dr. Lightner, handing Camilla his handkerchief.

  She blotted her tears.

  From Spain Camilla had sent a cable to Duffie, telling him that Strat was with Dr. Lightner’s dig in Giza. Shortly she would send another cable. It would contain the news of the son’s ruin. A man who stole gold from an archaeology site was destined for the hellhole of an Egyptian prison.

  Hiram Stratton would have no joyful reunion. Perhaps no reunion at all. Men do not live long in such prisons, what with cholera and typhus and murder.

  “See how the desert has changed, sir,” she whispered. “In the dark, it stretches on like death.”

  “That is the very horror Pharaoh tried to fend off,” agreed Dr. Lightner. “All these stones he piled into a mountain, a ladder to his eternal life, because he so feared death. That I can understand. But what possible explanation can there be for the tomb Strat found? Why did Khufu not equally prepare his mother for her eternal life?”

  She gave back the handkerchief. Her deeds had shadowed her soul, and she was worthy of nothing, not even a square of linen.

  “Miss Matthews,” said Dr. Lightner, “might I ask a most special favor of you?”

  “Of course, sir,” she said drearily.

  “The French embassy is giving a dinner party. It seems that a major American art collector is arriving in Cairo. Over the years he has purchased many a French oil painting. We are privileged to meet him and of course invite him to our excavation.”

  Camilla kept forgetting she was here as a reporter. Dr. Lightner would want this event in the newspapers back in America and so would the art collector. She had never read a society column in her life. She had no idea what to write about such an event.

  “Miss Matthews,” said Dr. Lightner, “would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to this dinner?”

  She was not to attend as a female reporter with work to do. She had been asked as a guest. A man—a tall man—had sought out her company. “You are so kind, sir,” she said, her words stumbling on her tongue. “I regret, however, that when I packed my trunks, I did not plan for a ball at the French embassy.”

  He beamed. “I have already communicated with a friend whose wife has a plentiful wardrobe and will be delighted to assist you.”

  Men, Camilla thought. Whoever she is, her clothing won’t fit me. It’s too late to call a dressmaker. I have literally nothing to wear on such an evening.

  But she was too touched by his eagerness to tell him how silly he was; that she, Camilla Mateusz, made even dressmakers laugh. And then she remembered that Camilla Mateusz did not exist. “Dr. Lightner, it will be my privilege.”

  And privilege it was.

  Two dressmakers used up two gowns to create one for Camilla. With anyone else, Camilla would have been weeping. Lady Clementine made it a party.

  The maids cleverly stitched an entire ten inches to the length of one gown by using the ruffles off the other. “I feel like Cinderella,” said Camilla, laughing.

  “Indeed,” said Lady Clementine, smiling. “And here are your borrowed slippers. Silver-toed. Are they not fashionable? Luckily, my feet are large for me and your feet are small for you.”

  Slippers …

  Was the gold slipper even now being discovered in Strat’s trunk? Would Dr. Lightner arrive at Lady Clementine’s shocked and heartsick, having learned that his cameraman was a thief? Was Strat even now in some dark prison, without light or air or hope?

  What price revenge? thought Camilla. My soul. Strat’s future. But I do not care about either one. I want Hiram Stratton to suffer, and he will.

  “Now stand tall, my dear,” said Lady Clementine. “Do not slump. Dr. Lightner is halfway in love with you, and it is your splendid height that attracts him.”

  “Halfway in love? With me?”

  “Of course. You are as tall and strong as a pillar of Karnak, I believe he said. He is quite smitten. Of course archaeologists are a difficult group, my dear. Think twice. They are apt to be demanding, pernickety and dusty.”

  Camilla laughed.

  “Capitalize upon your height. Throw your shoulders back. Be tall.”

  Nobody had ever instructed Camilla to do that.

  Lady Clementine became very serious. “I see you are well educated and more than capable of presenting fine arguments during table discussions. Remember that ladies in search of a husband do not demonstrate brains.” Lady Clementine fixed around Camilla’s throat a beautiful necklace of shimmering pearls.

  In the looking glass, Camilla found, as many a girl before her, that the wearing of beautiful clothing and jewels made her lovelier and more worthy.

  “Perfect!” cried Lady Clementine. “Just so must you blush and lower your eyes. It draws men’s eyes toward your bosom, you know, and away from your mind. You must not display your mind.”

  “Thank you,” said Camilla gratefully, and they pantomimed hugs, such as decoratively dressed and coiffed women give one another.

  ANNIE

  Since dawn, Annie had been
pointing toward the Great Pyramid. By the time Pankh arrived in mid-morning, Annie’s gestures had crossed the language barrier. Renifer coaxed Pankh to take them to see the Pyramid.

  Pankh was unwilling.

  It took considerable pouting and pleading to change his mind. Renifer was excellent at both. Flouncing around in her dress, a very thin gauze pressed in stiff pleats, Renifer made it clear that neither gold nor gifts would make her happy. Only an excursion to the Pyramid.

  Finally Pankh shrugged and nodded.

  Annie held Renifer’s hand as they threaded through narrow streets shaded by canvas canopies, lined with stalls selling spices and cookpots and shoes. They passed walled houses and tenements, donkeys tied in stable yards, geese in the road and even a royal procession.

  Everybody knelt to gaze lovingly at a young woman on a litter covered in beaten gold. A princess, perhaps, reclining on pillows under her fringed shade? Four bulky men in tiny white kilts carried the litter on their shoulders. They walked rhythmically, one counting, like rowers on a crew team.

  At the waterfront, Pankh commandeered a boat. Two men rowed half-standing, toes braced against a shelf. They moved quickly on the river, a breeze bucketing inside a much-mended sail. Annie was mesmerized by the water traffic: little boats, tubby boats, oared boats and sailboats, barges loaded with stone or casks, logs or bales.

  Along the banks of the Nile, hundreds of men labored, making bricks out of mud. Villages were perched on the heights, their little mud-brick dwellings like piles of little brown wren houses.

  From the Nile, they entered a canal, straight-sided as a ruler, slicing through fields and orchards, palm trees and grazing sheep. They steered into a square lake, neatly sided by cut stone, and pulled up to a wharf. Soldiers paced up and down. Small sphinxes were being set in rows.

  Pankh swept his two women before him and up to a vast temple.

  So modern and harsh was its design Annie felt it could have been an electric power plant in Chicago or Detroit. They did not enter the temple, but walked through a vast portico and emerged on a paved pedestrian street with awnings stretched over pillars. Flowers had been laid on the whole length of the road, bouquet after bouquet, and their feet crunched on the sun-dried petals.

  At the end of the shining road was Khufu’s Pyramid.

  In the museum photograph, the Pyramid had been tiers of great lumps, two million brown sugar cubes, each the size of a dining room table. But at its creation, the Pyramid was slick with polished white limestone. It was surrounded by a sea of baby pyramids, flat-topped pyramids, temples, graveyards, mausoleums, steles—and one vast Sphinx, being chipped out of bedrock as Annie watched.

  She began laughing with excitement. Strat must be here! This was the very place where he had taken his photographs. She must keep her eyes open.

  She examined every passing man, giggling at the thought of Victorian Strat wearing a white gauze kilt like Pankh.

  RENIFER

  Renifer thanked the gods for letting her live now; a time which would last for all time, embodied in this very Pyramid.

  The girl of ivory was gasping in awe. Wherever she was from, she had never seen anything like this. But then, nobody had.

  I was right to insist that Pankh bring us today, thought Renifer. The girl herself made it clear that this is where she must be. The reason she was put in my hands will be presented to me now.

  They passed a priest in a robe of panther skins. As he approached, the priest lifted a large ostrich feather fan and hid his face behind it. Renifer was mildly surprised, because priests of the City of the Dead were the proudest men in Egypt. They did not hide their status. When she looked after him, to see which temple he entered, the priest was half-running.

  They approached the burial place of Queen Hetepheres. Her chapel was a delicate structure, sitting at the foot of the thirteen-acre Pyramid like a child’s toy. Over the portico, the blue and white stripes of the awning fluttered in the wind and the reflection from the silver floor was blinding.

  On two blessed occasions, Renifer had been privileged to help Princess Meresankh honor her grandmother. Renifer had done the actual carrying of food to the dead queen. A royal ornament, Meresankh had never once used her hands. Handmaidens were so called because their hands did all work.

  Now Renifer knelt to honor Pharaoh’s mother, motioning the girl of ivory to join her. Putting their weight on one knee, they leaned forward, extending the other leg back so as to achieve a position both graceful and helpless.

  Here in the shade of the awnings, the silver had not gotten too hot to touch. Reverently, Renifer kissed the floor. Here had she prayed and knelt with the queen’s granddaughter. Here had she scattered droplets of sacred water and the petals of flowers.

  And puddling out of the doorway onto the silver floor was something wet and red, but not sacred.

  Profane.

  Blood.

  IV

  Time for Sacrifice

  RENIFER

  The girl of ivory scrambled to her feet. Yanking Renifer up from her position of humility, she dragged her behind a screen of immense potted ferns just as two tomb police staggered out of the chapel. Both were bleeding heavily.

  One was holding together a dreadful wound in his side, so deep it could never be sewn together; a gash from which he would die. “Pen-Meru!” he cried in a gurgling voice, and fell onto the silver pavement.

  Pen-Meru? thought Renifer dizzily. But her father was not involved with the tomb police. He was a controller of the Nile, a measurer of floods and opener of canals.

  The second soldier sank to his knees. Renifer thought he might live. She would tear up her dress and use it for bandages. She—

  But the second soldier also whispered, “Pen-Meru.”

  There must be some other Pen-Meru of whom Renifer had not heard.

  Pankh sprinted forward from where he had been waiting in the shade of another temple while Renifer prayed. He pulled his dagger from its sheath.

  Renifer’s heart soared with pride. Pankh would be clothed in glory! For of course the tomb robbers who had done this terrible deed were inside the chapel. Brave Pankh was going to finish them off.

  But Pankh did not enter the chapel. Lifting high the thin shining blade, he stabbed to death the still living tomb policeman who had sunk to his knees.

  Renifer clutched the slender lotus pillar of the portico. What could this mean? How could Pankh do that? The man had been helpless! Already wounded for Pharaoh’s sake.

  Now Pankh was a blur, springing into the chapel itself. From within came a cry of terror. “No, Pankh! I promise—”

  There was a groan and a thud.

  There was silence.

  The hot sickening smell of blood filled the air.

  Renifer had to understand what was happening. She slipped inside the queen’s chapel, careful not to block the sun, whose glint off the silver floor provided the only illumination to the interior. It took a moment to focus in the gloom. The walls were painted with scenes from the queen’s life. From painted arbors hung thick purple grapes and heavy green leaves. On a ceiling of deep blue, gold stars were scattered.

  Pankh stood panting in the center of the chapel. His knife stuck out of the chest of a third tomb policeman, now prostrate on the floor. In the shadows, pressed against the sacred illustrations, stood her father, Pen-Meru.

  There were no other men inside the little chapel.

  There was no other exit from which the killers might have fled.

  No, thought Renifer. My father did not do this. Pankh did not do this. I am a slow thinker. In a moment I will understand.

  She pasted herself against the wall, as if she too had been painted there.

  “Good job, Pankh,” said Renifer’s father, grinning.

  The two men slapped hands in victory and laughed. Then they frowned down upon the corpse at their feet.

  “Now what?” said Pankh.

  Renifer stepped forward, startling her father and her beloved, wh
o whirled to see who was there. Father gripped a bloody dagger and Pankh tightened his fist around his own knife.

  They had forgotten she existed at all, let alone that she was witness to this carnage. For one terrible moment, she thought herself in danger from the two men she loved most.

  She saw now a rectangular opening in the chapel floor. Three paving stones had been lifted aside to reveal a great black shaft: the entrance to Hetepheres’ tomb. It should be entirely filled with rubble—thirty feet down, all sand and rock. If the shaft was empty, then the queen’s tomb had been emptied by robbers. No doubt the space below contained little of value now. The three dead policemen had walked in on the robbery.

  And now her thoughts spun all too fast. Renifer felt as if she were drowning in the Nile. Mud-brown water silted up her heart. “You are tomb robbers,” whispered Renifer. “It was you they caught.”

  Her father shrugged. “I have always been a tomb robber, my daughter. And your uncle with me. And Pankh.”

  “No! It cannot be! Father, I cannot believe it of you!”

  Her father snorted. “You know perfectly well we live beyond the means of any controller of the Nile. You are the one yearning for gold. You and your mother insist on necklaces here and bracelets there. You are the ones for whom five servants are not enough; no, you must have fifteen,” he snapped.

  She thought of the chests of gold at home, all those jewels fit for a queen. The Sekhmet fit for a Pharaoh. Indeed. To a Pharaoh and a queen had they once belonged.

  “I regret you are here, my love,” said Pankh, “but since you are, you will participate.”

  In murder? thought Renifer. Never. She stared in loathing at their blood-flecked chests and arms.

  “So far we are safe,” said Pankh. “Easy lies will get us out of this. We say we are the ones who caught robbers in the act. Regrettably, they escaped, having first murdered three brave and true protectors of the queen’s chapel.”

  Pankh and Pen-Meru laughed.